dancing through time on the same wavelength, the same pitch shifting through the same repeating measures, we touched the pulse of beating hearts set to time signatures that we could never understand at all. harmonized to form the same melody, painted in bright violets bleeding into a deep purple enamored in a sea of radiant green. i hold the violets in my hands, i've lost myself to the viridian maze around me and i'm in love.



relapse.


byproducts feeling symptoms of a universe beyond their control...



a blink of an eye turned the world gray. blackened trees dotted the frozen ground like desperate, outstretched, hands. the frigid winds slipped through their bony fingers, and howled across the parking lots, strip malls and highways. it carried coal ground to a powder, a pollen that blanketed the atmosphere and swallowed any glimpse of the gallant blue skies. i saw bodies kept afloat on rivers of petrol that fed oceans of coagulated oil. nobody ever saw them dye their jet black suits on the shores, its blood was the print on their checks, and the plasma in the veins of a planet. you gave us a sweet tooth for comfort and it gave me a cavity. i wanted the smiling faces painted on the smoke stacks to weep. downward stares and stoic faces will stare at the piles of white ash at their feet. i set the rivers on fire, and i cast the bridges ablaze.

reality was a lustrous luminance of dark crimson streaks and violet skies.

everything

there were dying trees. a couple deep darkened red, maroon, pale and orange leaves dotting their blackened limbs. grey skies, cold, wet, a steady rain blurred the fractal swirls and comfort i had achieved at the spark of a flame, the inhalations, exhalations of carbon monoxide. the cancer, the control factor in the equation to determine the line plots on my life. they filled my lungs with fluid, they turned them black and tarred. eaten alive from the inside out, in the vice grip firmly clenching my lungs, drowning, suffocating slowly. it was easy to find x on a line plot within the margins i had set.

naked in front of the mirror, a lazy right eye, slightly smaller than the left, asymmetrical borders that blurred where the two colors met, a simple term used to hide the shades, and undertones that were the tools in the masterpiece before my eyes. the roman empire constructed itself on mathematical formulas, aqueducts that brought "life" to the rich, and the poor alike. they drank from the fountains of clear cut lines, they lived by the equation and died by it. over a thousand years later here we are again. the haunting specters of everything that could be seen driving their cars, in the malls, choking on force fed salaries to the point where they just want more and more to put them down sooner than later. the crumbling walls of rome ran all the way to washington dc. their jagged edges couldn't hold back the nuances that put the curves to my naked image in the mirror and the beauty i saw under all the empty suits and dresses on the subway. as their trains speed on, they fade back to the rough sketches, the blurry lines from which they were designed. we were never sketched, we were never drawn out, and we were never designed. there are no jagged edges to the human body, and the emotions that make us conscious and alive could never be attached to numbers.

we are living. if i flatline you will be there, he will be there, she will be there to keep me breathing. when my time comes i will feed the grassy fields set to golden skies that outline your image for all to weep, and cry out at in awe. there is no way we could ever be controlled forever. we are barbarians. we will stand out, we will tear down the walls of rome and watch their remains crumbling like statues to a god that none of us ever found, yet we will shine the mirrors of appreciation upon each other and see what sets us apart from the huns.

in the greatest of tragedies, the most smiling of comedies everything is beautiful. everything has gone spinning out of control, it always was, and i couldn't possibly think of anything more gorgeous, more compelling, more of a motivation to carry on.

i'm in love with my perspective, the seasons, the cycles, the shock and awe of the rising sun, the gravity of spinning satellites that keep my feet far off the ground.

notas para escribimos.

car ride home- best or better friend a stoner. smoking a joint talking about the universe destroying and re inventing itself. kid is silent. comic relief.


mom- blows her head off in a struggle between the father in candle light, candles melted down to wicks.
-dad actually pulls the trigger even though he's trying to stop her
-introduce police detective.
kid- upon discovering suicide he's cold, cool about what happened. packs his stuff leaves
-smokes cigarette on the way over to bus stop and doesn't even realize it as it burns to down to the filter- burns his hand.

bus ride- goes to the back, passes out.

weather- rain stops by the time he gets to the bus

part two. need to insert dialogue.

"gray skies put a dreary tint to a delusional idea of eden. it sent chills through the window, blue curtains, four walls, computer desk. white. white and simple navy blue curtains, all the personality could be seen in its imperfections, cracks, all there was to look at, the progress that could be found in deterioration.

morning light faded the red in his bloodshot eyes, nothing positive, only negative balanced out to a neutral white, a milky gray, the cracked prison walls, what's left of a life."

a slam of a door, a brief look at the watch, and a quick toss of a uniform was all she needed. no words, just 6:58, and a soiled and sewn piece of fabric. another slam of the door and the blank expression, the faded eyes were as white as the walls. all that stuck was 6:58, and an acute reaction, a split second thought about the hinging on the doors.

the darkness that crept in from the doorway only made his walls shine like fluorescent lights in an empty city. the fallen mirror she left behind lay cracked and shattered at his feet. he looked on at his reflection, a work shirt soiled but tucked in just right and a pair of slacks. his eyes lost in its shattered fissures, a spectrum of light twisted together to nullify itself to the absence of what gave it life.

he faded through the white prison walls as they were exposed for what they were, a spectrum of unrecognizable colors. a ghost on the same wave lengths as his surroundings, he faded in and out of walls before he learned to slip through their cracks. each step after the other in frames of motion, floating down the hollow stairs that lie on a foundation built upon a landfill. his parents; familiar echoes, chants from a chorus that repeated endlessly for his silent response.

he's inserting keys, the radio went on, engine rumbling, ignition...

"Unemployment climbs to 15%..."

foot on the gas....

"Polar ice caps have been reported to have receded.."

a puff of a cigarette, inhale, exhale...

"Riots continue in..."

a bunch of blank faces, empty stares, steady raindrops in rhythm and step to supply comfort to meet demand for this daily funeral procession, the morning and mourning whore parade.

a rough opening segment

gray skies put a dreary tint to a delusional idea of eden. it sent chills through the window, blue curtains, four walls, computer desk. white. white and simple navy blue curtains, all the personality could be seen in its imperfections, cracks, all there was to look at, the progress that could be found in deterioration.

morning light faded the red in his bloodshot eyes, nothing positive, only negative balanced out to a neutral white, a milky gray, the cracked prison walls, what's left of a life.

round and round

spinning images of dreams, delusions, the misplaced values lodged somewhere in her brain. she falls into step in an endless death march to nowhere. everyone stood and watched her last dance all liquored up, smiling faces, flowing white gowns behind transparent smoke screens.

the moment never dawned on her when she became an observer, drink in hand, her ring a nostalgic memory that clung to her like a scar. lost in search of metaphors, they all saw what was there, they all had it in them, but they stood vicariously living out something that was always out of reach.

it's another lonely night amidst the crowds. a cigarette and a clenched fist. a few drinks in and not quite drunk. anger, hate, distaste, i loved them all so dearly. the pedals on a lone weeping willow cast on the yellow milky light of a sunrise they could never fathom, a thousand beautiful things blind to the liberation in their hearts, and lost to their minds.

what is warmth without the cold? what is comedy without tragedy? it's lobotomies or nothing. blind to the gorgeous entrapment of the downward spirals, the blood spilled from a thousand beautiful things turned the rivers to wine. they looked on in terror, a red sea, a dead sea, a mirror reflection of their lives.

it's no wonder a nation of sheep will be ruled by pigs.

"come on, come on holy roman empire, come on if you think, you can take us all, you and whose army, you and your cronies"

a possible segment in a short story i'm in the works of plotting out and writing. they might actually be a collection of short stories depicting different perspectives to an apocalyptic scenario metaphorical jawnsause. 

the character i'm creating through this piece is reflective of my own. the little bits aren't really written in any chronological order, i'm writing them as images come to my head about my own insecurities, issues, and flip sides to a lot of what i see as my greatest strengths. i'll cobble them together and fit them in some coherent pattern. 

"have you ever thought that everything is relatable to each other? that is there's a natural link between the insecurities and ailments of individuals reflected in governments, making an internal struggle the struggle of the world? and whoever, or whatever, if there is some force behind it is manipulating the insecurities of everyone, or at least majorities of people so that they always maintain control?" 

"who would have that kind of power?" 

"i don't know. i always thought it was a downward spiral, but i'm not so sure anymore." 

the rioters set the city ablaze. i caught her distant gaze as the tears rolled down her cheeks. the silence came down the ripples in the water where the bombs once fell.  

...

you see beauty in waste trickling down the cliffs. you won't see your trophies shattered, you won't see the monuments crumbling to the ground, you'll pray to god in awe as you drown in the blood of your muse slain in the streets. when your eden is ablaze and your parking lots turn the dunes to glass there will be progress, there will be change, reality sets in, and a delusional anomoly will wink out.

she was right

i think i just became darth maul. i'm tempted not to empower myself to find fulfillment not for the sake of enriching myself but for the destruction of everything you think to be beautiful. up until now the way you act towards everything you can't understand, everything you're afraid of, everything you shun out of ignorance has been your greatest strength. you evolved into a race of sheep, only to make you lambs for slaughter. you'll run to jesus and darwin will be smiling from his grave.

anyone wanna start a toughguy band? hahahaaha.

happy birthday woolly. come back kimmie, we all miss you very much.

"Billy Mays had his first taste of heaven; satan shitting on his face before orchestrating a shrediculous guitar solo. He proceeds to fuck Farah Faucet on the cheese it video, on a dragon flying through mountains of tittes. He lands on a black metal castle, and by this time he had shed his formal self and revealed a new skin of corpse paint. Stabbing, slashing, ripping her fibers apart, he mounts her head to the castle walls and expunges a large reproductive load through her skull and blows through the stone fortifications. Through the hole the buttrain of hitler fucking the KKK, fucking Charles Manson, fucking Michael Jackson, fucking Jesus Christ, fucking Carrot Top who was whipping a pile of niggers squirming about naked and spawning cotton. Through the pile came Samuel L Jackson bearing an RPG, and with lightning striking, he blows the clusterfuck to pieces. He shoots Satan through the breach in the walls and puts them all down one by one, walking away, munching a burger."

hipster humor.

http://www.latfh.com/

bugs.

way back last summer i think it was, i had several encounters with the damn things. not to say that all bugs are bad, in fact i appreciate their existence. but seriously. fuck ticks. (this is all totally irrelevant) 

i was driving home in my old suzuki, the first car i managed to destroy, from the bank. a moth landed on my rearview mirror while i was there. it stood there patiently, even while i was driving, right on until i got home. i opened the door, got out of the car and it flew away.

the next day or so later i see another bug with its legs caught in the web of the spider. it was furiously trying to escape it, but every time it tried to run away the web would cause it to flip over on its back and it just flailed around hopelessly. the spider was waiting in one of its webs, probably for it to die of exhaustion. coldly, patiently, with an instinct that would take us years of experience to figure out. i thought about the poor creature kill itself. i thought about it withering, dying, and i didn't do anything. i could free it, but only to cause someone else to starve, wither and die. two perspectives telling the same story. 

a year later i'm painting the stairs where i saw it all take place. there was the hollow remains of a bug shell where it had been, a dead spider, little clumps of dirt, and extra bits of webbing. it was all dead, a release none of them could fathom, none of them could understand. i once sat there with a notebook and cigarettes, and now i covered it all in paint. 

the architect gets all the glory.

"deaf and lost" i guess. grains of sand in the wind making mile high dunes, empty cities filled with workers and their tasks while we sat there fighting quixotic battles in our minds. we were the dilettantes in our own catharsis: the masterpiece of our own existentialist wasteland. 

death always gives rise to something more beautiful and i just stopped your heart from beating. i wonder what i will be able say to you tomorrow as i look at you in the eyes and all you see is another grain in the sand, another empty city, another masterpiece.