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A month to decode...

Nov. 26th, 2009 | 01:38 am

31/0
Before all else, IS WAS.
From Being sprung forth Soul.
We shuddered in the cold.
We shattered in anticipation,
And We knew Self.
From Us grew up around us Space,
And we perceived it.

We lost our sacred knowledge,
Filtered by imperfect ears through
Stuttering tungs.
In human languages snared was
Truth in obscurity.

I say to you today,
Strip away from your minds
That which is brought there
Through experience and time

For these lies only serve
To hide from our eyes from
The divine.


God is us, the root of us and
Our completion, free from bonds of
Our faulty composition of a reality
More likened to photograph of
A screen.

Reflect in midnight the noon's sun's
Serenity, to breath to life a movement
Untainted by primates.

-- Post From My iPhone

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(no subject)

Aug. 1st, 2009 | 01:56 am
location: US, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Folsom, Fernwood Ave, 380

Time goes by so slowly; but if you blink, you miss everything. You don't know who you are or where you've been when you snap back, but you're left with the same sinking feeling of loss and exasperation. You don't remember the last 20 minutes but you can still feel the green digits burning into your retinas as you watched the seconds melt away. Melt your eyes to time as it floats by, leave reality where you left yourself. You don't remember what self is, or if you ever knew. You exhale.

You choke on the news like a little kid on a jolly rancher. It hurts a place you haven't felt a while; forces you to exercise feelings you forgot until now, but it's all real again. You remember who you were, where you've been, and you feel guilty for not knowing before. You feel naive for ever thinking that forgetting was a way to manage it. That running would be a panacea. That denying would make reality pass away. That it was ever subjective.


Sounds fade out as the catatonia regains it's grasp and you fade back into unknowing. You have work in four and a half hours. You need to sleep.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

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define malaise...

Mar. 18th, 2009 | 08:17 pm
mood: confusedconfused

I was looking through my old myspace blogs...

" Wednesday, August 02, 2006

A solution?
Current mood: depressed
Ever try juggling knives? It's one of those things you gotta work your way up on.

I feel the need to write, to attempt to hold on to my sanity. I feel like, if I put what I feel in words, it'll get off my fuckin back. I feel like my inability to hold on to any relationships below the most important ones to me really is straining my whole... being in general. It's affecting everything. I can't even sleep anymore. I can't let myself sleep because the guilt is never tired. I can't even hold a civil conversation with a lot of people anymore. I don't perceive my actions as reckless; I don't even know what I'm doing, but I must be doing something because it seems I'm hurting everyone.

Define malaise.

I don't feel I can trust my own perspective on anything. So many people tell me I'm wrong, so who am I to disagree? I just need some time, some space from a lot of people. I need to think about who I am. I don't want any outside influences. I don't want you telling me who to be, I don't fucking need that. I don't need you telling me my obligations, I can handle myself just fine. I don't need you telling me how I feel. I don't need you telling me what I feel is not what I feel.

Still, nothing would ease my mind better than for you to be happy with who I am. I want you to accept my decisions, but that's not going to happen. I want you to hold your judgement on a situation before you know the truth. Assumptions only hurt everything.

I'm in this convoluted mess by my own decisions, but I wouldn't take them back. I'm me. I've tried so hard to be everything else, to please you, but me is all that's left when the facade peels away. I'm just sad you don't like it."

These were the days when I felt as if I had to summarize my perspective every once in a while. I always posted these back then with everyone else under the lens of my analytical microscope, but now I realize that such a large population can never really be properly interpreted through such a tight focus.

I should have turned it back on myself. I guess it really was on me the whole time, it's just that I misinterpreted the signs. I was too arrogant to see that everything I accused "society" of was just a reflection of my own insecurities.

I was too immature to realize that others points of view actually had the possibility of validity, even when they didn't line up with my own. I had, and do have a problem. My brain may not be chemically functional in comparison to a majority of the population, and that dysfunction may preclude me from sucess in our society as it is established. The old me would have blamed myself for that. The older me, the one we see here, from two and a half years ago, would have blamed society for not catering to my needs.

Now I realize the immaturity and illogicality in the assumption that everyone must bend to cater to the needs of the unfortunate. Rather, the unfortunate must follow steps and guidelines established for them by which to gain a footing in our economy and social structure. For me that may mean pills and talking to somebody for an hour every once and a while who does nothing but tell me that this feeling will pass.

That's what he said for two and a half years though. Can you really trust such a statement for so long without questioning the sanity of the statement itself?

My mom told me once about a period when I was in kindergarten or something when I was always sad. "I just can't be happy," I used to tell her.

For somewhat related but unmentionable reasons, (suffice it to say it was a traumatic experience way beyond my maturity level) I don't remember much of my childhood. I don't remember much of when we lived in Mayfair. I blocked something out of my memory, and it took so much other shit with it. The things I do remember though leave me with a weird feeling; it's relatively unheard of for me.

I don't remember many events, but I do recall a feeling of complete and utter contentment.

Nietzsche wrote:
"What is good?--Whatever augments the feeling of power, the will to
power, power itself, in man.

What is evil?--Whatever springs from weakness.

What is happiness?--The feeling that power _increases_--that resistance
is overcome.

Not contentment, but more power; _not_ peace at any price, but war;
_not_ virtue, but efficiency (virtue in the Renaissance sense, _virtu_,
virtue free of moral acid).

The weak and the botched shall perish: first principle of _our_ charity.
And one should help them to it."

Back when I read The Antichrist, I found these words to be a harsh wake-up call, and I attempted to live by them. Now when I read them, with at least some background in rhetorical strategy, I see them to be no more than an unjustified redefinition of terms. There is no logical footing for Nietzsche's subsequent argument, but suspending disbelief in it's beginning phrases lends his words some credence. It's really a big leap of faith to accept this postulate as fact, the same kind of metaphysical leap of faith that he so passionately rails against in his assesment of organized religion.

Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I've finally found it within me to disagree. I was happy at some point in my life. Truly and utterly content. Now all I want is to have that back. I didn't have to take pills in order to adjust my brain chemistry to make it suitable for everyday life. Everyday life was a joy.

Now I don't claim that a life of childhood bliss is a legitimate or achievable way to live, I'm only saying that I wish all the time that I could remember it better. That I could relate the me that I am now with the me that lived then. I feel like that me died the day that I've repressed.

(I think it's funny that my almost three years of psychotherapy only have, along with giving me some coping mechanisms to impermanently dispell certain fears stemming from my neuroses, uncovered the memories that my subconscious had tried so hard to protect me from. I've been enlightened by as to what my feelings of unbelonging have stemmed from, but I still can't remember much else from that period of my life)

In many ways I'm more fortunate when I was then. I didn't live in a great neighborhood and my parents didn't have the money that they have now. Money definitely does not equal happiness, but I'm not so insecure as to deny that it furnishes opportunity. I won't deny that the suburbs provide a mostly welcome respite from a decaying urban world, but outer affluence can never compare in my mind to spiritual fulfillment.

I didn't know the kind of love I share now with the love of my life, and I would never change a thing I've ever done leading up to this September because of that. Every moment of my life has made me who I am. Every second, every decision led me to that bench outside the dorms that night. Every drag of every cigarette, every hit of the bowl, every drop from the keg that night made me the person I was at that second when she looked at me and laughed at the sloppy mess I was. And I loved that smile from that moment.

So I guess I'm stuck at a crossroads with only one real path to take. I can continue denying the facts that I wish were lies, and stay standing here; or I can acknowledge the truth in the shitty reality, and live my life accordingly.

I see that sharing my existence, thoughts, and feelings are the only real way to find help. No one can travel this road alone. I've found a trailmate, and right now we're building a carriage to carry us the rest of the way.

The only problem is acquiring the horses to pull us. What secret combination of values and ideals will give us an impetus by which to travel?

Life has shown me that there aren't really any easy answers. No get rich quick schemes pay out; there's no panacea for the problems and thoughts that plague me every day. I've fallen for so many pyramid schemes in my life: any number of drugs, religions, or philosophical schools which promise to heal me of this doubt and longing, but I see now that they're all just opiates, not just the morphine, opioids, and religions; but every string of concepts that we may choose to guide our lives.

This just leaves me more lost than before.

(I can't draw my thoughts to a close or conclusion... could be the DXM, but I'm not sure)

If there's no answer, then why try at all? To assemble a life with the semblance of perfection; some combination of ideas that could lead us closer to appearing to having achieved the unachievable?

Or should we just live according to our wills alone, and hope that in separation from the flock we discover the path on our own?

I prefer the latter, I just don't quite know how to put this plan into motion.

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new stuff

Feb. 10th, 2009 | 06:09 pm

this is my new poem...

Appoggiatura/Echo

it'll be quite a shock
to breathe this air
to discover loss
so I'd like to make some changes
before you arrive
so when your new eyes meet mine
they won't see no lies
just love.
        conor oberst

PRELUDE TO LIFE
--
a gangland guatama
glistens in the streetlight
silhouetted by
the fear of an unending decade
where the streets never get clean.

but that don’t matter, they all say
because city ave ain’t no place
to talk philosophy,

and moksha doesn’t matter
lookin down a glock.

ain’t her place, anyway.
--
i.
a fluorescent bulb flickers
and dies
on a tv screen
a cathode ray american dream where
curiosity deemed whole recedes
at the point where my ‘i’ perceives
the privilege i receive.

a birthright of cubist realities
cheapens words to trite syllables
and distorts dictionary definition,
cookie-cutter huts of extravagance
to cavernous cathedral-ceiling castles.

--
She sits reciting
Cyclical mantras
As the pinnacled buildings
Perspire melted snow
Onto the ground below her.

Before her echo ridiculous
Masses chanting fractured
Syllables her way.

She tries to order and achieve
Each dying call, but all slips through
Her half-handed grasp.

the masses fade and a snake
slithers silently to her side,
presses against her skin,
and announces his presence
in her contemplating ear.


all that she has worried has found her
at last:
all was he.
--
ii.
ramparts of clarity buttress basilisk bases,
appearing so banal and basic,
whispering to announce our presence.
days defined by downing glenlivet  and walker,
simplistically providing proof of our
potential prowess for achieving
an absolut absolution, only appear
as opportunistic failures of
promethian foresight.

blades we once used
to physically manifest our
constant distress
now guide us to lines
of charismatically enlivening
sneezes between drags of a
skullfucked cigarette.

time reminds us of reluctant regressions
to those capitalist dogmas we define
as contrary to complete commune/ication
so we bend its hands and mail ourselves
to distant lands
with acidic postage stamps.

but burning holes in our tongues
is no substitute for burning our lungs
with the sole ingredient of an ethereal
existence, soaking our souls in dopamine
dragons, antagonizing our alveoli to
agonize our angst.
--
the cloud bloomed so effortlessly from her lungs;
a word isolated in the distance between
now and the tip of her tongue.

the syllable glided endlessly
among gossamer webs connecting
vast galaxies and far-off stars

the thought mingled with
emperors and celestial kings
and dined with euripides
on saturn’s rings.

the light weakened in time
and became tired,
forgetting it’s destination

the pen glided endlessly
on the page where her life had become
a trite entertainment.

a mere echo of a story.


iii.
i blacken my lungs and pick up a pen
to poke holes in this hellish pinnacle
of postulation, praying to provide
proof of providence
until we must satiate our hunger and
saturate our fat and doze off in
idyllic Sunday romances.

i’m changing the bulb in my heart,
the blacklight’s disorienting my daze
and defining my days in metric and
tippecanoe titans.

but razor burn turns most replies
to regressive stutters of something
slighter than jugular release
to a staggering symphony of
judicial legalism.
--
the day begins to rumors
of a plan which never hatched;
well-thought out under the shade
of the night before.

but each day learns this lesson
with such staggering aptitude
that it’s hard to even think
this path will break.

a final destination near is
a shade of the world to be.

echo on, like the prophet said
to future greatness, and added she,
plentiful progeny.

no,
--
iv.
my desire does not flush with the borders
of my ambitions, disjointing my days
with manic manifestations of
my machiavellian manacles, swiftly
sanctifying a santerian soliloquy i
have been writing in this forest dark
bordering on the tigers domain
quarter-way through life’s brief journey.

everything is illuminated in the
lightness and the happiness habitating
in the cores of our hearts
cold and dark.
--
the mineshaft collapsed today:
burying her burning love in the
caverns between her heart and brain.

we suspect foul play.

seen in the shadows fleeing the scene,
witnesses say,
was an insidious looking snake.
--

v.
we see in our futures rural car
crashes after
hedonist paradoxes.
we see in our futures the only uncertainty
certain to puncture psychically perrenial
sins.
we see in your eyes every question left
with vague replies.
we see in our futures our pasts.
--
she only had to relieve a little pressure,
let some oxygen in for the miner’s,
they’ve been trapped for eight days.

the must be drowning by now,
so she cut the main valve.
--

PASTS
vi.
the blade illustrious bade no ill will,
calling forth from the darkness
an unebbing flow, accepting all sins,
and bearing their yoke, let grow
two seeds planted within untended soil
buried just beneath the surface of her wrists

twin rivers break at epidermal estuaries
and pool in the valley vaguely cupped below,
filling it with life.
holding and realizing such power, she realizes it leaves just as quickly…
--
bleeding out under 95
loses it’s glamour
when the only thing your eyes can see
is the emptiness you’re trying to escape.
a good samaritan would be too easy—no
no happy endings in last second fortuities.
---

vii.
i’ve got a triple-coil pickup
in the (francis scott) key of
g (drum) major recalls his
corporal (works of mercy)
from the 82nd floor of
a cut-time tragedy
with a quarter note leading tone
to set the mode for future major-
minor choices.

it hasn’t yet resolved.
--
why did it have to be so cold
i should have waited to feel
spring’s first thaw.

the touch of the new air
inside of my whole--
viii.
ambulatory lights flash through a red light
dragging her resanguinating
corpse towards the temple bearing
moses’ crest
she tries to tell them
no, no, a snake is the reason, not the solution
but whispering from far away just loses its purpose.
--
the miner’s drown anyway,
sources aren’t sure
just how many
there were,

but families have been notified.
in other news,
the inexplicable power failure
that struck much of the east coast
is slowly being fixed.
teams are working around the clock,
to avert more tragedies.
--

ix.
OM MANI PADME HUM
PRAISE TO THE JEWEL IN THE LOTUS
“Prabhujee dayaa karo
o lord, take pity on me
Maname aana baso.
come and live in my mind
Tuma bina laage soonaa
it is empty without you
Khaali ghatame prema bharo.
fill love in this empty pitcher”
adi shankara no le conoció
jesucristo no fue al cielo
muhammad no oyó la tormenta
el buda no bebió el soma
k'ung-fu-tzu no supo la manera del fin de semana
--
they were on top of her
when she woke up.
raping her with
pvc and rubber tubes.

she didn’t understand
why they insisted on
being inside her now.
she screams.
--
x.
one two three breathe for me
“¡uno dos tres, montó a ti!”
help me save me heal me
“¡rescáteme, tu hijo de puta!”
feel me touch me call me
“¡llámeme o coma mierda, cabrón!”
--
i take refuge in the buddha the dharma and the sangha
i stand at the gate of all mysteries
don’t act, contend.
don’t act, contend.
TAT TVAM ASI
eso es el atman eso eres, shvetaketu
TAT TVAM ASI
“breathe;”
a major tonic.
--

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Muttering Retreats are Sliced to Prevent a Bitter End.

Dec. 9th, 2008 | 04:01 pm


I stood on the pier with no hope in my hand
pocket twos in a world where a flush is in demand
And up in the sky where seem to focus our longings
I no longer see a benevolent man.

I stand in the alley, three walls blocking my path
And the way back is guarded by a regretted past
There's no ladder to climb, no way to get back
And the voices I hear have no body.

And nobody cares is all I can think
Shrugged profit and pride for a present wrapped in pink
bows paper and hope, but I can't seem to get it open.
There is no logical way.

The blade that I've used to cover my hopes
And discard my possibilities now slices loops
And shards from the walls at my face
There is no disgrace.

I forget all I've heard in the anguished cries
Which echoed from my lips after stifled goodbyes
When greetings must suffice, I think it now wise
To let go of all that's followed me.

Given life in the last throes of June's sullen breeze
She's a pill that I'll glady swallow with ease
One who also denies the forest through the trees.

While wandering easily through life's guilty course
We discovered an old man dismounting his horse
Whose eyes only twinkled with ambivalent remorse
When we asked his circumstances.

"When life's got you troubled," he quietly spoke
His words subdued and labored, enveloped in smoke,
"give up, get down, let go, and retreat."
We let him go with ease.

While carrying our hopes through a forgotten wood
Where we both had been stuck before, we solemnly stood
And confessed our atrocious pasts and deeds
Into a hollow tree.

And life had been born from unending doubt
The infinite summed up in a handful of water
From a fountain that exists, so far as we know
Only in dreams and legend.

But if we were to stand at the top of all land
And look down upon the flowing seas
We would then see all that we can
What wasn't true then would be.

And lifted on high by wings of delight
We would stand on a cloud so far from that fright
Which left us paralyzed every day until night
We would then be free.

But what stops us from this most noble of goals?
I couldn't tell you and I don't think you know,
But of all that remains from what we've been taught,
At least one path must be true.
So follow me, I'll follow you.

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To Sleep

Sep. 10th, 2008 | 08:41 pm

Beating stillborn hearts are cast opposite the glow of a framed black stalk.
Where will we two burn immortal in the Age of Aquarius?
For whichever sun will cast its manifold shadows upon two lustrous hearts entwined, our bond will force unique lotus-lattices, snow white in motive.
But grows a doubt in the hearts of gods.
Virginal gray maidens take fair warning and converge upon such this a twisted bond, unknotting fiery passions in the love-lakes of our souls.
The bond was never forged.
Now cast and fated to wane solitary, my vessels succumb to some form of higher meaning. I find—I think, dillusion in the very illusion of unity.
If one is all then what is any when one has departed?
But as a metaphysically slanted monologue develops in the dark rooms of my mind, a stranger knocks.

It is time to sleep.
But what dreams may come?

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the inevitable

Sep. 8th, 2008 | 12:50 pm

always makes perfect sense in retrospect.
always.
for the better, a new paradigm develops.


thank you. 

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it is now beginning

Jul. 4th, 2008 | 01:45 pm

There is no solution or retribution, divine or otherwise.
Merely a man playing piano on the black side of a curtain.
Veiled from existence and loving reconnaissance by his own ignorance.
There is no more weed to smoke.
No more mushroom to chew and make you fantasize of northern caribou.
No more paper stamps to lick and send you off into Saturday idyllic romances.
We are a disconnection from the central hub of consciousness.
Our feet are numb, and the sensation works its way up our fetal confines.
We are naked and alone on this the vigil of our birth.
Our people have been taught hatred and blame-placing to a master’s degree.
They have been taught to subjugate their needs to a central and illogically (but green and eco-friendly) burning hate.
We are placed in self-loathing skin and bones.
We are taught to hate in the twilight of our Sundays,
Only to be born with it again at dawn on Mondays.
We cultivate our children’s prejudices in fields fertilized by our own.
So in Spring great plants of Shit doth bloom!
For like feeding like with like only breeds more like.
Our final salvation is our eternal doom.
When our great filament of the sun is lit and romanced to the one
Who greets us with firm glances and cheers
And minimizes the frights of our years
Wilm the great flame of edelweiss come to envelop our foes?
Or envelope our ambitions?
Sealing them tight in malina to burn
Eternal night to us doth earn.

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Doubts.

Jun. 3rd, 2008 | 01:30 am

To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.





Is there no respite from ambiguity?

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(no subject)

Jun. 2nd, 2008 | 01:55 pm

So fold your paper wings, and fly on your own,
beyond the tear-torn sunsets of your brief life.

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