Two faves..
Dali & Halsman.. <3
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
THANK YOU! I never knew till last night the stats...
Pageviews today
25
Pageviews yesterday
4
Pageviews last month
108
Pageviews all time history
881
send one through the abstract virtual wires,
anything,
anybody,
comments and obscenities,
a sign from other living entities.
these hands..
words escape my fingers,
to reach the eyes of hands unknown, unseen yet unattainable to shake those hands.
the few or none..
the hands that read this blog.
I thank you for reading.
Audience:
This Week
United States
31
Philippines
4
United Kingdom
3
Spain
2
Italy
1
Malaysia
1
Im just happy my blog has reached beyond the U.S...
United States
626
Germany
36
China
28
United Kingdom
24
Russia
22
Turkey
21
Brazil
20
Malaysia
17
South Korea
11
Canada
7
Feel free to email me anything:
Jmnares1@aol.com
25
Pageviews yesterday
4
Pageviews last month
108
Pageviews all time history
881
send one through the abstract virtual wires,
anything,
anybody,
comments and obscenities,
a sign from other living entities.
these hands..
words escape my fingers,
to reach the eyes of hands unknown, unseen yet unattainable to shake those hands.
the few or none..
the hands that read this blog.
I thank you for reading.
Audience:
This Week
United States
31
Philippines
4
United Kingdom
3
Spain
2
Italy
1
Malaysia
1
Im just happy my blog has reached beyond the U.S...
United States
626
Germany
36
China
28
United Kingdom
24
Russia
22
Turkey
21
Brazil
20
Malaysia
17
South Korea
11
Canada
7
Feel free to email me anything:
Jmnares1@aol.com
...Release
Inner breathlessness, outer restlessness
By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath
Grandma asked me what I'm running for
I guess I'm out for the same thing the sun is sunning for
What mothers birth their youngens for
And some say Jesus coming for
For all I know the earth is spinning slow
Suns at half mast 'cause masses ain't aglow
On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter versus spirit
A metal ladder
A wooden cross
A plastic bottle of water
A mandala encased in glass
A spirit encased in flesh
Sound from shaped hollows
The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion
A man that cries in his sleep
A truth that has gone out of fashion
A mode of expression
A paint splattered wall
A carton of cigarettes
A bouquet of corpses
A dying forest
A nurtured garden
A privatized prison
A candle with a broken wick
A puddle that reflects the sun
A piece of paper with my name on it
I'm surrounded
I surrender
All
All that I am I have been
All I have been has been a long time coming
I am becoming all that I am
The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute
Unheard, yet felt
A gathered wetness
A quiet moisture
Sound trapped in a bubble
Released into wind
Wind fellows and land merchants
We are history's detergent
Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath
Articles amending death
These words are not tools of communication
They are shards of metal
Dropped from eight story windows
They are waterfalls and gas leaks
Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf
The tools of a trade
Barbers barred, barred of barters
Catch phrases and misunderstandings
But they are not what I feel when I am alone
Surrounded by everything and nothing
And there isn't a word or phrase to be caught
A verse to be recited
A man to de-fill my being in those moments
I am blankness, the contained center of an "O"
The pyramidic containment of an "A"
I stand in the middle of all that I have learned
All that I have memorized
All that I've known by heart
Unable to reach any of it
There is no sadness
There is no bliss
It is a forgotten memory
A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking
There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless
They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness
But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence
Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas
like dead rats held by their tails
so as not to infect this newly oiled skin
I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane
I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal
I can think of nothing less likely to fly
There are no wings more weighted
I too have felt a heaviness
The stare of man guessing at my being
Yes I am homeless
A homeless man making offerings to the after-future
Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles
A nation unified in exhale
A cloud of smoke
A native pipe ceremony
All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps
Snow covered mountains
Lipsticks smeared and shriveled
Offerings to an afterworld
Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers
Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
It matters not what this paper be made of
Give me notebooks made of human flesh
Dried on steel hooks and nooses
Make uses of use, uses of us
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
On bended knee
Prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter vs. spirit, through meditation
I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation
[Saul Williams)
By the time I caught up to freedom I was out of breath
Grandma asked me what I'm running for
I guess I'm out for the same thing the sun is sunning for
What mothers birth their youngens for
And some say Jesus coming for
For all I know the earth is spinning slow
Suns at half mast 'cause masses ain't aglow
On bended knee, prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter versus spirit
A metal ladder
A wooden cross
A plastic bottle of water
A mandala encased in glass
A spirit encased in flesh
Sound from shaped hollows
The thickest of mucus released from heightened passion
A man that cries in his sleep
A truth that has gone out of fashion
A mode of expression
A paint splattered wall
A carton of cigarettes
A bouquet of corpses
A dying forest
A nurtured garden
A privatized prison
A candle with a broken wick
A puddle that reflects the sun
A piece of paper with my name on it
I'm surrounded
I surrender
All
All that I am I have been
All I have been has been a long time coming
I am becoming all that I am
The spittle that surrounds the mouth-piece of the flute
Unheard, yet felt
A gathered wetness
A quiet moisture
Sound trapped in a bubble
Released into wind
Wind fellows and land merchants
We are history's detergent
Water soluble, light particles, articles of cleansing breath
Articles amending death
These words are not tools of communication
They are shards of metal
Dropped from eight story windows
They are waterfalls and gas leaks
Aged thoughts rolled in tobacco leaf
The tools of a trade
Barbers barred, barred of barters
Catch phrases and misunderstandings
But they are not what I feel when I am alone
Surrounded by everything and nothing
And there isn't a word or phrase to be caught
A verse to be recited
A man to de-fill my being in those moments
I am blankness, the contained center of an "O"
The pyramidic containment of an "A"
I stand in the middle of all that I have learned
All that I have memorized
All that I've known by heart
Unable to reach any of it
There is no sadness
There is no bliss
It is a forgotten memory
A memorable escape route that only is found by not looking
There, in the spine of the dictionary the words are worthless
They are a mere weight pressing against my thoughtlessness
But then, who else can speak of thoughtlessness with such confidence
Who else has learned to sling these ancient ideas
like dead rats held by their tails
so as not to infect this newly oiled skin
I can think of nothing heavier than an airplane
I can think of no greater conglomerate of steel and metal
I can think of nothing less likely to fly
There are no wings more weighted
I too have felt a heaviness
The stare of man guessing at my being
Yes I am homeless
A homeless man making offerings to the after-future
Sculpting rubber tree forests out of worn tires and shoe soles
A nation unified in exhale
A cloud of smoke
A native pipe ceremony
All the gathered cigarette butts piled in heaps
Snow covered mountains
Lipsticks smeared and shriveled
Offerings to an afterworld
Tattoo guns and plastic wrappers
Broken zippers and dead eyed dolls
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
It matters not what this paper be made of
Give me notebooks made of human flesh
Dried on steel hooks and nooses
Make uses of use, uses of us
It's all overwhelming me, oak and elming me
I have seeded a forest of myself
Little books from tall trees
On bended knee
Prostrate before an altered tree
I've made the forest suit me
Tables and chairs
Papers and prayers
Matter vs. spirit, through meditation
I program my heart to beat breakbeats and hum basslines on exhalation
[Saul Williams)
time
time elapsing,
unmasking the future.
only made apparent through tangible.
abrupt thoughts; life in the hands of a clock..suddenly into a new dimension of reality, the real situation, realization & now contemplation...
every min. is j/ the mathematical progression of intangible place of time in space.. forever in motion.. yesterday is gone, future must be awaited.. so the time is now.
your life is in the hands of time; in your hands..
your hands are a representation of time..
you cannot see time, but you can see its essence through the wrinkles on your hand...
map out the wrinkles on times main instructor..
i dont believe in the wasting of time...since time is just an illusion after all..
this world in full of illusions..
dnt give in,
just live.
-jess
unmasking the future.
only made apparent through tangible.
abrupt thoughts; life in the hands of a clock..suddenly into a new dimension of reality, the real situation, realization & now contemplation...
every min. is j/ the mathematical progression of intangible place of time in space.. forever in motion.. yesterday is gone, future must be awaited.. so the time is now.
your life is in the hands of time; in your hands..
your hands are a representation of time..
you cannot see time, but you can see its essence through the wrinkles on your hand...
map out the wrinkles on times main instructor..
i dont believe in the wasting of time...since time is just an illusion after all..
this world in full of illusions..
dnt give in,
just live.
-jess
_
people choose to forget rather than forgive,
they choose to believe the bad before then good.
They choose to grudge about the mistakes,
then pay tribute to the good times.
They will replace the absence of love
with alliance of your enemy,
or at the hands of a stranger.
They forget the hope and promises,
drown them in alcohol and piss on em'.
Weak souls seek comfort in the illusion of deception,
false tainted realities into an abstract database of whores.
Click the window to their soul seeking desperation at the lonely cocks
at the other end of the electronic string and cup.
Intangible nature make a lustful nature,
in this visual world which lies on the dermis of concealed frosted skin.
Run into her arms, she will stab you in the flesh wound I started...
("People are not good to each other"- Bukowski)
__________
THE CRUNCH
__________
Too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving wine bottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.
an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.
who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
"no."
-Charles Bukowski
they choose to believe the bad before then good.
They choose to grudge about the mistakes,
then pay tribute to the good times.
They will replace the absence of love
with alliance of your enemy,
or at the hands of a stranger.
They forget the hope and promises,
drown them in alcohol and piss on em'.
Weak souls seek comfort in the illusion of deception,
false tainted realities into an abstract database of whores.
Click the window to their soul seeking desperation at the lonely cocks
at the other end of the electronic string and cup.
Intangible nature make a lustful nature,
in this visual world which lies on the dermis of concealed frosted skin.
Run into her arms, she will stab you in the flesh wound I started...
("People are not good to each other"- Bukowski)
__________
THE CRUNCH
__________
Too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers
strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks
armies running through
streets of blood
waving wine bottles
bayoneting and fucking
virgins.
an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.
there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock
people so tired
mutilated
either by love or no love.
people just are not good to each other
one on one.
the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.
we are afraid.
our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners
it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.
or the terror of one person
aching in one place
alone
untouched
unspoken to
watering a plant.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.
but sometimes I think about
it.
the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.
too much
too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody
more haters than lovers.
people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.
meanwhile I look at young girls
stems
flowers of chance.
there must be a way.
surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.
who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
"no."
-Charles Bukowski
Dead cells
lifted by the wind to sail through the city,
trailing with the breeze from the mountain to the seas,
hoping never to side with gravity,
visions from the stars,
a star siluette shadow on the floor,
illuminated translucent cells dancing in the wind..
like strings of hair,
they swing from her branch,
like the days when i use to travel with a whimsical imagination that
took off like the crisp leaf in the gust of wind..
maybe the same gust that took the scarf that day I drowned my sorrows,
in utter brain incoherence..
every crack on the leaf reveals a story of its travels on the wind.
The palm of your hand,
a map.
The scarf that is worth more than my life, the one that embraced the neck of a woman whose eyes recorded a life ill never know... a world that many any never know nor understand..
hands in the dirt...
the only existence left
gone with the cracked leaf on the sidewalk..
An abandon memory.
hands in the dirt.
trailing with the breeze from the mountain to the seas,
hoping never to side with gravity,
visions from the stars,
a star siluette shadow on the floor,
illuminated translucent cells dancing in the wind..
like strings of hair,
they swing from her branch,
like the days when i use to travel with a whimsical imagination that
took off like the crisp leaf in the gust of wind..
maybe the same gust that took the scarf that day I drowned my sorrows,
in utter brain incoherence..
every crack on the leaf reveals a story of its travels on the wind.
The palm of your hand,
a map.
The scarf that is worth more than my life, the one that embraced the neck of a woman whose eyes recorded a life ill never know... a world that many any never know nor understand..
hands in the dirt...
the only existence left
gone with the cracked leaf on the sidewalk..
An abandon memory.
hands in the dirt.
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