hooks for hands sitting smiling smoking passes the joint from metal hook to fleshy hand his box of false flowers resting on expensive coffee table. he goes outside and is home for a while, and he smokes in his house but keeps it meticulously clean inside the outside of his home and back in my living room assholes spew out words while outside inside his house hooks for hands sells false flowers but speaks the truth for free
the blurred vision distorts what is outside and not what is in but the light refracts and lies and what is in is not what is right bu it might get stirred and blurred and spat back at us, bad habits, and the things that are true just cigarette butts crushed under dirty ashy sole
take your pills swallow them whole and hold them in your stomaches fist fast and strong and pull them down deep into the well of your soul and let ‘em go
words…..why why why so many floating searching seeking falling tripping slipping groping feeling stabbing cutting blunting crushing killing all around like smoke it smells like the thing it used to be and swirls around itself making patterns breaking rules taking fools along for a ride up up up and around through and out without knowing seeing hearing glaring starring till the cloud is just dust falling and calling scalding and balding the surface of everything we see
one two three four my number is three but what’s it for, some system of three like one two three three plus one three plus two three plus three three plus three plus one three plus three plus two three plus three plus three….arbitrary names for things we call numbers and we all have one
The sky is the ocean above
our little lobster heads.
The waves of clouds create,
the waves of clouds move to make
the wind and the sea bed.
Formations of rock and stone
from the surgical whisp
whirling and swirling
fumbling and twirling
as it whistles through and around my head.
Feelings of harsh sincerity
harsh reality and
harsh naivety rush to me.
These feelings, they rush right through me
consuming all of what I thought I knew.
Consuming all of who I thought to be true.
Now I am left swimming here,
and crawling here, in this ocean of atmospheric pressure.
It relentlessly keeps pushing itself down on me.
My shoulders ache, my head aches, and my stomache screams.
I don't think my compulsions or my
could have kept me from something so
emancipated and inhumane.
This distraught loss I feel I have suffered
is now a new awakening.
My life is nothing but materialistic.
I thought these things had meaning and purpose,
but what is purpose without a soul?
It's a vicious cycle with my footprint stamped in time.
From a single seed I grew,
now 5 feet 8 inches tall
and left with an empty soul.
Degredation stemming from the 11th hour.
It is our time now to shine.
This generation of ours so behind.
Industry came on the e-train
and the time has come for it to go again.
Deep within I have found another way to be free.
It's this bright light that shines so deep into my eyes.
Blinded by this path of perfection that I had to be.
But this light, with it's scathing little intricacies
and delicasies and in-for-malities.
Inside we must learn.
Inside we must grow.
Inside we must follow.
This little winding road, that twists and turns
until silence overcomes.
We must watch as the ground below us slowly dissolves away,
slowly spreads itself and connects in so many forms.
Staggered little dots creating this painting of the big picture.
We have no idea where the earth and sky meet,
there is no line beneath my feet,
and this... rocky path.
My fingertips extending into this
distant whistling ocean in the sky.
The clouds, like waves,
rumble and roll atop my head in my
push the button and go…no stopping
do the job built to do
designed to do
twelve-fingered freak entertaining at best
push the button and let’s see what he’ll do
family distraction, common bond, golden child link to humanity
dance, make us laugh, but don’t make us think
back back back now you twelve-fingered freak
push the button, start the machine….wake that motherfucker up
push it again I’m bored
eight leathery fingers and four leathery thumbs close tight around one soft throat, skin stained with black resin, fat strong fingers, scared, cut, bleeding, scabbed, used, useful…..push it again motherfucker, I dare you….pulls one arm back, slowly cocking, muscles tightening, bulbous, salty, years and tears of steel out at sea and they have no idea what they have on their hands now, chaffing hemp rope leathery black resign stained acrid skin around throat uncomfortable to the touch beyond the pressure alone…..every time you push that button, my son pays…..four fingers and two thumbs and the strong right hand balls up into hammer fist….
go ahead, push it again….I dare you….my son is standing right there behind me, take a good look at his face and push it again…it’s right there in front of you…all you have to do is push…..and…..laugh……and…….see what happens next….
…and with his tongue he pushes the Copenhagen tighter into his lower lip, and with a click click click he moves his head side to side and pop pop pop on his muscle of a neck and with brown dribble on his chin….how funny am I now?
Mom, how you made my world sing:
With stories of the Summer of Love in Frisco and everything;
About supergroups you saw when they were brand new;
About Jerry and the Boys living next door to you.
With characters like Leary, Kenyon, and Steve Miller,
What more could you ask for, sounds like a thriller.
The experiment seemed such a sucess, I wish it were true
That society evolved at the pace you all set it to.
Down at the Purple Onion, Steve Miller jammin' Indian style,
Pigpen beltin' out the blues if only for a while.
Joni Mitchell on the wall, shy as a mouse,
Janis and Big Brother tearing down the house.
Must have been a trip as a working artist in that town.
I can remember the SF scene from my perspective near the ground.
The change in the air, it seemed like revolution;
The times since then seem such a dilution.
I wish I could go back and live it for a while,
Seems like I'd have a permanent A-time smile.
That groove you all set, it still lingers on,
Though the torchbearers seem all but gone.
When Jerry went, I felt a part of me go.
Now that you're gone, it seems like the end of the show.
But I realize this is the hardest part of the test,
Cause when things get rough, you've got to be at your best.
We are the torchbearers, it's our turn to fly.
The world we live in is our alibi.
It's our song now and we get to sing it,
So don't be afraid, just get out there and wing it.
Unless chaos rules constant the lives of men,
My future must certain my past replevin.
And ere yet I finish, with gainful intent,
Applying my craft, with respect due dissent.
Giving metre it's purpose and weaving with rhyme,
So that men might gain focus from years worn with time.
Fact past and present, forevre entwined,
With one common purpose, continuation of kind.
Or how about something really dark and dismal...we're talking a fat bummer...
Loneliness is a force that steals life's precious moments drop by drop, bled to the beat of drumming angst, frustration, or resignation.
The unfulfilling satiation of the flesh and the paring of hope from the bleeding exposed bone. Mis-spent minutes fade to hours, then to years, stoicly plodding towards death.
The hearts magic tickle grows fainter as dreams become worn memories. Unrequited fantasy, unparalleled waking excitement feed secret longing and desparate hope.
Longed for visons and possibilities demand unanswered devoted action and grow the black fruit of bitterness and envy.
The answer to the heart's cry goes unheard by ears straining to hear as its muffled voice is kept wrapt in a bloody woolen rag.
The pulse, once spurred to beat so strongly and quickly, rising to the moment in anticipation, grows stagnant and thready.
Its purpose never realised, the flesh it fed, only filling out form, shrinks without filling the mold. Time grinds the bones towards dust.
Grasping fingers claw for any hold as the fall from potential reality accelerates the backwards plunge into the dark anonymous abyss.
So many others falling, all in silence, each alone. Each grasping and straining to hear the muffled voice wrapt in a bloody woolen rag.
The White snow mountain in the center depicts the land of the
great nation of Tibet.
The six red rays emanating from the sun symbolize the six original peoples of Tibet: the Se, Mu, Dong, Tong, Dru, and Ra.
The blue rays symbolize the commitment to spirtual and secular rule.
The pair of snow-lions symbolize the complete victory of the spiritual and secular rule.
The three-sided yellow border reresents the flourishing of the Buddha’s teachings. The side without a border represents Tibet’s openness to non Buddhist thought.
The raised jewel symbolizes Tibet’s reverence for the three Precious Gems:
the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.