Levitator

You and I

Everybody Loves Me the Same Way

September

I'll Be With You

Time of The Season

The Sugary Night, the Howling Speed

It's the kind of night the unwinds
frame by frame.
Starts on a deserted street (one not even a stray dog roams)
]in a town too small to name.
WInd has found it, is here, in the canopy
of the trees. It is too dark to see
but we can hear it
in the timpani of leaves,
in the creaking branches.
I am there, you are you.
The darkness is raw at the edges.
Iv'e spent hours trying to stitch it
into five-eighths seams.
I don't know what else to do.
Call it love, this need to tuck-in,
square away, this need for
the sugary night, the howling speed.

via JULIA KLATT SINGER

Knocking on Heavens Door

Mambo Hot!

Spanish Sahara

I'm travelling a steam train due North.

And wondering how we split the stars.

But at the moment I am not supposed to worry about blank canvasses or shielded surroundings,

Because I am sublime individuality. 

And I swear that the sea sings Spanish melodies

Somewhere deep in her tide.

All I know is that the world is changing and colors are beginning to collide.

And we better ease this evening with small sweet tidings

Because maybe you could remind me or point to me our stars.

Because I am sick and tired of powdering my face,

To sit in the pantry all night. 

Sunday, June 29 2014

You just can’t take it all with you.
Some we leave at the side of the road,
Others on the curb of our heart.
I think we take what we need to survive.
I used to need a lot from this world.
Too much seemed too important to leave for others,
But what’s it worth if you have no room to breathe.
I believe we can unpack the soul.
Compartment by compartment.
Day by day.
It’s when we do not know what we need-
that our body becomes a city rummage collection.
These pots and pans have no meaning,
Without yesterdays serving dishes.
These paintings not fit happily in these cluttered halls.
This desk only gets use if our brain allows such.
I’ve sold most to the Salvation through these words,
But what are words worth?

For everything that doesn’t fall into rows and columns,

I plant in the back yard for later.

Only after scrounging the couch cushions for change

And sweeping under the rug.

I then like to return and water in the beginning, 

to see what might sprout.

Mishaps, accidents, secrets, misfortunes, lies and truths

lie side by side to the coincidence petunias and sad day sun flowers.

Some I water fervently while for the others, I let Mother Nature run her course.

Surprisingly they never take long to up root in the sullied soil we use as a bed.

Fruit bearing these plants are pregnant with potted potential.

Sometimes they leave luck.

Other times inspiration.

You see planting heartache and the often thorny swear words bears only sour fruit.

SO I much rather enjoy planting my friends engagements, birthdays or promotions.

Were soon running out of room here.

Friends being the most beautiful flower the garden has,

the scene is sheer flower frenzy these days.

A colorful mirage of content.

Oh, and here comes the sun.

I never remember reading the back of the book first.
Always started with the beginning.
Not to say I was not thirsty,
to hear about the story in shorthand rendition.
But who are these bit players?
And where will they fit in these told layers?
And why is the story untrue

To what I thought and dreamed was you.
This book is big, with barely visible font.
As much as I want to skip this chapter I simply cannot.
It’s as if the book is engaging itself,
with me reading all by myself.
Was this first written in pen so permanent and final?

Or is only the first revision being received by mail.
I’m half way though.
Reading though all colors- red, white and blue.
Will this story ever come to an end?
Or is this conversation just beginning my bound friend.

"Art is the imprint of our humanity on the created order- the echo of the divine image etched into the husks of trees and curvatures of electricity and light. It is our shadow cast upon earth, our names scrawled in the wet cement of the universe, and even though the temporality of life ensures that the waves of time will wash clean the sand of all our castles, there is something within the human spirit that demands the effort. Our art is divine breath once again breathed into dust, and it is air worth breathing."

via THE CROWD THE CRITIC AND THE MUSE, GUNGOR

The marriage of heaven and of earth was mysterious and wonderful in many ways

They couldn't decide on table placements, or color schemes or dress attire

And no one knew what to bring, because it seemingly felt as if nothing was needed in addition as to what was already there before them.

But there was plenty of silver and gold and purple, all cased in granite black
and a little bit of every color.
Because we didn’t want to leave one out, primary or not.

But they attended in precise ordered reservation.
Two by two the couples collided on the dance hall
in celebration joining two in holy matrimony.
The ordained text came from many books
as love doesn’t fit securely in only one.
The music was rich as lace and delicate as cake,
with an abundance of genre an styles
we chose the music of our matrimonial womb.

Silver for the sliver of anticipated bliss.
Gold for the hope to grow old in serenity.
Purple for the love of union and sheer divide.
And granite for the life long day ahead.
And two rings reminding us of what we have in common. 

via DAVID IRVINE

Ocean

Yellow

United States of Tara, Season One