Dehydration

Chapped delusional lips manage to squeak in questioning of how one could turn art into a lifestyle but one cannot claim their lifestyle is art. Some movements mean more than the average room-cruiser aimlessly stirring the current of what used to be a still space, each breath fully distinct from the next and still every notion goes discredited. How does one know when they're in the right place in the wrong time? Or the wrong place at a time-telling challenge intended to cleanse you and you're ingesting it wrong. Shameful sloth.

Make friendly

of oneness and continuity, a venture in essence.

allow the ocean's representation,

observe purely justified ardor and sincerity

because these legged containers are the means of dynamism 

perception is waving

stillness is ever fleeting.

hold the door, don't you enter this warped corridor
it might dissolve behind you.

Nay this
reverse the rusting
and bring me to a station east,
after those rail rattling,
gear grinding vessels
that I chase beside trails, surreptitious behind stumps, trunks
catching light in the evening which passengers
mistake for having slipped
I linger between each coach
watching you try to sleep.

Brine

By torchlight quiver

hours flicker to their snuff via

divine waters which

lap to tease my roots

I am timid by your approach

and your frigid span,

I hover these slabs

always slightly elevated and I'm feeling

but in rays of color.

Audubon

This pond used to mirror the shade

which keeps it ominous and purely reflective

hiding something we aren't meant to greet

perhaps with stealthy pace or gnashing teeth

It's now a carpet I'm afraid to approach,

how deep I could plunge as a hatch may

open in the planks under a rug

The sea-sage fibers would wrap me,

probably tactically

I can already feel the gentle whipping of 

creatures tails I still fail to see

May this sheath crumble with my

struggle and peace come with full lungs

Clarifying prior curiosity as all memory

flashes and dissipates

The final exposure wound from ear to ear

captures this still community, exhibiting

colors I could not perceive before this release

Gracefully attained I freeze

becoming muck in a village

I would cling to the fallen twigs in wisps 

if one day it should dry up

AND IF THE EMPEROR SPOKE

"I am security. I am the very personification of force. When I am speaking inside you, you understand that weakness does not exist. As long as you have not seen me, you will know only insecurity. You will not have the power to make or do anything, to express or resist yourself: you are a victim. But in my presence your fears are over. You will cease to doubt and devalue yourself. No one can force you to do what you do not wish to do."


Your immense force keeps me rotating.

And the salmon sings in the street

Sunday afternoon in Gambetta

I did not feel the surreal magic expected of Paris, only a sort of reality that could never be found elsewhere and that is something impossible to describe, much more magnificent

Ritaðar

Here's making something from nothing
in a forest so dense I've carefully chosen shelter
Living is a walk in the woods within which are no manmade paths
You hit a vast field, you enter the density you seek in the distance. 
You reach water, you cross this, into territory without expectation. 
Every decision you make leads you into depths you'd struggle to predict.
Go blindly but prepared and you will not find what is meant to come into being- it will find you.
It is written.

Severed hands on the porch

There were 4 or 5, and they were proportionate though a tenth of the size you'd consider normal. There was a little mess of blood and I was worried I needed to sweep them away into the bush, a neighbor was walking up the steps toward me.

I walked around the corner in the right place at the right time to see a news reporter speaking into a camera. A small crowd had gathered and I went into the street to see from a clearer path... 10 or 12 young women, all dressed similar, were laid on the street in a circle almost as the rays of the sun. Each had a gun in her hand and a hole in her stomach. One or two were being taken away on gurneys, a few were still breathing or struggling to speak, most were clearly drained of life. It was evident they did this to themselves though I instinctually felt they were influenced by something or someone, an idea or possession they couldn't evade that had led to this cult-like organized suicide. I think the man who owned the house where I found the hands was involved.

I come home one night to an apartment where I live alone, I've been there a long time but it was new to me in the dream. High ceilings, spacious, and a comfortably personal tone to the color throughout. There is a wall behind the dining table that had been pushed back, opening to these mysteriously lit halls lined with shelves, and on these all sorts of trinkets, antiques, mostly glass items. Every time I try to get back there someone comes to the front door, people I don't recognize but I know somehow that I have business to take care of. After some time it has become a party and I become impatient but accept that, as the host, I need to loosen up... I go to the kitchen for something, probably to get a drink, and there are three girls in the doorway talking with beers in hand. As I approach they turn my direction and the face of the girl in the center starts to morph subtly, three extra eyes form on her face, and as she looks at me they blink but not all at once.

Photo by Chema Madoz

All I want

Fourth floor

Crying over coffee

I find myself uncomfortably often wondering what the fuck are words trying to do? And who do they impress or fool?
It seems everything imaginable has been overdone and desensitized and I'm feeling more unsettled than ever, forgive the rant but it's hard to create anything new.
It's alright to at least have something to look forward to, but what to do for now, I'll find something, maybe I'm capable

Caught by the saxophone in the street

Thank you Charles, we appreciate this encounter and your lovely work! You can see through his lens here.

 

I carry myself

When I get down I'll remember all of the ignorant or discouraging remarks I'd hear regarding plans for my future when I was young and remind myself that none ever hindered a venture

Edinburgh, Scotland

I could write folk songs but you'd remind me they've all been done

If the cost of living where I'd like to be in Belgium is not much different, why do I remain here? I couldn't make anything better here for myself or those around me, I don't have a real role, and with that I am content. It's (very) apparent that I can handle distance from what I'm comfortable with. I didn't want to come home, I very much miss the road with interesting, dear company rolling through every day as each hour brought surprise in whatever amount. My eyes and legs ache to feel every corner I haven't turned yet.