Face.Your.Dream.Self

The way a dream is broken
The moment the sleeper knows he is sleeping.
-Jorge Borges

A dream does not like being controlled
It has the temperament of a child
Just like man doesn’t like to be veered
Into a sphere of emotional discomfort
Where he is unable to coexist
With his suppressed fears
Therefore he expresses them
Therefore he is eaten
No longer himself
But still walking in his body
Writing in his body
Making love in his body
He is unable to reconnect with what he loves most in himself
And is therefore forever lost
At the coordinate of stubbornness
aligned with webbed beads of tears
He stands-
found.
With his back
to the potential
of his
dream self
he starves alive
his knowledge
his only pride
unable to fall into the trance
of dream
where life comes to life!
dream comes to dream!
self comes to self
and like attracts like.
- Just Be.

Burnin---' S.u.n. f.l.o.w.e.R

ocean of shifting symmetries. butter fly by me
parallel realities, scorching desert sands, infested by collapsing rains
that sprout that rose of truth
among all those grains of sands
lost in time
lost where I was, with you
all those pages we’ve written for one another...... are quickly tucked underneath our covers. excited we forget, sink into blue waters of yellow dreams, and by the morning our childish desires renewed with a fresh steam. I keep the flame of writing alive, by feeding the fire my work, for the passion to exist and burn within the dark eyes of night. Where it goes after ashes blend with sand....i do not know. But what I know is they always return.
these pages, stories me and you blush upon, eye's widen, and all matter of heart suddenly becomes serious….shall we tango, to the song we have written and forgot to sing? The walk we have stripped of pride and ego we emasculated with a smile, spinning all into a glorious dance of laughter and forgetting. unanswered by the strangest stranger of all things strange. arrange my steps. trapeze down paved paths we call streets by names mispronounced, on lonely continents....their plates shifting, hands of lands intertwining, beneath the surface of off things that seem.
Twin to my soul. You walk not to far behind. I am not always aware you’re there....its the credit you are teaching me to take, without doubting what’s mine, is already yours.
She snuggles into my shoulder, and releases all passions, left victims of their own burning flame of power, resting like yellow seeds, against the black petals ......of a gloriously.....burning .......sun-flower.

S.P.L.I.T S

Noun: The physical structure of a person or an animal, including the bones, flesh, and organs.
Verb: Give material form to something abstract. 

"Athletic Dance"- To bend and break your physical body….held by your bones, masked by your flesh and operated by your organs….into structures rhythmical movement of thought forms that give rise to some epiphany of compound emotion down the road of your life's purpose that you carve for yourself second by second in your abstract mind. And in the midst of questioning….does the mind make sense of the body, does the body make sense of the mind…. or is everything you think, not a reaction of actual thought but flesh.
"You're cold hearted." I might say….But no!! its actually my heart that's cold when i think of you. Okay….but what about her? She's hot….smouldering in blood and agony that can never choose between short term pain…or long term pleasure. In competition with oneself. What a sight! To gain some ground on your own battle field, and gain a loss that will never be forgiven.
The battle is over. The sight you longed to see in vanishing beneath the sea swelling in your eyes, like time running, sprinting through your fingers. Into a hat of folded paper with answers to all that is more to come. The shores are calm once more. The sea in breathing. Your eyes fly open and blink to see the sun blinking back at you in pure delight.
Its a new day. Its a new morning. I hop out of bed. Out of some reminiscing desert of blood and sand of a dream now a mere speck of dark depth, growing shallower, being pulled into the distance without the minds interruption. I swing my leg up backwards to to kiss my Achilles, and arch into the interior city of splendid doll. A bad dream cannot erase my need to remember, Cool....I've still got it all!

"It is death sweetly bluish, like non-being. Because nonbeing is an infinite emptiness and empty space is blue, and there is nothing more beautiful and more soothing than blue. Not at all by chance did Novalis, the poet of death, love blue and search for nothing else in his journey’s.The voyage of variations leads into the other infinitude, into the infinite diversity of the interior world lying hidden in all things." - Milan Kundera


Without weight, there is no color there is no radiation, rainbow or variety, temperature, emotion, height or its symmetrical depth. Memories and people attached to them loosen and loosen shape, loose importance, influence & communication with your soul, therefore your soul looses direction, nostalgia evaporates, steam releasing anxiety and disorder. What you were/are once, will not matter twice. The mountains, meadows, sunrises, the stench of lavender on my shoulder from sleeping upon rows and rows of smiling flowers........ and hurricanes of streaming fabrics of warring colors, russian poets lost in duels for love, their poetry, my pottery, his cat, her blue tongue, and even the color orange...even the color orange blends with the rivers of galaxies emptying into vacant pools of ink. Collecting stars, shimmering into throbbing white clusters -----all smooth out onto one plane, of 2 dimensional simplicity. take the canvas, and put it out in front of you. Now try to find your fears? Your doubts? Your sadness? Your shame? Your pain? Your game? Your loss? Your scar? Your cigarette tar? ..........Elements of hatred towards yourself? Memories and yearnings. Dreams distorting perception and the seconds in your life you spent caring about becoming someone other than who you already are, those seconds of bending over backwards into negative infinity. Where are they! Show me!.........do “they” even exist....who are you? Where are you?..... Or are we all just lying hidden in all things, swimming in an ocean of blue electricity, living inside a resonating seashell..... like a mollusk... where every whispered word, and thought calling to our attention, reverberates, swells, into multiple unending echoes, rebounding only off of ourselves, and the protection we have built around us, believing we are all that exists......Growing into our belief’s. All wanting to be different. All wanting to be crazy. All wanting to be beautiful and talented. But afraid to stick out our tiny little heads into the abyss, holding on with our lives to the floating bubbles. Of thought, Of shell, Of disappointment. Of the concreteness of being this and that......abstract. we live. All afraid to be eaten, by what we belief in most. Ourselves.