Some words I love purely out of aesthetic/phonetic reasons, despite their meaning. Especially in music, sometimes phonetics is all that matters and words that stem from the stream of conscious with no immediate intent work perfectly in interesting ways, and they just “fit.” The syllables and flow of the percussion the mouth and tounge can make through words is phenomenal. Just another way of looking at it, detaching things from literal meaning.

It’s also fun to go back later and look through these “windows of the mind” as well, and try to make sense of the words that came out in that way. I wonder what place it comes from, kind of like dreams.

I am not a huge follower of a lot fashion because it bores me, I mean I like the more avant garde pieces or designers but I dislike the idea of photo manipulation concerning the body. Where the focus isn’t so much the piece but rather selling something that adds to the idea of what beauty is and doesn’t really try to break that mold in anyway. Seeing before and afters of photoshop even here with local artists I find appalling when it concerns the removal of parts of the waist, plumping of the lips and even enlongating limbs. I don’t even recognize some models I’ve seen in person before because of this. I hate thinking about trying to make sense of it all when I was younger, wondering why it seemed so unattainable to become this image of what the ideal woman looks like. I am not for the censorship of art by any means. I just believe that if this happens people should at least be aware or in the know of the process because a lot aren’t. And personally I find artists who do this to photos with the thought of sales only in mind can go to hell.

I’m up in arms,
With a masked face,
Steel cut eyelids like blades of grass,
Blinking in intervals
Among the summer heat.
I grab ripe fields in fistfulls,
I pull them like hair while making little piles
Perfect haystacks picked too green,
Rabbit food without the rabbit.
Each one a blazing city,
Identical and filled with dirt,
All heaven and disregard to nature.

I’m up in the indescribable realm

the unknown golden question left to finish sentences and 

Why wouldn’t that be nice?

When the universe 

Is a steel cut blade of grass

Is a blinking eye —

Are your words ringing

In the same tone —

Each time the bell tolls and

I wonder what kind of joke 

And what the odds are

where everything is in it’s right place and

flaws are something mythical,

with distance the equivalent to a doorbell ringing

on a day of solitude.

You are
A muse left faint.
A mist, mo(rose.)
Colored glasses, left on the table.
And to no avail, would they deter me
From what I would inevitably see.
The mist, green, the blades of glass
Hidden in the grass.

a penny for your thoughts: we-play-endlessly: I want to say that it bothers me that so many...

we-play-endlessly:

I want to say that it bothers me that so many people today especially of older generations are so stubborn in their belief that “good” music no longer exists. It’s like they mean to say that good music only existed within a certain era, so they make it out to be a passing…

Good music exists in the past as it will in the now, and the future. All art traverses time, and what others held in the palm of their hands is now being held in the palm of cyber space, existing for as long as we’re around and possibly even after that. Good music will always be around no matter what era, and just because you are listening to something in a different time period doesn’t make it any less relevant to being “good music” or the existence thereof. Of course what is “good” is another story. But for the sake of this topic, the only thing that’s changed is having to dig deeper to find the music because the airwaves get clogged more often due to the growth of population and spread of technology. It may have seemed easier to find back in the day because there were less things to fish through.

I saw you at the watering well, your face a lull, ‘twas under a spell  I heard a splash down when you fell, but then I walked away. The grass was green, so crisp at night, I looked ahead, the stars a fright, One by one put up a fight, before they went away. The milk man sings the blues no more, he’s always there, outside my door I don’t know why he comes here for, he knocks then turns away. But I will never sleep a wink, my mind is like a kitchen sink, all I do is think and think, to pass the time away.  Like some one shoved me right up to it,  but I know not just who would do it, I just sit and grin, and bare, and chew it, till it dissolves away.  The plant, it can’t, the roots, are scant, A rant, a chant, it won’t, it can’t.  The plant, it can’t, the roots, are scant, A rant, a chant, it won’t, it can’t.