a poem on the butterfly.

in the process of becoming a butterfly the caterpillar has eaten the leaves of all the plants sorounding it, it has taken from the plants ability to gather light, to awaken itself to the suns touch, it has committed theft. In the beds of meditation and surrender where the butterflies nature literally eats the caterpillar whole, to become the butterfly, the butterfly/caterpillar synthesis makes peace with this thievery. The renewed butterfly emerging from its cocoon literally decides instead; to eat only the nectar of the flower, thereby pollenating and creating more of the plant it fed from, thereby propagating the very thing that it subsisted off of in the first place. How wise.

The power of guilt is magnetism.
..
http://www.cropcircleconnector.com/2008/allcannings/All-CanningsLStevAlex.jpg
....

........

9:03 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

new novel in the works

I am writing a novel it is based on the 7 principles of my play and will be available chapter by chapter on this blog for a short period of time. Just thought I would let all those people who randomly and or not so randomly read this thing. I have no idea who you are, but my blog count shows you anyway...

9:34 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

I lost my manual can I borrow yours?

I saw a woman, wearing a red dress with long silk threads for legs; naked as the first fallen snowangel imprint; wearing an oversized hoodie & baggy jeans underneath the monk hood.

She looked like catherine the great, was as simple as joan of ark, was as transparent as a convulsing crack addict cruising the strip of multiple personality lane.

I'm not sure if I dick van dyke triple taked or if all three existed simultaneously on the multilevels of dimensional asphalt cake.

See, in the figment of my mind I am meeting my partner titled myself luminesced in the other half of my own real marriage inside my nervous tree. i would say system but sometimes it feels more self organized than any man made word should be given credit for.

I feel like it grows and twists where it wants and Im not sure if pruning it with mass-media or letting the winds of void shape the branches of my thoughts would be the best recourse.

When I was small the world was so vibrant that I wore sunglasses most of the time to deal with the intensity.
Now it seems the world is still as vibrant, but the guilt and shame of overpowering my better judgement for the selfish means that creep in as if by tendriled highway have made me feel grey and dull as the chalky remnants of broken pavement choking on the new microorganisms  underneath its icing layer.

Like a spoon on constant rinse, insant chinese water torture chamber chip away.

Sometimes it feels like the messiness that has become us, all the baggage we carry should be burned up by pure intention instead of donated to the landfill of greater human misery.

This goes out to all the loves lost, all the broken dreams and all the memories half frozen in embarassment it was fun while it lasted but the psycholical alchohol trough is closed go feed somewhere more nourishing, I suggest the milk and honey cafe located somewhere where the heart beat originates.Youll find it tastes better and you can walk in a straight line after; instead of dizzying scribbles of gurgled conciousness.

"I hope this finds you well", right now I am writing a letter to my feminine side you think I am getting sidetracked but really dear reader you and I are traveling through a labrynth of lost souls known as fragmented states of emotion and I am houscleaning as we go along buffing walls knocking down doors sweeping up debris and catalouging it all in tandem.

From the outside looking in my feminine side is running frantic trying to escape the demons that are chasing it in ghostly fashion fashioned from memories that happened in the past so long ago that even I have trouble recalling the blade that dealt the wound.
She is running form me.
But I feel the scars.
I am the scars healed, but still available.
When I look in the mirror at the long corridor of truth that caresses that little scared girl, with her trembling arms and heaving shoulders. With the delicate dress ripped to oneside and a gashed knee exposed I see myself for the first time, a man of 27 yrs of age, afraid of frailty, honesty and being disliked.

In the annals of intelect the feminine is intuitive while the masculine is practical.

In the annals of imagination where all worlds converge into one, my feminine side is screaming for me to put down the gun.

All men are taught to assasinate, shoot to kill aim for the target 100 point bullseye sharpshooter death knell.
"Shoot her you fucking pussy are you not man enough?!?"

Sometimes my feminine side shows up as a fawn; doe eyed, helpless fear trembling and making its whole hindquarters quiver.

I just look and something inside so ancient switches on. no occilations just a direct current of "oh shit."

I can't kill myself anymore.

Dear reader what would you do just point and shoot some nintendo pixelated duckhunt adventure?

So easily detach like so much cheap delapitated velcro, blame the glue for the lack of cohesiveness between your triggerfinger and your concience?

Well, I set my gun to oneside and asked for flowers in its place because the powers of color shape and scent are one in this magnificent word (flowher) flower; and voila from the barrel as if by clown magic a dozen of every kind of fragrant shape appeared.

I became suffocated by the pollen and sneezed into eternity knocking down the walls that sever my right from my left.

Here comes Kali raging

You can call this an allergic wedding, all things have their place and time and mine came and still is happening NOW.

part of me cowers in the corner, the other is debilitated in a fit of achoos.

I realize dear reader this is what is known as a cliffhanger but so it goes for although there is no danger in death by gun, a part of me dies everytime I deny her. And yet to be filled with the force of life itself all at once this two is too much.
SO here is my question to the universe, maybe in the spaciousess of these electronic signals the answer will arise to greet me like so many glyphs in english summer crop.

Where are the instruction manuals for both sides of me, because one side is broken and the other side is rusted?
What parts do I order what oil do I take?

I need the manual for how to become a successful hemaphrodite.

I lost my manual can I borrow yours?

1:13 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

A love like speechless peach...

In the morning after peeling myself from the purple monstrocity.

Trying with all my might to shak off the amnesia.

Place, timeand what transpired that has left me stranded, and not aboard the nighttime shipment.

I wander into the bedroom half afraid to startle half cautious.

and I stare in disbelief at a creature so raw and pure that heaven weeps in her eternity, alive and well aware of what a masterpiece lays beneath my gaze.

There, you sit lay sprawl.

An imovable work of marble, strands of hair strewn about your queenly temples.

And you command.

as if a scepter lay in your palm its ghostlike yelping for authority its chains and its rattles.

"let silence reign."

But I heed you not and nor do I have remorse.

Everyday in my bed, angelic royalty sleeps,

naked, succulent fresh peach flavor in the air and I taste it with my toungue and it excites in me something grand crazy and quizzical.

Ripe fruit in sunrise. Peaches and milk. Rivers of forgetfulness, loss of time.

Sublime Human, sensual female, ripe wanting mouth,

cavernous hunger, a burning lamp.

2:52 PM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Naked.

Naked.

I feel so liberated, the kind that spans past countries...

When we are unclothed, and the walls that fabric creates with its stitch work and its quantum armour are laid to rest, like Jerrico just like a crumbling fortress and there I stand in front of you, Naked.

We bear ourselves, to each other for the purpose of a bond only we can speak of through the tongues of our eye contact.

Two mirrors reflecting,

Lovers, Friends, Partners.

No greater trust to give you other than my frail form free of the fettered armour

this imperfect complete account of my frail human shell wherein you will find the secrets of eternity in my perfected immortal soul for you only for you just for you.

vulnerable, still quiet, a rage of rapture sorounds this luminous form.

Stark and beautiful and yours.

2:44 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Only she truly gets it.

I f I was to hold you up to the sun with all your frailty,

would you melt as quick and clean as ice-cream on a june afternoon in texas?

If I was to hold out my hand and ask that you and I spend some quality time just listening to each other breathe, would you pick up on the subtlety?

I can't remember the last time I had faith that the small things that bring me glee were actually looked at as signifigant by this human race.

I feel like a rollercoaster car, who has derailed and wants to escape.

 Give me the subtle and the beautiful; the quiet and the content, because it will be a long time until I am handed something this ancient again.

I am afraid that we all are guilty of pursuing a life that is for all intents and purposes loud, crude and played with a distortion pedal.

Give me whole notes and crisp sound instead.

I perfer the symphonies of birds to any car stereo.

I perfer the bass notes of ocean waves to any club night.

If I jump up and down in circles will you understand that I too believe that I can break the spectrum of gravities still white pull ,and fly?

Or would you, like all the nonbelievers simply shake your head and mumble fiercities under your breath?

Some kind of soothing mantra for normality.

Hoping that in the swirling shaped air around your lips that you too can cast me away. Send me away with a message. Glow winds blowing.

A small whisper

"This is all there is."

1:42 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

I surrender to the perfect stranger

A man walks into a room with a fever of dios-stic porportion, his viral affliction takes hold of all the waiting room victims.

 The hospital becomes screened off ,the CDC tries to stop the flu, but god is more communicable than sex and drugs combined into a cocktail you drink down to its orgiastic headaches.

I used to think that power was in staying up till three oclock in the morning, learning the caverns of the holographic subway, ingesting immortality with a leap.

Now I realize you cant make immortals, immortal. How do you make water wet?

Or the desert dry?

You simply stand back and watch the world bloom as sure as an eye centers everything that sees its blink, inside the vortex of this dying prayer I have a whirling joke for you, this rambling speech is just that, another attempt to stumble into God.

A stranger on a train holds up a mirror, with these words scrawled in lipstick smeared on paper.

"this is you, what is not you?"

as you stare into the reflective surface, meditate on this great lie oh anticipated deception, where is the womb and what is the universe, you are versed in the ways of unification.

You-need verse.

Poetry can complain while tumbling through it's beauties, sometimes this very act of a tumble is the greatest act of all with a tuck and roll comes a surrender, just like these words, just like these thoughts , I surrender myself to an ideal, an archetype, a divinity a point of light, whatever metaphor will fit, I surrender.

The hand of God is the hand of my own.

Freedom is the sensuality that comes from emptiness,

a feeling inspired by a bearhug with God,

God in this case, has a vice grip on my sol,

 my sol is tatooed to my tounge and solar systems colapse and are reborn everytime a new word is formed...

6:18 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

A free verse on the subjects of mortality and time...

Il'l meet you on the other side of time, where watches break as they listen to the shadows, and all the dreams they play with beaten rhyme, whos bruises aborigines hang from gallows, for dreamtime is the only watch I wear, whos hands belong to the wrists of god, nor does the body of god bear a crossed noose, for religion is a fools way to trod the sod, so meet me on the mountain of the moment, and I will play the fiddle of a sol, and we will cry for spirit to be free, and for science to once again be whole. But until that day when all the fibers laid upon this dimensional quilt are thread, and we sleep in the beds of heaven for where is heaven not when angels tread, oh weary path of great central suns focus, whos blinking eye creates the heart beats sum, oh mathematical formula of all that is known of us, and the secrets that we keep behind the hearts throne, I sit upon this hour as if it were a penny for how many of these have we thrown away, walking in circles with a voice of many, letting apathy and violence rule the present day.

Lest we forget the threads that bind existence are sure as the moving cesium minute, but if you hold onto life with uncontrolled power, you surely will lose every second that your in it...

11:46 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Love. Slow down. Appreciate. Be.

Lives are torn down and put back up in a half ass collage, some chocolate sprinkles and a beer filled with alkeseltzer tablets. This confusion reigns in so tight all I can think about is suffocating blankets. And the sugary sticky film it leaves behind.

I; this wrecked ship, this torn waistline this inconsistency in the beat, am/fm broken down radio signal into my mathematical parts, surely as a rainbow after a storm as stark and naked as a concrete freeway.

Alienation is the first step in a long line of trap doors.

Memories can deceive, provide comfort in the war zones that rambling thoughts bring to the fray, small gramaphone skips scratches in the record that pull you back and reign you in but its all the same medicine.

Dragged back and out to when there was a second of understanding, when a moment of empathy, when an hour of connection, when everything felt like the sun on a soft melt.

These days the bitter dust turns strangers away lovers into childeren and humans into tantrums.

I remember when there was hope, some far off world now, a completely seperate solar system.

My life was a street; where endless pathways, led to endless gatherings, of endless purpose, for endless causes, but I cant help but feel that things are so seperated there is no cause that a group of people will stand for as one.

We humans can become strong, stronger than alloy or chain-link when driven by common purpose.

I remember when there was joy in my life; the kind that fills a basket with flowers so beauty-precise its almost a formula for the nervous system to shed its previous electromagnetic signals into a new highway of consciousness,a great detour of man, a complete and utter shift into a higher dimension leaving behind this one as sure as ash is transformaiton.

You were one of those memories. You were one of those people. I am sure in the life that you lead now you blaze a trail for all that know you and hold you dear, I wish I could gather all the people that make a difference in this world and create a new nation, we would survive on a mother ship and explore the ways in which human beings have become limited.

When are we as a generation, a movement of people, when will we stand up and shift this great tide of apathy.

I can scream outloud all day now no one listens to anything but theier personal universe aka ipod/cellphone, so disconnected from the outside world, so foriegn to our own nature.

We these snail carrying mp3 player shells, these television sets on walk,
we have forgotten the simplicity of a sprouting seed, the quietude of a human aura, the power and depth of a spirit on fire.

Instead it seems most of us here are on autopilot forgetting to love, slow down, appreciate, be.

8:03 AM - 1 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

This poem will hang in a friends salon.

We enter this room, to puzzle; to integrate