Empedocles

Epictetus

Epictetus

In suspense of judgment

I don't pretend to understand.
Nor do I pretend to know things.
My standard of living is really quite low....
I can hardly contain it.
My fantasies are an art,
Made up of a divine acquiescence.
Where I have no doubt about my personal
Existence.
This my heightened state of wisdom.
No distortions.
Without prejudice.

The true modern day romantic

Look the part.
Be the part.
Live the part.

No false alarm

The neurotic dimension

There are no elements to nature
In saying what is obvious.

Where people don't know class when they
See it.

Dead spots.

Brace yourself for the best
If the worst is coming.

I'll just leave it all behind me.

I'm here to judge you.
And not be judged.

Smoke & Mist

God can reveal himself
In many different forms.
She paid me a visit yesterday,
All she said was...
Let the experience
Come to you.

Rudimentary tunnel vision

Rudimentary tunnel vision

My mind is a fog off in the distance.
Sometime ago I felt lost.
The irony becomes as ripe as the weather changes.
So many different types of weather reduced
to memories.
It is difficult to recall what I took for granted...
all of it.
Even the air I breath.
So maybe oxygen is the greatest of miracles.
And everything in between are just novelties.
Between the knowledge of miracles,
are the phases I've gone through in life.
Waiting for a story to tell.
I wish none of it happened the way it did.
I wish for nothing to happen the way it must.
So I sit in protest of it all.
Just waiting for something magical to happen.
But it never does.

The Fidelity of Sounds

The Fidelity of Sounds

I can hear in my dreams, because the timing is right where it needs to be.
An echoed past.
I can say things that are auditory in nature,
where words are poorly executed on a regular basis.
It is not good practice.
To speak things you don't necessarily want to say, but looking deeper need to feel.
Thoughts can be somewhat deceiving.
That way we pay closer attention to the rules of grammar.
Grammar is an awareness built into the physical word and perceived by the external world.
So once you speak it must be internalized.
Otherwise, you are living a lie.
Living a lie is perfect to equate with everything you see around you as something meaningful.
It lives.
Like words must so.
The perfect ending to a perfect poem,
Is sweet to the lips and soft to the touch.
Thinking about life brings me joy, an
abeyance of riches....
and a life less than filled with regrets.
I paint the canvass of my dreams with inaudible sounds, only images from which my grave will be dug.
And messages then are in the safety of my mind.

Flooding the Heart

Flooding the Heart

Saudades = to be missed
Saude = Prosperity
Sorriso = Happiness
These are things subject to interpretation.
The language translates from Portuguese to English.
And in my minds eye,
I wonder how far off shore I am.
From happiness, prosperity, and feelings of a personal nature.
How fun.
How fun is that!
To redeem yourself in your own state of bewilderment accompanied with satire.
The irony becomes separate,
a split runway of personality.
And the freedom to choose if freedom
were a choice by every question you face.
Never to take the question of freedom for granted, as if you feel it leaving your body.
Wait.
Wait!
Wait?
Freedom living in your body or freedom as it leaves the body...which is which.
Which is which.
I ask this to myself as a mystic on some island.
Where happiness has no rules.
My prosperity has no boundaries.
And the soul became property of God.
Unquestionably!
How I miss you, always.

Vision in the Opposite Direction

Vision in the Opposite Direction

What is the message you get, while observing a very conscious episode through the lens of your eye.
I am not sure if it is a direct possibility,
that my hunger for the outer world -
either I possess or it possesses me.
What I see happening,
can only be happening in mind.
What I think is happening,
will only be found in unconscious.
The question.
Which is more important.
Reality.
Or an alternative reality.
Such an abstract look of the world,
can only be considered secret.
So what messages do you hide from view,
not to be confused with orders you take
known as both social cues or societal ideology.
What in the fuck is real.
REAL...
My dreams are made of mango's.
A giant fruit salad,
ingredients which have an allergic effect.
The secret hidden in a fruit salad,
making you allergic to immodesty.
Only immodest folk,
fake it.
And that fake modesty,
becomes a dead end!
Skin, this fabric of yours.
Jump starting a heart of a distressed soul.
Out of a bowl full of fruit salad.
MANGO surprise.
SPOILED fruit.
Allergic disease.

The Threat of Worship

The Threat of Worship

It is because the truth hurts, and that trust is a reconciliation so somewhere in between I've been lied to.
I am sick of being lied to.
I worship God. However,
I do not care to be worshipped.
And when it comes to these matters,
I feel the rustle of the trees as wind blows
and my sense of strength and nostalgia
consume me.
What else should I stand here and pray for.
But when I pray,
am I aware enough to know what type of
prayer.
There are two ways I pray,
it is speaking about something beyond my own
control, or I pray for some reason that I wish for.
That is the threat of worship.
I don't know what it is I am praying.
But I do believe in prayer.
So I pray.
I don't pray for a shiny new pair of shoes,
I pray for the dirt that will soil them.
I don't pray for a new job.
I pray for my employer not to fire me.
I don't pray for myself...
I pray not to be lied to.
This is my personal awareness I use worship.
God has no need to correct me for my sins.
For every minute I spend,
I spend it worshipping others.
That is a prayer God won't fix for me.
So I am continually lied too.
To a fault, maybe god's love for me,
is through some other form of life on earth.
Lost on earth like myself,
prayer and worship.
Something so rare you can feel it come through
others as I channel their lucidity.
I am not sure what else there is in living
without threats or lies - prayers or worship.
I must find it for myself.
That is how you interact in gods image.
A singularity.
This is how I transfer my aesthetic.
Through many different names,
a detection of lies, threats, prayers.
A sophisticated look from below him.

The lazy eye

What is wisdom,
Or better put....
What is wisdom made of
And what gives it meaning.
Powering through ignorance.
My name in lights.

What is it to be lazy.

Understanding makes one lazy.

To be lazy makes one transparent.

Voltage in the mask of Secrecy

Voltage in the mask of Secrecy

At this moment, where life seems to contradict the values invested in me.
And what is life but your patience wearing thin.
What have I become I have become.
I lead by faith as though a sinner,
as I only became a sinner -
as I learned how to take stronger breaths.
Powerful breaths...
of which betrayed my senses all along.
This aversion to detail,
an unconscious framework of pure intentions and of evasive qualities.
I look. I look,
everywhere.
And I feel finer granules of sand beneath my feet.
To talk is to feel these things as they are written.
To read is to perform these things as they are read.
Coffee is on the menu.
I can taste its velvety aroma lingering through the air.
So all around me is on this island,
of chance, of character, of voltage.
Languages I see.
I see more than I can hear them.
Many many many languages.
If the romance lasts, it will forever last.
Because romance is a lost art.
And I intend to find it,
buried by natural causes.
Romance is dead.
How very funny.
A sad smile if there is such a thing.
Perhaps that is what Mona Lisa was asked,
so she smiled sadly.
I inventively created a masterpiece,
sworn to secrecy.
Not when or how.
Not what or where.
Not who or why.
I don't know if this journey should it last,
be a blank page
or a wicked adventure.
Words have a power to manifest reality,
this mask I put on.

A Proper Burial

A Proper Burial

Is romance not dead. 

I feel that it might be. 

For every ounce of courage I have, 

it hurts in my mind. 

Romance never really had a proper burial. 

The property of romance should come with instructional images. 

The kind of images that keep your attention. 

Something like this is found in your head. 

You keep the search homeward. 

The solitude of an artform, 

making its way back to a nest. 

Warmth of a blanket in dark and stormy weather. 

Too often mistaken for how the company of a woman, should cure the death of romance. 

I think this as a man. 

I am a man. 

Where romance went to die. 

I am its corpse. 

I am the body, the imperfection. 

And the very reason romance is a mystery of all misery. 

I am where romance, is buried.

Celsius

I have no idea what the temperature is in here.
What comes out of the oven cold, means I am unconscious of error.
The nature of choice.
I've put a stop in pretending to use my world view,
With an amateur voice.
Stored deep in my unconscious,
That fictional sense.
I can barely hold together.
Everything moves slower.

Belief & Discontent

I feel a disconnect.
My sign of old age.
Such is in power of this persuasion.
While my ear aches.

Is the meaning of life simply to see -
What you see.
So it transforms.

Such charming device from which
Is less then is practical than in thoughts.
I judge myself on intent
As do others in my behavior.
Whereas the greatest attribute man has
Is his courage.
I'll never be able to tell.