Current Residence: binghamton, ny
Favourite style of art: anything containing elements surreal
Operating System: ubuntu -- trying to learn.
MP3 player of choice: voicebox
riversoundI am these many. I am the lights, dancing, reflecting, . . . I am the passing trucks on the highway. I am jack's liver. I am the mighty Susquehanna. I am the disturbed duck's cry. I am longing. For definition. For this something everyone is so certain about. What was it again? I am present. I am brimming, overflowing. I am human-imposed light dances on river-rain mighty drops. I am the mountain, cut into, highway trafficking patient. I am. You are. That, in space, floating. This gravity defines and binds us. I am awake and waiting. Clouds raining. Duck cries again. Why is there no? Wheretofore? Hitherhence? Maybe in the ever after? For why? I am, now. Breathing. Pleading. Where can have this seriversound by ~poiesisHagakure
plantlet me have this place, to growplant by ~poiesisHagakure
plant & weed, & meditate ...
to be quiet & watch the sun play
with leaves & grass & home.
let me have this peace, which, when
uttered leaves a linger
the balance of a finger laid to dirt
rant 0001I do not know where to start. I cannot start. The audacity of assuming I could describe the beginning is insane. It has been ever rolling since before I joined this earth. I want to write everyone I love, write them letters tonight as if I possess knowledge of my imminent death and this is the last time to extol their strengths and beauties multiplicitous, to share a laughter, to encourage a peace. I want to express compassion but can't. People laugh with each other, two leave the party and those remaining continue to laugh and talk about and judge those who left and their social displays. I want none of this. I do not want to waste a moment. I do not want to talk incidentals and personal pettiness. I want ideas, concepts, a new flavor of truth. I feel tangible pain, a sadness, at seeing so kind and gentle a person be self-detained in their recurring and self-construrant 0001 by ~poiesisHagakure
a fiction's preface This world entails much the same as our own. The people are varied. Sometimes they deal with their differences healthily and sometimes not. The style of narration is often meant to be neutral while witnessing to a variety of lives, of views of truth and how it could be sought. If you are incapable of tolerating certain ridiculous practices, if shock value alone is enough to irrevocably set your opinion in stone, then you will probably set the book down at some point with a disturbed look on your face. And, might I note, you might want to move away from fiction to a safer genre like, oh, childrens books.a fiction's preface by ~poiesisHagakure
One man's junk is another man's hobby. One man's junk is another man's bottle deposit. One man's junk is another man's feast. One man's junk is another man's boat. Humans are a bacteria, but a bacteria with a keen eye for beautifu