Lure of Luxury

Nights and days roll over one another
overlapping sunsets, sunrises
until I know not when or where I am

It is the counting final moments of escapism
Knowing how the lure of the flame
is a momentary lapse of judgement

Scars that lace my body mark the passing of years
lasting

The words I am searching for
feel like expression, understanding, justice's rage

Context as Substance

I am filled with myriad transparencies, symbolic meaning overlaps life's more subtle cues.

It is the time of morning and facing facts. I am full of ideas and relocated dreams; it's today and the coffee in my stomach is sour. I have been painting new works. They represent the desalination of my vision. They've been distilled to the fewest denominators, synthesized into the basic elements of color, rhythm, shape. The focus I require is fleeting as I long for the lease of summer's promise.

Working late nights leads to longer later nights. I pretend that my escapes are escapades into oblivion, really I seek connection in the loud voices. It is popcorn, I am snacking.

Riggs to the right

This is what I remember 

A few tears before I 

Fell down and picked up 

Hella shit and

Just flew through the pretends

Clinging into triple time

Skipping every third beat

Unable sky and it's true 

Available and done fine dining express

And so I build dreams

Out of roller skates

Aimless streets of Verona 

Write

Or die

Opportunistic and loose sight of heartbroken disguises 

Don't deserve

To sit here

Served, serving and unaccountably 

Missing in action

There are no stars

To account for

No remembers few ofnforgotten memories

I've left unforgotten

Not remembering 

Mire reansience and 

Will quite all the further audiences

Income Insecurity and Shame

I've been thinking about the roots of shame.

How the shame of poverty can be manifested in myriad fashions. On one hand we have the questioning activists and the other the willful stupidity of the culturally bankrupt. I use willful, stupidity, and bankrupt intentionally.

There is the grinding poverty of the sub-working class. These low-wage, no growth endeavors are exhausting physically and mentally under-stimulating. I am curious about generational under-stimulation. If one's parents ask no questions and their parent's also asked no questions, who are these contemporary 16 year-olds to look to for cultural enlightenment?

Our educational system is void of critical thought and speaks only in terms of standardized testing; the basis of which is the assessment of generalized conformity and adherence to a code of misinformation.

Arts, maths, science, and the ensuing ability to understand their interrelationship is the effect of exposure to many ideas and sources of information. The home life of the youth is based off of a stilted education system and youtube. The product of their experience a false sense of pride as exhibited in the exaltation of ignorance and the rise of the lowest common denominator.

To be certain I do not blame those experiencing this system. Rather, I look to the fractured system of democracy as the root cause. When did we stop valuing education in our society? when did we cease to encourage thought as a preeminent commodity?

Continuously undervalued and shamed for intelligence, bright young thoughtful people half-close their eyes in order to conform to the social norms.

This observation was spurred by a trip to RAYS supermarket and watching a small group of 17 year olds jaunt through the checkout line, snapping their EBT card on the counter as the absolute nicest checker rang them through. I could see every curve of the girl's tight ass as she wore boy-short overwear that spanned about seven inches. Her chatter and body language directed at her pimple faced male counterpoint who followed her with his eyes and semi-chub visible through his basketball shorts. They bought frozen pizza and liters of soda. Neither one spoke to the checker; her instance that his time was valueless to her only more exaggerated by the tap tap tap of her foodstamp benefit card on the counter... faster, hurry, I am not going to engage with you, but look out for me, watch me.

I am at a loss. I want the post-revolutionary awakening.

I don't lie

It's one of those things that I don't do

all of that aside I am absolutely in a fix

transposing anxiety

for relocation

I find myself

again

knowing nothing

Chills, Piles of Blankets

I caught a sickness and my head thumps a million thick bricks and my throat is a scratchy. I feel hot and itchy and I am all kinds of tired. I have a count down in school. Three, four, five weeks and then the long stretch of summer when I can live three weekly lives.

The studio is coming along thanks to long hard work, my willingness to be flexible, and the neighborhood's unwavering support in the form of surprise donations of interior paint.

I want a hot rub down with oil and the hands of a well-trained masseuse.

Test Old Knowing

I have been worshiping liminal deities

winter into spring into long days of warm wind on my bare skin

I open my my heart and arms embrace me and I am there in it

****

Last night a women at my work flipped me the bird. I wanted to punch her in the throat. Then I realized she's hurting. I am in love with her former lover; he and I are doing a thing quietly and boldly in doors, under blankets and stars, in the streets, hands slipped and fingers twined.

He takes a few moments to speak and this sharp contrast of lives (then, now; him, him; me, alive, awake, alert, adroit) causes my breath to catch, my heart to skip.

Arms pull me in and close and down and wrap all of me in a pause that is so necessary when I feel so much that I lose traction within my skin. Stillness, warmth of skin and cool fingers, and secrets shared under the bedsheets: I am comfortable.

This girl, the bird flipper, my ex, the throat grabber, from a safe distance I am aware of them, how the helped shape me, form me, allow me the opportunity for this incredible and perfect now.