images from nowhere

images from nowhere....mad with the iphone snapping shots from all discourse of life...stumbling upon them in forgotten hard drive...what's this?...I have no idea...it looks neat...as I discard old memory of self for a new skin....splashing the consciousness into a new mode of being...it feels good to hunder down and let the words flow....let the words be...not sure of what I want to say but I know I want to write...to let the words free associate...I feel like I have new eyes to give me something new tos ay...I feel more concise and more on point...its a long life...we don't have to be beholden to one particular moment of our existence...all identities stretch out now before me with all possibility at hand...it's a sale pitch...it's all how you sell self..so what's the con?...so what's the hustle?...did you feel the need to put yourself into a box?...I can see how you did it...American culture defines you that way...wants to always put you in a box but they can't put me in a box...I am so beyond anything they could imagine and there's no turning back to now...to turn back would be like Lot in the old biblical tale, you would turn to sand....so got to keep on keepin on like a bird flew to see what the eyes will behold..new eyes...exciting eyes...past the insomnia and past the dread into craft and the splash of words words that are real, words that feel...into image combining with video and web coding the message spreads further than it ever before...I have never lost that excitement...to this very day I still find the great enthusiasm...

he walks sloped...and he walks defeated...he exudes an aura of death...and when I see him coming I want to run fast the other way...he doesn't have it...he never did....and its good times now I can see the light with the one I'm living for life is all so sweet I am past now the box they had put me in...I was just a traveler a seeker of identity...every way I turned I was put down but they did not stop me and I did not kill myself how I don't know but I'm still here breathing and I still have a tale to tell....out here in the night....in the woods past the breath of the agora...the machine man made death machine....the corporate fascistic order....I could have easily walked their path...went down the road of credit and extraction of wealth which is the mode of their being....the middleman fees they all learn how to charge...and the sexless marriages they live in....

they have all the tv want...it's literally everywhere you go...in the car...on the train...on the bus...oh the plane...i the shower....while your fucking ...while you're not fucking..while you're taking a shit...when you're not taking a shit...it's everywhere you go...you, the star of your television realty...starring in the drama of your own devising...no need to bother yourself with such a mundane thing as realty...realty is what you ant to ma,e it...

American abyss...

In the amerian abyss fill up the nothingness with light...emersonian dream of the now...interview with Sean Dean, bass player from the Sadies, a band that hails fron Canada.,..their sound encompasses a far ranging selection of roots music intertwined with a taste of punk and straight out rock n' roll..thke american abyss, a junked out notion of free market deluson...welcome to neo-feudalism, where we toil as serfs for our siloxn ovrelords..goodbye to the humasn connection as Amazon metls away brick and mortar connection...software does away face to face conneciton...Apple salts away the money in tax free havens and neglecting to pay foir any repsonsiblity...

 

It's revolutionary act to be with the landscapew...identity not forged through sound byte image...takingh a break from cooking on the grill, I step into my backyard and there is the universe for me to see...

The light shimmers in mad hallucinatory pregnant gulps...slow down the speed of the world and the universe unfold s in all its glory...thew videopoem is a snapshot of a distilled mlment of being......as conneciton with our roots...Sammy Brue, a sixteen year old kids who hails from somewhere out west is the real deal...the kid like I said is only sixteen sings with a world weary eye that belies his age, alt roots term that bespeaks oif a connections to older forms of music, like couintry, blues and jazz, a feeling of real.....sammy discovered by Justin Townes Earle, draws upon all those connecitons and brings the vitaliy fo his youth to the scene...                                           

 

  Like Greeley's barn, the first cement barn in the United States, there is a timeless element to it...slip out of the moment and past the american eabyss into the eternal moment of the now...tiger tiger on a circus strkng...oh tiger, you can't run no moore, you can never go home..Dr. Robins gone now...he used to talk the street several times a day..Muriel gone nowd...the first femae firefigher in the Qua, her nane now etched on a bench, a forgotten stencil past into the echo of time...the words now, my only companion...there wes a resistance once, of whcih I no longer remember...there was someting of blues and the fast pulse of be-bop jazz but I can't remember of what tha once was...

Melody At NIght

The landscape 

My

Mother

The landscape births me in this world of ceaseless noise...I return forever...sometimes triumphant...quite often defeated...I spill the words in a torrent letting them go...it's the only way I know how to become fresh again...like I did so many years ago....write until the rythym becomes real and the image says something...dwarfed by the magnificent tools that are available now they can be a curse, hanging you up with their excellence forgetting that it's about the word so I'm going to write my way to freedom...in a world where everyine is a writer, photographer, movie maker, movie star, rock star and everything else under the sun the one thing that not everyone has is vision...the vision sustains you threw the the storm...the vision brings you back...to be birthed in the lsndscape the visiion provides the endurance...so many blogs just die....like cable access shows...the producer doesn't find any fame or recognition and then wounded the would b genius saunters off leaving their would be masterpieces to gather dust on the web or an eternal repeat on cable access but I come back, vision in hand, in mind, in soul...and now utilize the tools that are here...the vast colleciton of images, sounds to be freely distribured..oh how we dreamed of such a distribution model back in the day....those dreams still ring fat pregnant real

And

I'm going with it...a vow to describe my eyeball to the end...the crazy eye, the mediocre eye, the tired eye, the ey brutalized by indifference and the big so what...but now to write past heroic noble pose...I ain't nothing of that...I write about mh mom in her underwear...I find that poignant...or to describe mediocrity...honesty gives the words power...true vision...dyanamic....and the courage to create decades into the madness because it takes courage....if your not going to sensationalize the text...add the flash to hook them in...because that's what they want...the flash the tintilllation...after all, everyone thinks their subjective dynmaic is the most powerful....why should they leave their narrative to pay attention to your lame view of the world...and it is there that sublime comes for me...old school analytics....

Water, light...the twin poles of my navigation....that image taken in brookly, now wealthy and over run but the show boght me there...and I think of walt whitman...he would have been down there...in his mad dreams...striving for expressioin....the new wealth cares not of history only its self entitled moment....their finanacialized wall street having stripped the workingman docks that once populated these shores....having decimated them in thier quest for more profit....but it will come for them...and if not for them then their children....the clock is tikcing...the american body has been left like a carcass picked apart my vultures...they blinded bu their hubris but I doin't come here to preach...that was Roger's trip...and that's a cop out....that's not visiion....the light on water...now that' s visiion...down by the once be docks cojures up a path to the imagination where I am free and exspanive beyond fashion....whcih styles so easily come and go...styles that have nothing to say....devoid of learning or any knowledge of the past or anticiapation of the future...

 

I can hear the train rumble in...the last one for the night....3 am....it's part of my landscape...my mental make up...lke the emersoniam dream that exists outside my front door and  behind the house nto the woods of my iamgination....

 

It is there in the woods with the melody, whcih tonight is aimee mann, but that's not important although her tone brings me somewhere special that only her tone could bring me...

 

Image

The bodies gone but the barn still stands...

Now

Image in now...