Modernism - The Shock of The New - and a few songs

Passed you on the road today. Looked like another Lesson. Got Nothing to say. Wish you knew it was funny. God's a fragment in my pockets. I told this lie to my precocious friends. I found this fame in the infinitive lees of Norton's old port. The decorations of summer are a lonely creature. The only escape is through a Senator's entangled town. It allegros through my delirious way. I will not be reticent this time. My mask has slipped.

Schizophrenia, writing, things that are affective, have never been explained. I am and always will be falling as my creative charge is exiled. The transition itself becomes the state where behavior is undone. I venerate a quietness that can almost by heard in ashes and shallows. I find the surface of my being every time I go outside. I hear warnings. Being part of the small element does not always succeed. It is not that the outside does not exist. It is not possible that it does exist.

I am powerless with my powerful ideas about unheralded rescue before great works of art. The Ecstatics were chased from heaven not withstanding. Lesser Pathos, worn to a frazzle, is leaving the corridor of congruent pride, the evanescent sound of production. Restless timepiece, I am what you are. We are outlets in a restless world.

The ancients had no name for park. They were filled with terror, and you found them there. They laughed, and you heard them live. They spoke, and you listened to them dream. They never flew at night, and they never yammered during the day. They believed in SorrowZ Pegasus because you laughed so seldom. They hunted, and you smiled at Sparrow. You were both narrow, but only one was proud of it. You traveled everywhere, but you forgot to look in the tire swing.

By the river I find my moorings in the glimmer of a utility tower caught like a leaf in its reflection. Follow your bliss. Not someone else's bliss. I track the mote that is 'thinking' and favor it of all motes that sit on my window sill. Reduce the Other to units of creative spirit. My tension falls away. I get an angle on the degrees some say are time. If you find these degrees in the forest, then return them to men with lanterns. Record these units in a sketchbook.

The bright outbursts of comrades have spurred me on to broken dreams. In the moonlight, I enjoy the pieces falling into place. I turn the corner with a Visor absolved out of iota. The distant traveler walks barefoot in the inner world. I walk with three pairs of shoes. Falsify the tide. Find no beauty in emptiness.

The canvases stretched out from here to Eternity. A Few of them I had done. It would take until the end of my life. The Moderns are finally finding their way into my life. I believe they have finished little of what they had to say. The next obstruction has come between our dance nigh to the Elders. They have joined the rest of us as artists! I will teach you how to heal the unseen cheek.

There is a paper that wants to cover Memory as if it was a building. No, it is more like a mountain. No, it is less than a mountain. It is only a String. It is a string that has never been wound. It wonders toward desks that are not anymore in a building where blotters have been left to fade but for some reason didn't.

The meaning of something depends where it ends. Undone weaving - for all my mood, you will find an anchor. For all my slowness, you will find a lake. The Meaning of a Lake depends where it is woven. I have pointed out colors hours away from the center - the way - the journey. Tall cables, kinetic blends... sketched here, there a tree.

A painting that has no Hands seizes me by the temples. Pulls me into BLACK. It is a magnet living with a Silent Guardian. I am caught in a graveyard past midnight. A hazy yellow reminds me of my Will and where it walks. I walk with a hammer back to the graveyard. A piece of music plays while I smash the stones.

My philosophy is rapture stung by failure. Verbal witnesses wonder why the pictures are falling apart. Fisherman rows by inviting you for a ride while the branches of a Mondrian distinguish themselves, once and for all, in the five branches of philosophy. Pier and Ocean is partial. Always the foundation of The Red Tree. Always the iconography of The Grey Tree.

Over yonder the Ageless, on the deck of Best Wishes, are quiet homes belonging to missionaries in a luminary's land - mirthful sailors in a missionary's house, gardners steering in a sailor's bunk, lost souls in a gardener's mind - looking for better waves in waters uncharted, fiery resistance in the stars.

Heavier than a Katydid Fossil, I'm on the loose. Three brickles west of your scene, I'm thatchin' your Roof - trustin' it's gonna rain - I'm washin' your kettle, foldin' your ladders, listenin' to you howl - whisperin' the weather on this Roof in this Sky, restful and bleek in this orchard lemon and wise.

I got the eyebrows of a Skald. Got no nest. Got this net. Lift my stripes for words of gold. Running back now to the occasional Twig. Walking slow now with the Thrush. Flying now since there's one rush. I got the eyebrows of a lover. Got no future. Got no past.

Dancing and divided, washed in tri-contemplation, but only in body, speech, and rhythm, the over-man points at noon. I will briefly be fire if he feels he can balance on such a thing. He has become the mutable line and its eighths, a figure in a triangle, and the gesture of dias in a circle.

Accretion is against the action of chipping away. The ankles withstand the whole attribute of truth. Portrayal mixed with slumber approaches mood of tremulous feet pronged with fanstasy.

I am jealous of Mayakovsky's supreme boredom with the classics. Even ornamental grass has meaning. In the insufferable schematics are guidebooks. The art world is drafted in a few forms. The crowd is perfect in their mediocrity. I am mediocre in being perfect. Place the setting in the wild. I'll prove to you that it needs to be portrayed. The door of the church houses the slipstream in the institute of our pleasures swept in belonging. At what point does the art world overtake the real world, and how far are we from this pleasure?

The sweet drapery of a Muslin weaving in the other room is clutter. I will go back. Make it radiant. Take machinations out of an apple. The objects behind the mist are known only to me.

Every day, painting less than I am known for, calling to a vibrant canvas - the task of health availing, the task of losing myself becomes more rather than complete beginnings.

I visit a Pride of Lions parachuting in The Void. No act. No condition in insignificant deeds. A roar lofts the descent from heaven to hell. Hungry for a body, I await death. Elder modernism shoves rescue out of great art. Younger modernism strengthens our newly acquired bodies.

Clouds dither. They are closer to me in the promised valley. Come down from the cross. Purchase the hollow of the knees. Riches, come to me. I am done with this room. I am only shaped by rain now or the love of a summer day. It is terrible to be lost in the catacombs of honey.

The continuity of my existence is forgiven by industrious disconnects. This somewhat precarious shell cannot alway envelop me. I am slow to sunder the view of the dunes. Soon I will groove through time with less defenses. I have thought as coral and thus in a small way felt happiness.

Divine errors, minute and multiple, trudge the streets like poets without gospels. They adjure us to tear heartache with a comb. The unquiet measures of my soul give helplessness a form. The other half of me is joining forces with The Void. The evidence is water wearing down my ambition. All tasks wait patiently to get done. The complete word is always the ladle. Conversation is about syntax. Poetry is about poetry. I do not know where the twain meet.

The medicine man must swim as if he had the formulas. The visionary must swim as if he was beginning them. I'm gonna breathe so as to yolk and not contort. Narcissus, obsession - I'm not going to invent being careless. One eyelid is like the slide of a microscope. The other dwells less and less. There are no treasures. There is no translation. It was as if I had never slept there. Your characters are grazing beyond your kitchen window. One eyelid is like the slide of a microscope. The other is like the Mediterranean sun. Litners, unfurl our eyelids. Only because they are treasures. Only because they are treasures.

I was flattened, fed on pancakes, an index of blame, a rabbit who fought to take shape. Apart from my past I have not survived. Apart from my possible past, I have not been seen. Controlled by being seen, I have blended into the present. Restricted by my foundation, I am what is left - I am what is left.

The mighty are not decieved. Do not interrupt their loafing. Stride daydreaming into the midst of reverence.

The separate yet not dissociated matchsticks of my body will strike the weak sister into the dance. Fight with religious lillies.

What's bad is good. You'd know if you understood. My plate's not made for crumbs. It's equal to potatoes. It's got a picture of a lake. I'd tell you to vote, but you gotta feel good.

Hey scholar, something about a photograph brings dignity to a moment. I'm meltin' that photo like it was Gothic silver, I'm traveling to a MuseuM in a town that doesn't exist, I'm transforming hope into points about your heart, and multiplying your day into divinity fading into the milieu of your scholarly line.

I'm un and able to gross the lanterns of the land. What's the Party on this Planet to do? The sundial found in the forest is pointing to my Eden. This world will not sleep. It might wake up. It might wake up.