Tuesday Night Post #2-25

Patient Naysayers,

Lets end the argument.  Lets agree that there is nothing to believe. 

Time is short, well this night is.  All I wish I will do, so I cut this short I’m going to spend the rest in a dance. 

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

The Wasi’chu, the Pariah

This keeps falling out my box

Just as you opened up all those sealed tombs

Few to take the blame

Fewer to explain

As I empty my box of the things that don’t belong

I try to reorganize all the things you took from the encoded songs

My vision is only a weak connection with the past

The same one you took so you can last

As I get closer to razing the WhiteBox

Your growth surpasses the one I try to resolve

You and I see the desperate fight

Of the two sides that give the Force to a body upright

You and I see the change

The question is not what to believe or not

Let the adults fight

Forgetting that in truth it ends

In questioning it begins

For you its about the respect and awe that kept us in flight

A choice is yours to spread your wings of copper

It’s my choice to make mine in something I find more proper

As you approach a single moment undefined

It looks like I turn away left alone a path unrefined

Mine is the voice that you tried to forget

A nail looking for the force that could get it set

We know lots has been answered

Past the stage of assessment we are engaged in application

You want war you want a destruction of what came before

Turned away I keep it in

I am myself I dance in myself

Nothings true at this state

Until the end I keep it straight

Tuesday Night Post # 2-24

Unknown Lovers Made of Substance of the Stars,

Believe that what we know will change in a present time, tomorrow.  Be ready to accept things your child self would have had an easy time.  Prepare to love the things that same child longed to see.  Forget the ground that you find so dear rejoice in the urge to resist the voices that pull you here and there.  Never forget the lover that made you who you are.  Smash the thumb that keeps you all but a dog.  Let your minds eye tear to clear the fog that smears your fear.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *    

Isolate the crooked bone

Wind that urge that leaves you to believe

In that seat left occupied with the heat

This is fiction resolved to exist to replace

Known is objects hide in plan sight

Reasons creep in stride with shadows

Never can shake the black skirt

Willingness to love the space in which it spins

In a warm bed in a cool room lies the resistance

This birth that there will be            

Will be the fight we will leave

Change the cheers of pride

Make them tears that one can not hide

Blank will be the paper that will unfold

All the things that could not be acknowledged

Running from the fear of being left alone

Charge one to keep this throne

Swear sweep stare share all that needs to repeat

Scar the flesh that has more strength when it reverts

Gentle finger guide the palm

Into the intersection of numb and hooked resolve

Age passes on a wave of control and comfort

A step towards vocal call is a call to dissent

Feet assemble on a platform of love

Burning their soles in the crucible of misguide empathy

Tuesday Night Post # 2-23

Distant Strangers,

  Find it simple to let it pass through you.  Like a chill that you can't control but feels free and pleasurable.  Wild is a thought a irreplaceable fear of morning light.  What do I search for?  An empty space to stay.  That thought that reminds you what you once understood is actual something you never could. 

-DBL

*     *     *      *      *

 She Died Cold, I lived  Seeing Her Mold

(Stories of the Two)

A rising step from heel to toe

Keep this thought close around ample room

Deep in a place a light sequesters a hope to grow

Back when you found it hard to say

Everyone has their way to not to show

Now I get the hints reliving sounds eyes rising wheels turning

Sudden vision of you practicing your gifts

Maybe then I had no way had no help devils live in quiet

To really share manufactured hearts broken machine stuck to stare

Never new just confused often found

Sent away in hopes you would be around

In my heart never true

They tell us sacrifice the new

In a dream walking near

With those heels I never fear

Stretch the time of every night

Details never lost as we engage in this artificial recited flight

Words we choose always right hazy dream teasing me

As before I left you there quiet safe high above the stage of fear

Revisit that one place there you stand always full of grace

Safe to dance wild swing arms climb the vine

Chasing that thing you missed before chasing it just a kiss to adore

Breaking down expose the want finally you are content grab it tight

In this heart never true

Tell me to sacrifice the new

In this scene you walk near

With those heels I never fear

In that thought it was right adjusting for the windy sight

A shoulder pressed hard and strong on a wall of nether thought

Holding back the words guarding back the choice to break

An honest theft to not show you wrinkle you scold you

Had it all never needed to adjust the screw

Just pretend all is grey find it better than to stay clouds cover rancid mildew

Lets spend the moment that follows looking at the line of our dearest desires

A simple map of that stage we never cleared standing on the liquid grave of fear

Always moving always flowing always chases us to empty glory

At the bottom of the pool this rose bathed and pruned drowned of smoke and booze

In dark there is only nightmares but for me

There I find my curse I wrap around this cold fire choke in smoke

Drown your heart kill the true

Show me you sacrificed your new

In my vision you walked with me

In your heels you seemed free

Tuesday Night Post # 2-22

Ritualistic Self Healers,

In a bit of pain I am posting from the mobile from my bed.

The Hunter House show was a blast. I'm glad so many people came out and really enjoyed the performance. Sometimes when making art in a bubble one never knows what response one will get.

- DBL

*****

With every new pain understood
I acquire another to understand
Exploring the mechanics of this pain threshold provide the manual for repair
Sometimes the process requires a filing of priorities
One feeling of disrepair is set aside to degrade and dissolve
For another that has more chance of actual change
One must forget the signs of warning for much more caring signs of growth
This moment of self healing becomes a state of ritual of the self
Awareness comes at the heels of the belief that a string runs through me
If pulled I come apart
The same string is use to move me providing an anchor of self navigation

Tuesday Night Post # 2-21

Viewers,

Posting on my mobile since my ancient artifact of a computer is crunching numbers trying to get vidz for this weekends performance.

Speaking of, come out. It will be two new performances. Happy to be collaborating with long time comrade Mike Meanstreetz. Should be real.

-DBL

*****

Thoughts on Belief

As it is presently there seems to be no grounds for truth.

Belief is a dirty word.

We are more willing to denounce a belief.

Criticize others before we set time to
explore anything ourselves.

This has made many lost and the search has begun.

Although this symptom is party to do to the fact that the veil has been lifted part ways.

Now we see the many ways we have been bamboozled by many institutions.

We resist but the smart opponent weaponizes everything... Even your resistance.

A belief that belief plays no role in rational arts in one of these bamboozles.

The thought that the old fashioned roles play no useful part and must be thrown away with out personal soul searching about these matters is another.

I am a skeptic but one many forget about.

If you resist a doctrine so much why must you follow your evolutionary beliefs to the better end of institutionalization?

This skeptic wants more answers.

Can we dismiss a third party?

Why can't I factor in my ancient astronaut ancestor?

I will soon build my facts on what ever we are allowed to see from Curiosity.

I get that facts are fact...

But really are they?

We take the programing like doctrine.

Have you ever seen a miracle?

Have you ever dug for dinosaurs?

Have you ever read ancient scriptures in their native tongue?

Belief is something I structure myself.

From the ruins of a broken telephone I filter my answers.

Bits and pieces are assembled as far as I can tell as they fit.

In the end I might believe that I have assembled a finely crafted ceramic bowl of fossilized shards.

It might just be a wealthy kings toilet bowl.

Tuesday Night Post #2-20

Random Occurrences,

How exciting a change in tempo becomes.  Some fall to every beat, myself I search the next.  A fine line occurs between free spirit and reckless action.  To destroy this box I search for it.  In a room with no walls I will find it…until then let the choices fall in the order we have to choose.

 -DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Transposed from the Geometric

Left a temple to touch this foot

Seventh of the strand of this rope

He did see but once

An offer from this one of the other

From a position which she sat

Head tilled neck a sway

She smelled the flower that was not hers

In an image the back of a hand

Swam across the arch of this position

The eyes they tried but never wandered past

The hazel ones

Which were honest

Open with the pressure of neglect

She often seemed to belong to the company of herself

Everyone had a share of this impression sitting on a shelf

In the same room they dissolved into fluid smoke

Two colors of distinct

Sharing each a tail of discreet

In a small chamber of this draw
Few things hid

Two flew in the air of unnecessary thought

What is there but the next foot to drop

Tuesday Night Post # 2-19

Family,

Family… forgiveness and acceptance is easy for family, unless you have severed that part of you.  If so I hope that hand will extent to another.  Union is holy.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

The Siblings Know

My Mother once told me

Of the Brothers of Two

At each golden dawn they come to see

With influence and knowledge they can start to peek

A world of wonder not unlike the one before

In the mind of these Beautiful Ones this will not be cheap

Thoughts that once were lost are regained

In darkness they harbored their sweetest treat

The Others lose focus

They soon can’t be reached

With theory and practice the brothers

They chose to grow

Time dissolves

As does material

The pursuit has its woes

Once a search of the above

Lead to a lesson of justice below

What they took from Nature was her virgin repose

Many came after to study the pursuit

Adding influence and bogus shows from

Black hats and suits

Layered in symbols and images

It’s a fashionable macabre dress

Easily hiding the rapes and the pillages

She said

In real

Simpleton was given the golden goose

With his easily gain knowledge he was easily confused

Like him The Others start to fetish words and their use

They speak of abraxian reckoning

Loving what this conjures in peoples misguides refuse

As this happens

Darkness filters in as they push for release

They don’t see

When the dawn comes there is no beauty 

In the souls that it keeps

They romanticize the fear

The pain and the shadow of death

The first lesson the brothers learned

The apple easily falls

To levitate is what lurks in the shadows of “truth”

They are amused by the Others love of self smear

They josh and they kid of the taking of the bait

Which willfully with malice they put on the plate

My mother she sees and she swallows 

The water of ancient dissent

She frees me and shows me

At the dawn there will be many

Information is the key

Some will approach you with text

While others will practice hermetics to secure others fate

There are still some that use magic to sever the inmate

Cast away

Run away

Clear the field for the rite away

My dear mother she’ll tell me again

Remember the two and the words that follow

They’ll lead you to Truth

Two Figures Square

They stand

On the sands of time which now will stand still

It radiates the heat that came before

They cherish the moment

This is the transition

The sun on their backs

Breathing in the last moment of It

They anticipant the reckoning that will come just before 

The new

To others this is a dance of light

In ignorance they don’t notice this dance is for night

Two Figures Round

As trees stood to take in light

They stand in darkness to take in the night

For others they are sullen two alone in mourning

In them they kept the light switch on

A dance for which they anticipate the rest will give

For this moment they use

An exercise to tune and remain away

For the others will panic searching whom to blame

Tuesday Night Post #2-18

Pardon My Grace,

So, I shit these out every Tuesday.  You deserve more intent and at least a bit more gentlemanly attentiveness.   Now what is left is to hone the art of simmering the pot.  Cooking it at the right temp to see if there is some maturity in the words. 

In any case don’t hate my love song, so to speak.  It comes from places unknown that I seek and stumbled onto.  It’s not an excuse or an apology, no no, not at all.  They are just words that come before the ones below, like an excuse to engage you in a prolonged kiss.    

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Pearing Down to Geometry

(Stories of the Two)

I plan to see you through the end.

Even though these words you will find fitting but somewhat removed.

I speak in hopes of sharing what I have seen in precious moments of the obscure.

If I can, can I remove the Figure Square and the picture in which it was there?

De-flesh the souls that saw, retreat all that are an event with minimum draw.

Lines that intersect to a box

Four planes one of which we have the floor

This plane could be of future use

Altitude we will not share

Losing one, peer in there

A plane removed became the door

He entered

We see him now a ray that has only one direction

Back into itself

The dots that form the set that are in this box

Some of three

One of two

2 of one

Separate lines wind and wrap

The three in the box

The white landscape

Packaged well they won’t tell

From the space displaced went the ray that held the first unwind

To the area of the right triangle

She

Composed of intersecting planes

Each its own

Finding time, laying low

Tender moments left to show

Concentric circles that became his eyes

He had a glance

Even then he would not take that chance, but what he saw the Colors True.

They themselves list the shades he tried to hide.

In the honey brown he did not lose knowing there was interest, which he could not refuse.

Light brown segments made the flow, round the evidence of a wish he traced often.

Fleshy pink and purple nodes, a dense line that should be avoided, this is where a closer inspection finds repetition like before.

An arc that ends up a sweet gesture.

Congruent figures, a light brown section of orbs rolling to the lower quadrant.

Just the same he saw her change in his direction.

The helix that wrapped around her bare, fell to the plane that is now of use.

Two adjacent angles on a block, slowly flowing to a spot.

Can I leave it where we are? 

At this point, which I find fair left to unravel with only the two to share.  

Tuesday Night Post #2-17

Awaken,

In birth we find a void to fill.  We are mass. Thought is light. Will is might. We drag across the floor to soon reach higher and in this want we walk on two.  What we want we seek it out. What we learn we spit it out.  Our excrement's sent away to forget what has made this thought go away.  In a path to life of change, do your will to know the game. 

Happy Birth Day.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Can I tell you of a feeling

that I once sought to see?

A liquid sight of shimmer and fluid light

This primal element

we once held tight

Clear and lively it did flow

On our scaly form

we once knew

Much was the same with the carnal

but renewed

In this fluid we found rite

With this knowledge we turned it up right

Dry and fair

just we stand

With this Pisces in one hand

With mistakes we correct the fire

This replaces emotions in stark

shared

and ripped desire

In the way we structure land

changes forms that can’t be planned

Face the front and leave it square

In the truth we hold it bare

Trying to straighten a rope that’s loose

Lost control

Broke the tooth

Tuesday Night Post #2-16

Aspiring Artists,

Let it rain let it pour, is that gorgeous girl on the corner a whore? Will it wash the stain away? Doubt it can cleanse what permeates from Laurel Canyon to Ed Ruscha.  My lovely town what a hound, now downtown smells like canine drown.   Much better than the human waste that once could levitate.  Just some hometown lovin.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Disconnecting

I have recently have had this want to disconnect.  It’s not really a new feeling but a feeling that I have been actively acting on.  Let me be more specific, disconnection from the art world, the “fine art “ world.  Granted one main reason is the hollowness that is the LA art world.  I am not being harsh or bias, I have come to terms with this.  Hollywood permeates though out LA.  I call this permeation “Hollywood” for lack of a better description.  Some might call it LA or superficial but to me, the LA I grew up with was not superficial.  It was not even Hollywood.  Only until I was old enough to get around on my own did I start to go to the “Hollywood” scene, you know punk rock, Hollywood blvd, clubs, Goth what ever you want to call that dope show.  That was a different world.  I am from LA not Pasadena, Santa Monica or any of the out skirts that we call LA county or sub division.  Born and raised and seen the many sides of LA and recently have started to fall in love with it again, but that’s another story.

Let me get back to the art world I speak of.  There is another reason for this want and action.  Like in every scene I have witness or been part of, it only satisfies one facet of my interest at a time.  The art scene is way to “Scene”, and way to pretentious and full of isms that by its own accord disconnects itself from the viewer (specifically the viewer but the artist to, but I know most artist are fluent in isms, at least enough to get by).  I am interested more in the viewer.  When I go to a show and the only creative phenomenon I see is the artist finding new ways to stroke themselves, their peers or worse their predecessors. I find no transcendence of concept into light. 

In the last few years I have been around a lot of performers (and in the past have always surrounded myself with more musicians than artist) I have noticed a comfort there for myself.  Not to say I feel at home, far from that.  Being backstage at an event has been something I have taken with a casual stride, but if I stop and think about it, its terribly artificial and would make me incredibly anxious…so I don’t.  I’m just there for the snacks.

 I think it’s the value the performer gives the audience that I find honorable.  Without them there could not exist any dialogue or reason.  An audience is just an extension of an experience.  They will laugh, cry, set the energy levels of the event or just tell you something after the experience.  They are not just going to show up for the wine and cheese or show up just to been seen (hey I am guilty of that too, been going to art openings since I was in Jr. high), and if they do it’s a big price to pay, sitting or experiencing something they have absolutely no interest in. 

Let me clarify what I mean when I say audience, an audience is not a static sitting mass.  For example I know of a Butoh performance in a cave in which only dancers were at attendance, but no “audience”.  There was no need for audience, but the dialogue that must have occurred between performers must have been intensely profound.  Each dancer was part of the “audience” essential part of the experience.  We can have an argument about if any audience is needed to make art, but that argument is none sense unless we are talking about self-exploration.   Have at it if it is, does not include anyone else so why even argue that with someone if you don’t care who knows.  Why would anyone engage in a discussion like that for any other reason than a thought exercise is something I am not sure I really understand, with my reasoning Self. 

Yes you can argue that in a very arty dogmatic sort of way, but I am losing interest in that forum.  Its like having a argument with a significant other and forgetting why you even started that argument but for what ever reason neither side wants to subside…maybe just for the simple reason to have a reason to have a reason.  It’s sorta a hollow profound venture.  Feels like something epic is being conjured, but is it really? Again I am not opposed to pushing the limit or opposed to the Avant-Garde.  What I speak of is masturbatory incest that CAN be institutional investigation in art.  Its like if every one sat around bored because every one of life’s questions had been resolved and some one just needed something to do (and from experience few higher level art is really like this.  It just seems like that when you peel the first layer of the onion, it validates it as a intellectual investigation, the true meaning is much more coded and far removed from the uninitiated… but again that’s a different story).  Don’t think we are quite there just yet.

The Nor Cal art scene is the only scene that I have seen, as of now, that was more focused on the artist to artist to audience dialogue.    Everyone was really about the making.  Every one for the most part was willing to get down and dirty and collaborate or experiment.  And it was good art!  Who would of thought?  Of course this required you as an artist to step up to the plate.  Make! 

I think a lot of LA artist talk about making or wish they were making.  Hey its not a put down its hard to make in LA or anywhere.  After all there is a nightlife for every one of you out here.  God knows how hard it would be to make in NYC.  Not really interested in knowing really.  And again I am talking in broad terms I know folks that are making in NYC and folks that are not making much in Nor Cal and folks that are making for themselves and no body else. Everything is what you bring to it.  Plus or minus what you have at your disposal. 

Even when we disconnect we hopefully connect with something else.  I think that is what I am trying to say.  Mostly now I am connecting with corporal transformation and the many ways that can manifest.  The art scene at times is not cerebral enough for me.  I get that in science, spirituality, yes religion, tech and in people that are being creative and are profoundly investigating truly fascinating things but are not part of the art world.  I know there are groups and artist that do not fall into the pit that I am describing, but those artists might have some similar thoughts or they might be dead or extremely stoned. Unplug to re-plug.

This is not really a put down to LA.  Mostly to the established art world.  As of this moment LA is one of the centers of it…

Oh, lets not forget there is…A SHIT LOAD of moneys in this establishment (I’m not even going to touch on how this discolors it all). 

And yes performers in LA are a horrible breed they should all be made to wait on us, bring us delicious food, drinks…oh yeah, right…

Honestly sarcastic and profoundly foolish,

-Ass-piraling Farce-rest

Tuesday Night Post #2-15

Viewers,

Some refections on this past performance.

-DBL

*     *     *     *    *

Reflections on Performance Art as Self-Transformation

            I want to keep this thought brief because of other deadlines and because any further thought will require the need for isms and ists, which I at times don’t have the stomach for.  Yes these things are required to be properly descriptive, but like I hope to express, sometimes definitions restrict thought, which restricts understanding and action. 

            I do hope to be clear as much as I hope to release these thoughts that I have been experiencing at this moment.

            If I would allow my definition of what I do be said with my own thoughts I would say I don’t consider myself a Performer or a Dancer.  I may perform and I may dance but titles such as these, in my minds eye, present a certain definition and restrict understanding. We all dance and to some extent we all perform, this I do believe.

            My approach to my performance work is much like the approach one might take with a ritual to cause change, i.e. an Initiation Ritual, or moving slightly away from the sacred, a traumatic episode in ones life that enables a change of course.  I see now that this is one of the reasons I try to stay away from a fully choreographed movement piece.  Within every performance work I have done there have always been variables that are known and variables that will be known once the work has been completed.  These problems could only be solved within the piece.  These variables are technical variables and also personal restructuring variables.  I have been criticized before for not having all my answers ready at will, but this is my art, myself, my growth.  That is not to say I am not structured in my approach.  If the viewer sees the beauty in the answers I am delight.  My hope is that they find beauty in my voyage.   I mustn’t ask for much from my viewer though.  We all have our bias and our limits.  I say this in human terms not in fabricated IQ terms.  You cant see what I am thinking just as I cant feel what you are feeling, but that is where the delight lies, in the quest to understand. 

            Some of these concepts I am speaking of ironically are hard to speak of.  I feel that there are something’s in this world that are unspeakable.  Just like we can try to describe a flavor but the only real way to know is to taste it.  This I think occurs with understanding and creating.  At times I feel things can only occur with in a piece with the right variables that can not be explain, but do have a profound effect on me and my understanding. 

            This last performance piece, “a Sentient Approach, a Cybernetic Reproach” I do feel changed me profoundly.  It is strange to see a concept develop a tangent to reemerge years later thinking it had long been forgotten seeing that it was still developing subdermally.  This is one of those things I have trouble explaining.  I think the human mind has the capacity to process information in ways that are not as linear as we wish it would be, that’s not to say it can’t be as helpful in the same regards. 

            There seems to be a checklist somewhere stored in my mind.  Periodically I realize something that I have just accomplished has been on that checklist and has now been fulfilled.  Sometimes without knowing I had put it there long ago.  This is how I feel about this piece. 

            One thing I would like to note.  For a few years now I have started to factor in a variable in the performances that would physically linger after.  I have chosen henna.  I enjoy the aesthetical addition to the bodywork and the lasting reminder of the transformation, be it permanently or a temporary transformation.  It is for me only but depending on where it is located it becomes something I have to deal with outside of myself, which further propels the transformation. 

            There is one more thing I would like to divulge; the performance high I get after the piece is completed and the coming down I have after.  The high is very interesting, I feel more present but at the same time apart.  The following day I feel very irritable and moody.  It’s a strange occurrence that I know I have to be ready for.  Especially now that the work becomes more charged emotionally and conceptually. 

            Well I should leave it at that. 

We all use belief to stand on, be careful what you might be standing on.

Tuesday Night Post # 2-14

Digital Hoarders,

I have just spent most of my night purging my hard drive of unnecessary files and pre organized my external…wild night.  So what now?  Argh… a very fried brain.

-DBL

PS: I know not what I write til I do, then I might agree or I might be wrong.

*     *     *     *     *

on the surface of this mound

on the layer that you see

on the surface that you smell

this is where we are

proximity is everything

only time is the distance

fear the savior

love the barer

this fluid calls a little sense of evil

attributions recalled by the hands

it sticks to the mound to cause a change

unruly this shift

revolve

Tuesday Night Post # 2-13

Patient A,

We infect more than we know.  To live in a bubble is not human…or earth like.  Disease is a choice and is a natural fact.  The only way to describe life is to give you the two extremes, in hopes you fill in the rest.

A birth is an infection of an egg. 

A disease is a gift of love. 

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Film on Wood

In a room with bundles of cable, multi strained coiled, there is a seat.  Dust will kick up for the first guest to enter this long vacant place.  On the table are pliers, a soldiering gun, a last minute task.  In the rafters are more wires each a different color.  Draped over a beam falling to the floor.  A décor with no aesthetical purpose but telling.  Wires that fall make a wall, beyond this wall assorted forgotten devices, car LCD screens, light fixtures, microphones of varying degree, radios and speakers, in no real organized fashion.  In a corner an empty water cooler.  Double back look at the object that came before, the seat is still vacant.  A wooden swivel chair facing a small table by the door.  This door is of a wooden type, deadbolt doorknob, cracking paint, nothing much to mention, severed link.  There is no dry wall on the walls.  The inside is the inside of this room.  The framing does well to collect the dust.  Old screens of computer type can ultimately be seen on more then one table that echo in this space.  The table by the door will open more.  Left before this mental entry there was placed a note on paper, now it lay, when it spoke is said this:

The last time I saw you it was not in a way in which I could touch

But I knew it was you

By the way your presence made me feel

And the black that I saw

In the skirts that did flow

In my mind that I know I chose to doom

In the acceptance you did not see

In the movement of your destructive ease

In a choice I sacrifice my life

In the way I exist

Nothing is more than twice the fight

When I leave and my fluids flow to another

It’s a risk I can never seem to deject

In my state I chose to be

In this moment I let it free

All I have is my work

It is I

Tesday Night Post # 2-12

Sentient Beings,

The hand on your face, with a gentle stroke, is just the same hand that can strike you.  A finger gently ran on your spine is the same as the heartbreak on your mind.  Liberation of suffering is as foolish as the love you have for unrelinquished want.  These words are as useful as the policies you agree to when you check the box.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

It Sat On My Chest and Told Me This

Let it pour.  Collectively we ask what and end never understanding what has become of the beginning. It’s so far removed standing still will only be the cost.  There are a few things that have crossed my path…what will these things form as time gets closer to an actual change.  Will I be constant enough to not perish the Rose.  This rose is never just a rose, a divine spark that will die to later form a beauty never known or seen.  It’s easy to kill the rose.  Asked myself why flaunt this skill of destruction or darkness or distain.  Yes black contrasts well with white.  A romantic heartbreak.  A disorder to replicate.  A lovely melancholy memory of you and them sanding with just the right light to turn your stomach, make your heart quicken and make you feel just a lil human.  These aesthetics lulls me to a high state of disappointment.  I ride the unrelinquished love of never seeing what the past talks about…of seeing this Dark Angel fully clothed and breathing on my shoulder.  How was I to clip the wings?  It gestures to the scissors, which I did not own.   Doing, doing anything to bring it back, joining the thoughts of tender heaves and silence thoughts.  The door was never closed you see when you left, in the sound, it closed it.  The light is on.  Getting stuck and falling in over with the first state…why stop at the threshold of severed understanding of UNDERSTANDING.  Is it understanding, tell me or is it arrogance.  Unfold the arms square the shoulder lean to the side that feels heavy, there that is where you stand.  Feel it. Breathe it.  See the rest falling in lust with the conquest?  Is there a question on your side that never seems to formulate?  That is probably the seed beginning to germinate.  As individual as each snowflake is a white noise veils the textures and uniformity of landscapes unrooted by production and progress.  No never mind this thought that seems to unravel with confusion.  Words sometimes lose their origin; sometimes the storytellers have their delusions.  When I drive, on a clear day I see the snow capped mountain that surround me, I fall in love with this moment, I choke, the action in my muscles the memories in my fingers, taste of skin just a new thought away I think of it.  Of this partnership I had.  It was a sudden need to understand.  If it was more then just a timeline in our ticker tap then maybe, I think there would have been a bigger struggle.  What you don’t understand is that I wanted to change nothing.  All I needed was one hand to invite, the other to hold on to the upward draft that we had.  Yes we are artist.  We practice this art of knowing.  Lets begin by being sober.  Just breathing on this time my blood gets intoxicated.  How can I breath if nothing is planted to cultivate.  I tell my friends get use to short and multiple relationships.  Shop online, buyer’s remorse.  Impulsive buys, upgrade after the last one broke.  I go without.  I don’t need to buy something I know I will use and abuse just because I fear.  I fear I fear you don’t say it but I fear.  You are never alone but constantly forgotten.  To busy to remember and so bored you can never forget, cuz on this line no one is unplugged.  Humans play what do you think this entire product is? Lower level duplication of something so close it sits on your nose.  You don’t see it you say? The other produced to replicate what mother gave us just so she could say “My boy yes my baby I am your mamma. I know you can be as beautiful as I but don’t forget arrogance is not godly.  Arrogance is Man”.

Tuesday Night Post # 2-11

Fetishist,

Who’s skin do you wear? Transformed to another being possessed by an action that is philistine.  Why does the future look like this on the silver screen?

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Twice the Fifth of a Brutal Fist

Can you come here below your line of sight?  With this image you will see there is an action to intervene.  She sees the kitten chase its tail with one eye closed, this one will visualize the pussy eat itself. 

Come focus on the two. We see the pair Pure and Blue.  As one crawls on fours, the other masters the tool that is the Clue.  The reason Circle Closed needs a gate?  In time of change we must regulate.  Question is will the two propagate?  Held both, one in each arm, low in a squat she moves up.  Her head just above the line then crosses the circle with another one.  Started the cycle often new, this bass will rattle and challenge the youth.

Lets forget touch is pain.  I will structure charts that show it comes from distain of this corporeal life remained.  We will come together in opposition to sobriety.  We can start a new and free society.  On site we will meet in the space we live anew.  We will come with a new fashion with skin that I will choose.  There will be questions asked, we will dance.  In the end there will be some advance.   

Tuesday Night Post # 2-10

Pterodactyls,

Feeling a bit of an Odd John.  Hope your children feel a bit more secure with black and white draped over every action they take. 

The mind can only see what it can afford to believe. 

For every one that is bored with the modern world I’m sure there are things in store to keep you wondering. 

Don’t confuse my passion for arrogance.  These are just words no greater nor less than any other words you will read in your lifetime.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

 A Job is Just an Action Done Again and Again

So is it true the goal that we reach is to excel this tendency for growth?  I have always felt what I needed was to focus my thoughts and achieve only a concentrated desire to produce.  Sitting here all I can really produce is feelings of loneliness, feelings of pain and a want to sleep.  In warm but nauseating waves I also feel a desire to call.  Call the last person that told me they loved me and wanted me. 

Silly dreams forget that like the impulsive phone call at 2 o’clock in the morning, like the sudden fleeing to another’s arms, like her, those concepts have perished.  Freedoms of another lifetime when the four walls I inhabited belonged to me.  Back when freedom tormented me like an infinite empty space surrounding me, suffocated me.  Disease filled times of panic and chaos. 

My dwelling offers all the amenities I would need:  Three meals, a bed, streaming media of any sort and a feeling of purpose.

No need to count my time.  I just wait for it to be my time to produce.  I’m just a wheel in the machine when the light turns on I turn.

Even though this is true I sit here and wait.  Thinking of things I once owned: The feelings of mistakes, the actions that I see now, mistaking the words you once said… 

Strange to think that all I ever wanted was a role, a place to exist with a purpose.  Now that I sit in this cube waiting for my purpose all I can think of is what I wish I did before I sat here and waited. 

My tray of food still is on my table, a ledge hinged on the wall.  My chair I left by the door.  I myself half reclining in my cot no thoughts but ones that belong to you.

My time to rest has been put aside for this moment of normal human regret and ruminations.

The yellow warning light over my door has not gone on, that leaves me more then an hour to go over all the words you once said.  I replay them all.  Maybe this is just a thought exercise.  Finding some meaning I formulate a new answer crunching the numbers seeing if there could have been some sort of proper outcome that fulfilled us both. 

I go over all the moments that made me feel we belonged.  I even replay the many dances we danced.  In retrospect it feels I was the one that was odd man out.  I see the space you occupied while you spun.  As always I was just peering into a world I understood but this graft never stuck.  Even the music you understood in different ways then I did.  I tell myself that if only you believed that all I wanted ever imagined was you, fully clothed and realized. My greatest dreams could have never pictured you, never knew you actually existed.  Punching in all those numbers I finally saw you, and what a sight.  Floating by… my dark angel.

As I think this thought one occurs in parallel, how can any of us know what to do if we were never sober.  Sober from darkness, fear, chaos, dread, constantly drinking from each other’s insecurities.  What can we find in destruction other then a moment to reflect after it is over.  In my cube I reflect…thinking if I could just speak to you one more time maybe you would say something new to add to this equation. 

What can those words be, what will they mean…then the yellow light comes on.  I can put these thoughts aside.  I have an hour to prepare for my role. 

Tuesday Night Post # 2-9

Degenerates,

Yes it is a New Year.  Count only what needs to be recorded, what needs to be exchanged.  Change comes not with numbers, but with action.  The page is turned by the hand not by the numbers on the page.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

A Perished Rose

A Salty Brick

On my chest

smelled so sweet

Looking down

at a frown

When it was ripped

from my chest

Left to me

Minus 3

Severed limbs

appropriately

I remained

to agree

I accept

this side of me

No more chance

to take up arms

I chose the weapon

accordingly

Never felt

the need to see

the role that

was placed on me

Rendered small

with a task

to sweep around

the chimney

Several times

I even spoke

of the feeling

so tenderly

Shame I found

starved the hounds

Made me feel

so heavenly

Body red

Never dead

Raising clouds

from the dirt

Coughing loud

Cutting ties

Finding source

in dirty knees

Found a way

to be free

in my chore

left to me

With every movement

of my hand

always came

like a lance

Carving up

Ivory Bark

 Made of stone

never dark

On my chest

there’s a stem

Pull it hard

Lets begin

 

Tuesday Night Post # 2-8

Rebels with their résistance,

What are you fighting for? Food? Shelter? Oppression? Resistance to resist the resulting annex?  What will the resister do when the resistance is co-opted without a clue?

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Winds Of Hate

Enunciate

the time has come to revelate

They form storms of trust displacing old traditions

Replacing, rejoining in repetitions

In songs we hear the music’s clear

We never lose the embedded genetic cybernetics

In its place we replace a map you call arcane

Stifled with so-called pain

Now all that’s left is burning lust

Don’t go pointing standing near the place of heaven smear

A solider life will become the cultural engineers

loaded gun

Once we said to agitate

Lets begin lore to gravitate towards a higher form

Placed on you just because

This form you hold in need of some wringing out

Your sappy soul will fear the draught

Turn the sky in your hopes

Splinter poles

What is this fear or foe?

These new terms that you pronounce

on actions that are nothing new

Wordsmith found on fiery bowels make the smell rise to you

The hidden fees of buying thoughts

leaves the maker and the muse

Dazzle me

The technique is in the way you speak of something simple and reused

To create a new way to drill the truth

in this form you corrupt the youth

We tell them what we know

in the way our traditions held us low

We forgot that with no rules there is space to have the noose

in the same throat of the user

Yes the user

The abuser

The searcher

The leaper from one experience to the other

Hoping the avant-garde will shovel the will of the uncreative ones

In my pants I held my chance

Zipped them down I lay you down

With a frown I place my Right

up and toward you

Tuesday Night Post # 2-7

Ummm you are so salty,

     But you are my friend.  What is a friend, but a neighbor of occurrences and mutual acknowledgment?  Acknowledge my shortcomings since what you see is what I give you not who I am or what I will fool others to be.  I give you words just like others give you questions.  I have only what I find scattered around my feet.  These are thoughts dropped by this clumsy scribe. 

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Throw salt in the fire
(Stories of the Two)

This scene you remember rite

Placed in an open field

Empty space to fill with grace

On the last trip to find a truth

he wandered

Draped in a blanket white

A stumble and a fall in a pool

One half wet the other grabbing up

What he saw

A figure above

No choice left

this hand prevented this crawl

She had no voice

A relationship made in resistance

When hands pull and there is no reference

What direction is the question

Twisted and tied this union had no space

But to collide

Violent force that creates

This in turn would suffocate

In her pride she hid her strife

Backed off hands a square to another

This one a brick brother

Mired in a history of misogyny

He wears a jacket of fashionable truth

A black hat adorns this gospel

Unaware she follows

In one judgment she keeps herself shielded

In another she steps where he wants her

Maybe he is not aware

Maybe she is

He will take what makes her a mother

Gladly she gives what is not hers

Thinking what she needs is something

others wish they could recede

Now the new is the fools that follow

This path it corrupts the Youth

In his eyes what is needed

A simple joke

A friendly coax

Solidarity for the salt of this earth

For which they are thirsty

In unison they milk each other’s arrogance

Half Awake I Remember, Half Asleep it Makes Sense

My bed lies beneath a window in my room

In my box

There is no light that filters in

It’s much to early

The only thing that wakes me slowly

is the water

It throws itself on my glass

My eyes slowly open between a thought

One of sleeping and one of remembering

This I try to forget

Memory that I am

still here

Without the love

Without the past

Without the things I use to know

My feet have felt no warmth

to quicken

In this thought I fall

Back down to being insensible

In there it makes sense

Your form

Your figures

Your timeless companionships

Wetness on the glass

Reflects only what will last

I see you there

Never more closer

than when I never knew

what I know

of everlasting

never

I awake

Time has passed

My regret is that

what I knew I left

What you brought

I can never take

Tuesday Night Post # 2-6

My Fellow Futurist,

     In action we are.  If there is no death then we are.  If there is no choice made then we are.  If you believe in destiny then we are.  A thought swallowed is a decision made. Yes we are futurist.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

Lets relay what was left on the thought feed

Which to me was more then just one flash of this moment

A device we take for granted

Those lil crystals reflect

to me more then just images

Lets us rehearse what has just transverse across my peripheral

I found this line that traced the curve of your hand

In its aftermath

left

was a turquoise glove

Bent over smelling each perfectly formed flower in that garden

I stood behind thinking the next thought to say

Staring at my text

knowing editing it myself would have no higher result

Holding the rail at the front of the bus

My mind dug deep in the filthiest gutter

Your eyes always wandering back to my crotch

Staring at you in the kitchen
wondering what's wrong

Thinking maybe you do need a drink

Laying there on the second story

Another layer below me

Your bed

Eyes staring at your dark green ceiling

The metal bar that held down that curtain

hanging over the threshold

In the wind it gently banged

That sound once known in youth

now etched in love

With this feed all is now and the past is a poison