REMEDY INKORPORATED

language related to art related to music related to nature related to love related to the collective unconscious related to the garden of souls and flowers related to this

tres bass

imperfect parallel motion

the force of two geese flying low over the freeway
imperfect parallel motion

perpendicular to cars
northwest face

humble human notes it,
wonders how to save the grizzly

to let him be ferocious
in his own time

oh give me that old spring thaw

thoroughfares and time thieves
worshipped an artful image hung on the body
who has time for that?
misunderstood artifice
not part of life
but part of edificios
and fashion shows
and then it expresses itself in many forms
unformed
holding a lion’s nap in my lap
and never moving beyond the bubble
– it makes crazy angles and constellations
spinning and spinning and curlicues

edge of the melt

edge of the melt

(Source: , via garnetportrait)

one long wave 
pleoros:

Iceland

one long wave 

pleoros:

Iceland

(via singtheremin)

No permanence is ours, we are a wave that flows to fit whatever form it finds.
- Hermann Hesse, from The Glass Bead Game (Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1943)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via crashinglybeautiful)


spacetimetechno

2. as an aside…

outside the immediate ringaroundtherosy a bell rings, ding, you’re demanded by that buzz, that vibration, that call out shout of someone urging you to pick it up and holler HI! here i am, i mean you love, no harm. but what if the now is sucking in, you can’t handle being immediate, transported to someone else’s realm, they got your number on speed dial, it’s a trick it’s a text it’s a trial, no voice, i can’t hear the voice, i’ll break down, i’ll shrug and shudder… i’m not into telefonos, they make me feel long distance

space time technology

1. chased into the next realm it’s the limits of the edges of the hump of the hill you throw yourself down. every time you see a clown tweak his nose a bicyclist’s shoelace gets twirled round his pedal during rush hour traffic after church gets out. the screen beckoned you off buses and into internet cafes where you unwrapped a box of bidis and giggled with yourself and the digits and alphanumerics on a screen, nonsense and just learning. words linked to phrases linked to brains linked to faces crushing in and out of crunchy lettered black on white.

and is it right when the warm air twists round yr ankles and a cough on the street passes below yr window, a car creaks slowly by, a cricket chirps for yr ears only? do you resent being pulled out of this now around you, besides, to the periphery, outside stimuli, behind, below? away from the world NOT in these words NOT in the keys NOT in your extra-sense level of thought, NOT the sixth sense NOT the intellect. i’m talking real living sensations. not words not words not these flimsy things before you that you can’t even touch, maybe could say but i wouldn’t hear you anyway, the vapors floating in front of your eyes just as easy to turn off as it is to put down a book, or easier. you can banish it from sight there.

there. turn off the light turn off the monitor isn’t that better now. darkness and you scramble about in the messy cobwebbery of cyber, trying to make a stain on that universe. or a glittery streak? the growl creaks and i cannot be not here.

think of the floating place that tv child is in when he’s in willy wonka’s teletransporter, his big boy body getting chopped up into ninety gazillion dozen million particles and he’s zipped zapped warped back together in a tiny screen-size version. a bite-size version. how many bytes do you got in ya. crunch munch yr pocket full of punchy binaries and oneonezero one one one. one one zero one one one.

eleven i’m in heaven crawling among crisp clouds they goof on me and wear shrouds because we’re in the fix-it-up spot, giving all we got to challenge the ghosts who greet us with toasts and holyrollers chant about cants and cants but. under the river of electricity, lingers a life force. feel the blood flow, rios as tainted as they were neverbefore, this is the moment of ultimate toxicity, the closest to death you have ever been, dig it. lungs bulge for air and it’s as though you’ve never breathed before, or blinked, it’s different every time you do it.

but then you remember when. when it was a little piece of then. the first time, the gleam in the eye, the perfect high, that sweet little rush of a true once in a lifetime. the first time you saw the pacific ocean, wave of emotional lotion and someone so dear, once so near now as far as he could get until hitting puget sound in snow, we rode. i corrode as he’s the rising glamour statue in freedom square, i’m standing there gaping and rolling eyes. one never knows unless one tries. and we jester them on through, smirking and trudging through our judging. it’s a bum job, but NO ONE’S GOT TO DO IT! unless it’s an evaluation of l.o.v.e. and if it won’t get love, i vote none of the above.

i’m sitting cross legged, friend. i’m sitting cross legged. unpegged. not ready to think about any tomorrows, just waiting and seeing and not deciding, waiting and seeing and dreaming of the peeling, of the shedding, of the fresh start, getting on with the cycle, writing chapter two or forty-six or every chapter now that is coming on fast, gripping the past and letting it make you laugh, and those laughs are always probably the easiest to relive and give in to, you present the fiction to yourself cuz that’s how you lived it devil, that’s how it was created in the brain and in you, it was no other way. others may use other words to describe it but you have the right, the ability to frame it in whatever way you need it, your right as human woman man dan or joann, just grope.

and cope with the scope of your frayed yellow rope.

hibernation station

hibernation station

(via loveyourchaos)

Tokens

if nothing was allowed to be rented on accident
we’d get all our minutes back until we were born alone
I see you in the distance
running after something in the distance
it’s waving goodbye at you
you’ll never be happy
until the mountain is in your lap
and it fellates poems for you
we’ll still imagine we see
our names written in the cracks of the dirt
it is possible
for a boy and a girl to pass bubbles by the tongue –
an exchange of fluids
with less risk
than being struck by lightning in the foot
magic dreams in another language
one of them dreams
can’t stop making up words
or having one word on repeat, like tokens
you whisper it at candles to blow them out

-WC Tank