(for purposes of scale)

and that guy's probably way over six feet tall

The Process of Painting (Illustrated)

I have a computer

prying at the floodgates

there was something wrong about it. it almost seemed too easy. whereas before there was a struggle for words, there were now too many. every word one could want and five shadows of each, pulling the meaning in different directions. It only made sense to keep it up, there had been nothing before and now there was something. and as the light moved over it, expanding as if spilt over the surface of it, it was again clearly nothing really. the same as it had been before, but now there was no ignoring it. A car crash, a cross-eyed babe, a squirrel with a bloody rat's tail, something's dead on the highway staring at a billboard with too many words on it to read driving at 85 -- but truly, that's all anyone ever wants. it's not what would say, but observe the effect of it. people need constant reminding they exist. once breathing becomes commonplace, it's difficult to hold onto the idea of continuity, but from the time you're first alive to the time you can't tell time again, there's something different about you, and only then. past the bookends, things look the same. they are empty page, they are the insides of your eyelids. there's something there still, but it's hard to broach the threshold of awareness, something constant, currents of air -- it's hard to hold it firm and have the focus to stare at it until it disappears, and to keep it hidden, and to not forget where you are. easy as breathing. there's no ownership, everything is appropriated. steal what you want, it won't make you happy unless you know what you're doing. you'll never know what you're doing unless you know why you do it. try something different for once.

the very tooth

it was always poetry to me. anything with words. poetry is the side from which you approach language -- when a word is more sound than meaning, when it's the shapes in your mouth, the pace is the speed you read it, and the mechanics are meaningless. we rarely attribute to words the degree of summoning strength that inspired their creation, the designation -- the transference of internal upon external.

When some living things look into a mirror, it's is an entirely seperate entity for them trapped in the glass.

anything less is technical writing.

wasting words

As it becomes clearer to me what I want,
I see it for others is unclear.
As I attribute meaning to the life i've let swallow me,
it possesses me that most people don't pay attention.

Really, though,

truth is relative, it is unique to each moment.
Anything in opposition to the sliver of present--
that splits through the dark like hallway light through
the slight agape of a bedroom door--
is not true. is contrived. breeds deceit.

These words aren't important.

definition

a god is a lonely creature
who surrounds himself
with that which fills him