i awoke suddenly, and in my view i saw two.. two men and women standing side by side. One eye open the other shut, there was not other eye now was there? But i proceeded to shut down my heart, and when it shot me blast in the face.....i had enough all ready and with tis the spirit was jolly and tis the sweet mother holly all venomous with tube socks on , and spitting to the four corners for wheat and bread... These weapon seeking lovely individuals, the barron ones jacking to the ever going seaweed wraps that tanned women on the beaches wore, and we are crazy talking now aren't we?
Brown paper bags lined the kitchen floor making our way to the exit part of the house, the back porch if you will. Seeding the floor, seeding the ashes in the fire pit out back, so that there will be no more burnings, so the the eyes will see above the horizon at the sky, and at the stars, and the lights would not flood our hearts, the candle would be our frame.backwards
Add to My Profile | More VideosHOMER+SPIRIT=CREATION
WHEN THERE ARE SPARROWS NESTING IN THE CHIMNEY, WHEN THERE ARE SWALLOWS UNDER ROOF........WHEN THERE ARE SWALLOWS ALL ALOOF, SWOOPING DOWN WITH PETTY OBSERVATIONS, TELL THOSE SWALLOWS TO GO BACK TO THIER MUD SHACK.!!!THOSE DAMN SWALLOWS THINK THEY ARE SO COOL CAUSE THEY GLUE SHIT WITH THIER SPIT..... I WISH I HAD TALENT LIKE THAT.
HOMER IS THE VOICE OF THE PAST, CHANNEL SURFING FROM OBJECT TO OBJECT, BOUNCING AROUND IN THIS POOR BOYS THROAT. HOMER IS THE VOICE OF THE SPIRITS, THE CALLER OF THE WIND, THE MILKY WAY. HOMER IS ALIVE!!!
ORION, NEPTUNE.a different moment.
Add to My Profile | More Videoswhen i am truely awake your face is the place.
where i rest my silly eyes and pick a pretty lace.
i drape you like a cozy chair that we may rest upon;
there might be little boxes where we both could dance upon,
a groven shaped meadow is where we choose to lay.
upon a birthing photograph taken in dismay,
with a shoe and a bone,
we tapped the cold sheets of ice.
covered the dark winter streets.
with a bang of the boot we crackled the snow;
made a big boot print with the heavy rubber sole.
with the tracking that we know.
with the flurries and zero below.
brittle downfall the scuttling forces,
the air full of banter and billowing blue voices,
a snowie white owl preached which way to sleep best.
covered with brown spots on his white feather vest,
hollowed in holes of a tree nearby.
the smoke from the chimney would sting morning sky.
the wood crackled softly as december stood still.
the fire burned freely in the brick oven built.
the beas are making honey juice.
the flys and beetles were cut loose.
sand and rocks make perfect glass.
natural fragments become task.
busy buildings rise and fall.
city makes a dancing crawl.
moss and fungi grow on me.
breath becomes a mist of tea.
soothing muscles in the joints.
make the bone a messy point.
grassy places in the park,
serve a humans natural part.
ten fold and twenty five!
rolls of bear skin and deer hide.
scrolling down a list of names,
i find the one that fits the flame.
seven twenty and the door!
all birds are keeping score.
scratching notches in the wood,
scoring fairly best they could.
bones are rattling on the farm.
singing song of way and fawn.
one and thirty by a clock!
noone wonders when to pop.
measuring the heart and spleen,
making use of all the bean.
wrapping leaves around your foot,
getting deeper by the root.
four and seven now your done!
calling out like fathers son.
pinching pieces of your flesh,
pulling to see what looks best.
swollen waters from the grass.
sun is perfect made of brass.
casting shadows on the moon,
making gestures for a swoon.
Ol blue abstract wasteful billy goat,
jumping from rooftop to sidewalk and landing on street.
looking for substance or something to eat.
they keep the clock on and dont tell the time.
keep it all silent so we wont cross the line.to call out the moon, to touch the belly inside,
to touch the focus, to touch the cell,
we are made in fine fringed barnyards, cattle stalls, and hay
animals of bone and vein, we are battles of past and yarn.uraveling into straight white lines, soft breaks.
feathers....bodies.......fresh morning sand, stones and alleyes are sunken treasures, in a humans skull,
burnt by breif commons, all common to the mind
tiny image vessel projectors of water.having seen the ocean floor, i know the fishies hometiny insect who carries all her young on her back
swaying, wiggling, through the core of earths dried up cracks.
