Why should i bother with the photos which are not mine?
Why should i accumulate faults to further this stream of delusion.
The which burns into a thin stream of smoke.
A stream of unforgiving losses which must be stemmed.
So i can sleep at night.
Walls between spaces are similar to the the color cubes of a television that says “Please stand by for programming.”
In the light of 12AM i fell asleep and woke up again, the next morning i asked was i ever really asleep?
This is a repetitive process like yoga forms, opening and closing from the fetal position.
It is like a hammer rapidly slamming nails into a hard surface, and eventually i become the surface.
Hit so hard that the fissures in my thinking component become a labyrinth.
This is why the days become hours and the months becomes days.
Purple VHS mist is a transformative cloak of crows feathers and Obsidian daggers.
It brings me back to a clear blue sky standing on top of the jungle gym that my step father never brought home from the welding shop, the fortress of steel and rubber.
It was an inappropriate place to grow up,but today passion comes from nostalgia.
How can such a well acquainted friend as time slip through our hands?
On walks i become i have gotten to know variables which are more stable, like dirt, yarrow, and imitations of California poppies.
Somehow i mus take responsibility for my day dreams.
Pendejadas is a small series of artwork created by me during the night when I am suppose to be sleeping. Pendejadas is Spanish and can be roughly translated to “stupid things/acts.” I got the name from when I noticed that instead of sleeping or being responsible, I would make things, such as this drawing+photo. I hope this series will end before June.
This drawing was inspired by an album cover by “Boy in Static.” You can see a crying Buddha floating on the side and a part of a page from a book. The holy modern saint of candy cigarettes sits in his goose feathered throne.
The Widening Hole
In a dream i stepped on a syringe, and i felt the need to cleanse the tiny hole which grew larger the longer i went without sterilant.
The tiny hole was a space like a cave entrance, but in the space a blue sky existed.
I entered the entrance like a specter, like the way that air cruises through my body when i pay attention to my breath.
I was able to trace the beginnings of depression, something i call my common cold.
It rides on translucent train tracks screeching to a halt, and pausing my life in a single frame of time.
My Internal being breaks down into the softness that occurs with faith in my humanity.
The softness like light shining from a lamp dissolving and distilling my old fears.
Meeting your Cousin In Modesto
I heard about you from two others.
You are mature yet your mouth is full of metal.
I almost cried realizing who you were.
I only regret skipping you when i said good bye.
Holding onto a white piece of paper i relish your hand writing.
The curves of the characters in your name
and the lack of response from someone who resembles a fond memory that i love.
The cuffs in your shirt, and your pulled back hair accented the strength of your Japanese store front sweeping duties.
The angel i met in Los Angeles had returned.
An Angel Saved Me From Los Angeles
I can see your face in my minds eye.
Beauty crumbles like a pillar made of cinnamon set a light like a candle
the scent is eternal endearment, but the form is empty.
Your face was sweet and pale like a pearl.
or was it faint like the foundation my mother put on her face when i was a child.
Your absence is cold like the relationship between looking up at mom and being barefoot on the bathroom tile.
I long to see you again, even though at this point you hold no more significance than a sweet dream.
I wish i could have a polaroid of those days to pin on to my wall.
Are you reading?
Your purity could be so beautiful
Your purity is a moment
A projection upon an obedient canvas.
Mysteriously imprinted into my membranes like light trapped inside of flesh.
Pornstar Calligraphy master
I hope i can say sorry like i mean it.
I hope i can say sorry and mean it.
I never realized how much you all had given me.
I don’t want to take anymore from treasury of lust.
My old records and origami paper fulfill me.
Mom I’m sorry for being a bastard.
Alfonso I wish i could be someone you could count on.
Jeanne i miss you.
Myoan sensei trust me.
Paper roses shower time.
A dull nail sticks from a rotting fence beautifully contrasted by spring’s vitality.
I wanted to ask all of my dear ones if i could have pictures of them.
To pin to my wall and the inside of my coat when i go out.
Because my heart yearn’s to experience those rarities over and over again.
Revealing, releasing, plunging into
how beauty overwhelms my being waltzing in and out like a phantom.
Can anyone hear me?
Careful not to waste a grain of rice soaked in the broth i made from baked vegetables.
Summer surprised us and so i lay naked on the floor thinking about noosing myself again.
My kin are candy coated in lust and denial.
Water and time are the only thing that helps.
With time i might gain those deep grooves, hard spots in the skin of the neglected.
Water is clear, how many gallons will it take to cleanse myself of guilt?
That is not mine. But the burden of a disenfranchised humanity.
He just gets discouraged.
I just wait.
for something catastrophic to occur.
So we can cut the ribbon and start again.