Resistance

Habits are memories in action

Inaction is resistance

Resistance is the sound the wind makes

Rain streaked window pane

When you go

don’t slam the door

when you go

it’s all gone

it seems i’ve got it out for myself

afraid of really livin’

i always make it harder

and when you’re not around

my head gets to spinnin’

habits are memories

in action

inaction is resistance

resistance is the sound

wind makes

When you go

don’t slam the door

when you go

it’s all gone

So sick of this self deception and

inattention we’re living in

mirrors of reflections man

it’s alright,

it’s alright,

it’s all light

it’s all light

Once i get caught up in these shadows

you think i’m missin’

but all i need from you

is to fuckin’ listen

Habits

are memories in action

Inaction is resistance

Resistance is the sound

that wind makes.

When you go

don’t slam the door

when you go

it’s all gone

I’ve got this gene

It’s self defeating

I know I can’t win

Because I always give in.

Habits

are memories in action

Inaction is resistance

Resistance is the sound

that wind makes.

Too Many Mistakes (A Poem)

Well, i was laying on my side, melting into the mattress,

liquid layers of vibrations, carrying me away.

i was listening to my aura, as subatomic

particles in mid flight; like a helicopter above and

around my head. i felt the energy created through a lifetime

my heart beats like a time bomb, everything whirring

into a directionless direction.

I could feel the anger and resentment

built up in adolescence, aimed at the world

-which didn’t care either way.

I could feel the weight of the damage done over the years

trying to punish this body

that caused so much pain

-and it turns out this body doesn’t care either.

corroded stomach lining,

eaten away by battery acid.

weakened bladder, what does it matter?

if i’d had the resolve

and the right concentration

i could’ve continued my transcendence

back into the subatomic Original vibrations

but i was distracted,

again,

by the fear of having made

too many irreversible mistakes.

Addiction (A Poem)

Addiction
Replete with silence
mistaken for taken sides
an escape artist
i’ve mastered the illusion of being here

with my hands bound i drown

sinking into a sea of misery
escaping from reality.

seagulls’ echoed cries of agony and

hunger pierce the surface
of this mirrored illusion. refractions of
sparkling lights and distorted fantasies
dance like idyllic reruns on a liquid screen.

filled with conflict and struggle

i look for distractions in actions
-typical American response really-
there’s always something out there,
to make it all better again.

i transform the object into what i need,

simultaneously the object transforms me
again and again.

this sinking does not have a sinking feeling

in the vastness of expanse i close my eyes
it feels like a primordial womb
a viscid mix: sediment and water
walls of feathery pink tissue undulate
purple fingerling tendrils caress me
they are and are not my body

heartbeats and pressure builds

compressing coralline ribs
split fragments pierce lungs
forgotten -what was i escaping?

somewhere in between

reverberations and nothingness,
swallowed in the abyss
where even a thousand buddhas couldn’t
hear my song,

bottomless shadows fill the sea

i writhe
singing back into infinity
this void holds no sound
i’m bound to repetition.

All of My Life

My life

All of my life

I’ve been runnin’

From thoughts (from you)

 

My life

All of my life

I’ve been runnin’

from truths

runnin’ from myself.

 

Why does it feel like the weight of this world

is pressin’ down on me,

the whole of

the collective

unconscious,

steppin’ down

right on me.

If I could just

give it all up

and set myself free

from duality

it would’ve been worth all of the pain.

 

My lord, My lord

My life

All of the time

I’ve been runnin’ from pain

runnin’ from you. runnin’ from me.

 

I guess I’ll have to say goodbye

Pack it all in

with the hazy lemon sky above me,

And leave the World behind

Scatter my ashes with the wind

‘Cause it don’t matter where I been.

 

 

YOU ARE THE DEAD!

In this world death is boredom,

it is the sinking feeling in your heart

and your chest, pulling you down into the

couch. A voice echoes, rippling through the corridors of space

trapped within a mind.

When you are the dead you don’t care about anything.

Death is routine. It’s having the same reaction to a similar set of circumstances,

and feeling like every day is exactly the same

I know this world well.

It’s a living hell.

In this world death follows you daily

 because it manifests as the illusion of freedom

Real death is in action, as in the action of following

thoughts.

                   trapped within a mind.

                                    constantly trying to leave something behind

 You are the Dead.

 

(Note: the title is from the arrest scene in 1984, where Big Brother busts into Winston’s apt. and we hear, “You are the Dead! Remain exactly where you are. Make no moves until you are ordered!” Not meant as some proselytization of Buddhist theory. Since the poem seems to take from some of the themes of 1984 this scene came to mind and thus the title.)

What is freedom? Are thoughts free? What are thoughts anyway? When we choose to believe in the form of a thought, we die. Or so I’ve read.