I look to you keyboard to say something to me to bring me some intuitive wisdom to console me, construct me, converge me to send me a message through my fingers and your page to reveal something I wish I already knew.
a poem is a dragonfly darting near water looking for a place to rest upon filled with freshness. a poem is of flight down by the creekside — standing water. a poem is. . . a poem is
wired.
The Genius Of The Crowd – Poem by Charles Bukowski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god those who preach peace do not have peace those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers beware the knowers beware those who are always reading books beware those who either detest poverty or are proud of it beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you to kill anybody not wanting solitude not understanding solitude they will attempt to destroy anything that differs from their own not being able to create art they will not understand art they will consider their failure as creators only as a failure of the world not being able to love fully they will believe your love incomplete and then they will hate you and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond like a knife like a mountain like a tiger like hemlock
Art tries to create
creates
many possible futures
futures
in each moment
moments
of existence
existences
choosing reality
realities
from our experience
experiences.-- kenne
Somebody should tell us, right at the start of our lives, that we are dying. Then we might live life to the limit, every minute of every day.
Do it! I say. Whatever you want to do,
do it now! There are only so many tomorrows.
“So long as the sense of the observing subject remains, there is the effort, however indirect, to control feeling from the outside, which is resistance setting up turmoil in the stream. Resistance disappears and the balancing process comes into full effect,
not by intention on the part of the subject,
but only as it is seen that the feeling of being the subject,
the ego, is itself part of the stream of experience
and does not stand outside it in a controlling position.”