The Persistence of Dreams

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Part 2:Threshold to a Target

And as you fell to grace, there was an orchestra curling an index inward. The song of stones being cast in the wake, we crossed the empty channel into the fields of haunting defeat. The tarps are gone now, and the green grass stands high over any waters; it cradles us in the stream of asphalt. The crater amplifies your voice in the wedge of light. An aerial I of divine beacons inspiring the optimistic, in the abyss of the flourishing flora, green whiskers kissing the air and stroking the breath frequencies of the living. Nestled through the threshold of the road not taken, lay the security of an unknown realm. We glided over the ground with the howl of milky blue wind, and the opaque nebula over the ever watchful looming lunar man. Glide downstream into the chasm of the twilight, and the illuminating eyes on poles will guide you home. Green leasers in the night, and speculates as to the destination of the unknown youths. Upon bicycle you ascend for the treetops, which leave the ground with you. Into the nebulous heavens of blue, swing with lead breath into the divine light atop the cliffs. Find the final detour which takes you into the unknown; anywhere but home. Open your eyes to the overlooked shadows of the mountains, swim into the existence of the neglected, partake of the antidote to hum-drum existence. The tree tops beckon you to the illumination atop the world.

Part 1:The Scroll

Embryo of man stretches, pushing on the yolk of my eye. She shuts with grace to equalize the internal pressure. Fist to your eye and the world begins to slur. We’re all just swimming in this void of air, and I question my own sanity. Fall through time like the vacuum’s been set to empty, and pull up hard on them horns to take flight- God knows them two rings won’t leave it all behind easily. Swing ‘er up into the brisk, and ask nothing but to hold your breath. The roar of prehistoric beasts groan their titanium howl, and over the metal wall the scrap pasture of perpetual post-apocalyptic meager adventure beckons your trek. Somewhere a ring sounds on a oxidized ladder, and the time slows down under the gapping song of looming lights on high. They philter the air and as you feel the drenched velocity. Look for a slurred mind and a closed right eye and you’ll find me, between heaven and the tempting gates of hell. Between the Brown Day and the mammoth rolling fields of cranes and mechanical colossus, the cyborgisour specters of nightmares to the industrially wary. See me in the slur of life, when worlds collide, and the difference between the existences is indistinguishable. Along the artery of the city, and the mellody of the beast sings with the voices of friends, and in the face of the desolate, there is to only be found bliss. It’s like God jerked the scroll with grace, and we’re lost in the dream of reality. Obscured by the lost elements not sought, only to be stumbled upon by the living.

Part 3: Flying the Blue Wonderland or The Persistence of Dreams

Silhouettes of glorious trees greet us as we pant into the sky. There dwells the inhabitance of serine dreams, and in the street lights gospel they waltz beneath the stars unseen. The sifting sky breaths a sigh, a shudder of perception. The illumination of the pure breeze whisks about your ears and in the darkness of the ally there is a plummet of cement to a secular existence. The song of the dive lingers in the slopes of my ears and we slide into the stars. The sight of Veterans only furthers the persistence of dreams. A lingering giant in the sky is looks upon the droves of allotted plastic slots- some filled, some remain empty. We come upon a Rip Van Winkle valley, a buried court, shrouded in leaves and barbed wire. A yellow star hovers inanimate above the translucent walls of wire. The obsidian wave of earth is slick to the wheels, and sing a pitter patter of extraordinary paste as we sour to the Earth below. And the last of the looming lights show us out, and give us their humble regards. To the ground we sling about into the either about us. We slide down the pavement met by the nocturnal deities of the forests. And in the familiar unseen black, the shadows of trees which bind the existence of light, we make way along the dance floor continuing into the night. The spirit of America flies through the unseen green. We find our way in the night, a bone warming chill, and the song of reality, clouded by the tranquil hue of a surreal existence. We come upon home, in the valley. We are lost in the dreams of life, and we ourselves are obscured by the twilight. Keep living along in the reality, askew, salvation is as obtainable as the air is permeable, and there you can find sanctuary: in the nebulous skies and their breath about us, a blue wonder land, the milky veil sifting over the stars.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Fisheroot

Anyone like the name? I personaly get a good vibe from it. السلام عليكم my bitches.

Friday, March 02, 2007

It's a fruzby, it's a plane, it's it's

the bird

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Don't Glimpse....

I want to slow it all down, breath easy for a while, take in the details and experience it all. I’m a man of the past and I vainly take advantage of the present. An adrenaline upheaval, kick it into gear, and give it all the gas we got. The problem with seizing the day, is that the day is a figment; leaving no impression but a somber memory of the way things once were. I’d like to walk between the raindrops, and admire every awkward stair and glance and fully address the minute aspects of our odd conversations. There isn’t enough time to feel every drop of air in my lungs, nor taste every concoction of air off the variety of pavements. Dissect it, and do all you can to understand and nurture every moment you’re given. If it’s all in the eye of the beholder, we need to let in more light! Push it, taste it, love it, fuck it, but don’t disregard it. We are in a glimpse of unobtainable beauty, a Mellon collie paradise in a half-life; we experience little and neglect the divine, and in the end, sad for loosing track of the time. We’re going to fast and the breaks are all broken, and the wheel’s pinning for some attention. We are at our prime, and it’s not ever going to be obtainable again. I’m gonna just drift for some time, kick it out of hyper-drive, twist on them tunes, and listen to you. I live to fast, so I’m gonna take it slow, breath clean for some time, or at least as much as I can. See between the molecules my friend, it’s amazing how much there is that we don’t experience. If I could I’d show you, but it’s all the more fun when you live it yourself…..Love, drew

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

200 Posts, and One Remembered Writer

So my computer died just before the twentyith so I wasn't able to cellibrate the life and legacy of our Hunter S. Thompson. But this 200th post is in dedication to him, and was ment to be posted on the 3rd anniversary of his death. Hunter, it's sad to know your gone, but we'll always remember you, you crazy mother fucker....

This final shot is a fire lit by his wife on the 20th. Thousands of people lit a fire of some kind at 6pm to remmember Hunter. You can see more images of the many who scent in images of their fire and cellibration at www.owlfarmblog.com .