screw this noise

be still, yo.

children are more beautiful people than adults.

get outside the lunch box, even.

when i think of all the space there is on the internet
and these other realms of just infinite possibility
like the creative tendencies of the mind

and just all of these all of these all of these
all of these experiences

it's
just how infinite all of this is always
and just how little we are actually doing with it

be infinite, already.

trash all over the place - but it already is.

i jumped a fence today
by a sort-of-beautiful beautiful bridge
- all fence and graffitied.
watched the water coming in.
sat by some garbage.

over the fence
water going going going.
and a grocery cart.
overturned, going nowhere.

but why do we pile it up all in once place?
out of sight, overturned, going nowhere.
why do we pile it up out of our faces?
shouldn't we see where it's going?

what if we scattered it over the place?


do you think we could change?
when we hardly notice anything.?

one flew over the cuckoo's nest

"I've heard that theory of the Therapeutic Community...how a guy has to learn to get along in a group before he'll be able to function in a normal society; how the group can help the guy by showing him where he's out of place; how society is what decides who's sane and who isn't, so you got to measure up. All that stuff... how the goal of the Therapeutic Community is a democratic ward, run completely by the patients and their votes, working toward making worth-while citizens to turn back Outside onto the street."

so school is like a mental institution, and children are insane.
and both institutions are running under the same by-the-people-for-the-people pretense.

give me insane any day.

with my shoulders up by my ears

i wonder how many people are just wandering around grinding their bones and their teeth away with tension, thinking they feel just fine. like: this is just how it feels to be alive.

while here i am, biting my tongue, because i know it can be better.

but maybe this is just how it feels to be alive.

remember:

I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war.
(strangest dream by ed mccurdy)

scatter your arms, people.
scatter 'em around each other.

this is called hugging.

whatever it is

and you don't need to convince someone of something for it to be so. it is so for you, and so it is. so, too, let it be so for someone else.

it is easy.
granted, it is also impossible.

figure that one out.

welcome, Love.

if enough people in the world saw enough babies...

you, catalyst.

it is encouraging to know that some people do, in fact, know better. do, in fact, exist outside the box.

i see your rage, and i rejoice; someone has to hold that frequency for the rest of us. someone has to create a space where the mainstream is questioned. someone has to point at it and say: you are lying to us and you will not get away with it.

but as for me, i cannot rage. hope is the wave that i ride. and when they finally hear you and want for change, too, i will still be sitting here, holding this space for all that mighty mighty potential.

we are the keepers of a spectrum.
we are the soldiers of evolution.

but we don't fight. we surf.

how long have you been standing there?

it's a great big ball
and you're moving around with it
slowwwww
ly,


but imagining.

everybody needs a rock

i am forever etched in the fabric of this universal existence.
we are forever etched.
i rock for you.
you rock for me.

i saved up this hug for you, the whole walk home.
we are forever embracing.
i rock for you.
you rock for me.

only once, even, is infinite.

and writing about it makes it so

i'm sitting here, in a patch of sour kids. and paying attention to everything. the sweet taste, the sour, the rough edges and how it's good rough, anyway - like itching. or maybe poking a bruise. and the smell, and how i can't always figure out if i'm tasting or smelling or both. or just imaging it all. and remember whens and wheres and whos.

my whole life in a patch of sour kids.