Spring May Rain Sun
It is all make believe
From the dirt to the trees.
I am so tired.
Why should we not be?
Stuck in the middle of
our perceptions of
this make believe.
The bells synch
and converse again:
talk to the dirt;
talk to the trees;
talk to everyone.
An acquired skill –
We are all make believe.
A little poem composed by GPT-3 AI. Here's an article with a quick explanation.
We Are All April Fools (Also)
Covid-19 triggers microbiome-wokeness through theater’s hygiene -
A tactful emulation of security’s profiled theater.
Green marketing’s histrionic amalgamation of “practical”
And “recommended” both equallying - MORE!). I implore lobotomists to sanitize
Our frontal lobes, a supplantation payout solution - a mitigative scroll.
Time does not consider us. Time received its human vaccine
Many pandemicies ago. Be careful! Do not conflate vaccine
And cure (a molecular intervention v. an acute Zeitgeist hygiene
Adjustment). And no doubt are these unprecedented times - check your feed - scroll
The day’s highlights(?) for corroborative information confirmation:the super sly media’s theater
Suggests your algorithmic tale - where absolute freedom crossroad’s the need to sanitize
Quotidian American havers, out of context insensitivities, and surrealism’s practical
Feeling filter usage solution feigning remedy - Highly Practical!?!?.
Covid’s unintended consequence exposed a need for a more complex vaccine:
Not an anecdotal systemic Band-Aid for power’s desire to sanitize
Peoples’ thoughts, opinions, feelings, and words. The self-hating PC hygiene
Conspirators have infected Americana’s cellular structure through trumped up media theater.
All the while denial’s denial foresaw the occurrence: evidenced in our 10 year scroll
Log - painting beautifully a present day picture - evidenced in archaic scrolls,
Which outline a spirit driven descent into a hard-cock driven ethos (not a practical
Mindset for mental health longevity). Oh America! Narcissism’s theater
Effused in the palms’ of our pixelated hands. We need a hug and a vaccine -
From our disconnected connections - an overcorrection boils the frog but hygiene
Education and insight could assist the cause - don’t incinerate the door to sanitize
The knob. And sure, a good boil will sanitize,
But treating symptoms with no aftercare lacks systemic foresight. Maybe scroll
Through personality disorder treatment plans prior to a reactive enaction? For hygiene
Theater masks the realities of denial’s fatalities: distracts practical
Perceptions from novel needs - a remedy, ie. a psychic change and virus vaccine.
Lin-Manuel Miranda, please musicalize this tragedy in poignant theater!
Bring modernity into Shakespeare’s insight - the whole world a theater
On The Stage of United States, and its intransigent modality to sanitize
A corrupt veneer while the mentally ill suffer in plain sight. A vaccine
Is no homelessness solution; nor is a faultline rumble in hopes it will scroll
Off encampments into the ocean (Out of sight, out of mind!). To the haves, practical!
But it’s hardly as humanitarian as Hollywood’s humanitarianism claims; their hygiene
Brands mental health theater as idols to worship through the images we scroll:
Sanitize my eyes from this blinding toxicity. Or has convolution made practical
Process problem solving inaccessible? Or is the vaccine another layer of theater?
Durability: a testament to water
(a friend informed me years ago that he had a huge breakthrough in his world when he stopped asking for answers he already knew)
In this place
We paint the walls
We paint the ceiling
We paint the trim
We paint the floor
We paint our eyes
We paint our toe nails
We paint our souls.
All of eternity lies within us. We were everything long before everything even became a thing. Nature is violent: space is violent - we are both. A beautiful amalgam of space time and violence. We are born durable with myriad answers residing in our being: beyond thought, beyond word, beyond neurological immediacy and accessibility. Take a breath: you know the right thing to do. Make a decision; it is yours. Stand by your heart and soul: and don't think - do it! And if it does not work out, learn and live the lesson. Bruce Lee says be water: I say be everything, because that is, in fact, exactly what we are.
We initially set the goal to put out a post on the first of every month. Although we are in the process of shifting gears regarding the form and content of this endeavor, it feels wrong to renege on our goal. So, here's something to chew on in the meantime. It's an excerpt from the essay "Content and Form" by Wassily Kandinsky set to music by Matthew Bailey. The essay nicely sums up what we are attempting to do at Running to Death. We hope you find it interesting, enlightening, and inspiring.
Happy New Year. Things are about to change.
The Void is creative and deadly, sacred and profane. It is another world, and may be the place from which ideas and material reality manifests. RTD as a concept and commitment is about two friends exploration of this strange and slippery realm. For sake of evolution and creative expansion (stagnation is a drag), RTD will shift mediums. Running to Death, the podcast will launch in early 2021. Our hope is to capture ideas, sounds, words, and both zeitgeist and historical musings with educational integrity and humor. Each episode will be an attempt at creation and documentation of that process.
Drugs are so great, they almost killed me
(hold my hand - I am slipping into a coma (I think), wait:
Am I Dead?
I am new now - old and broken: I am new. All movements labored like mercury filled fingers and toes. And the people in this home do people things. I go to my assigned room and take a nap. This is complicated: my body contorts in search of solace (whatever that means). A distant memory migraine ache, and all I wanted was nothing but to not tell myself that lie. Nowhere is this body: a sandblasted crystal meth shard mistake, porous commitments, idyllic backfilled saccharine stuffed tachyons. A blanket of suicided birds pave the road to Tucson and their flamed feathers leave nothing but their hollow bones. Mountaintop removal programs flatten the earth, but Leonard Cohen fills the void and airways with Death’s soothing soundtrack. Humankind reverts to the barter system, and everyone except the goddamn squirrels are fresh out of nuts. I recall an Elliott Smith song I have never heard and return to my broken toothed rock chewing dream about waking from a dream about hating myself and tossing broken coins in a broken wishing well. Two and three part harmonies bow like broken cricket legs as Seraphim and Cherubim hum D’s Ionian scale: the Principalities lurk behind a crumbling wall as it tickles their noses. Rose petals fall; a murder of murderous crows yank flesh and vicera from cournuconpious dead flesh mound. New Year's Eve LSD drips like window licking erect cocks dancing on the ceiling, and all of your limitations realized on your most confident night.
And how many times can you tell your story? It is one trick. But I don’t know what else there is, yet remain unconvinced I am not ‘make believe’. Sing out of key; tell them you love them; agree when they swear you are not a burden; tell the woman you love, “Any day now soon my dear...any day now - soon.” Everyone knows this lie, but it doesn’t matter cause they haven’t figured out a better way either. Just various ways of hanging on and self-deception: I never want the pandemic to end. Just sit here and watch this most heartfelt Lucky Bamboo grow through my chest as I “accidentally” fall on its sturdy nascent shoots. And do it all again and again and again, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow: everyone is judging your every movement, but no one is paying attention. Look into the needle of death with a vigorous eye (they always knew you knew, those sad dead eyes of yours). How many people know that cold does not exist? I wonder what they would think if they did? And you now what: Fuck the dead!
Throat dripping like oozing STD soars, and all anyone can think about is more: views, hits, likes, thumbs up, fingers in, face down, ass up, and blah, blah, blah: smiley face backslash feltchers ‘r’ everyone dot cumcumber melon water in my favorite hotel lobby...This is everyday...Like an infinite tapeworm devouring infinitely - and going fucking nowhere. Empty ideas, incomplete, shaved thoughts, severed brain matter and stem, and a story that will never be told about a wound that will never heal because no one will ever listen: print is dead, and in 20 years ¾ of the population will be illiterate. Blustering self-deceptive wind-drift crescendos inverse snowy bell-curved roof tops like a crumbling soul at Satan’s bar mitzvah: I have always wanted to move North - way North. But when fear is god, try to convince yourself, everyday, that god will be in - first thing in the morning: and that ubiquitous entity will help you solve your problems tomorrow. And, “Thank God!” you say. “I am sleepy.”