poem

 (untitled)

What’s it like to be perfect as perfect can be?

What’s it like to be a great human?

Burn and be light for objective truth

and all indisputable moments of history;

every waking moment, from waking to sleep.

dear diary

 please remember for me when living on mipolomol road, highest house on the boney ridge of the santa monica , with 12 foot glass windows and all the channel islands visible on clear days, and how doing all those pastel/gouache pieces by the dozens which were trucked from lodging to lodging until landing in an artist district years later; thinking to throw away everything old, and the night you did, only to wake hoping they were still there, and after you helped get the district popular, sold them all, and made new ones 

poem

 (untitled)

We have lots of moments but never this before,

when a late truth knocks loudly on the door,

in the form of late developments alongside

all those leading up to it—a moment

you're forced to say yes or run away,

in order to remain asleep.

dear diary

 thinking purusha and vishnu/krisna/shiva are tantamount to the hopi tawa and sotuknang.