Latent Us

2008-10-18T01:10:00.004-05:00

To the wise belongs reasoning and fools rely on it.

2008-10-10T21:24:00.002-05:00

You would think that at the base of all that is, you would find good. That the sifting of time and experience would show forth that beneath, that the structure is good. That if you could remove the dirt and land above you would find the frame below, and that you could trust it. But you cannot. It is hidden. The structure is alive. It eludes reason and is set out of the reach of measure. That after the wind and rain had had there way, the mountains would lie there naked to show you rock. But the dirt still clings and gravity fails to reveal. Erosions work profits nothing in this regard.

Nothing New

2008-08-24T19:24:00.004-05:00

To lay one line against another to bend and curve them, this escapes me. To fill a space with color or to set a scene within a frame and lay lights and shades across it all, this escapes me. To bend the air and ripple it with sound or to even think it in my head, this escapes me. To remove some mass from here or there and place it back again, yes, all these things escape me. But don't suppose that when they are, that I don't understand. I can see in every scene and every sound the pieces that are me and some pieces that are you. Don't suppose that since I don't loiter there that I don't understand. I know all these lines and curves hard pressed in every page. Every color that has caressed the canvas every pixel on the screen all the notes and rhymes and forms born from the mind. That it's done for and from all that thing inside. Still, have no worries over my respects I only did not pay, for I know that my cheap currency is of little worth in all this place that’s you.

2008-08-15T00:52:00.007-05:00

...That each mans life is an epic do not be fooled, do not be set of balance by the mundane, joy, or horrible ...the visible me in no way authorizes the thinker to deny the latent me... And just as there are scientific certainties in life there is in that same place, which consists of both the seen and unseen, a host of what can be found with Men. It is argued whether men are evil or whether they are good, but I say that it is that men are vessels. And that they are ~~~ fill themselves with. And There are hands that help in this filling. With names. Faith Hope and Love Hate Jealousy Fear Envy Desire Lust Anger Despair Pride Justice Mercy. It It It is Love that should govern them all, but here it does not. They war, and the ones who would not, our fallen state has forced their hand...

Paradigm Shift

2008-06-13T22:06:00.003-05:00

O hush now child,and still those tears. Now standing in your garden mongst the vines grown thick by time, looms the culmination of your fears that monster you once thought you saw, that time, back in your youth. But even now present has come to us and passed. So let us carry you now, and rest. Rest that heavy heart, the vines will blow, the monsters will leave, the air will move agian.

bluesky

2008-05-09T22:03:00.004-05:00

His heart slowed, His gripped loosened, His shoulders dropped. The tunnel vision faded, he could see the whole battlefield, the crying, shouting of his mind was gone, his head lifted a little as his body relaxed and allowed the blood to flow. He could hear. He dropped his arms and stood up straight, a sight unusual on battlefields, the armor had seemed so heavy. He sheathed his sword and stretched his arms out wide. Tilted back his head to see blue skies, and now they weren't too wide. The sun was out butitonlylittheworld, it's heat did not oppress. Their swords and spears and knives, spiked balls on chains hit and bounced or slid or simply stopped. They were somewhat frantic now. The noise and shouts stopped railing down on him, instead he heard them crisp and clear. The breeze whipping through the banners horses hooves and shouts that carried orders redirecting fiercest warriors. He grinned. Drew his sword. Held it out into the chest of a great advancing man. man caught himself died and fell. He let it go, no need for swords now. He lifted his arm horizontal bent at the elbow looked and thought the armor was his weapon now. He felt it so good now, it was a good weight and he could use it, he did. Ahhhthebattlefeltsogood their armor crushing under his, he waded through the warriors looking for a man toflexhisstrength against. He breathed in deep he loved the smells, turned up earth ,horses’ hides grass leather and the smell of fallen men.

The persuite.

2008-03-03T21:37:00.005-06:00

The knowledge of her was brought to Him by the people. It was this knowledge of her that brought the desire, for her, to Him. And it was His desire for her that brought Him back before the Elders. ~back before the Elders~ They warned Him, "Don't look her in the eyes". The crowds cheared Him on, cheared him in His pursuit, cheared as the straps where tightend, fastening His armor to Him. He had no need to look for her. As He approached her He diverted His eyes to save them. He fought she evaded. His gaze passed over hers and He was stone. Unlike the rest there, He had the Elders they came restored him, reminded him, and left. He went back and did it again, and... again, and again. Over and over and the Elders continued to free and remind Him. Then again as He passed through the forest of stone men He relized, they never had to tell Him where she was all the gazes of stone, the ones that had gone before Him pointed the way. She never left there, she never searched out to destroy, the voices of the people brought knowledge of her and from that the search for her. He realized there was no mastery of her, he had to lay down that persuit to go back to the town to tell them no, to silence there cheers, and tell them to silence there storys.

Prelude

2007-12-05T21:17:00.000-06:00

He was created to live forever he could not die, his purpose was to reveal the story, even to be affirmation of it. Like a window in a door, He was not the door, nor was He the passage way, only a small view of what lay behind. For this He was created. And as all things that are created, new, only the hands that strung Him together could approach Him properly. Where you find Him here is separated and bound to time and when time and purpose inhabit the same place failure and accomplishment will follow. They knew this so they bound Him fast and bleed Him every day. It was His fault he loved it. This was torture, to live everyday without the substance that gives life. All that was black to Him was white, and all that was white to Him was black, this is the effect it had on Him. This is his backdrop, should be seen in every story that is told of him.

2007-10-16T10:58:00.001-05:00

The metal slips between antogonists ribs. Niether of them can die, He dosen't want that, He grins. Suffering is all that His mind is set to. The battle is painted in the land beneath them. Antagonist is pinned to the dirt the earth opens her mouth to drain away the blood, the blade has found a home inside. Hate is here, what had always been an idea took flesh became a man and like every wave of the oceans converging on a single grain of sand, He thrust that sword. Every beat of antagonists heart must contend with the edge of this blade. Every breath will drag his lung against it. The sword found it's way there and He continues to lean into it, every muscle in His body flexs against the wound. Deeper than the darkness between the stars Antagonist would wish for death if it was a place that could open for him. This is not enough, revenge was the motive, was the goal, was found. But this revenge can only spend his strength and use his hate to propel him on, strength will waiver and seep away, but hate no matter how much is drawn to fuel, need not ever be found in lack.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

2007-08-21T19:36:00.000-05:00

He wonders will He ever fight again? Still dazed. Still knowing the mundane has not set in again. He can't trust his feelings now. But, the question is will He ever war again? This last battle fought, He fought unsanctioned. The elders never knew. No battle lines where drawn, no parameters, perimeters where found. He just fought. Found himself drowning in the wilderness, the faces sought His death. Is this how warriors are born, of whom the legends are told? Was this last fight fought, without a win without loss, reality, a warning, or a sounding in the depths? Did it announce the loss of another or the rise of a vicious hero. When they struck out against him was it desperation in there eyes in there blows or confidence picking each brick away to make the layers fall. Was it his fate or theirs that was sealed in those days. Is this how the lives of those who choose this path are to go. Like a strong strong wind that carries him away. Where have the elders gone. There may never again be another enemy with who the battle lines are drawn. Who are these people what was that place and where has He landed now? All cares with the reminder lost there weight. He was dazed again but he'll find his place.

2007-08-17T20:04:00.000-05:00

Set in the peaks of a cloud laced scene there houses hang, laid out as if they put no strain on the ground beneath. They did not clear the ground, it receded before them. Made of thin light wood, and filled with paper walls and paper doors these shelters do not sway. There weapons too, curved slits of wood, there arrows firm shoots of the same. Rival all weapons conceived in the hearts, in the minds of men. The city is to be seen as one built of hard hard irons, and mists that can not hold. The picture of the people here is hard to show. Regarded as fools, but feared they heed there lives to inked words, on paper too. Words like discipline, patience, and self denial. These are words to stand against most others. Used and never practiced so rarely seen as verbs in the places where "men" walk. They, the people here are small and pale. Dark hair and dark eyes that look out through narrow lids. This is why there fools, even there power comes from paper, comes from words. Frail homes, frail weapons, frail people, frail words on which there lives are built. Here will be the last time there called by frail, for this paper place is strong.

2007-07-31T21:43:00.000-05:00

Those who have nothing to live for, who do not fear death are the most powerfull in battle. No, it is those who have something to live for. The messanger has arrived he came down from off the mountain from his meeting, with the etchings in his grip. He poured it out on You. They say that once you have mastered your art, you transend the tools with wich you began it. That all things are incorperated into your skill. His grip loosens, his sword relaxes, his shield rests against his back. They become less and less a necesatiy as his powers grow. It is supposed that once you have hit the oceans current to fight it is to drown. The churning is his home now the situations that rage. He knows no rest will come. He embraces it, the churning, he will use it to define the battle. Allow their weapons to guide his own into there submission.

Our Rooms

2007-06-25T13:15:00.001-05:00

I see it in my head a door in front of me, I don’t face it ever. I won’t face it ever. I know it intamently like it’s the door in a house I’ve lived in forever. Every scratch and dent in it, I was there for, if there was a new one I would know it. It’s a green door I hate the color green, with a brass handle and a cheap dead-bolt the key side is facing out, the bolt lever toward me. It’s emitting a force, the air around it is heavy, heavy like it should be pushing down on me but it’s not just down, it pushes out too. The force is controlled by me, my mind is the switch. I won’t turn it off. It’s not dark in here, it’s ok. I am accompanied by the thoughts I have, the visions and day dreams keep me distracted. They come in through a window in a wall. There is no question ever, it is impossible, I won’t go out it. You can only come in it. I think as they say it is the minds eye. It sees so many things. It has a curtain but it’s the sun’s rays that are bouncing off things that the eye perceives, how could a curtain stop that, ever? The things that come in they keep me company, we dance. And when I’ve become too tired to dance they let me rest. They must let me rest, or I will faint, and die. How could they torture me then? They don’t really though, they only give me what I want. Provided I don’t leave my room. But no worry about that, I can’t. I torture myself with what I want. How is that possible, it makes no sense. I’m simply charged now. I’m moving forward no matter what. There is no stopping me. Only God can now. Will he? If he does then I will be stuck in front of this picture, I can not take it. This picture. But I digress.

Chakra. For Nathan Ingram.

2007-06-03T12:54:00.000-05:00

The grass all died in one day. Grew sparse and made way for the eye to find dry ground beneath it. And upon it sat foe and him. He's been sitting, facing foe. Moments in time are drawn into one and tied. He stands, eyes widen as he realizes, wind rushes through his mind blows the smoke from behind his eyes to clear his head. A single thought, YOUR GOD. "I sought your death, and would have found it, had I the strength to draw this blade against your skin." With understanding his mind changes. The scene shifts around him. God is "gone". Pure nothing is what to become now. He stops, offers himself as such.

Chakra

2007-05-22T23:12:00.000-05:00

Poised there, in a field that stretches for miles, a place where castles would hang on the horizon. Chakra building around him, growing denser, focusing it between his hands. Knees bend, fling him into the air. He shoves the energy with what power into his foe. He lands, smoke clears, foe still stands there. That’s it he gave it that he had. So many times he’s given his energy to vanquish this beast, and so many times, its simply, withstood. It doesn’t fight back. Never lifted finger or thought against him. But it’s there, the damage is done, immeasurable. It’s kept. It’s keeping him from. It remains before him. As strong as he is weak, and as weak as he is strong. It never pushes back. It must be waiting, for him.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

2007-05-04T16:07:00.000-05:00

Here He is now. He's crouched to the ground sitting on His feet, left arm around His legs, head resting on His knees. Eyes are pouring over the thing clinched in His hand. His mind slowly turning it, and why. He is known as "He" now because He has been stripped bare, warrior is no longer His name. Even man is to strong a title. He and His antagonist torn to nothing. His antagonist is all thats left in His grip now. No sword, no shield. It's nothing more than what would seem as vines who’ve let forth thorns. Thorns which puncture and keep Him bleeding. As His hand wrenches every moment tighter around them His mind ravages its self for a way out. "Why doesn’t the pain stop?" "Why am I still bleeding?" Had the answer arrived mounted on wings, were it from a sage, or carried to his ears by an aged and wise old man, it would have been ok. But not so, insultingly, from behind Him approaches a fool, one who had seen the battle and cheered always the side that seemed winning. Fool said only "Just let it go." His mind went blank, for a moments time He pondered the idea, hour’s worth of thoughts pouring in and out. Asked himself "Can I?" yes was His decision. As if standing across and watching, like a child would watch a magician working magics, just like that He let it go. O and how his being wondered at the drop. Then He stood, He walked away. His hand still bled. The memory of what He'd held came with the pain everyday, until the wound was healed, reminding Him, asking Him to pick it up again. But He couldn't he'd already walked away, and it was gone.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

2007-04-24T21:41:00.000-05:00

Air is dry. Not cool. Not hot. It can be felt, but it does not move. It's as if he could lean into it and it would hold him. He's sitting on a rock, a mountains lifted it high. It's not grey, it's almost white. His sword lay on it buy his side. No fighting today. He watches the camp below. Darkness moves with it, within it. The camp, it's searching for him. It sends out scouts, they will return failures, no fighting today. Tomorrow he will go to it. He will stretch out his hand against it. He will consume it, or be consumed by it. Pulls the mountain deep into his lungs. It satisfies. It's rare. For a breath to satisfy like that. When he goes, he won't go alone.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

2007-04-21T23:49:00.000-05:00

Thursday, April 19, 2007 Another day the battles done. The pains they simply melt away. A help appeared, with no words spoke the day was won the battles done. The scars are there, victories lines are blurred but still the battles done. The warriors changed there weapons will too, he still must brush shoulders with his enemies. There blades they slide, across his armors new still looking for its seams, but as for today the battles done. The air is fresh the day is bright, colors can be seen, take a breath take a note that battles can be won. Remember this write it down because only for today the battles done. Amen the battles done. The battles done. Amen.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey

2007-04-21T23:48:00.002-05:00

Saturday, April 07, 2007 A flare has leapt upwards, unconcerned for gravity, slowing, straining forward again. It falls to pieces as it flys , giving all it has to reach it's meaning. It falls to pieces. It's reached its mark. Down below, a light. The warrior can see. A face comes to focus it's bent against him. Its voice is heard "I KNOW YOUR NAME!" "I know yours" the warrior replys. The face falls away and in the midst of the darkness that consumes him one less is there. The face will return to join those it has left another day. PREPARE.

Row

2007-04-21T23:48:00.001-05:00

Wednesday, April 04, 2007 Row Hello my love I sinned you so. You could have been another row to sow the seed and watch it grow. But instead the seed thats Christ, I sowed my soul.

Iknowonlythatthebattleisspiritualwhocantellmorebutthewarriorstherenoteventhey.

2007-04-21T23:45:00.000-05:00

Monday, April 02, 2007 A warrior, I see that there is a fight. I can't tell how it goes I don't know how the fight should look. I don't know the enemy or what a man who is winning looks. Loss and success seem so much bound together it's hard to tell the difference, I see the fight but I do not comprehend the site, I do not tell what is the antagonist or what he uses as his arrow and his sword I see the figures move and clash but who is winning I cannot tell. I see the blood spilt but to whom does it belong I do not know, the ground is soaked. Prayers leap from its midst but whose lips uttered them I can not hear. I cannot tell the man from the demon or the number of warriors there.

Changing Norths

2007-04-21T23:43:00.002-05:00

North did settle where I wanted it to be. The needle spun the skies stood still the wind willed not the clouds to move. Energies inside forced legs to move and heart to shake, vision blured while earth did turn to forces, who did choose to hide. I sought my will to mirror skies to mirror clouds but it did not. -The needle spun.- North moved from what it was to settle where I wanted it to be. Calm mocked, confusion reigned only my last breath will tell, did the needle settle where I wanted it to be. The goal I love, the path I hate, I am afraid. Will it come, ever to a point, where I don't have to reach?

Youandme

2007-04-21T23:43:00.001-05:00

Monday, January 29, 2007 YOUandme Brush a picture on paper for me. A picture of me that looks like what the mind conjures when hearing words like Strength and Light and Love. Paint it so I can take courage in what you are making me to be of what you are in me. And over it press earth and dirt and mud and things whose worth are none. This will be my picture a painting that is me. And when you commend the Strength the Light the Love I believe you like the earth the dirt the mud. And when from me you wish to take the things whose worth are none, Ive seen it like you condemed in me the Strength the Light the Love. I am always confusing me