jpaulgorman

DAmGD To realize, finally. Blur of inspiration and peace. To emphasize, chemically. Flash of liberation and beats. To really fly, chronically. Mess of indignation and heat. To never try, tragically. The obliteration of my sleep. To make it right, easily. Puff of motivation and sleaze. To feel the night, openly. Ignore expectations and dreams.

Ran up the road, need to get some gold.  Flew to Mexico, ate all the tacos. Walked over fires, burned the deniers. Dug under ground, where the lost are found. Looked to the sky, asked for more time.  Broke into dance, must have been tranced.  Clicked the clock, the music won't stop. Sold for a buck, never had much luck. Drank another drank, til I got tanked. Took another swig, gotta go big. Blamed my dezeez, so sad for me. Slept like a baby, next to my lady.

Stuck in the mud in the jungle or passed out from heat exhaustion after another dry mirage arrival in the desert, it's all they had left.  The memories, the miseries, the blackout of war.  Beyond fog, on the other side, where the mist is cool and perfect.  Where forever is, and where the brave are.  They did the work, they lost their minds, and their bodies, even the hearts died.  All the hearts.  But the souls were untouched, complete and still whole.  Soothing and mild.  Comforting and chill.  No cares.  No need for cares.  The openest of all roads.  The greatest beyond.  Salutes and songs.  Cheers.

Set up like a bull fighter. Quick, ready to move. Take the angle, don't feed. Go against the inertia. Hungry for the alley. Take the open court. What's there for taking. Survival of the survivors. And whatever you do. Don't over-cover the sides. Your wings are long enough. Like Borg said, work the middle. Clear the net sufficiently. Rather play the deep game. Wait for the shawdies. Wait for the cut aways. Blink twice and wake up. Time for the honey run. Errything sounds the same. Boredom is a trap.

Like rude interruptions. Or something similar. Footnoted in a book of time. Marked for scheduling. Another travesty. Further dilution of our life. Dreaming in suspended air. Fortunate to breathe freely. Without gasping for oxygen. One more heartbeat away. Always waits. Patiently. And sweet. In the moment. And our nights. Like stirring it up. Ready for the get down. Shake out the dust of days. Jet stream does its thing. And the body can't help it. The taps and bangs and bops. Movements in unified sways. Hearing the same music. It never stops. These sounds in my head.

dancing with emotions, from within, but always inspired from without.  what we let in, what we don't reflect or deflect.  what we allow, what we don't ignore.  what's worthy of our emotions. a sunrise, it's colors and awaking like a morning print, unique and fleeting. wind, cool and cleansing, fresh and noisy. family, miracles that endure the ugly, people who make the blood circulate. others, homies, few friends, several acquaintances, a number of associations. injustice, the elitist and all their justifications and scams, all their schemes. peace, it's in the stars, the heart, the lungs, the mind, and creation. movement, physiologically, the body must go, it's built to go, if it can, til it stops. pain, the ouch, the woes, the oh no's, the mental lingering, the desperation. information, it feeds the curiosity, it pacifies the determined, it fills the gaps. the future, with its inevitability, and sure progress, life gets better and better. mus

Logistics, supplies, get to it, get to it.  Make sure everyone knows what to do, when to act, how to endure.  This is the hard part, the rest is execution, and execution is easy if we make it easy.  Go for the automatic, the make-it-so.  Then, go and make it so.  Be the hero of Rio de Janeiro.  Circumstances aside, and not much time on my side, whatever I hide, I hide.  Done lied, done tried, then lied some more.  Ignored the Lord, closed my own doors.  Of course, in due course, we voice our choice and nature keeps time.  The subtle lines, the crazy times.  The rhymes we mined from our minds.  And each line ends with a pop.  Just stop and tie a slipknot, cause all we got is not going to be enough.  This is tough stuff.  Really rough, and we must, despite the fuss, learn to trust.    

It is only the thinking that matters. As if complete clarity was attainable. As if. Why the curiosity, why the care? This mysterious phenomenon. This mind invader. Another thing we'll understand later, reminders everywhere. The books, the music, the visual arts. A look, a hook, can't be shook. By sleep, or drink, or shygirl blinks. The uselessness of it all, like a lock and chain, like something to blame, like a low lit flame. Like it's for your own good, trust the schemers, the selfish operators, the have-it-both-wayers. Only the weak, lazy, and dumb fall for that in the end. Strike out on your own. Own it. Decades will occur. God willing, of course. Body willing, soul willing, eyes willing. The loud yellers can congregate somewhere else. Where the wildfires rage, uncontrolled and deadly. We need some peace and quiet around here. So jammy tunes can be heard, so crazy ideas can be uncovered, so the spirit can restore our faith. Security is not

Attire arrivals were grand and green and very Vantaggio.  Keck's green socks with rolled up pants.  Joe's Vantaggio logo jacket, perfect for the cool weather.  Like brothers with their white bandanas.  Their hair spiking up, like tennis crowns almost.  Visions of Pat Cash and Jim Courier in a late 80s battle, although the latter was mostly known as a pioneer of the tennis cap.  The bandana brothers of Vantaggio.  Matt The Bassist was there, a true Irishman with leprechaun characteristics.  He has seen Galeway Bay with his own eyes, he has smelled the beers and bars of Ireland, he has walked the Irish dirt.  He wore solid shoes.  JD, a youth soccer and basketball coach, was geared up like a typical suburban walking generic commercial.  The jacket, 3 stripes.  The pants, 3 stripes.  The shoes, 3 stripes.  Whatever, 3 stripes.  A victim of athletic apparel hypnosis syndrome.  It is tough to overcome, JD is known to own multiple Vantaggio shirts and he mindlessly wore what he wore

Swirling mind swirling around its thoughts, rocking and running all day long.  Come back for more.  Problems, worries, frets on the fret board.  Wishy washy.  Uncommitted.  On the fence, wavering and justifying. Nothing has changed, we are all part of the brain chain.  Philosophers, and others, from thousands of years ago are part of the chain.  They thought like us.  They thought thoughts we thought.  They think no longer, new thinking left to the future, which is always, and perpetually, redefined. A cylinder, not a circle.  Sparks and noise within, excitement and celebrations.  Chaos and activity.  The cylider itself is suspended peacefully, and silently racing through ever expanding space at the speed of light. And our minds are occupied with unknown aspects of unknown relationships in an unkown world of unknown people.  We control our movements and actions only, our dispositions and responses. Our time is now.  To say.  To listen.  To understand.  To love.  The eyes do kn

Mechanical automation is not creating.  It is producing, and we must produce.  But it is important to recognize the difference.  Creativity cannot be scaled, it can only be discovered, experienced, and harvested.  After the creator has gone and left the creation behind, unexplained. Think of it from finish to start, toward the need, the motivation, the inspiration.  The initiative, the conditions, the space of time.  Effortless elegance, overtaken and surrendered.  Catatonic and hypnotic.  Completely covered in images and words. Relations and the temporary diversions.  Experiences and listening, understanding the daily grind, the nighttime worries, the dreams.  Using time during the alert hours, between sleeps and spells.  Carefully crafted loose plans, intentions and goals.  The future must be prepared, ready or not. Proceed like the young, without experience, with anticipation, limitless.  The senses will guide you through.  Together, they seek your own known truth.  Emotions

It stood out.  The square, almost cube structure.  With interesting dents and shapes, and towering angles and shades.  A typical early May Dallas thunderstorm dusk provided incredible light.  The air was heavy, the private party parking was curbside. The interior was spotless, just as the exterior gardens were lush, interesting and maintained.  The bamboos are growing back, the frog statues were lit like green neon, and the architecture had an appetizing effect, creating anticipation of the interior.  Never had I been to the Perot Museum, despite its proximity, despite casting a presidential vote for its namesake, despite my friend's employment there.  As the Chief operator he was responsible for all things, aesthetic or not.  He pointed to an obscure, and custom, window that needed relplacing.  It was cracked like a spider web.  He was properly obsessive. The great creatures of the past are being preserved at the Perot, space exploration is documented, and aspirations run wil