the art of kEith ::: 'E' on everything

in North Fort Lauderdale Beach \ it’s the summer of 2008. the sun is beating down like it means business, the wind is breezy, this is good.

the end

the study of observation
of every shape in one’s visual perspective
to be revelation and information for the soul.

rooted in the intuitive movement, this takes all stimulus,
beginning with visual, though it is obvious for all senses,
but for training, one can use visual interpretation as a means of communicating with one’s higher self.

i could tell the story of poison james and the viscious hobo.
but what would be the point of that?

musings of the day
the wolf that tried (to blow this house down)
& the drummer boy

there is nothing here save the fire of humanity
linked fervently through a time of space
i wonder on moments
still vacant and persecuted.
save love
love.

I’m on to sweeter things.
Sweet things like juicy grapes.
And dare I go in the garden, dare i?
am I allowed? here.

Yes with the yellow hops and barley. Yes with sunset glooming

… So banished. in the cold of the mind. With ashes for memory.

there is a loving way to do things
patiently it all gets done.
the courage it takes to do this
i hear the ticker-tape in heaven

asheville, before i lived there. with alcohol

– This is my gravestone, this park table, in West Asheville. Here lies Keith Kimmel, he tried. To be a junky or not being a junky?… I shall attempt the worst life I can muster.

– I went further one last time; I guess because somebody had to. The wind, more of a steady breeze, began. There I stood on a rock by a river, like a captain of some spiritual ship, having no choice but to steer. Golden crystal present then did what it’s always been doing and that’s when I knew the destiny that is simple clear now perception without fault or blame. Sea fish squandered, sirens bellow, I think have been rejected in every language; they all chase the light it’s the only reasonable pursuit a man can muster; but I digress, how many different types of bugs can there be? I only want what’s best for you!

– There’s a river that runs through this park, Jimi Hendrix. He used to bellow how nobody could force him to create anything. Planes fly over head and birds (pleasant ones and crows) call. Here I am in mystical present with no job no possible way to function ever adjoined to some fantastic yes! And the beatitudes of Christ ring as true as my iPhone. Boing Boing Boing as I write myself right out of the market.

this means the gov’t could barely know what a sexual offense is .. excluding the obvious (illegal) ones.

musings on Dandelion
– Roy was the hand maid for Teddy, Goldy’s uncle. They lived off of 74 somewhere between Asheville and Chimney Rock.

– All I ever was doing was trying to write the answer… you know, to every modern vagabonds dilemma . It certainly wasn’t a mystery that the cat was out of the bag and all was exactly as it wasn’t. This idea of freedom in ever present light reality so obviously necessary to pursue . Was there any choice? It was post 2010 or something. I mean really the time had come for the answer.

– Sparkling waves of rolling grass. Rivers still rolling like forgotten soil on some mystery persuasion

– Be not afraid of nothing. Sparkle vision ever present all of creation on a nickel or a dime.

(1)
Heres the thing
I’m tired of your explanations
This philosophy
Get Your ass Over
FIRE ENGINE

(2)
you want a fuckin artist you bucktoothed communist?
Relentless
Bourgeoisity
I am with the ANGels

(3) your noises, cling clang childish,
nothing is coming from that sound
nothing is coming from that sound
OH my God, the one who finally breaks the mold
MOLD!
YOU are getting old
I SING here with THE CHOIRS OF HEAVEN waiting for YOU Sick man

I AIN’T GOT NO HOME IN THIS WORLD ANYMORE
(Woody Guthrie)

mr. guthrie died in a mental institution. i feel like i got to educate. but GOOGLE him .. if you never done heard of him … in short .. mr. guthrie, begot mr. dylan, mr dylan begot rock and roll …

much is dead … a measly echo … if not for drugs

lyrics:

I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-ramblin’ round
I’m just a wandrin’ worker, I roam from town to town.
The police make it hard wherever I may go
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

My brothers and my sisters are stranded on this road
A hot and dusty road that a million feet done trod;
Rich man took my home and drove me from my door
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

Was a-farmin’ on the share, and always I was poor
My crops I laid into the banker’s store;
My wife took down and died upon the cabin floor
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

Now as I look round, it’s mighty plain to see
The world is such a great and a funny place to be;
The gamblin’ man is rich and the workin’ man is poor
And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.