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

Somehow she got stuck and so I was sort of stuck. Stuck in a warehouse in Miami’s wynwood district, my greatest support and my secret muse jumping ship.

Word’s can’t describe what it’s like to choose the risky path of creativity. there are hundreds, thousands who dabble, become inspired.

The information available these days, guru’s suggesting you can have it all, a magical life if you just focus on one. They forget to tell you about the work, and the fear.
Who dares to face themselves …

the limit is enough
hold tight to salvation
trouble nobody
be free

Staring at the Black and White ass of a golden haired woman, average looks, but staring at her ass wobble back and forth on the StairMaster in front of me. She’s wearing a devil and Mr. Johnson t-shirt. I know this because I saw her before I got on the machine behind her. And the Jesus in me says, no I shouldn’t be looking, but I’ve already forgiven myself. And everything is upside down these days. I swear Jesus wouldn’t mind if I fuck. Chastity is cruel, and insane, in this time. The devil let the whole thing out of the bag; there’s no way to resist. The stimulus in every alley.

Do you think the saint Paul had an ass in tight clothing wobbling in his face? It’s just too late to come back kids, fucking is the normal, insanity is the mean, and all’s one big rotten parade.

And have I mentioned that the culture is a mind-bending repetitive cunt.

Anyway, so there I am on a StairMaster, doing all sorts of random steps. There’s no way I can follow any sort of discipline. It hurts too much to bombard oneself through this worldly physical dream to actually do something the “right” way.

And the whole thing really is about how long can I stare at this wagging ass. And imagine, imagine that vagina, see it there squishing back and forth. She must know I’m looking, because she is letting me. And the more I look, the more I am grateful. This is therapy now. Just looking and looking, imagining that vagina.

And come to think of it, she’s really not that bad, maybe I should try and talk to her.

And lets not think about the fiancé, the ex fiancé, who I talk to every day, who has nobody else, who is working it through.

What can I do but stare like a dear in the headlights of heaven

circa twenty 08

i live at the sailboat bend artist’s lofts. it’s an unfortunate circumstance really. The place is filled with ethnic artists of different variety’s but the issue is clear. They’re black and broken and the others are fat and tortured. But the real issue is that each artist is in a different phase of development. It makes for a lot of folly.

ode to fear and French words. Feared right through the ringer.

Kids prancing egos. lack of withstanding. you are a gifted writer. I sit on this couch. the red couch I bought from that guy in Denver.

Racing on a one lane highway.

Grateful Dead be boppin for the 900th time. Brent Mydland, keyboards black and white. Heading east to April’s; the road winding like a rat tale. I should be driving slower. Driving so reckless? She wore black and white; the big ole mama with Appalachian blue eyes.

Allie (like ali but different), she would never be it; she would never be what she could be. These fat ones, like planets, there’s no staying away; affecting everything around them, every action reaction … i’ll make her feel special …

The curves on this road, they’re not holding up. they be Vibrating like some magic carpet.
The last thought of Allie was the one that dragged the black and blue civic right off the road …

There’s a cabin and a river and i’ve dam near landed in a misty mossy paradise. but the civic is broken …

and I’m here in fairy land, green voluptuous Goldy always on my mind. she represents everything I’ve every lusted for and loved in a woman/girl.

and it’s here’s where the story begins for mr. dandelion. on account of the accident.

Essential chastising and motivating

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

(2)
you want to be an artist you bucktoothed communist?
Relentless
Bourgeois
I (the I here is god) am with the ANGels

(3) your noises, cling clang childish,
nothing is coming from that sound
nothing is coming from that sound
you, the one who finally breaks the mold?
MOLD!
YOU are getting old
I SING here with THE CHOIRS OF HEAVEN waiting for YOU Sick man¹

¹ self deprecated voice of keith as god

“i don’t need no arms to ground me.” pink floydpart of the art of kEith conglomerate corporation, incorporated — a physical endeavor of monumental proportions and such, to the degree of which, i shall not be on this earth (dare i say) to experience the magnitude.

a small pebble in the lake
young vision, brave
the novel (my first) will penetrate all time
and be known, for the blessing
it is¹

Jeremy’s Prophecy Dot Com

¹included 11-18-2010