Borderline Transcendental

Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com Borderline Transcendental Sun, 17 Feb 2019 06:09:18 +0000 https://borderlinetranscendental.com en Homepage https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Homepage Fri, 15 Feb 2019 20:17:47 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Homepage BORDERLINE TRANSCENDENTAL Fleeting thoughts, caught and bottled.59.917640° N, 10.706788° E TableofContent https://borderlinetranscendental.com/TableofContent Fri, 15 Feb 2019 20:22:35 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/TableofContent >> We were together this morning, >> SELF PORTRAIT OF YOUR EGO. >> The prophetic vision of snakes, >> Untitled (140 characters**) >> Female: nude, copper on white. >> Can we slow down?>> “This is not our sweater.” >> For those who believe their life is the fabric of a dream and understand they are God (but are still scared to talk to strangers).>> I miss the hazy glow of morning,>> Waking up is the death of a dream.>> We yearn our lives’ cinematic** >> Photos are worth a thousand light crystals. >> Dream Deferred: $24.99 >> Magnetism>> I hope one day, we’ll find ourselves.  >> I was taught creativity. >>We were together IMG https://borderlinetranscendental.com/We-were-together-IMG Fri, 15 Feb 2019 20:47:41 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/We-were-together-IMG <img width="3264" height="4896" width_o="3264" height_o="4896" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7d1a5b2e33d8e597cf5fb25cd44c7b672d97bddc033891550a19e0a54c2086a1/monie_sparta.jpg" data-mid="35537095" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/7d1a5b2e33d8e597cf5fb25cd44c7b672d97bddc033891550a19e0a54c2086a1/monie_sparta.jpg" /> >>We were together copy https://borderlinetranscendental.com/We-were-together-copy-1 Fri, 15 Feb 2019 23:51:44 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/We-were-together-copy-1 We were together this morning. Our bodies wrapped in a cocoon, light inside us, patient to grow in the crossroads of our dreams and our alarms.  Time passing through us: Soft, weightless, still. Present, transient, pure. Those were the best moments of my life. Then Ramona sat on my head.   You got out of bed, your silhouette a brushstroke blurred. Found footage of old memories. And I say you’re beautiful. I stared out of our new bedroom window and watched a cloud pass...       Does this cloud feel me?         If this cloud is carried by wind,                                             is it okay     with the direction of the universe?                    Why do clouds always pass                               to the sound of pianos?                                              Are clouds in love,                     clouds together,               or one a part?                                 Can a cumulus cloud and a nimbostratus cloud                                                 feel                                 each other?                                     If one cloud decides                         to become two                                     is it consensual?             What is your lifespan, cloud?                 Where did you come from,         how long do you live,                 and where will you go                                             to pass away?   I didn’t have my contacts in. I thought of being alive as a child and felt my first apartment in the city but only in the summertime. Light passing through tall windows, painting warm boxes on the floor. Shuffling feet on wood. Eating cereal with my dad in the kitchen asking me what I’d like to do today not completely sure and smiling anyway. My young mother, dressed bright in the green of June. My brother, pooping on the floor. We ran around the golf course, cloves in our hand. Sprouting seeds, feeling feelings. Realizing, normal isn’t us. Playing house on the mountain, with happy dogs, blooming flowers, smoking weed. Dancing, with shadows of our past. Costumed as grown ups, in a big little city, growing into trees, loving ourselves. Learning, what we were never taught.   SELF PORTRAIT https://borderlinetranscendental.com/SELF-PORTRAIT Fri, 15 Feb 2019 23:15:02 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/SELF-PORTRAIT <img width="2048" height="1529" width_o="2048" height_o="1529" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/3975e325661a8731fec77154c58da3e040ba47ffe29c224792996b31feccbc21/280916_1926949263161_2237570_o.jpg" data-mid="35627968" border="0" data-scale="83" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/3975e325661a8731fec77154c58da3e040ba47ffe29c224792996b31feccbc21/280916_1926949263161_2237570_o.jpg" /> SELF PORTRAIT OF YOUR EGO. I                           I   I   I                              I                                                                        I ME          I i I I      YOU                                                  Ii                    me I      THEM I                                     I             I                     I II            I I         I                                       I >> The prophetic vision https://borderlinetranscendental.com/The-prophetic-vision Sun, 17 Feb 2019 06:09:18 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/The-prophetic-vision The prophetic vision of snakes, by the homeless shaman outside my guest room foreshadowed the dreams  of this life's tenants. I lost the key to room 303, and was reminded by photos of a baby ape that I exist before my memories.  I can see myself, through the thick lenses of my young fathers' blurry eyes:             A little wild orangutang,             dressed in the purity              of eggshell white.  I was lifted by a bearded man and bathed in the light of god… My baby body dunked in domestication  like a dunkaroo in that weird icing.  Then I grew up  and swam in tears. Until I grew up again and drowned in light.  I still respect the rituals of baptisms and I think I learned a lot that day.  When I write poems, I count how many times I write "I," and picture myself  that many steps from salvation.  I have my fathers same blurry eyes (only blue) and my prescription is even worse.  >> Untitled (140) https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Untitled-140 Sat, 16 Feb 2019 00:48:53 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Untitled-140 Untitled (140 characters) >> Untitled (140) 2 https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Untitled-140-2 Sun, 17 Feb 2019 04:00:40 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Untitled-140-2 from birth.and devolvetowards nothingnessas we evolvelooks likefrom Benjamin Button about wabi-sabiThis is what 140 characters >> Female: nude https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Female-nude Fri, 15 Feb 2019 20:58:06 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Female-nude Female: nude, copper on white. The sun rarely sets in June so I bathe naked     in cold lonely ponds.     I remember her                 swimming                 naked too. We slept in a drawer,  snug beneath our ghosts, undisturbed by details. We felt there, then, outside ourselves - anchored by balloons, and me, the jetpack to her spoon. We never said I love you                so we wouldn’t have to run away.  But I’ll never forget                                                                        that I did. Golden hour rarely sets in July, so we continued to hide from the moon. She dove in shallow waters, and came up red. That sounds dramatic, so it was. Munch painted us in a different dimension. As if the Frieze of Life was blissful, and he never had to paint Scream, or, The Sick Child. I don’t really know why I felt the gravity of a Munch painting. I liked the colors I guess. I told myself I pictured what our children would look like: little shadows running through our garden, an exposure fading beneath summer’s sun. But really all I saw were the modernist foundations of our home: Window frames so large they had no sills for cats to sit on. Norwegian wood, stained with the primer of our ghosts unborn. Empty rooms, dressed and stretched by the timelapse of daylight hovering across our untouched floors. Sunsets come sooner in August, and we watched our words float out of our mouths and drew sweet nothings in the nooks of our souls. The moon began to trespass into the edges of our dream, reminding us of great books we closed early because we couldn’t bear the end. Not because we’re scared of commitment but so we don’t have the reality of goodbye, farewell - I’ll miss you, I love you but we can’t? Can we slow down? https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Can-we-slow-down Sat, 16 Feb 2019 18:12:14 +0000 Borderline Transcendental https://borderlinetranscendental.com/Can-we-slow-down CAN WE SLOW DOWN? All these words are fire to the kindle between your ears’. as we twist compassion into crooked smiles in the reflection of shame and self judgment. and daggers shoot from eyes but can’t break the spell we used to see. It's not my fault. But, I wish I could be the one to help you. Then, I could fall asleep at a more reasonable hour. Sometimes, love tastes like salt. Will you marry me?