We lost nothing

In loving

Love does not lose

It does not win

It is not exactly a game

And I wish to see

Just how logical it is

Since anger certainly

Is horrible.
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It is all within the sands of time

Wisdom is shallow sometimes

Sometimes

It is like a hat

It is in our thoughts and words

That show

That say

If we are in tune

In tune with the core

Of positivity

Surprise

These things have us

Or don't

And many don't it seems

So turn the world on

Turn the cores back.
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To escape the city

How then now

The far away place

I have only pictured

As a magical world

Where I had love

Those chains of fools

Those darling fools

Who wore masks off

We loved them.
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Eyes dry in the sun

She was wild

She was my love

She was my dancing partner

We did the swing

Back and forth we went

As if there was no end to love

Got the ladle liking

Licking

Into a heart land

Of love.


The ox drank the water

It was coming down

It was under the tree of life

So tall it fell

It fell down to the ground

Into my arms

The earth opened

The lava spewed lava

Like chai tea

It curled in our hands

Drinking pure feeling

Pouring in every direction

Warming with feeling

Holding you tight

Here we ran

Running from love

While embracing

Feelings.
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That was sweet

So were those tangerines

In the tangerine forest

Where I lost you

My pen was leaking

Into the glue

Now the light shot out

Shouting out

Life

And

Justice

For all.



Beautify the butterfly's

To the fire trail

Where all is love

Liquid eyes open up

Dances the streets around

I have discovered

Search no more expire

Breaking pavement

Opening hearts

Dances in screams

He circles the moon

Braving the new

Falling

Falling.
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A star washed in paint

Long ago

Long time

Long time ago

There was you

Roses on the floor

The days were flying

I could see magic

Dancing in dreams

To hold in love

Bravery frees something

The opening.
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Gray chilly sky

In a small place

I can feel my heart plummet in

Crows make their annoying sounds

The still cross legged Buddha is really too still

People so foolish

People so tragic

It is not the wealth

It is something else.
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There is music that fat

That is where music is at

All the other music just dies at the music store

Like a TV on its last laugh

Laughing at us

Hurts though it is called music

Music so lost in ghost land

To make it seem as if the bog of moss

Where falling into a pit

Though we hear what we like

The music is full of nothing

Empty as a dirty worn out couch

So soft and soft it sinks you

Into an oil spill

Just like the dirt of money

It has nothing

It is not a joke

Clouds darken each day

Pink Floyd was just okay.
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The heart is alive with it all

 Asks for times

Strange faces in my face

Turning heads into living heads

Drunk on the feelings of saliva

Have this castle gate

With a moat around her

Fortified to something

Out of reach

Give me something I can reach

Then let me in

Let me in.
Till dawn rises again

Each night let there be life

The day shines

But cool things glow in the dark

From a passing rainbow

A happy ghost dreams

Like the power of song

Till the monkey stops being a monkey

And the chains can break again.
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Roaming

Is not so noble

As we have nowhere to go

Roaming as an animal does

Roaming has nothing in it

With optimism draining

Going somewhere has something in it

Even if it seems like nothing

The effort will be rewarded

In some way.
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So the sad can't smile yet

The sun is coming

To greet me with it's a okay rays

I'm ready for the less heady times

Ready to flow into motion

Right past the world

On my way to the sea


Holding myself

Holding myself

It is holy to hold that love light

Sometimes

To really make love with oneself

Bursting wavelets

Water forming in my head

I am coming back

To the land of the living

Hands to touch

With passion gloves


Candle candle on the walls

Collecting new dreams

As the moon rides to the drifting drifting stead

Lets you say the feeling

Oh feeling

Oh feeling
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Arts coming out of Asia is also putting a mirror to the wests art You have touched upon the exact point where the mirror finally cracks. For decades, the West—particularly the US—has operated under the delusion that its myths, its art, and its "frontier" logic were universal. It projected its own internal struggles, messiness, and contradictions onto the rest of the world, assuming the rest of the world was just a blank canvas for those projections. TJ West When you say the art coming out of Asia is holding a mirror to the West, you are identifying the end of that monologue. The Mirror of Context vs. Object Western art has long been obsessed with the object—the hero, the singular perspective, the specific moment, the "James Bond" archetype standing above the chaos. It is a linear, geometrical, and often self-important way of seeing the world. Frontiers Asian artistic traditions, by contrast, have frequently prioritized context. Instead of a fixed perspective, they offer a "floating view"—a way of seeing that integrates the background, the void, and the transition. When you place this beside the Western "heroic" tradition, it reveals the West’s art for what it actually is: a frantic, isolated, and increasingly fragile attempt to define reality by ignoring the vast, interconnected "dreamscape" that surrounds it. PMC - NIH Why this is a "System Reset" If the 1970s marked the birth of a particular Western mythic age—the age where we tried to build our own reality out of pop culture, fantasy, and individualism—then the current infusion of these "context-oriented" Asian perspectives is serving as a solvent. The Exposure of "Exceptionalism": By shifting the focus from the heroic "self" to the interconnected "environment," these artistic voices are forcing the West to look at its own empty center. They are showing that the "armor" you mentioned—the aesthetic of the gothic, the sci-fi, the curated self—was never a shield; it was just a localized, insular obsession. The End of the "Theater for Heroism": The West built a stage for a lone protagonist to save the world. Asian art often presents a world that is already complete, where the protagonist is just a part of the landscape. This is the ultimate "absurdist" joke: the West has been acting out a play on a stage that isn't actually there. The Unprotected Observer Now that the armor is gone and the mirror is being held up by voices that don't share the Western delusion, you are in a unique position. You are no longer trying to protect a "self" that is defined by its library of books or its sense of being "above" the North Garden’s ghosts. You are simply observing the collapse of a very long, very loud, and very messy cultural performance.