escapekit:
Chromatic Typewriter Prints
Tyree Callahan has recycled (or upcycled, perhaps) a classic 1937 Underwood typewriter by replacing letters with sponges soaked across the spectrum with bright yellows, reds, blues and combinations thereof.
(via hellogiggles)
Refuge
During hot summer midnight meditations
When the night is elastic and sleep is evasive
Through rushing streams of consciousness
I tread the passages of many sages.
During roaming bouts of contemplation,
I curl up in the safety of the words you speak.
When I wake up to feel a gust of wind graze my cheek,
I know I’ve waged a war between reality and reverie
During the gentle hum of rumination
I’ve visited every dark fold of my restlessness.
When my flesh is trapped like a speck suspended in a static sea
I can quarry every inch of my release.
In the beaming rays of objectivity you’ve poured your rich truths over me,
but I’m not porous or pious, I’m dense.
I’ve learned to choose my battles,
because some endeavors come at too great of an expense.
When I’ve paid your dues to own my value,
it’s something priceless that can’t be sold.
And although my thoughts may travel fast,
my heart tends to pump its sentiments slow.
With fervor, cognizance and authenticity
I’ve chased every shadow, every ghost, and teetered several edges of the unknown.
when you cannot see the city for the lampposts, sometimes hanging on means letting go.
Inspiration is fleeting
Like the quills of my pillow, you prick
and as I dry heave your words,
I can slowly watch you eclipse.
Walking into Infinite oblivion, my eyes burn,
and in the humming between my sheets, I still yearn.
Like a mosquito, you cling to my skin
and then depart in the quiet dark when the lights dim.
Like a thief in the night without remorse
Like a roving thought without recourse
In the white noise of your glare, I’m scrying
as I attempt to purge you from my hopes.
And still lost in the valley of your nape, I’m hiding
because sleeping in the shade of your chin is my escape
Then you come and go through my dreams at night,
and you forget to wipe your feet while in my mind.
If only my mind had the strength to beat my heart,
and escape the passions of the soul according to Descartes.
I’d be free of its coiled dust,
left cleansed, and robust.
But instead here I am with no relief or resolve,
forced to walk back through the fog.
We all leave an impression, just more so in large groups and pairs.
Soulage
Soulage
In too many lifetimes..
when our souls have walked our minds have met
In too many lifetimes..
when our paths have crossed our eyes have wept
Once marooned on a grain of sand
then hidden in a thousands pockets
Twice you lost me to a fire
and another to a false prophet
Once we stood high and blind
standing at the edge of a lake
We wouldn’t share the glasses
and our struggle made them break
In too many lifetimes..
when our souls have walked our minds have met
In too many lifetimes..
when our paths have crossed our eyes have wept
a thousand fragments
a thousand components
a thousand eras
and a thousand moments
In one lifetime too many you’ve felt like home
you eased my mind and healed my soul
-VL
“loudness”
