I had a dream of the sea, all the creatures were screaming to be free

This post--like some of my others--may have too many photos to take in at one time. I'm not a very good editor, mainly because I'm overly enthusiastic about recent photos. If I were aiming for a finished product, I'd spend more time thinking about what kind of relationships the images might share with one another. I view this blog as a sketchbook, though, which gives me the freedom to play around with some things. In time, I may move certain images on to a more professional looking page with individual portfolios/none of this rambling, pointless text. I suppose some Ferlinghetti would be fitting with this post, but in keeping with my randomness, I'm going to post two other poems I've been thinking about instead.

True
-- Charles Bukowski

one of Lorca's best lines
is,
"agony, always
agony ..."

think of this when you
kill a
cockroach or
pick up a razor to
shave

or awaken in the morning
to
face the
sun.

The Most of It
-—Robert Frost

He thought he kept the universe alone;
for all the voice in answer he could wake
was but the mocking echo of his own
from some tree–hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder–broken beach
he would cry out on life, that what it wants
is not its own love back in copy speech,
but counter–love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
unless it was the embodiment that crashed
on the cliff's talus on the other side,
and then in the far distant water splashed,
but after a time allowed for it to swim,
instead of proving human when it neared
and someone else additional to him,
as a great buck it powerfully appeared,
pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
and landed pouring like a waterfall,
and stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
and forced the underbrush—and that was all.