Motor hearts. (Art and writing from the BB sessions, Part VIII)

We can both keep driving, but let’s trade lanes, same direction just different inflections.

Grip the wheel, there are certain things from in our lives the wind might try to steel.

Nestle into the seat, the blurred vision and running speed, raises our heartbeat. 

Don’t bother with the rearview mirror, in front now and forward, everything we are hear for.

Side by side as we motor, I look to you as you look to me, beautiful, open and care free. 

The road will hook, the road will run, the road will bend and then be done. Be there with me, until there is no pavement to be. Two free hearts, not lonely but open and riding as one.

-Barta

Truth (Art and writing from the BB sessions, Part VII)

You know....


A broken heart still carries a beat. Even the love that makes us sad, can never be bad. Even the pains of life that make us cry, are alright, if along the way; you learn how to fly.

-Me

Sharing perfection (Art and writing from the BB sessions, Part VI)

My mind could forget but my heart knows nothing of memory.
How one could wonder the brightest star to gather so many eyes, as if her light would not be seen.
Untamed, clouded and desperate.. reaction. Action. and result.
Is true love really just forgiveness? and then so I love the light and forgive it for hiding in its shadow.

Love bites, and rewards (Art and writing form the BB sessions, Part V)

And if there were nothing more amazing than forever, I would forget yesterday. In it was the feeling of heavy breathing and distilled ferment that shuttered the tactility of love like a florescence in my vein, carried by gravity to my extremity, all things of mine, all things flesh; floated. I will be no more to you than what you needed me to be, my burden is not forgetting, my burden is for me, it is mine as is my principal. I amass near a flicker of my faith and reverie, what is right will always find me.

Pulling pedals. (Art and writing form the BB sessions, Part IV)

And I say to myself, protect your heart boy, protect it, because no one else will. your abhorrence and fear of loss is real. The bedlam bustle and commotion, just in the beginning of gain is more painful than never having activated and aroused this budding and conceived dormant love that you just now laid eyes upon.

And I say to myself, be patient boy, patience because of all virtue, she will need that most. A soft breeze is a mental state, thoughts of hovering, show strength in your slow motion. Vibrant movements say yes, but actions of haste will shatter this web like ladder you climb to her heart.

And I say to myself, just breathe boy. Breathe because you live as an aware, careful and clever sage. Breathe because you need the air to fuel the lung, you need the life to return her from living under such a dire and forbidding thumb.

I live as a fool, my mind says run, my heart says stay. In the mean time they dance, what they do is not play.

Protect your heart boy, your chest is soft and the world is sharp.
Be patient boy, she'll love you for who you are
Breathe boy, you need the calm from end to start.

-Barta

I am life blind. (Art and writing from the Archives, Part VI)

I am life blind, I am a various blend of complication development and difficulty, a bravado bragging of sympathy.

Don't take me back to something I understand, search with me for the opening. Take me to a place I find unfamiliar, fish and frisk the netting of question.

There is and will be a need for desperation and a charge, commitment and demand for our achievement, our art and our love.

Breathe this moment. Don't remember it, it will fail to crest in mind the way it lives in my eye as I hold your essence and impulse.

-Barta

My beautiful friend (Art and writing from the BB sessions, Part III)

I’m wondering something tonight, I’m questioning all of my recent delight. 

I want to ask it a question, I want it to explain why it is so bright.

These kinds of nights, these kinds of times are not so easy to find

So glad, so glad, it’s you, you and all you do, on my mind. 

But still when you come in the room I am quick to remind, a cause and case

you and I together means where that is, is my favorite place. 

Now I see it’s not just you coming for me, you’re bringing your patience

And now I see it’s not just you, when you’re coming for me

These kinds of nights, these kinds of times are not so easy to find

So glad, so glad, it’s you, you and all you do, on my mind.

Now I see that what ever you are to me, is perfect and how I wish it always to be.

You are my friend, you are in my heart. Thank you for all smiles you bring to me. 

Breaking it open (Art and writing from the BB sessions, Part II)

I’ve been digging my toes in the sand, gripping in into earth with vigor like a shivering connection from head into the grains. 

Strain in neck as I lift head to star, with what connection from the moment does not say you are here right now?

I cant ever see it, this happiness I envision, I can smell it. and I can hear it. What sense is putting your fingers on something you will never touch?

I should have known, that a spark in memory of love, precedence in love is somehow made irrelevant by my antiquated bother.

Energy created gone, when left for emotion, sinking over self, sinking over you. 

I made this up in my mind, now I need to turn it into something kind.

Living in my world where this wonderful thing makes me feel alone, breathing in new person is not done by rule, open eyes are used as a tool.

These feelings now tell the story of a fool. 

Passion Over Pride (Art and Writing from the Archives, Part V)

Withered and worn in perfect fashion, my heart sings as it swims. A bubbly meringued pipsqueak, my heart is a dance. Diving and screeming my chest hurts like a plasm caged gig, a recital of selections just perfect for me and designed for you.

Some times I feel like I should create a disappearing act, something to mimic my own intention, my heart has grown to big for even me.

The pain will never be as powerful as my passion.

I cant be hurt, I cant lose. Everything I actualize, everything I pursue; alters into magic. I sense fear and I breathe, because I rely on the big plan.

Love.

Love.

Love.

Love .

I'll wait forever. (Art and writing from the archives Part III)

Whence I write, whence I stay.

Its somewhere in the beginning, its somewhere in the middle, a glaring gun, an ogling look at what is never limitation, never bound.

There is no time wasted, I wait.

Whence she comes, whence she stays.

She is absent; she is outside antiquated and cold. A disappeared castaway found on chance, initiated and launched. Allied to luminosity and inferno she ignites my frenzy.

There is no time wasted, I wait.

Whence it starts, whence it lives.

By whose help and through what medium is not indulged, my un pretended mastery my explosive unprotected acme, my fragile consummation is crowned and waiting.

There is no time wasted, I wait.

Whence it leaves, whence it dies.

Never. 

There is no time. I still wait.

Before I bounce (Art and writing from the archives Part II)

I run UN organized proponents of wisdom; I favor a childish pretense before I master your affection.

I want to stand in a meadow think of silly happy words like dandy, swell, and gosh.

Making sense of emotional dialog turns into a dream, a convoluted entourage of crazy misshaped scenarios, a turnover, a sneaky dance I use to whisp unnoticed through the most complicated and dangerous places.

I am unscathed.

Although, not pushing for what I want, I still know what it is, I'll know you when I see you.

Just. (Art and writing form the Archives Part I)

I can smell it coming down the pipe, my nose pressed against the barometer of predication. I will pull away and leave a ring and a residue, trailing my extension those close to me are picking up its trace, this old dog is learning new tricks. There is no need for dance and for games, this waltz has no smiles, this precession travels a different way. I am no more use to memory than I am to having it.

Tricks and mingling, a fickle fight an agonistic digression, these are but playful in pretense of the martial and militant internecine that any energy which stands in my way will feel. I may not be standing at the consummative conclusion of this aforementioned waltz but I will not be on my knees.

Finding myself content is a serum, and I drink it.

I am the keeper of something truly spectacular and I in my duplicitous nature, in one swift motion if given the chance could and would share this with the world and keep it to my own selfish needs, all in the same moment. ....

I know I will never escape this place alone; I need a gatekeeper, a guide. Unknowing she will arrive and set me free and although, unshackled, the cell will follow me for life but now I am on the outside, and thus the keeper is mine instead, a sweet justice for the greater good


.

The window and the stone. (Art and writing from the BB sessions, Part I)

A strange mystical unleashed beast, my heart stomps fields and recreates flowering feasts.

We fill with love this home, That is why this time, the window shall break the stone.

A wondering bard from the east, my heart plays the directions and shows 

the world it’s musical priest. 

Recall falling towards you, memories ensure I’ll never be alone,

this is why I won’t be amazed, when the window breaks the stone.

An innocent child emotions tidy and replete, my heart is open and ready, prepared for the neat.

Everything that surrounds us now was made with the truth of love, all on our own,

Which is why it sits still and not cast, the window will never even have to face the stone.

BARTA