Us, Art.

They are making art out of our deaths. These black movies where the main character dies are the new plays for people to see.


Thats why they don’t take our death seriously. They don’t see it as real.

Deus Ex Machina

I love memes, they are just hilarious
Seriously a well placed MJ crying face or Pepe with his amphibian antics can brighten my day.
It’s interesting how they convey our emotions better than our words can sometimes…
Instead of moments spent crying in the dark or laughing out loud,
we use symbols to substitute for our situation unknowingly allowing these looped images to tie a noose around our humanity

Yo Gotti said it best, it goes down in the DM’s
So let me be direct with this message, we’re on a crash course where tweets are being taken more serious than feelings.
Where we can no longer be unique, finding false virtues in hashtags
Hoping that these repetitive phrases will somehow resonate with our personal feelings.

Instagram has become our Bible,
Now believing that our life needs to be a profile of good deeds, instead of a story full of substance.

Blame Steve Jobs formerly known as the Serpent from the Garden, giving us the forbidden fruit. Trading our divinity for worldly knowledge, forgetting that our devices are made from the starving children we will never see. How our phones break like their bones, but only one of them is insured.

The internet is a failed prototype of heaven, tempting us with the idea of eternity just to discover that this forever is fractured and only errors are remembered.

Continue reading Deus Ex Machina

Self and Other.

The poet
Is nothing,
traded it’s existence
for the gift
to craft illusions
that become real with time.
A stray thought before birth
until given
using hidden rays
to reflect across the fractured mirror
granting a kaleidoscope
of ancestral truth.
The soul of a poet is
everything. Dried fruit,
abandoned shells,
and immortality.
Born with amnesia
yet reminiscing about
veracious emotions before the womb.
It speaks for
the elements and divinity
but not itself.
For it knows not
of self,
but only the
experience of other
when in resonance.
The soul of a poet
does not know the poet
nor does the poet know the soul
each given the task
to not discover
the origin of stars
the constellation of hearts
as two strangers
confined to a rotting tree
watch the shadow of heaven
devour the
last of youthful light.


I watch them all like wisps of fading summer
Leaves twirling in a fall breeze
How they breathe even in the shadow of the future
They are me
We are pollen on the first day of spring
And the scorching rays of light, thrashing flames and combustion beliefs that can very well destroy our world.
But I dont, yet.
Now, calm as a refreshing mist
Hovering over the salted earth
Flying and falling as fate or whatever continues to play her tune.
I love us, a collection of unknown words on a blank page.
The memories of children
Sheltered by bones of the wise ones
And also
Roots blossoming in soil,
Gravitating toward the waters of life.
We are human


~J. Varina

Naked and Fragile.

collar bones
blooming petals
are kissed by the moonlight
the frail shadow of bone in skin
the home of her gliding pulse
My orchid
the ray of birthed sunlight
let my palms explore
the indent left by your wings
decorate the soft spot on your back
with the beads of youthful swear
Amber lips
full of lazy electricity
intertwine my roots into your damp earth
and embrace my drifting heart
like the spring snow
let my last days melt with you

Personal Universe.

And then we sit,

and we talk

and somehow we create something.

We break down the walls

of the universe

to make our own.

Living in a realm where time and others don’t exist.

It’s me, and it’s you.

It’s you


it’s me. It’s us,

it’s we,

it’s fleeting.