Against the Next War

I highly recommend checking out this stirring and heartfelt anti-war poem written by a fellow blogger, Paul Sunstone: via Against the Next War

I will just say that I believe in visionaries. I consider myself one, of a sort, and I consider Paul to be one too. Read his vision, understand it, and if you agree with it, share it!



Love From Another Place (poem)

Love from Another Place


I would so lightly tap upon your slender saintly shoulder

but my fingers are broken, mangled, twisted…

these nerves growing like wild vines,

suffocating motion as it weeps in the dirt.

I would move your lovely mind whole mountains

with my incantations and rosy thought dreams,

but my mouth is sealed shut with rose thorns

and old, yellowed barn twine.

I would so tenderly kiss your full plush blooming lips

but mine are charred, chapped, and covered with dust.

Crows pick my brain as I float balloon like upon your ceiling.

There are never enough bricks in my stomach to weigh me down.

I would share with you my eyes and all they have to say,

but mine have blood in them, rolling loose and fiercely sharp,

piercing all the worlds which they silently witness,

saying things they never meant nor wished to say.

I would reach out for you with butterfly affection,

but my ghost limbs cannot stop shaking with the spoiled earth.

Transparent and grey, they shrivel in the mist

as they fall from my sight, out of mind, and off the shelves.

The lonely brook flows steady on through your heart and mine.

but oh, how my mind has grown so tired with time

…only waiting for you at the end of the line.

All Art is Local

All Art is Local

It is the duty of the average citizen, that microscopic specimen which composes the nation, like a particle to an atom, to keep art alive.

It is often said that all politics is local, and so it is. Likewise with all education, all culture, religion, attitude, etc. If the United States of America is a living body, it is the people whom are the conglomerations of its major parts: the legs, feet, arms, hands, torso, and head. If any of these conglomerations of the people should become afflicted with bouts of apathy and shirk their duties, the health of the country shall suffer from disease.

We must, at a local level, continue to encourage the funding of music and art courses in our public schools, if we are to expect a future, grown up nation appreciative of culture and the arts. We must find ourselves resolute to live and breathe the arts within our daily lives, just as an educated citizen may read the daily newspaper and duly cast his or her vote in the upcoming election. In short, all art is local.


And now for a few aphorisms of divine intoxication….

  • The invention of automatic doors (handicapped accessible doors being the exception) has served only to increase laziness among the general populace and to decrease all gestures of chivalry (example: the opening of a door for a lady).
  • In the name of all that is merciful, deliver me from stagnation.
  • Consider me wiser for knowing that when faced with the choice of money or life, always to choose life. In accordance to economic wealth and misery, or economic destitution and happiness, always shall I discern with ready judgement, the latter.
  • The past is the sediment which crystallizes the present.
  • Human organization is the mother of convention.
  • I value the possession of my library card vastly over my state driver’s license. A library card is a veritable gateway to the human imagination, which is infinite, and thus, a true responsibility. A driver’s license is an obligatory access card which society insists is a “privilege”.
  • Angels are often outcasts.


Shattered Paradigms

If the muse refuses to reveal herself, if the inspiration wanes and the art fails, the best remedy is to decimate a beloved paradigm. A disruption of daily habit is the trigger-pull. Change your diet, quit your job, rearrange your sleep schedule, take up astronomy, join a club, plan a murder, drink less beer, etc., etc. With great change in one’s life comes great inspiration. Change, flexibility and vulnerability are the necessary ingredients to a rich, creative life and the wise precautions to an existence spent in stagnation.

For within every paradigm of human thought and behavior is a self-imposed limitation. We must sometimes outright shatter our paradigms and expand our standard of limitation until the word “impossible” transcends its meaning and becomes an arbitrary vagrant to our lexicon.

Opinions & Ponderings: Second Lives, Writing and Art.

Second Lives

I despise these alternate, secondary lives we have created for ourselves – all out of vanity, selfishness, pride, illusion, and a desire to heighten our petty and unremarkable reputations. Social media outlets have facilitated the creation of whole, second lives — false and shitty ones. All of this wouldn’t be so bad, of course, if these redundant lives didn’t utterly diminish and at times obliterate our first life, the true, honest-to-god life.

Obviously, citizens may choose the scope and power which they give to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. but it often turns out that these media outlets will in turn determine the scope and power of the people whom use them to an insidious extent. Does a person use Facebook, or does Facebook use a person? Important questions for the contemporary, all inclusive, cybernetic age.

Well, here I am, age twenty-four, sounding like a cantankerous, old man. A Luddite. Could be because that is precisely what I am. Although I would prefer to be ascribed the word, “soul”. A cantankerous, old soul. I say to hell with these superficial gadgets, these needless material goods, these virtual existences! I want sunshine and stars. I want poetry and books (not nooks).

And I want lots of sex, too. I want a quickie, not a selfie. I want everything close to the heart, not binary-disseminated, soul-dislocated, virtually-separated, nor cybernetically evaluated. I want eternity in the present, not the sour promise of  praise in the future. I want the heat of passion and truth, not the cold atrophy of ego aggrandizement.

In short, fuck a life made out of ones and zeros!

What I want is Life, first – and not second.


A writer is a creative person whom is badly, desperately in need of seeing a professional psychiatrist. Instead he settles on writing because a) he likes it and it’s a nice thing to do and b) it’s simply a cheaper alternative to a shrink!


Art in the Subtle and Extreme

Subtlety (like the letter ‘b’ in the word) certainly has its rightful place in the realm of artistic endeavor. In fact, I would argue that a piece of art could not do without some subtlety. However, if all of your work is a subtlety, then all one has is a mediocrity. For extremes have their rightful place, too. Extremes of passion allow for the peaks necessary to the dynamics of any decent, well rounded, provocative piece of artwork. Extremes and subtleties go hand in hand, forming the hills and valleys, the lights and shadows of all captivating art.

Yet if all is a hill or all is a valley, then all is bland, monotonous, conservative, and in short – a terrible bore! Effective art requires us to balance color and form, sound and vision, as well as our own projected attitudes.



A Song From the Lonely Piano (poem)

I play the lonely piano

To the lost, demented Durango

Amidst all our failing and flailing

In love-lost ecstasy.


Here you’ve sent me out

On an open and guttered sea

In a strange and dark night that is as cold

As an old man’s regressed memory.


Heart shattered, my mind lost and scattered

Drifting upon these forbidden waters

That hides the darkness beneath.

Seeing what should not be seen,

As I wait in the days that pass

For the tiresome fall

And the deep, angry keep.


The clouds will not part for thee,

The oceans will not calm for me.

My trusty oar does not push back against

the power of the mighty trance

That has possessed our minds

and has transformed the meaning

of our first glance under the covers;

the kind most often sought

and thought to be of lovers.


And so I sail inwards

Out to the depths of uncharted sea

In patient search, endlessly

On route to the heart of the sun.

But there appears nothing left,

but to feel and to fleet

In an endless, earthbound run.


I will try my best,

but Lord knows I don’t know

Where it is I am to go

When your face does not appear to show

Its features to my eyes.

Have I lost my mind, or have I gone blind

To the beauty of an old queen?


Oh my, how the years have passed by,

and my head still feels so unclean!

The other night I went down

To our old Durango town

And watched the joyful dance of the circus clown

I only wish I were the circus clown.

But I left and I snuck ’round the caravan

To see you there with some other man

Who bent down to kiss you

And lay his folding hands

On the bosom of your mind.

In cold state frenzy, I could not stand the sight

of his life in place of mine.

So quietly I stepped out of the light and fled the scene

Back to my cold theater seats of dream.


Then after the death of the clown

and the final curtains came down,

I was so full of doubt

That I bumped into you as I stumbled my way out

I shouted Hello, and how’ve you been?

How rare it is to see you again

You look as perfect now as you looked perfect then


You answered but with a passing grin

Not a glance you could spare for him!

Or so it seemed to this old skeleton ghost

To this phantom hidden in your machine

Only blindly reaching out for you

In a foggy midnight dream.




Oh, my words they are so smooth

Too smooth for you to notice!

My words they cut so deep

That you can’t even feel it!

My face is so alive

You thought I was a painting!

Though I wouldn’t think it too abstract,

It was too hard, much too hard for you to remember!

A mouth here or an eye there

a wave of a hand, or maybe some fingers!

In the peripheral image of my day-to-day

You walked away,



A Blue, Blue Moon (poem)

A Blue, Blue Moon

Our desolate, far-flung city
hung as endless and true as a corpse,
with its pitiful ruins lit dim with a hue
and shaded by a still and eternal blue moon.
All days remained as night
as all my veins were drained
inside of our ancient cemetery
of crazed adoration and theft.

My love and I, we catch such tired eyes
as she marches long and soldier-like
through the hard lines of men, or machines
I cannot tell the difference.

This cruel indifference, in the days of my youth,
was the one thing out of all which I could not bare,
and so I grabbed her hand before it dared to fade.
I kissed its poor and lovely back in a wanton glory,
and then the blood began to draw.

First it came in sparse, trickled beads through her tiny pores.
Then in a thickening, red flood of deep rose
that emerged from out of her dainty little fingers and wrists,
spilling out with a sickening sound upon the cobblestone night
and upon my weary naked feet.

The city ground was fed and satisfied with our gift,
and from there the broken things beneath would begin to grow.
My soul was without a dam to break, or to hold
the slow flood of my own horrified heart
from those cold, and endless streets.

Such was the life,
lit by the mocking blue of our eternal moon
as it shone true and forever upon my scarred back.
I walked out my years amongst the trash cars
the filthy casket bars, and the tombstone alleys,
with my ears echoing mad with piercing screams
of crazed souls howling into the depths.
This cruel, primitive metropolitan war waged on
and we came to don perfect suits of broken bottle
and sinful, rusty tin for our new skins.

Time then ran with the jet plane,
with the faint streak of a lonely comet,
far above our little beds and the prayers never said,
far and farther beyond the expectations of our scaled minds.
Like magic, the wrinkles and folds encased our shells,
and my mistress of life, she would smile so vicious,
the paint flaking in course stabs from her stone cheeks.
Skin and bones we were as we made sorrowful love,
starved and dreary, decadent but strong,
hanging bleak and solemn, bitterly wise in our place
within that eternal blue after-glow,
of a lost planet which we determined as but a ghost.

Without any guilty intent, or foolish hindrance
without any resistance to fate and its inevitable wing,
we fell lightly and relieved into death’s eternal good sleep
with smiles jointly from ear to ear upon the ancient cemetery plain.
Happier than the wine of our best years,
bolder than the lions of our dreamy Serengeti,
we fell deep from our broken city of crazed adoration and theft,
fading from the blue to the purple, and back, back
deepening into a final black.

And we felt more peace than we ever had
for the long, longest time.

We Are Gone (poem)


From body warm electric

To body ice cold,

The air clings to our emptiness

Like the flesh that covers our bones.

Out of the corner

Of a thousand secret eyes

The scene of dripping fingers

Reaching indulgently

Into a green ceramic bowl

And returning with nothing

Except the fingers, dripping.

And the eyes are dripping

Seething, burning.

Nothing in here moves

And the night paralyzes us

As we are wrapped neatly and quietly

Within our soaked and desperate bed sheets.

There is no struggle, no feeling,

No fight. No castle tower of romance,

No string of multi-color lights.

We are zombified,

With minds that leak out from our brains

Floating away from us

into the depths of the void.


At last, the heart

Ceases to tremble.

I vomit a stream

Of rose pedals

Through the holes in my palms.

With the swerve of fat liver lips

We hawk out our souls like plain spit

And the taste is far worse than bad.

A wind whispers over a desert.

Bones dry in the heat of the sun.

We are gone.