21st Century Hip and the Nuevo Beat

   This weeks post comes from a conversation with a group of friends. It is an explanation of my fascination and an attempt to lay out what it is that moves me....Please feel free to share your thoughts...........


   Nestled inside the turbulent history of the 20th century a new thing arose to challenge the status quo and cause the world to stop and wonder at its new direction-Hipness. Hipness was a form of detachment from societal norms, an exploration of thought and feeling independent of Old World values. It was an unforeseen reaction to the new found wealth and shifting populations of the Industrial Revolution. It's propagation, the result of the new medias of radio and film. For the first time in the history of the world communication moved at the speed of light. What Orson Welles said on New Jersey radio could completely freak out half of a nation...instantly...it was a new era...and the genie was barely out of the bottle.
   From the Lost Generation of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Hemingway, who eschewed the morals of Post WWI
America, to The Beat Generation of Kerouac and Ginsberg who felt the same separation after WWII, hip was made concrete in the age of jazz, in the restless movement from city to city, from coast to coast, from New York to Paris to Tangier, from The Sun Also Rises to Mexico City Blues.
   The Beat movement, in particular, became a world wide phenomena. As the writer, William S. Burroughs, put it, "It came from a world wide realization that modern society sucked."
   This mental rebellion led to the birth of the counterculture movement in the 60's. When hip evolved into a total way of life for a generation...complete with its own set of values, self determined and set on a common cause, the end of the war in Vietnam.
    Now, this is where my generation comes on the scene-Generation X. The generation born to live as a bridge between centuries. A generation who grew up at the dawn of the Information Age. A generation whose mental make-up evolved with evolution of the mass media, from 4 T.V. Channels to 400, from dial up internet to Wi-Fi, from rotary phones to the Android and I-phone.
   For the most part, I'd say we've handled these changes well. Most of the people my age I know are tech savvy, though, to varying degrees. I, for one, don't have a cell phone. I have two e-mail accounts, a Facebook page, a Twitter page, and, of course, this raggedy blog, but, I truly don't feel the need to be at anyone's beckon call, anytime, any place.
   I guess it's just one of my many quirks...........
   So, what does all of this have to do with Hip, you ask?
   Everything...............
   See, my hip, my bliss, is pretty eccentric. The most obvious is music. I love Rock-n-Roll in all of its various guises over the past 50 odd years. I can dig on Elvis just like I dig on Judas Priest or The Stones, The Beach Boys or The Beatles. The Doors, Springsteen, Patti Smith or Prince...I'll crank up Sly and the Family Stone just like I will Black Sabbath. I'm as apt to put on Stevie Nicks as I am Slipknot. I like the Blues and Swing as well as Classical music. The only thing you won't find in my music collection is Country, not that I have anything against it, it's just not my cup of tea.
   It just never spoke to me....
   I'm just as eccentric in my tastes in literature. These days, I lean toward more modern works, but I have whittled many hours away engrossed in the works of Mark Twain and Alexandre Dumas. I prefer H.G. Wells to Jules Verne. Of course, I grew up learning which one had better hit the future's mark, but, in pure literary terms, Wells wrote in a more modern style, consciously attempting to distance himself from Victorian models...once again, kids,....hip.
   More writers on my literary hip list would include all of the Lost Generation (Scott Fitz over Hemingway) and all of the Beats (Burroughs' manic surrealism over Kerouac's self conscious confessions) The new cool centers around Douglas Adams (R.I.P) (Thanks for all the fish!!) Chuck Palahniuk, Greg K. Bear, the venerable Stephan King, Brett Eliot Easton, Scott Card and the newest kid on the block Don Peteroy!
   In the realm of film, hip was there from the very beginning! In the 1910's and 20's, understanding the implications and opportunities inherent in the new medium was completely hip. The visionaries were there from the very beginning; Max Seneca, Chaplin, Fritz Lang, Buster Keaton, Cecil B. DeMille, onward to Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock, John Huston, Billy Wilder and Stanley Kubrick, onward to Mel Brooks, George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Blake Edwards, The Wachowski Brothers, Wes Andersen, and Quentin Tarantino. The films made by these greats would be way too long to go into, but, the most unique, fantastic, heartfelt, funny, visually and emotionally stirring films I've ever seen all derive from the men on this list. Time with any of their works is time well spent.
   And, to end this rather lengthy offering, I will leave you with a short list of my favorite comedians, the ones who live up to Mel Brooks' well coined, stand up philosophers: Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, Richard Pryor, Bill Hicks, and my new favorite....Ralphie May.
   As you can see, the new hip encompasses the whole of the history of hip. All of the outsider beauty of all the generations of soul geniuses spill down through the years, all of their permutations relevant in all varied forms.
   It's like Bruce Lee's Jeet Kune Do. It is a form that encompasses everything, while in and of itself contains nothing.
   I like that....the Zen of it.
   I think The Great Beat Granddaddies would approve.

 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

Untitled Dirge

Harpsichord melodies fall flat against
the heavy metal drone of fearless
mourning
of tortured skin
The horrible array of meat wheel masters
failing to soothe the flat faced beast
of time

Wild sweat leaf realizations ring
true in the blackened grime
of gutters
Fascist epiphanies rising
on rainy rooftops
Crazed rebuttals of hope
boil on bloody tongues
Shattered acquiessances screamed
over meager cannibal feasts

But, through it all, your face endures
Your smile alluring on frozen mornings
My china fragile composure blown
among tangled sheets
cigarette butts
keyless chimes on cans of liquid brave
waking nightmares erupting
in these lonely spotlight blues

You were not a game
You were not a ride
You were part of me

So, now, I'm lost
Sitting sardonic in sonic temples
Watching aluminum faces spout
bullshit out into the aether
Pondering they're own fate
Pandering to their own distorted view
As I melt away inside chemical regressions
Hollow in the empty current of my own
electric voice

Now

Now

   Exists unhindered inside the pulsing wild wonders

Of space and time

   A nirvana revealed in kinetic fits of endless hope

Now

   Is the part of you aching awake through the rolling depths

Of mental rebellion

   Spiraling across maelstroms of self-conscious silence

To dare cut through the maul of the endless background chatter

   And speak

Now the moment the truth bears whole and dares call bold

To speak

Now

   Breaks reality down into perfect sub-seconds of pure release

A magick waiting to surprise our wit with a brave new focus

Now

   Is a precision born of awareness

Genetically sequenced-Locked inside

   Intrinsic through endless eons of chaotic matter

Twisting raw in the primordial logic of every stellar core

   Passing patiently along in its priceless, peerless, perfection

Daring us all to see….

Looking for you to see…..

Now me.

PFC. Jonathon Crawford

    Today's blog is dedicated to the memory of Private First Class Jonathon Crawford.
    Jon was a member of my wife's extended family and a friend of my son Thomas.
    Unfortunately, I didn't have the honor of knowing him.
    Jonathon drown less than 24 hrs. after graduating from Marine Boot Camp at Parris Island, South Carolina. He was a young man who knew what he wanted out of life and was diligently pursuing it. He chose  to spend part of his young life in service to our country.
    If I didn't know anything else about him, that would be enough.
    I helped my son get ready for his funeral this morning noting the resignation present in his eyes. Thomas is not one to express his feelings but in the few words he did speak on the subject, I understood his confusion.
    There are no words that can ever come close to explaining how something like this happens, how someone so young, someone who chose to dedicate his life to the defense of this country, could be taken before the whole of his aspirations could be fulfilled.
    There are no words.
    The only thing that can give any solace is that he lived, that he chose to serve, that he had the brains, fortitude and strength to take on the challenge of Marine recruitment training and persevere.
    He was a United States Marine.
    If only for a day.
    My prayers go out to his parents and his family.
    God Bless you all.
 
   

I'm Just Out Here Sitting On the Fence

   I don't know what to make of the gig our band played at the 133 Club this weekend. I guess I shouldn't be surprised with the mixed reviews. Some loved it/some hated it. I was great/I was too loud. I showed off too much/I looked like I was having fun and that helps sell the band....It's a lot to try and sort through.
   I know for sure it wasn't the greatest show I'd ever performed, but I had good time. That should be all that matters....
   But it's not.
   Band dynamics are an unholy motherfucker to deal with. I hate the politics of trying to get 5 people in the same room at the same time and moving in the same direction. IT is not easy. It is my least favorite part of the ride.
   And, it is getting old.
   I have a terrible reputation for ditching bands. That's because I have a hell of a time getting along with people whose ego outweighs their talent. I know I'm not the best guitar player, but, I also don't go running around professing to be The One, either.
   I just want to play, man. If I could get around all of the other bullshit that would be just dandy.
   I've put a lot of hard work into this band and after a year and a half I still don't think it's jelled.
   I am right on the edge of throwing in the towel and moving on.
   As my faithful followers know, I am working on getting my first book ready for publication. I am thoroughly enjoying the process even though it is a lot of hard work. The best thing for me is....I am the only one I have to deal with. The only external decisions I have to make is which mug I want to pour my coffee in and whether I have enough cigarettes to get me through my schedule.
   That's it.
   The mixed reviews for the book are still in the future, and, hopefully, they'll be mixed?!? No creation of art is ever without it's detractors. I understand that. But, whatever happens, I know it will rise or fall from my shoulders. There will be no variables that are out of my control. No mixed vision. No clash of egos or wills.
   Whatever fate awaits my book, I know it will be because of me and only me.
   I sure hope I know what I am doing................
 
 

Saturday Night-A Go-Go

    Last night I took a much needed break from all of my various projects and spent Saturday night making the scene and partying!!
    My cohorts and I started out at a cool retro birthday party for my bands lead singer. It was 1962 all over as he celebrated his 50th birthday. The company was great.The retro clothes were horrible and the food and open bar were awesome!
    I had a wonderful conversation with one Don Peteroy. Like me, he is a poet/writer/musician, who, (along with his lovely wife Phoebe) are members of my singers other band No Consolation. He is this year's winner of Playboy's prestigious short fiction award. His first book Wally comes out in October. We discussed literature and music, discovering we were both big fans of the Beat writers. It was nice to compare notes with a kindred spirit at the beginning of his own literary adventure. (And when he reads this, I am SO jealous of the residency at the Kerouac house-lol!!)
   Not wanting to leave our singer bereft of food and alcohol (especially alcohol) my cohorts and I moved on after a few hours to Ripley's Boat Club to see a band that are friends of my partying cohorts (nameless to protect the guilty!) I can't remember the name of the band but they were great and their guitarist put on a hell of a show!!
   We had a few beers and split a pizza to quell the mad munchies as we jammed to the bands last set. We were a little put off to discover that our bands did a lot of the same songs. But, hell, good material is good material and they did a wonderful job!
   We finished out the evening at Snappers. I had never been there and really like the stage and out door set up. The band there played a good mix of country and classic rock and the crowd never got a good chance to leave the dance floor! Part of the entertainment for me is watching the wild gyrations of the inebriated dancers. I always get a kick out of it when my band is playing and it is even more fun as part of the crowd where I can pay more attention. It is also valuable research for my band, seeing which songs bring the best responses and what brings the feet to the floor.
   So, after a few more shots and more than a few laughs, as the band went into their last song, I relinquished my keys to our designated driver and we headed for the shed.
    It was a great night with some great people and I can't wait to do it again!!!
 
    And just a heads up, My band-The Cosmic Atomic Zombies-will be appearing at the 133 Club this Friday-8/24 starting at 9pm-come thirsty and ready to jam!!!
 
 

Update or A New Screaming Bag of WTF??

   Hey all,
   It's been a few weeks since my last post. I have been so caught up in the excitement of getting my book published I've been slacking in other areas.
   My blog being one of them.
   I (always) have a hell of a time trying to figure out what I want to write about each week. Because- A) I don't think any of you want to listen to me bitch about stuff and- B) I don't want to seem egotistic by talking about myself a lot.
   I'm not really that bloody interesting, anyway.
   So what does that leave?
   Me bitching about how I don't want to appear egotistical.....OK that's just not going to cut it....
   I could go on about politics and piss EVERYBODY off.
   But no, that's hella boring.....
   I could write something about the Olympics but aside from a passing infatuation with Kerri Walsh Jennings, I really haven't been paying that much attention....mostly because I was pissed that NBC screwed me out of seeing the Judo and Boxing.
   They also need to make MMA an Olympic sport so they can stick it on @ 1am on a Tuesday for everyone to miss!!
   Now, I know, I should have DVR'd it if it meant that much. The problem is, the only programming note you had is...."Still to come...." Which meant anything from 5 minutes to three days....So, it's kinda hard to put a time stamp on that....
   I know, I know, bitching again......Sorry.......
 
   I haven't really had any quiet moments of revelation this week. Or, if I have, I've just been too damn busy to notice. I've been cramming work in on the book in every calm moment I can find. I'm almost done with the second draft and I want to get it done before I have to start the re-writing stage with my editor.
  Really, I'd like to have a week or two away from it before I start the re-writing process, to refresh my batteries. I want the book to be as good as it possibly can be and I realize that after staring at this second draft for the better part of a year, I need to leave it be for awhile and give my brain a chance to re-boot and re-group so I can put the final draft together with all the nuance and verve it deserves..........

   I hope all of you have a good week....I'll see you soon........

Sunset Reflections (and The Secrets of Burgundy Doom)

The weight of this morbid

                                 Obese-Fat-Failing

Silence

falls heavy between us, again

Falling,

like the screaming cinderblock doom

of your own bitter creation

Your own screwed up reality, sugar

Your own dark, whispered, spell

Trapped here in this furnace of futility

Trapped here in ragged mescaline rages

In the blood red dawning of inspired gloom

Waiting for something new to rise

Overwhelmed with the desire to wipe away

this banal fealty

Sickened by stagnation

Suffocating on sullen acquiescence

and

repressed remonstrance

Weary of holding together separate entanglements

Burnt on smoky nowheres

piled 20 years high

II. 

Moving away

(at warp speed)

from the consequences of sleazy endeavors

from my own lost- Mad- abandon

from my own sad, failing, want

Lost in a thousand soft eyes

And split skirt thighs

Baptized in Tanqueray and Tequila

Seeking absolution in absentia

                     in anonymous sex

in swinging neon nights when Music

is the only thing holding my battered soul

together

Loneliness never abated

                     never sated

                  never yielding

            never understood

No admiration

        adulation

inspiration nor hot belief

has ever pierced this wounded veil

No face sought nor conquered

resting long in this restless heart of stone

I see you rolling up-oblivion

Emanating in waves from the hot streets

I see you in palisades and soft parades

And the face of newborn love

I see you in the visual cliché

of hot blondes racing along in red Camaros

in the hard luck demeanor

of whiskey voiced waitresses

flirting for tips in florescent nightmares

in the slow, swaying, dance of time

III.

I see you in the lazy yawn of

flea bitten hounds guarding the gate

of domestic hope from the cool shade

of grand eternity

I see you in the eyes of soccer moms

Singing along with the radio

as Poison pulls them back to their

day-glo heyday-1987

I see you here, Now, in full effect

Waiting…

I see you in the silent sleepwalk of sacred suburbia

Lost in the celestial solace of Sangria

Cocktails and barbeques

Ice cream-Bourbon and Soul

Children stomping in muddy puddles

Cigarette ghosts behind every loose association

25 ft. from the door

Tied to the pride of the new side

The latest grope

The latest need

The greatest fuck

The longest bleed

Willful to have it all

sewed up and displayed

and far faster than seeking

Identity.

Winter!

  Hey, kids! I thought that title might grab some attention. 

  I'm not going to write about how hot it is. You all know how bloody hot it is. Instead, I'm going to try a little exercise to try and get our minds off of it for a while and, maybe, cool us down a degree or two. 

  At least I hope so.

  

   A thick freeze clung to the outside of the tiny bedroom window, making it hard to see outside. Benny got up for school a little early and stood before it trying to see out into the yard. He was seriously hoping  for a snow day to extend his Christmas vacation. He and his friends had been having such a good time these past two weeks he didn't want it to end. 

  Plus, he had a report due today that had totally slipped his mind until about five minutes after he went to bed last night.

  He took the frost covered window as a good sign, but still couldn't be 100 percent sure, so he put on his flannel bathrobe and slippers and went downstairs to get a better look from the front door.

  He dropped down the steps two at a time and hopped the last three in a rush to get there. He pulled open the big, heavy, oak door and prepared himself for what he'd see.

  Everything outside was buried in, at least, six inches of fresh snow.

  "Yes," Benny hissed, snapping his fingers and doing a quick little happy dance as he looked through the storm door.

  The snow had drifted against his porch until it was all but level with the top step. The road in front of his house was completely covered and had yet to be blemished by tire tracks. In the dim morning light he could see a neighbor across the street working hard to uncover his car, steam rising up from the tailpipe in the frosty air.

  Benny could hear his Mom upstairs, now, moving around and getting ready for work. He shut the front door and went into the living room to turn on the T.V. As good as it looked outside, a snow day wasn't official until you heard your school's name being read on the morning news.

  He sat down on the floor and stared at the crawl on the bottom of the screen. The news lady was blathering on about plaque psoriasis or something crazy on their health watch segment. When he heard it, he thought of the big bronze plaque his dad had gotten from work. Benny guessed it would suck if all of your skin turned bronze and tried to slide off of your bones. But, he didn't have time to think about it. There were way more important things going on.

   "C'mon, be closed, be closed, no two hour delays, I can't do a report in two hours."

   Then, finally, after twenty commercials and a story on Chinese cowboys, his school, finally, scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

   Closed.

   "Woo Hoo," Benny hollered as he hopped up and scrambled up the steps. It was on, now. A snow day!

   Benny ran to his room and started changing into his snow gear, immediately. He started piling on clothes, hoping to get to the sled hill and meet Davy and Ray for a few rides before all of the other kids showed up.

   He was almost completely dressed when his mom knocked on his door.

   "Why aren't you getting ready for school, Ben?" 

   "It's a snow day! I just saw it on the news. Is it OK if I go to the park?" Benny asked, as he searched the room for his boots.

   "Looks like your all ready to go. When were planning on asking? On your way out the door?"

   Benny shot his mom a sheepish grin, "Maybe."

   His mom rolled her eyes. "I want you back here before I have to leave for work. I'll have to see if Ray's mom can keep an eye on you."

   Benny really didn't hear the whole sentence, he gave his mom a quick hug and bolted for the door.

   It wasn't long before he was standing at the top of the hill looking out at his neighborhood and all of the fresh snow covering it. The wind was blowing in his face and he quickly pulled his ski mask down to protect from its bite. He could feel the wind cutting through the layers of clothes. 

   It was getting colder.

   If this keeps up, Benny thought, the snow on the hill is going to turn to ice. It would really be a fast ride, then.

  It would be, like, bobsled fast.

  Benny pulled his sled around in front of him. He was ready to see just how fast it would be without anyone in his way.

   As the wind blew wisps of snow into the air around him, Benny ran and jumped belly first onto his sled trying to gain as much momentum as he could.

  He raced down the hill as the wind blew snow into his mask and his eyes. As he wiped out at the bottom of the hill, he lay back in the snow enjoying the rush of the ride and the cold.

  He screamed and raised his fist into the air as the icy rush took his breath.

  It was going to be a great day.

  Even if he did have to take time out to write a stupid report.

   

Inspiration, Music, and Madness-part 3-Into the Now

  OK, kids, part three. I swear this will be the last one. Next week, we'll move on to something more interesting, radishes or table cloths or something.....
   So, for people who don't know me....My later teen years were spent being buck wild!! I had turned out to be a fairly decent guitar player by the time I was 16 and started playing in a few bands with kids I went to school with. Nothing earth shattering but all good experience.
   Unfortunately, I spent more time getting fucked up and chasing girls. I concentrated more on living the rock-n-roll lifestyle than focusing on what it took to be a success. Now, that said, I was completely serious about music. After high school I wanted to move to California and attend The Guitar Institute in L.A.
I had sent for and received their literature and had begun the process of enrolling.
   Until my girlfriend at the time got pregnant.
   Then all of that shit went straight out the window.
   I ended up marrying her when I was 17, halfway through our senior year of high school. Our oldest son was born less than a week after we graduated.
   It was tough for a long time. I still played in a band with my best friend but I was more than a little bitter about squandering my opportunity to get the hell out of Bethel, Ohio. My drug use and drinking skyrocketed and as you can guess my marriage fell apart as did my band.
   Afterwards, I spent a lot of years lost. I got a decent job and kept my head down trying to provide for my kids and wife #2. I still wrote songs and poetry from time to time but didn't take it seriously. I had a bad attitude about it all and figured I missed my shot. Most of what I wrote then was dark and depressing, reflecting my own insides. There were stops and starts along the way with bands and poetry getting published here and there, but nothing significant. This was mostly due to my own negativity and lack of patience more than any thing else.
   Then, two things happened within days of each other that changed my whole perspective on life.
    In August of 2006 my best friend killed himself in a holding cell in a county jail. Then, four days later, the day of his funeral, I found out the company I had worked for, for 15 years, was closing.
    I had a complete mental breakdown.
    Of course, I didn't have the luxury of being able to lay down, freak out and somehow try to put it all in perspective. No, kids, this was a breakdown on the run. My family needed me.
    After the initial shock of both events subsided and more than a few hours long stares out of my bedroom window on long sleepless nights. I knew I had to change. I had to quit feeling sorry for myself, take control and make things happen the way I wanted them to.
   Life is too short to leave to chance and wishful thinking. I had to create my own reality.
   It was then, I started writing seriously. More importantly, I started studying my craft seriously. Not having the money or time to go back to school, I got my hands on a syllabus for a local college's creative writing course and set out on my own.
     I started writing poetry again, too, but this time, it was focused on beauty and Imagism and just being grateful for everything I'd survived and everyone I loved.
    As I was all doing this, I started writing my first novel, too. It's about my younger days and the break-up of my first marriage but mostly it's about all of the good and bad times with my best friend and the greatest band that almost was. 
   When it gets published, it will be dedicated to him.
 

Inspiration, Music and Madness-Part 2-The Teen Years

   OK, Kids here is part two of my aside that I'm writing for a friend who very kindly asked how I got to be so screwed up.
    So we left off in junior high where I was learning to play guitar and trying to write lyrics that didn't suck. What really got me going was copying lyrics down and studying them without the music to see how they stood on there own. The next thing that helped was doing the whole "Weird Al" thing, doing parodies, usually  nasty, dirty, quadruple X parodies (Hey, I was fourteen, after all) (of course, now I'm forty and still do it from time to time)
    The thing that put me over the edge as far as my literary search was a biography of Jim Morrison-"No One Here Gets Out Alive" a good friend of mine told me I 'had' to read it. To this day, I'm glad I did.
     What I found inside this book changed the course of my life. I discovered the music of The Doors which totally blew me away. 60's music to me at that point was my Mom's music, The Beach Boys, Motown, The Mamas and The Papas, Neil fricken Diamond...I could give a shit less. But, the first time I heard "End of the Night" by the Doors, I freaked, this was the soundtrack to the darkness that dwell inside. This was the sound that pervaded my dreams. I was totally hooked.
    But much more than discovering The Doors, I learned about Jim Morrison, the way he lived life, his philosophy, his poetry and his madness. I got turned on to the realities of the 60's counterculture. The Beat writers, Timothy Leary, Norman Mailer, Aldous Huxley, Arthur Rimbaud, William Blake, all of Jim's literary influences.
   Then, I grabbed my library card and went completely ape shit!
    It took me years to go through all of the material indicated in that one book.
    It was time well spent.
    But, during this time I also, slowly, painfully got better at playing the guitar. I took lessons, learned from friends, bought books, magazines, tapes, played two to three hours at night while babysitting my little sister while waiting for my mom to get home from work. (Yep, a latchkey kid, ahh, the 80's).
   So little by little both of these endeavors progressed in my angry little brain.
   The only down side to this time was the beginning of my drug use. Taking the long view, now, I wouldn't change much. (I probably wouldn't do as much acid as I did in high school but that's about it) but as William Blake said "The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."
   Again I was influenced by Morrison. Looking inside my skull for the answers to the mysteries of the universe. And (much to Nancy Reagan's chagrin) I did learn a few things, about myself, my limits, my own philosophy, what I wanted out of life and what I was willing to do to get it.
   But, it all wasn't as completely organized as I make it sound. There was a lot of craziness and mistakes along the way.
   And that, kids, is exactly the kind of stuff you write about!!!

   Well, it looks this might need to go on to a part three!!
   Next time around, we'll get into the nooks and crannies of how I write.
   Drop me a note and let me know what you think!!

Inspiration, Music and Madness-A Child's Tale

   This week's blog post comes from the suggestion of a friend. They asked me to write something about me, my motivations and inspiration and that aha moment that made me want to be an artist.
   It turned out to be a more complicated task than I thought.
    As I look back I can't remember a time when I wasn't drawing or singing or telling my parents outlandish stories. Now, of course, all children do this, but for me, some of my most powerful memories from childhood revolve around having a deep connection to music.
   As a kid I used to sneak into my uncle's room at my grandparent's house to play with the old electric organ that he had in his room. I wrote my first song on that organ, "The Darkest Night" at probably 9 or 10. It's funny how I remember the song name after all of this time but can't remember anything else about it. Having absolutely no clue what I was doing I doubt it was any good. But, it was a start.
   About this same time I started getting serious about reading and, to a lesser extent, writing. I remember writing and illustrating my first book a few years earlier for a class assignment in the 3rd grade. "Vampires from Space". I don't think it was exactly what Mrs. Stein, my reading teacher, was expecting, but I still got an A.
   From about the age of 10, I started reading seriously, I had an above average reading level and my mother started buying me the classics. I remember for Christmas that year (1982) I got "Treasure Island", "Black Beauty" and "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court". I devoured these books. The Mark Twain book was, by far, my favorite and my mother didn't hold me back from checking out  "Tom Sawyer" and "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" from the library.
   Over the next few years I devoured all the books I could get my hands on. I read everything, H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Mary Shelley (although, Frankenstein bored the hell out of me, I managed to finish it.) Madeline L'Engle (A Wrinkle in Time is still one of my all time favorites).
   By the time I was in the sixth grade I discovered S.E. Hinton and Stephan King and many more authors than I can't remember right now, but through that whole period, I was never without a book.
   Now, about this time-6th grade-7th grade-I began a serious turn back toward music. Thanks to the kids on my school bus, I got turned on to Heavy Metal!!
   My parents listened to country music (and some old tired 50's doo-wop) so this was a totally new sound to me. I was quickly, totally, into Ozzy and Motley Crue, Ratt, Judas Priest, Grim Reaper, Metallica.
   I had to get involved in this! I had to get a guitar!
   So in the 7th grade I traded a microscope I got for Christmas for an acoustic guitar. I started writing my own songs (before I could actually play the damned guitar).
   The link between literature and music for me came in Miss Adams 7th grade English class. Part of her curriculum included a semester of poetry. We were assigned poems that he had to memorize and recite in front of the class. The one that sticks out in my mind was "Charge of the Light Brigade" by Tennyson. This poem was epic. It had BALLS. It brought to mind Metallica or Iron Maiden lyrics.With this, I was off on a new path of discovery.
   It was then that I started taking music and literature seriously. The two were fused in my mind. I started studying poetry and practicing it as ardently as I did learning to play guitar.
   My path was set. This was what I needed to do!
 


   Well, folks, it looks like I'll have to carry this over into a part two!!
   Feel free to chime in with comments or questions and I'll continue the story soon.

Tales of a Tardy Poet

    Hey, all.
    I am finally back to waste a bit of your time and cost you a few pennies in electricity. It's been an interesting couple of weeks and I've been having the best time so, nope, nothing to complain about this time around! Just a few observations by way of update.
   I've been on a  poetry kick, here the past couple of weeks. I joined a poetry site I discovered via twitter-21stcenturypoets.com and have developed some very cool poems from picture prompt contests! It is good for me because it allows me to stretch a bit and write about subjects I normally would not entertain. I wrote a poem about Cinderella from a picture prompt that turned out nicely! (Yes, kids, quit rubbing your eyes in manic disbelief-I did just say Cinderella!)
    Work on the book has been slow, I'm struggling a bit with the scope and how much more I want/need to tell. (My length is way above first novel length-If I carry out the tale as first conceived, it would, damn near, be twice so.) So, I'm just trudging along telling it my way and saving the editing for a later date!
    My band played out Saturday at the Hi-Port in Higginsport, OH, for their anniversary party/annual hog roast! It was a beautiful night, the crowd was awesome and the band played really, really well! We put a lot of work into preparing for the show and it really paid off. I was very happy!
    It's interesting, the people you meet at gigs like these, the Hi-Port has a rough reputation (totally undeserved) and is frequented by bikers and other travelers as it sits right beside Highway 52. The regulars there are awesome and I've played there so much these past couple of years, I am slowly becoming part of them.
    This night the crowd was large and there were a lot of people there I'd never met. The most interesting conversation of the night goes to a little gray-haired cat. He was right in front when we were playing and told us we were the best band he'd ever seen live, (he was drunk, kids). So after being regaled with stories of bands he'd seen and places he's been (jail and otherwise) he tells me he's a member of the Aryan brotherhood and lifts up his shirt to reveal the most complete piece of Nazi propaganda in tattoo form that I'd ever seen.
    I didn't know whether to punch him straight in the head for being completely ignorant or ask him who had done his work. (It was all beautifully done- fantastic renderings of complete trash!!!..Oh, the zen of it all)
    Not wanting to end up in jail (and still having another set to play) I side stepped the discussion of white power and asked about the work. Thankfully, it was time to go back on and my band mate Greg extracted me from the ludicrous situation. Also, thankfully, the guy disappeared about 3/4 of the way through the next set.
    But, like I was telling Greg on our way back in, it is never the hot chicks, it's always the crazies! C'est La Vie, I guess.
    At, least Mon Vie!
    More later!






The Glass Slipper


What night in joyous hearts await
as heaven comes to rest
Birthed of storied angels
Aphrodite's spell possessed

This girl
This waif of light and song
dare stir my heart to rise
her countenance obsequious
her smile of fairest skies

A single dance is all we share
lost in her lonely grace
I ponder long apostasy
to wake in her embrace

Too quickly, I am left bereft
as the bells of Midnight toll
A single tiny slipper found
to lead me to my goal

Love, Life and Letters

   Here I am again, kids, two weeks behind on the blogging!! I guess it's a good thing that nothing has pissed me off enough to have to blog but I, at least. should have stopped by and said hello!
   I have had a few minor irritations this week but not really enough to base a blog on. Work on the book has been slow but steady. I've made acquaintance with a wonderful Australian author now living in Switzerland, Derek Haines. He has a spy book out called "Louis" which I have just started. It is very good, and shouldn't take long to finish. It's an easy read and really pulls you through. Check him out on Amazon!
   I've squeaked out a few short poems over the past few weeks. I wrote an interesting one today from a poetry prompt from a site called 21st century poets. It turned out really well and is available for view on my facebook page. It's written from the view of someone who has experienced the afterlife. Now, of course, me being me, it doesn't exactly fit into premeditated forms or extant theories.
   I took an opportunity this week to read huge sections of letter of one of my literary favorites, William S. Burroughs. If you've never read Naked Lunch or The Nova Express your missing out! The surrealistic plots and characters are a study in brilliance.
   Now there, kids, is a dying art-- letter writing. My fellow Gen X'rs are probably the last ones that actually wrote letters, if nothing more than the crazy love notes passed in the halls at school! It's mostly text messages or e-mail, now. But, alas, it's just not the same. You had to invest soul, sense, and emotion in letters. You had to SAY IT, Putting yourself out there in precious cognitive order. Now, it's all fragmented in a hundred texts a day in an abbreviated language our grandparents wouldn't recognize. I'm not saying it's bad, but in Burroughs' letters (written in the hip jargon of that time) you can see the warmth and the intervals between letter and response, chunks of time spent wondering if all was well with friends scattered from San Fran to North Africa. Now, the response is instantaneous, and so the language is cheaper, the emotional investment, less.
    Now, I am a huge fan of all of the beat writers, Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Burroughs, Snyder, McClure. I identify with their "outsider" legacy. I identify with their literary and societal rebellion. I identify with the idea that to change society you have to first free your mind. That life is better spent chasing your dreams, loving your friends and just having a good fucking time, man, turning up the radio to DANCE! Write-Sing-Chant-Scream. Live life to it's fullest!!!
   Now, I know what you're thinking, kids.
   "Well, that's all well and good there, Mr. Poet Buddy, but some of us have to work!"
   True, but you don't have to BE your job. You can't let commerce control your life! Or else your going to find yourself rolling around on your death bed with some serious fucking regrets and you know you can't take it with you!
    It's like that Don Henley song says, "You don't see any hearses with luggage racks."
   
   

Politicians and Perception

    My rant this week is about is about the way we view politicians in this country.(Sorry, kids, if this is too heavy a subject, but, it topped the list of things that aggravated me this week so it's what I'm going with.)
    A lot of the right wing newscasts this week have wasted a lot of air time complaining about Obama doing the student loan thing on Jimmy Fallon. They also wasted a lot of oxygen on Hilary Clinton taking time out to have a couple of beers and shake her booty during her visit to Colombia. (Probably the tamest thing that went on in Colombia that week).
    They said this is not the sort of behavior that our nations leaders should exhibit. Of course, they failed to mention Mitt Romney's appearance on Letterman doing the Top 10 list, or, going way back, to Nixon's appearance on Laugh In in the late 60's. This, however, is not really surprising. It's only reprehensible to them when it's something the Democrat's do. Fair and balanced, kids, fair and balanced.
    That said, I don't have a problem with conservative beliefs. Some of them I agree with, some I don't. The same thing goes with liberal beliefs. What gets my goat is the attempted polarization that some in the media seek to inflict, on both sides of the spectrum.
    Life is way too complicated to deal with in this manner. Politics are way too complicated to deal with in this manner. Anyone that tells you any different is either a fool or has a perverse agenda.
   Now, it doesn't bother me in the least to see The President on Jimmy Fallon. It doesn't bother me at all to see Hillary Clinton have a beer and a turn on the dance floor. I thought Romney was a good sport on Letterman (a bit stiff, perhaps, but he's not an actor)(Dutch would have nailed it!) It shows they are...........wait for it............HUMAN!
    That is what I look for in a politician, actual red American blood, with a sense of humor, an ability to be self-deprecating, an imagination, an ability to walk a way from the job for a minute, have fun and blow off steam. You can't be effective in any high pressure job without the ability to decompress and unwind.
   Unfortunately, I think, the people who are best suited for politics are the ones who wouldn't dare get involved. The media (on both sides) crank the glare of the spotlight up so much that hardly anyone can stand up to its glow. So, hardly anyone of substance (with more than a little common sense) dares offer themselves up for it.
    So (most of the time) we are left with idealogues and extremists. People so committed to their own inanity that compromise is impossible. People who seek to impose their own version of reality on everyone instead of approaching problems with an open mind. It is this arrogance of will that permeates national politics today. It is this mentality that creates contention and conflict instead of searching for solutions. These people want to win not compromise. So this is the mess we are left with.
   Congress has been hovering at a 9% approval rate for this very reason and until our perceptions of who we support for these offices change, until we do our own research and demand answers, not allowing ourselves to be influenced by the perceptions of corporate media (who have a very vested interest in the outcome) we will continue to sputter down this same dismal route.
 
 

 
 
 

Un-reality

  OK Folks, my rant for this week is about reality. Yes, you read correctly...Reality. Reality T.V. and real reality.
   Let's ease into this with a look at reality T.V.
   I hate reality T.V. Specifically, the shows that award cash and prizes. You know the ones. I can't name them for legal reasons but we've all seen them. People prostituting themselves to be herded together on tropical islands or locked away in a house to behave like immature, scheming, bastards, lying and crying on national T.V. for cash and prizes. The bigger the bastards the better the ratings. Expensive advertising budgets spent wagering on moral ineptitude and vacuous personality.
   That is bad enough, but then there are far MORE people that are addicted to these shows. Yep, real reality. People that actually plan their weeks and program their DVR's to keep them up on the latest hi-jinks of these sad people. Perhaps, it is a character flaw of some kind on my part but I just cannot comprehend the desire to watch people behave in this manner. Having raised children, I understand and expect this behavior FROM CHILDREN but I have no desire to watch adults behaving in this manner. I find it disgusting. I don't care how much money is at stake.
   The next batch of reality shows I loathe are the deadliest ones. Should be description enough. My problem with these shows, though, lie solely on the audience. These shows portray men and women doing their best to earn a living doing a thankless and dangerous job. I will admit some people watch these shows admiring the bravery and were withal these people portray but I'm afraid far more people are attracted to them waiting for someone to die. The same reason they watch car races, daredevils, and bog down traffic at an automobile accident, hoping to catch a glimpse of gore.
   Perhaps, the mystery of our own mortality binds us to this morbid fascination as the face of death will eventually be our own. Or perhaps, we have not moved far as a species from the spectacle of death played out in the Roman arenas of antiquity. I just hope we're not backsliding into a more vicious state.

Random Synaptic Flatulence

Back at the blog!!

   This is my first post in over a month and according to Robert Brewer (his name is NOT Bob), I should be ashamed of my silly self. In doing research for the creation of my artists platform, I discovered his blog and have found some solid advise on how to do this. One of the things he stresses is that my blog should be consistent. Once every other day or once a week, on time, every time, onward into infinity.
   Now the next thing, to get followers, I need to engage in social media i.e. Facebook and Twitter and comment on things and invite friends to read my blog. This little experiment with my friends on Facebook has failed miserably (except for two good friends-and God bless both of you!!) My random musings just haven't cut the mustard. I don't really know what people were expecting to see but it obviously wasn't what was there.
   So, WTF do I do?
   I joined Twitter at the urging of Mr. Brewer and started following literary types, musicians, my favorite comedians, etc. It's only been a couple of weeks so I'm going to say the jury is still out. I did manage to attract two followers that first week. A indie music producer in Canada (shout out to B-Ry) and a German winemaker. That's right, kiddies, a German winemaker?!? I don't know how. I don't know why. Perhaps my unique sense of humor tickles the Teutonic funny bone. I don't know, but I'm grateful to have them, (now if I can talk them into sending me a sampler we'll be in business!!!)
   So, now my next task is to get this blog on track. Which would be just fan-freakin-tastic if I had any crazy  inkling on what to do with it.
   Posting poetry isn't getting it. Talking about my journey as a writer isn't getting it (but, hell, I'm going to post this anyway) I tried to get some friends (musicians and poets) to share this space and post whatever they were doing. Nobody bit. I then tried to get a photographer friend to send me stuff to help give her a forum. (Not that it's much of a forum). But she wasn't digging it, either.
   Now what?
   I know no one wants to listen to me complain, (like now). But I am at a genuine loss. I thought about reviewing my daily grind, but that's part of what bores the hell out of me about Facebook. I mean really, I could give a shit less about what you're fixing for dinner. I'm certainly glad that you're able to afford to eat but I don't need the details.
   That said, no, I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I got to be a grouchy old bastard, though, I think it was more of a gradual evolution than a paradigm shift.
   But along this route I think I may have actually found my niche....bitching! I mean, hell, Andy Rooney ended his long and storied career closing out the 60 minutes broadcast with one of his rants. If I didn't watch any of the rest of the broadcast I tried to tune in and see what he was on about.....So.....
    Maybe that can be the gig for this blog. My rants and raves for the week!! The more I think about it the more I like it. Even if no one reads the damn thing, I'll feel better. I think my wife and kids might like the fact that I have a place to vent without having to bend their ear.
   This just might be a win-win.
   It won't distract or take away from my novels or poetry and can double as a great writing exercise as I try to put a well written spin on whatever is stuck in my craw.
   I really think this might have some legs, folks. It's worth a shot!
   Stay tuned..........................................

Writers Block

  Right now, I'm trying to work my way through a terrible case of writers block. I am in the middle of re-writing my first book "Sierra Court Blues" and was zipping through it at a decent pace. I've made a lot of changes to this second draft trying to tighten the story arc and better develop my characters. All was going really well until I got to Chapter 8. With chapter 8 I've hit the wall.
   I know the story. I lived the story. But somehow in my attempt to lay it all out in a "fashionable" literary style and move the story from A to B, I'm stuck.
  Part of my problem springs from being intensely aware of my craft. I know what this chapter needs to accomplish. I know where it is going and how it needs to get there. But for the past two weeks, I've stared at it more than I've added to it. The awareness of all these elements has stopped me dead in my tracks.
  All of my training tells me not to stop, not to fall prey to my current lack of direction. Writer's write, even when they're not inspired. It's a job like any other. You have to go at it even when your not feeling it. And right now, folks, I'm not feeling it.
  But it's only the book I'm having trouble with. I am also working on a really long poem and that's going well. I work on my poetry during breaks from the book. It keeps me writing and offers a diversion.
  Right now, though, I'm completely diverted.
  I want to get this book done! It took me 5 years to write the first draft. Of course there were big swipes of time in that five years where I didn't work on it as much as I would have liked but I never gave up on it. It's a story I need to tell!
  I started on the re-write last September. In six months, I've crafted a really tight story, above and way beyond the first draft. But now it's kicking my ass.
 So I'm asking, should I walk away from it for awhile to gain perspective? Or should I get back in the ring with it and fight it out?

Poetry Reading at the Winery-The review

   The poetry reading at the Bardwell Winery Saturday night went really, really well. The place was packed! The small party room at the winery was filled past capacity with our poets, their families and guests. It was great to meet the writers from the New Richmond and Williamsburg groups and hear their words in an intimate setting. There are some very talented people writing here in Southwest Ohio and I was thrilled to be able to help put this together.
   I was especially proud of the teen-agers that read from my group, Jake, Kassandra, and Jasmine. All three of them were really nervous before they went on but they presented themselves wonderfully. Each of them possess a depth of talent that goes beyond their years. It is heartwarming to see that poetry hasn't been lost on the next generation.
  Each of our poets presented a unique voice and style, proving that it is still possible to breath new life into the various forms of verse. It's like I told Jake, Kassi and Jasmine in one of our poetry workshops, "the best way to approach poetry is to read. Study the masters, learn the styles, learn the forms, decipher the Greek. Then after you done the work and are familiar with all of the elements and permutations, ignore it all and do whatever the hell you want!"
  And on that note, I felt a special kinship with the poets there from my generation. I could feel a commonality in the tone and timbre of their work, a kind of shared vision in our presentation that points toward an academic rebellion. Our work was as much about intimacy as image and I found it fascinating that this vision in our works came about in isolation. It seemed my cozy corner of Generation X was pretty much all on the same page!
   But that doesn't steal a bit of steam from the Baby Boomers present. The ladies from the Williamsburg and New Richmond groups came out swinging! Their work was highly polished, taut and very insightful. Their heart echoed through all of their work and their humor and exuberance were absolutely contagious. I had great conversations with a couple of them after the reading. They were just a joy to be around. I was glad to have met all of them.
   We all agreed that we had to put together another reading in the very near future. I think the sense of community I was striving for has finally found its impetus. I can't wait to see where it leads.


  Our Poets;
  Lisa Brandstetter
  Amy Cunningham
  Martina Davis
  Jim Eggers
  Donna Falen
  Jasmine Fields
  Nan McKay
  Arlene Nichting
  Lawrence Parlier
  Jake Stone
  Kassandra Vernon
  Becky Weaver
  Kathleen Wilson

I thank all of you for a very special night!!!

  

Poetry, Wine and Whimsy

   This Saturday (Feb. 18th) my writing group is putting on its first poetry/literary reading at The Bardwell winery in Mt. Orab, OH. We've invited poets and writers from all over southwest Ohio and were suprised by the response. It seems there is a wealth of talented writers right here in our back yard.
   Part of the reason for putting on the reading was to forge a sense of community among the writers in our area. Writing can be a lonely endeavor, sitting at the keyboard, attempting to preserve a piece of your intellect, of your experiences, imagination and soul in cohesive patterns of print, hoping it will strike a familiar chord in the minds of others. Obsessing over every sentence, in every scene, on every page, always wondering if your really making any sense at all.
  So we gather in groups seeking fellowship and legitimacy, reading and critiquing each others works as we endeadeavor to learn and grow. In the best groups, deep bonds are formed as the search for clarity, intellect, skill and beauty become the common aim. My group is like that, and I consider myself lucky.
  When the idea of the reading came about we decided early on that it couldn't be just about us. We were eager to hear new voices and share in new ideas. We decided to seek out our fellow writers and invite them to join us and give voice to their work. We wanted to share with the community the diversity of talented writers that they likely did not know surrounded them.
   We wanted to expand the sense of fellowship we have to all of the writers and writer's groups that are thriving in our little corner of the world to create a sense of community capable of pushing us all to greater heights of talent and skill and to cultivate an audience eager for our creations.
   And, at very least, as a great and grand excuse to get together over a few bottles of wine and have some fun!!
   We hope to see you there.


                                            Poetry Night At The Bardwell Winery
                                             hosted by Gayle and Randy Weddell
                                                            720 N. Main St.
                                                            Mt. Orab, OH
                                                    Sat. February 18th, 2012
                                                       Reading starts @ 7pm

The Small Voice

                                                   



                                           

                                                 


                                                 The small voice takes over
                                                  In the quiet season of sleep

                                                 Pale desires project necessity
                                                          And intention

                                                       In these calm ebbs
                                                            The force
                                                        The spark of life
                                            Makes itself known to the dreamer

                                                When eyes open to morning
                                                              However
                                                        Awareness scatters
                                                     To the mind’s recesses
                                                          To lie obscure
                                                      
                                                        Beyond language
                                                                 And
                                                            Explanation

Poem-Escape

   Escape.
   The long, black, cracked tongue of static highway rolls on ahead
   Racing out to the heart of a starless horizon
   Summer ignites
   And my American engine is seething
   Swallowing the miles
   Dragging me headlong toward the mirthless night
   Seeking shelter from a wild, blue eyed,
   Girl.

Low.
   Across the western twilight sky storm clouds gather
   Swallowing the vast magenta tide of dusk in its wake
   So I step on the gas and rush out to meet the rain
  
“Damn it.”
   I scream out to the night and into the storm
   I can’t shake her electric presence
   Her eyes burned hollow in constant dreams
   Her satin flesh warm in slumber beside me
   Her misty voice a song as soft as rain
  
Frantic.
   I race away in to the maw of the storm
   Sliding reckless through bizarre constellations of traffic
   Betrayed by the memory of her touch
   Knowing I will never really be able to leave her behind

So I stop.
   Climbing out to let the rain embrace me
   To let the lightening rise and tear away my fear
   To let the thunder shake loose my tiny demons
   To think of her without the shedding of a tear
                                                       

Poem-Weld

                                                         
Slow,
The ferrous burn
Of complete connection
Seeps across the gaps
In space
And time           
             
                                                The weight of your stare
                                                        Envelops me
                                                              Softly
                                                               Calm
                                                     In the willing night

Electric applications
Let magnetic desires
Flow
Bridging worlds
In the seething
Silent syrup
That breeds
The molten whole
                                                 Kisses wax ecstatic
                                                       In darkness
                                                   Bliss
                                                          Slipping
                                                   Slow
                                                 Into the unknown

Molecular cohesion
Can only attain perfection
Inside a breathless
Atomic mix
Where oxygen does not
Exist


                                                 Immersion erupts into
                                           Screaming crescendos of parity
                                                 Lost to metamorphosis
                                                      And matched 
                                                        Eye to eye

Heat radiates outward
From collusion
In confusion
The core of creation
Lost
Dancing out and away
To evanesce
Into the air

                                                      Pulses slow
                                                   In sacred fusion   
                                                 While tangled limbs
                                                 Smile into the night
                                                        And sigh                                                                   

Poem-Wait

                                                                    



I.
Raven fisted angels stalk the
Glowing heights of morning
Played-out and sore they drag dawn
Through their crags of ancient teeth
The spell of cold Andromeda
Slides slowly out beyond them
Dancing in the violence that
Churns on down below

The texture of resentment
Lies and grates and cuts and twists
Lost and long in a warping song
While a new steel fate draws down
And hate awaits through jaundiced gates
To scrape along like order
Waiting in the shadows to
Swallow whole narcotic joy

Plead for wisdom on the alter of obsession
The dark wine of Sangsara bleeds out
Through blackened hearts


II.
Who cares about tomorrow now?
Who cares about dimes dropping
Endlessly into oblivion
About wives left alone to contemplate
Absolution
Pondering Eden in the wake of fresh
Skulls set out to dry

The sun sets on beggars and fools
Falling away to sweaty nights of
Sleepless indifference
Providence a jewel cast out
In a stunning case of hope
Purloined by the sciences of media
And the where withal of strangers
Sweating bullets of cold addiction
While creeping death now comes
To call

Wake up my darling Valentine
Wake up my dear and run
Conformity can no longer be neglected
We need bread to get us by
The future of history hangs in the balance
No small child falls along unscathed
When progress rushes forth

Let the dreamers dream
Let the poets sleep
Let the piper take a breath
Let the music flow to grow in the
Silent spaces between the notes
Satisfaction unfolds now with un-sequenced
Young abandon
Fading in to focus when we take the time
To Wait

Poem-Now

Now
   Exists unhindered inside the pulsing wild wonders
Of space and time
   A nirvana revealed in kinetic fits of endless hope

Now
   Is the part of you aching awake through the rolling depths
Of mental rebellion
   Spiraling across maelstroms of self-conscious silence
To dare cut through the maul of the endless background chatter
   And speak

Now the moment the truth bears whole and dares call bold
To speak

Now
   Breaks reality down into perfect sub-seconds of pure release
A magick waiting to surprise our wit with a brave new focus

Now
   Is a precision born of awareness
Genetically sequenced-Locked inside
   Intrinsic through endless eons of chaotic matter
Twisting raw in the primordial logic of every stellar core
   Passing patiently along in its priceless, peerless, perfection
Daring us all to see….

Looking for you to see…..

Now me.

Poem-Truths of the Hardcore Muse

                                    The Truths of the Hard Core Muse



Great viscous rivers of slow synaptic sludge course through the decaying cells
Of an endless tactile loss
Apathy descends with the force of a ripping death into the gray matters of
Fantasies and phantasms
Its focus swelling with morbid fascination as the full scope of creation turns
Beyond the myopic limits of eyes

The belief in the eternal name grinds dust into a fevered, bitter, silence
Prone before the cold, pale, throne of Time
And to what lust? Dust
Ashes choking long in the mouths of lucidity and understanding
The severity of emotional acumen blinded by the growing threat
Of a glowing transcendence
Running naked through the world-Raw-As hope makes its escape

Fear the coming onslaught of perceived truths
Fear the permutations of the Divine institution
Causality is reaping the whirlwind of a screaming blind endeavor
As madness bleeds out through the cracks in Shangri-La
What dim fate awaits the hanged man?
Left swinging in the mists, alone, between worlds
The curiosity of perdition holding sway as caustic transgressions
Tangle the iron threads of fate

Now, the signals distort in fading geometric regression
Echoed in the electronic dreams of purest light
Compressed realities coalescing in a firestorm of desolate mornings
Hate and perpetual loss creating vast waves of desperation
That crash to earth shattering the resolve of the great collective will
Rage rising to manifest chaos
Violence born in the shadows of fetid streets

Now, the repercussions of philosophic rigidity sits begging on every failing doorstep
Like the ragged dogs of a different, bleak, eternity
As the whores of a gleaming new Babylon preen, sacrosanct on the
Silver screen
No industrial processed panacea dare seal the mortal wound of arrogance
No hollow words of feigned sincerity dare reach out across the frozen void
To inspire our sinking soul

The endless, bare, benevolence of this infant infinity rings out with a crystalline melody
Of profound perfection
It sings through every simple atom everywhere in the beautiful, boundless, cosmos
Its tone and timbre birthing absolution in hermetic souls bound together by truth
Its strength displayed in its grand and grateful absence
Its conviction Absolute 

But here, Now, I fear that it falls on deafened ears.