What a time to be alive
and oh, how so many of us
squander it away on
What are you going to do about it –
life that is?
What are you going to do with
the fleeting years of your one
and only precious life?
Do as they do?
Think as they think?
Give away your destiny
to those who promise
Piss everything away on
Surrender your essence
to the unheroic status quo
that seems to be sliding
ever so quickly toward
Are you going to remain, like the…
it’s the last day of what’s
considered the “year”
and the rats are here
to feast on the
what a year, what
a devastating year
they cry, you can
see it — the defeat in the
eyes, the fear,
the monotony of ravaged lives
in shopping centers
trying to consume
their way out of
and the easily amused
sit on couches
with naive smiles
as they binge-watch their
own life slip away
and the voices of dead poets’ float around unheeded, and the books of Dostoevsky collect dust and the prophecies of Orwell and Huxley…
You’re alone. I’m alone.
Hardly anyone knows it.
But we are all alone. Everything
You think you need to possess
Is already inside you. Nothing
Lasts outside of you.
All beliefs are borrowed.
No belief is true.
Our mere existence and this
Mysterious light called
In our unique brains
Is the only
I am. Life is.
You look to abstractions for salvation.
You look to a partner for validation.
You look to the priest for confirmation.
You look to politicians for security.
You look to dogma for eternity.
You look to money for identity.
“Permit me voyage, love,
into your hands… ”
― Hart Crane
All the friends I once had are no longer near. My collar up, I lean into the bitter wind, into the utter sin of a wasted year and descend into the wilderness of mirrors to try to catch a glimpse of the truth behind the fears. I wander alone into the intriguing night in total defiance of my deluded appetite, bleeding in silence, out of sight. Modern religion has severed our consciousness from the shadow, untethered we are from the unconscious life of our total BEING. Born tainted, we…
The day I died was a day like any other.
The sun peaks over the horizon and paints
the dew drench trees with a warm red glow.
The birds sing and the garbage truck jockeys
loudly through the asphalt streets as routine
as any other day. The city slowly stirs
from its slumber as men with ties rush
to jobs and women put on makeup
in bathroom mirrors.
Bedhead and bloodshot eyes I’m alive as a cigar ash falls in my morning coffee that I sip anyways despite the blunder. And while tv’s flip on in households across the land…
As the summer flowers wilt and die
and the ruthless year creeps ever so slowly
to its belated demise; as the cities burn
with fire and rage and the monuments
of yesterday are toppled; as the political
rift derives to murderous blows and a
sea of hate and vitriol flows from
the partisan hearts of humanity
into the streets and
of our nation —
there’s a little fireplace burning in a one room cabin deep in the cut on the outskirts of a small town in Vermont; her and I, alone, serenaded by the subtle wind that rattles the…
Reading Henry Miller to revive the withering spirit of humanity.
“By his refusal to live to the fullest he brings about the death of God and the utter meaninglessness of the world in which he finds himself.”
~ Henry Miller
Like all great writers, Henry Miller was no stranger to controversy. His early biographical novels were banned for three decades by the British and United States government for its so-called “sexual adventures and challenged models of sexual morality.”
Like all artists, prophets, and truth-tellers who question the prevailing order, Miller was greatly censored and his works were regarded as obscene…
As the shadows lift, he yawns,
wipes dried vomit from his face
then crawls out of a side street ditch
in the heart of New Orleans.
Out of the internal dark,
he’s born again.
Still half-drunk from the night before,
he moves along with barefoot
gypsy girls who drink wine
and recite Nietzsche
in the gray dawn.
Tourist eyes, like daggers,
pierce the vagrant
as he crosses into the Quarter.
His calloused hand,
adorned with makeshift tattoos,
reaches down and snatches
a cigarette butt
from the gutter,
takes a heavy drag
and blows it up
to the heavens.
“If the doors of perception were cleansed,
everything would appear to man as it is
― William Blake
Out of the eternal mouth
Who are we?
Who are you?
How much of your mind do you own?
Have you ever sat alone in the dark,
devoid and unplugged from the web
of constant stimulation & cheap
distractions that eat up so much
of your time, and really
thought about what
you believe in?
What if your beliefs were shoved into your head at a very early age in an attempt to prevent you from becoming your…
Don’t be like them. They want you in the ranks,
the mob — the clan of dullards who want you
to live in line with their stifling ideals.
They want you brain dead and
soul dead like them. They want
you to work the 9–5. They want
you in a cubicle. They want you
to be a sitcom watcher. They want
you to pledge to their flags and
worship their gods. They want you
take a side. They want you to settle
with their politics and vote for
their two-faced leaders.
They need to be led because they’re too weak…
Everything has been figured out, except how to live.