The War of Art

This mind...
This mind can be a mass grave
That possesses the self righteous authority
To sentence and bury life away;
A cannibal consuming its own creativity
Which was once a whisper recognized as potential
That is now a war torn pit of
Tortured malnourished concentration
Tossed beside already dismembered skeletal structures.

Or,

This mind...
This mind can be a liberator
Setting free forces allied with insight
Triumphing over the tyrants of thought
Exhuming whispers recognized as potential
And arming them in marching waves of lines
Tearing down walls of censorship
Preserving expression and the right to assemble
Which will restore order to artistic chaos

In memory of all that should have

Never been lost.

The Point is...

Exactly one week ago I was sitting in exactly the same place as I am today, outside at a coffee shop writing and enjoying the day; 12o hand written pages into yet another novel. My concentration was broken by several emails, texts, and phone calls which were all heartfelt explanations of what my mom's teachings in my recently released book, God from the Grave: a story of life, even in death, had done for them.

My mother took on the biggest battle of her life, and lived to serve others; acknowledging that it was going to take a miracle for her to survive, but that her prayers for a miracle would be answered because she said God could not use her from the grave. The book was written to overcome that last notion in a positive way, and to own up to the natural circumstances all of humanity is subject to, when we seemingly lost her. In every way people were taking the time to reach out last week, each were emotional and even tearful explanations of forgiveness, re-kindled relationships and friendships, and the power her faith now had on their every day lives.

With more clarity than ever before, I realized that her prayers were answered, and her body did not wilt away in the grave because now she quite literally embodies the miracle she asked for. Needless to say, I had a hard time keeping it together in a public place, and nothing more got done, but my life is made that much better knowing her miracle lives on through others.

The Loyalty of a Good Morning's Teeth

Steam is thinning on an opening medicine cabinet,
An ironic name for the mirror reflecting the cavity
Of something that has relatively few remedies.

The contents include deodorants, gifted colognes of
Now illicit scents, and a secondary tooth brush promoted to
Primary by the many nights she use to refuse to sleep alone.

Modest coloration and bristles once cleansed and tickled
The protective layers of the core strength of her teeth;
The integrity of enamel that did not withstand these stains.

It remained loyally shelved patiently awaiting her return;
Longing days and weeks turned months collecting dust
Anticipating fresh beginnings of a new morning's breath.

Where the handle once held forgotten hope, paste, and plaque;
Today it is perceived with decayed denture attachment, used to
Clean my sink, and politely tossed in the waste-d basket.

Late Night Joy Ride

A small blinking light and pumping feet
Belong to a man furiously pedaling a bike
To avoid being hit from behind.

A prostitute walks by a sleeping cemetery
Hoping to rest in peace tonight
Without any solicited company.

Four corners boasting octagons
Allow them both to pass, and
A car refusing its red warning rolled on.

Its windows rolled down,
The music playing inside could still be heard
When everyone was just trying to find a place in this world.

New Song

Here's a new original song by yours truly.

Pyro Poets

I almost forgot I was a poet until these words forced their way out:

We were there to guide Greek philosophy.
We were there to inspire the books of the bible.
We inscribed the Proverbial Psalms of Solomon.
We resuscitated the Renaissance, rocked gas masks
and bats in revolutions, and lived diverged in a yellow wood.
We are on the front lines of insight, and conquistadores
of the obscene.
We were put to sleep during the Great Awakening,
and fed our scraps to perdition amidst the Great Depression.
We introduced soul to the blues, and gave respiration
to jazz.
We accidentally impregnated the Beat Generation, and
birthed a Hippie bastard child that
tarnished the name of non-conformity
and hair beyond the ears.
We are all poets.

And as poets
We are mad scientists formulating fire;
Pyros long before Kerouac,
and they will burn far beyond me.
Collectively we will ignite fallacies
and corruption down to the
ashes of authenticity,
If that even still exists.
I am democratically
Entitled to speak freely to those
Willing to illegally, if necessary, set this place ablaze
Melting the dry walls that saw everything
But never said what
The foundation was silently supporting
All Along.

Disgusted by routine
I'm tired of being demonized for carrying on
By those who have given up, given in,
Succumb to monotony
Pretending to be happy.
They say wake me when we're there
Having already missed the contingency
Of anything worth living.
Meanwhile, I've been frantically
Attempting to redirect the course
Whilst you've been asleep at the wheel.
The ship is heading for the rocks, the train
is rebelling from its tracks, and the plane
Spiraling to a final resting place.
Captains, conductors, and pilots are
Cross eyed in cocked pits shouldering the boisterous
Barrel peering through their fears
After being hijacked to keep my own spirit
In flight.
Otherwise, I'll take it down myself in a
momentous collision aimed straight
For the breastplate of all those who said
There are just some things that can't be done.

At the gates I'll be asked
What I believed in.
Well, I believe in dark beer, mediocre wine,
and whiskey.
I believe the puppetry of politics
Will never achieve anything more than
War and destruction due to empirical egos.
I believe in spontaneity, simply saying 'yes' consistently,
and always pointing in the direction of anywhere but here.
I believe in laughter, tears, a clapping crowd,
and the shrieking howl of a deep
seeded combination of all three demanding
to be released in an unfiltered maniacal shout
To the heavens.
I believe in friendship, true love, and the
Moments leading up to penetrating a woman's heart
If she is worth the emotional devastation that
Will surely follow and be my fault because
There are still too many places to be seen to settle.
I believe I will forever be tormented by discontent
But that my experiences will bring hope, joy,
and peace to others.
I believe in song and dance, in the irrelevance
of plans, and the absence of chance.
I believe there is enough purpose and passion in
This world to keep me naturally inebriated
In an epically mind altering euphoria, and that
YOU created all those ingredients.

He'll say the words, 'Holy shit. You've
done well son. The world needs more like you. '
-Thank you Father.
-Would you like to come in?
-Nah, I'm not ready yet. Will you please
tell my mother hello for me though?
-Of course. Now go back and paint me
A Masterpiece.

Pursuing Purpose

In the same establishment, and in the same night, I was approached by two old acquaintances. The first said with such disdain and annoyance, "What are all of those stupid mass messages you keep sending me?" -- "Well did you open them?" -- "No." -- "You really should have. They might not have been so stupid then." The second person, whom I had only seen once in passing in the last 5 or 6 years said, "I want you to know that I read and watch everything you send out. It has affected my life so much. I love it. What else are you working on?" I was initially taken aback by the person I have such minimal contact with. She is a representation of all of those I never see or hear from; the people I never have a clue are interested, care, or even have such an impact on. As I told her about the book I am currently writing about my mother's life, there were the most sincere tears streaming down her cheeks that were reassuring, encouraging, and endearing.

I knew I would encounter both of these people; those who love and hate what I am doing, but I write and engage life in the manner that I do because it is my specific path, and that path is right. I know that I have found my purpose, and nothing else matters except pursuing that purpose because this is when you are the most useful to the world, and to others around you (even to those who don't understand or are tired of the "stupid" mass messages now).

In my day to day, I have been surrounded by folks, young and old, who approach morbidity in two ways; either in complete acceptance, or in fear of passing, what their legacy will be, and how others might write their eulogies without knowing what they may say. I am part of the first group and feel that when I'm gone, if people don't write the things I want to be recognized, then I will not have lived life adequately enough to reflect my real purpose, and that will be no ones fault but mine. I say: discover your purpose, pursue it passionately, forget how you think others might perceive you, and the rest of your steps will be guided to help you achieve the legacy you always dreamed of that is clearly written by the purity of your own actions. Those can't be misread by anyone.

As for me, I will carry on...