writing update

I'm currently writing a novel based on a story I developed with the lovely Erin Dillon. It has a long way to go, but I figured an update would do some good. I'll continue posting poetry and prose, but there's no real intention to publish another book until this novel is done. Perhaps I'll post a chapter from time to time. We'll see.

Also, I wrote an article on Henry Miller for a great publication called Beatdom, but I don't believe I ever mentioned it on this blog. You can check it out here:
http://www.beatdom.com/?p=1342 


Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.

april 4th, 2012

a divide


The older I get the more I think about the impending divide between those actively involved in my life. At a certain point we’re all forced to choose a side and no longer is anyone else responsible for your decision. The beast knocks with polished, unbiased knuckles. How will you respond?

Your first option is a reality in which Art dominates thought because creation is an idea as eternal as God. This is a reality in which the infinite coincides with human potential. The expected, tested, tried and true notion of three is tossed aside, for no barrier is breached without understanding and justified change. How can I take what inspires me to new levels? How can I pay homage to the deserved souls while simultaneously chiseling my own immortality? This is a reality in which truth and beauty guide the mind through murky swamps in search of the orchid-- knowing damn well the quest may end in defeat thick enough to see; a thin veil in perspective, but one capable of temporarily blinding the hungry doubter. The illusionary reality of Art contains only those who openly accept fear because no man is without it, it’s simply a matter of how tall you choose to stand before it.

Your second option is a reality in which art is no longer capitalized because it is no longer necessary. Like beaten hand-me-downs too small for the unplanned younger child, art has been tossed on the freeway shoulder to rot like flavorless gum below the circling, salivating vultures. This is a reality void of deeper meaning, leaning upon the splintered crutches of brainwashed business delusion. Ambition has been replaced with subservience and with enough hours punched on the clock, by golly, you could apply for the job upstairs-- you know the one I’m talking about, the one that comes with the mahogany desk and the power-trip and the vacant assistant begging to grant your every wish! It’s a much sought after position so I recommend you keep on plugging away with that same sense of mindless devotion. You musn’t worry about art anymore child, for it proved to be an expendable commodity. Like an unsightly, pesky wart we had it removed.

When the ground begins to split underneath your feet, which side will you feel compelled to join?

march 14th, 2012

the return


Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusement’s sake,
like gigantic
lustrous
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth
graceful
class.

Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.

But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the cheap, colorless upholstery
and I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.

Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.

february 28th, 2012

how to assassinate the void


You must start with Imagination;
the blessed,
caged
and chosen beast
handpicked for gruesome battles
such as this.

For the void is a disease
that feasts on the public,
tricking the cerebrum
into believing that money and monotony
breed satisfaction;
happiness,
contentment,
a meaningfully adequate existence.

The sad part is
the disease has claimed mountains of victims.
Some of them are dead,
unable to repeat and repent,
and some of them are alive,
walking past you on the sidewalk,
serving you lunch
or cutting your hair.
They are merely shells of human potential;
hollowed out bodies
programmed to respond with simple answers:
“Yes sir, right away, sir.”
“No sir, my fault, sir.”

The diseased are no different than crudely built robots.
They accomplish their tasks at work
with moderate
to above moderate success.
They acknowledge their co-workers
with polite farewell gestures
and drive home in a generally safe manner.
Red lights mean stop,
green lights mean go
and yellow lights should be read as slow down.
God forbid you strike another vehicle
and injure a healthy,
capable cog.
The government does not appreciate such accidents.
In fact,
the government does not appreciate much of anything.
The government is doing just fine,
so move along.
Nothing to see here.
Your work is appreciated
and so are you.
Move along, champ.
Nothing to see here.

The next hurdle involves Passion.
A dash is fine,
but I recommend a handful.
Passion is a difficult ingredient to apprehend,
so do not succumb to its elusiveness.
Do not surrender if the search prolongs;
Passion is a pure
and honest commodity
worthy of its journey.
Many weak legs have collapsed
before reaching the pillar it rests upon.
Many courageous men have lowered their sword
in valiant defeat.
Passion will evade your efforts
until desperate necessity kicks in;
pumping ferociously
like the legs of the prey
narrowly outrunning the fresh feet
of the hungry hunter.

Problem is--
the hunted outnumber the hunters,
but the scaly beast of oppression
strangles the advantage,
sucking the air out
slowly
slowly
slowly
until the purple, lifeless face
collapses in defeat.

There is no formula
no matter what I’ve said,
no matter what you’ve heard,
so do whatever it takes
for however long
to assassinate the void
and emerge an independent
fireball of a progressive thought.

january 16th, 2012

Here's another new one, a quick Sunday night/Monday morning cut-up.

leaning out on the edge

The spiraling roar of a miracle

tears through curtains of porcelain doubt

like a golden comet

shot through tattered lace.

The whirling spasm of ingenuity,

when caged

and tagged for future research,

crushes a lifetime of groans in a

single

violent

breath.

Life is a relay race

and the only thing that matters

is whether or not

you’re holding the baton.

january 15th, 2012

Here's a random piece of prose I found written in a legal pad. I'm sure it's the result of a late night, but it's not bad.

top five

People make lists because they are physical, organized manifestations of interests and disinterests we consider “real”. Lists provide validation, state opinions and etch trivial decisions onto paper, cementing a thought, albeit momentary, into the sidewalk of a chosen surface. They act as handprints in the sidewalk, and when put into perspective, affect nothing equally. Like most activities, lists attempt to solidify the invisible.

january 11th, 2012

throw him a curveball is featured on Young American Poets blog today, which is very nice of them. the heavy musk of masochism and keep it simple previously appeared in late 2011.

http://youngamericanpoets.blogspot.com/2012/01/throw-him-curveball.html

I haven't posted new work in a while, so here are two poems for you to enjoy.

can't you hear me knockin'?

Before I could react to the knocking

it was gone.

A few modest pounds

followed by sustained silence.

The kind of silence that permeates through an auditorium

hours before an orchestra takes stage.

Hauntingly inspirational,

yet suspiciously dormant.

Before I could answer the door

the knocking was gone,

and I was left standing

like a fool in the rain.

los feliz

Now we live together.

Just like that.

Seems like, well, at most a year ago

when we first walked toward each other,

awkwardly closing the cement gap with wobbly legs.

Sure as hell doesn't feel like four years.

Now we live together

and we're 25 years-old,

merely skimming the surface of potentiality,

meticulously chipping away at the tip of the iceberg.

A subdued smirk sprouts above my chin

because I have seen the ocean floor

and the massive frozen base.

I have seen what we are capable of

and fully intend to capture it,

ensuring we are there to witness it blossom.

Others are free to watch,

for they will always remember the couple

who unleashed what they could not.

Now we live together

and it's easy.

The vinyl is continually spinning

and the art comes in spurts,

always returning moments before you swear it's gone for good.