Reading a book alone in the Redwood Forrest On the observational scale, I do sit here in the redwoods in lotus pose, with a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance on a stack of logs next to me. What is the catch? Is that but the paranoid disillusionment of the redneck hippiesContinue reading “Reading A Book Alone In The Redwood Forrest, a poem”
Perfection Is A Waste of Time You can’t go to hell if you are already there, And perfection is the death of art. The pursuit of perfection, Is the birth of mediocrity. Mediocrity can be no one’s muse. But perfection is tedium, Soulless and tedious. These words to the wordsmith, are trivial repetitive garbage. SoulContinue reading “Perfection is a waste of time (a poem)”
Not my President. Not even my TV star, NOT MY PRESIDENT.
Fool said, “I am fool.” Another said, “I am not!” They were the true fool.
The original, Clandestine, and unforeseen. Undue in the word that lacks its depth, truth and self, for what is this word this concept that deed, original. The original, the patron saint and the culture mover, the idealist and the realist in body divided or one. The original, A so called title to envy seek orContinue reading “The Original”