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”
What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution? PRODUCE! Must produce content! For fame, For a following, Quite literally and painfully so, thanks to the stench of both words. To produce is to manufacture, To manufacture is to produce. The workers are the ones who produce, So the artists, the writers, the creators, we areContinue reading “What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution? A Poem”
So many tears, So many years, So many fears, So many beers. So many jokes, So many tokes. So many drugs, So many hugs. So much pain, So much gain. These are the things to live for, So many things, And so many more.
A wise man once said “It’s wrong when it stops being fun.” Well, I have to ask myself, has it? Has pining over the right word and cadence lost its spark? What, except the dark cloud that seeps its invisible cloak on my psyche, Keeps me from putting all for the gods and earthly kindContinue reading “It’s Wrong When It Stops Being Fun, A Poem”
Habit, my old friend, Or are you my enemy? You say habit I hear “monotony.” Someone else says it, And I hear “addiction.” Habit, you could make me a great man Or you could cause me to self destruct. Habit, you are helpful, But you can also be cruel. Habit, you be what I tellContinue reading “Habit, a poem”
The Poet as the Revolutionary The poet as a revolutionary is an all too common trope. So what happened? Where did they all go? Where are the poets and lyrics and bards who can spark the imagination of a generation to end the segregation and the era of hate. The poet as revolutionary, A commonContinue reading “The Poet as The Revolutionary”
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)”
Shadows form at night. Even when the moon is full? And dawn, always came.
In too deep in hell, or have I gone to heaven? Only time will tell.
I have been tourist, patriots of capital. Pride in rhetoric.
Losers never win, That is what makes them a loser. President Loser.
Not my President. Not even my TV star, NOT MY PRESIDENT.