No ideas, but all the motivation. All the reasons to do it yet no reason at all. Like a marathon, hitting a wall. Just spit it out, Put it on the page! Put it on the Page! Forget if it makes sense, forget the grammar and spell checks. Fuck making sense. Just put it onContinue reading “Writers Block, A Poem”
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”
Courage Is The Sweetest Lullaby Fear not your lions, And constrain yourself upon the unsightly sounds of this date of sorrow. Do but construct, And constrain, For the winter’s winds are but lost by the summer sun. The nymphs of the seasons do hold their treasons so, Be not the character of perpetual woe. RainsContinue reading “Courage Is The Sweetest Lullaby, a poem”
The Teacher As The Poet Content’s production, Ease of mind and constant rush, Narcotic ease, And still the voices don’t stop. Stagnation is a creative mind’s enemy, as is cowardice. We are our words, our letters and symbols. Intentions mean nothing when they fail, Yet success is still a subjective term. I am responsible forContinue reading “The Teacher As The Poet, a poem”
Art in Our Times Piss poor excuse for a joke, All the un-ironic irony in real life. I have always said it, Life is a parody of the self, We live in Chaplin’s Modern Times, We are the machines, And the proles. We are wheels, Turning and obedient to the driver, Circle after circle, LoopContinue reading “Art in Our Times, a poem”
Wasted Time So do we fall sweetly against the brittle gunk and waste the very minutes of a peaceful ending. So it was written, and spoken, and so shall it be written down again. Many sit, wait, and wonder when.
Dull, now babbles some wanna-be Socrates. A Plato of the non- existent preverbal page. An awkward stammer and pause gone about with forced emotion. So forced that it has no force, no power, gone and now at rest, deserving non of its fake praise. Lofty lust, and more incoherent babbles and rambles in the nameContinue reading “Wanna Be Socrates, a poem”
A remix/sequel to Shakespeare’s classic.
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”