07/30/11 Backstage, Surf Ball Room

Top Left to Right: Susan, Cate.
Bottom Left to Right: David, Mike, Alex, Eric

Obelisk (poem)

Shadows engulf pockets of light

Beneath unblinking phallic walls.
Sprawled upon faces, the subjugated
Bow before unholy might;
Those hinting denial, burned in pits.
Eyes cannot betray utter devotion,
Amidst quickly fading lives;
The irises rolled white, veins pumping,
Mouths in ecstatic gulping.
Towering, Omnipotent, Omnipresent
Black obsidian cut thick and precise.
Fists once held in the air to protect,
Now cudgel the woman, the child, the weak
Until blood soaked streets wail in terror.
Sprawled upon faces, the subjugated
Bow before unholy might;
Those hinting denial, shattered.
Silent, firm, Omniscient.
Obelisk.

Medusa Me (poem)

I have cried, “Peril, Ye, who enter this tomb!”
And yet you approach suddenly, confidently
Your horse champs, your sword shines, your helmet, thick
Muscles glistening in the sun with dew of sweat
Through veils of flowered emerald ivy, you climb
Into my Ivory halls.
My marble pillars festooned
By crimson silk and incensed urns,
My chamber glowing with white hot pine embers.
You plant your sandals like boulders,
In the bounds of Netherworld.
Upon your back, a curse;
Stifling breaths, stagnant waters, burning touch
And upon great wings shall I fly
Above and beyond the snares,
The swords, the lances, the shields.
Above you I shall fly until time vanishes,
Our eyes meet.

Rotten and decayed –

The corpses of granite, alabaster, basalt –
The statues of those forgotten line my corridor.
Molecules grind, burn, screech abruptly;
Organic machinery fails, weakens, deconstructs.
Wiring sizzles, tendons freeze, veins harden
And your grimace cements perfectly.
Lost in time, lost in dream, lost in perfection,
Cut from the very rock you were born.

Gorgonian eyes pierce meaty hearts

Like the obsidian arrows of thine enemies.
The human stoked infernos of Hades
Unleashed upon you, the accusers, until you wither,
Passing as specters into the silent nights.
I remain, a Mortal, clean hands and washed of sin.
Into my blue eyes you stare,
Into Death’s eyes, you stare.

Autumn Walk (haiku)

Red leaves gamboling
Fluttering by, butterfly
From brawny branches

Writing as Expression (reflection)

I see now that writing is an expression of one’s self at a specific time in one’s life. Writing is not a skill developed over a period of time. Certainly, one may develop one’s expressions and thereby articulate more effectively – in other words, one may practice writing and learn just how to say what they want to say, just how they want to say it. In this way, writing most certainly seems like a skill.

Yet, a skill is a rote mechanism one performs in repetition. A master in a skill may recreate and repeat their skill into exhaustive redundancy. A dancer, for instance, learns her steps, learns her poses and she repeats these until her body physically disallows her from further performance. Nonetheless, if the dancer possessed an immortal body, the dancer would be able to repeat the very same steps cyclically into eternity.

Writing is different, just as painting or drawing is different. Writing is no less an art as dancing, but writing, unfortunately, disintegrates with the writer.  As a child and young adult, writing bursts from the brain into shapes and forms, and strange things which no young writer can utter. The challenge of the young writer is simply harnessing this energy and shaping something intelligible. Many painful nights and long days are spent crafting.

As one gets older, the spectrum begins to flip. With much practice, the older writer knows exactly what to say and how to say it. But now the brain has begun to rot. The energy required comes in spurts. One month may be spent contemplating suicide for lack of energy when suddenly a thunderbolt cracks from above and the humble writer spends two or three days pounding out brilliant material.

You see, writing is no more a skill than laughing. One cannot practice laughing well. Writing is an expression in which one perfects themselves as a whole and learns to express. There is no mechanism in writing. There is no movement.

Agnosis is not a dirty word... (reflection)

There is no single being called God/god/Al-Lah/Jehova/Emporer/Yahwae/Father.
We are as much "God" as anything else in this Universe, on this plane of existence. In fact, we are God.

God is not male or female. God does not reserve a place for sinners.  God does not favor one person, group, knowledge or creed.  God does not answer prayers. God does not have moral requirements. God does not know sin, nor does God care what sin might be. God does not require good deeds, or submission. God does not need money and does not care how you spend yours.

Instead, God is the ocean in a drop of water.  God is the infinite Universe in a grain of sand.  God is the molecule which forms the Redwood tree.  God is the mountain on a single strand of dust. God is the vast emptiness in a vacuum. God is the ever-exploding, ever-booming sun, as well as the choked silence of the deep sea. God is Life and God is Death, the evil, the good, the ugly, the beautiful. God is the omnis.

How can we explain something so infinite, so magnificent, so ultimate with a narrow vocabulary of words developed by inferior minds under crass assumptions with limited knowledge?

We cannot.

Religion is a hoax developed by men to acquire power.  These men of ultimate blasphemy, arrogant and impudent created an image of one THING as God, pouring favor onto this thing, fearing this thing, bowing to this...thing.

And now our civilizations teeter on the brink of self-annihilation, begging at the feet of their constructed god/s, praying that their selfish people may maintain a grasp on life...

But should the thirsty dirt absorb the last drop of human blood, and should these god constructs crumble and blow away, God will remain in the energy of the Universe just as God has for eternity.