I saw the clouds
like magician’s smoke,
a marvel to shroud
the mountains, and
I wished I was there,
‘mongst the mysteries there,
and slumped aback
in my chair.



Wassup! I’m terribly sorry I haven’t posted anything in a while, my Papa’s dying of three different cancers so I’ve been helping my poor Nana stay afloat and not drown under the stress of preparing for life after he’s laid to rest. Anyways, it is the Fourth( or was when I wrote this,) and life is sucking right now, so enjoy!

Life is a war fought for peace.
A battle of bloody calamity for unblemished tranquility.
Endlessly upwards towards Parnassus
A war is waged without an end in sight
For all the world’s might is bent on the Right
Till they don’t know it’s wrong-
The essence of my song is that life goes on and on
And when we think that peace is coming it only means there is a respite
In the ravagings of death and pride, those
Eternal cronies,
And we can’t bear any more inside cause the hospital beds of our hearts are full with the wards we
Pick up on the battlefield as we march along, ordered by the masses we
See shuffling along beside us-
We do what we want when we want it
But that only breeds disunity that comes
On the edge of declivities
To the sharp rocks that await below-the collapse of civilization-
As if one nation could hold
The station of watchdog of the world with
It’s golden sword of liberty
Swaying aloft and unsullied by the
Blood of conflicts not its own. Whatever happened to
The Doctrine( Monroe turns and crumples to dust in his grave?)
Am I my brother’s keeper?
The Sempiternal question breeding misdirection as
Each tends to his own knitting or
Whatever seems fitting
To please his heart of stone,
A stone metamorphosed by the
Liquid Love hardening in the cruel oxygen of
This worlds hostile crime. Oh where did we wander off the path straight an
Narrow and become slaves to Pharoah!
Our pride has blinded us from the dangers of postmodernism, the drug for the diagnosis of realism,
Where we set up a million lights made of darkness-
we’re dwelling in a cave and
We keep bumping into the stalactites precariously hanging down above us,
Ready at a moment’s notice to impale us on the stalagmites below, a swift death demised by the mountain-builders of truth-rejection and lie-protection.


Imaginary Prison

I’m trapped and I can’t get out.
The chains of my bondage
Have shattered my soul.
A grey mass of filth
And putridity, a nest of squirming maggots, tumbles
Recklessly from my chin.
Patches from ancient trousers, cursed by the sin of their former wearers,
Protects my legs from the ravishings of
The disease-laden drafts,
Malaria-infested rain-which through
Slits in the mortar and stone of my
Cell seep-and
The rodents, with their devil-may-care
My flesh devours itself as
My bowl full of maggots-with soup
Mixed in-is tossed out the
The Window.
There is a Window,
A taunting, cruel-hearted Window,
Which chuckles as a ray of warmth
Slips between the blockade of its iron sentries, here
A second, then lost forever as my
Eyes lap it up like hostages
Marooned on a desert isle.
They say Freedom doesn’t exist-the bastards!
You know what Freedom is-it’s the
Carrot dangling on a pole before the horses,
Goading their foaming skin and bones onward,
Egging them on to reach the Impossible,
Until there’s naught but his shoes left.
Then, chortling with contempt,
They toss the carrot to the wretched beast.


She looks so perfect not standing there,
Light dancing through her hair,
Hand clasped in my mine
We’ll be just fine-
But we’re not.
Where’d you go when I asked about you?
You turned away.
I don’t understand, what did I do?
Whose fault is it anyway
Is there a problem,
Have I been blind,
Is this all an illusion
Was I an intrusion to your perfect life?

Doomed to wander, then.
Doomed to a reclusive life amidst the throngs of beating hearts,
Everyone’s heart beating for someone and someone in return beats
For them, and the world goes round.
But it stopped. The world stopped turning.
Can’t you all tell? Don’t you feel the earth striving to push you back as
You try and force your feet forward along the top of it?
No, you can’t. You float along with your reality-deceiving love.
The world has stopped turning.
So I wander, on this non-spinning orb of rock and carbon, polluted by the
Shared breath of lovers as they delight in their match, their breath
Hot, steamy, and loathsome to me as I envy the beauty that they are, two
Halves of one heart coming together
-Who’s got the other half of my heart?

Speaking for the Silent

Broken, she slides down to the floor,
Remnants scattered from the night before,
Her body in pain, her soul in hell,
She cries unchecked tears-that, after all
These years-come still.
Wrenching her face and her hair with a grimace
She reaches for some covering to hide
Her shame.
The cold wall, her only comfort,
Makes Spock look like Jesus as she
Cries against the wall,
Every tear a waterfall.
Her body is a tool, a method, a hole to be filled-
She hates it, but there’s no other way to pay the bills.
And the children, the children who cry, who clamor and prattle-
Must never know why their mom’s treated like cattle.

Tie in place, with ever stoic a face, the man struts out
Of the hotel where he “spent the night.”
What pleasure did he take,
With that “hoe” who fed his “mojo?”
He has money, and power-screw the price for hour!
In one hour, she’ll just be a memory, a moment of
Pleasure stabbing knives in an already dead body.
In two, a chuckle, a smile on his face-
How could he know he’s chipping away at
Her worth, what’s left of a disgrace!
In four hours, she’ll just be another whore,
A member of the choice cattle for us men to haggle over.
What happened to the worth of a woman?
What happened to the respect that is her due?

“When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am.”

The Daily Post

Maya Angelou by Spanglej, CC BY-SA 2.0.Maya Angelou by Spanglej, CC BY-SA 2.0.

Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with deeper meaning.

Find a beautiful piece of art. If you fall in love with Van Gogh or Matisse or John Oliver Killens, or if you fall love with the music of Coltrane, the music of Aretha Franklin, or the music of Chopin — find some beautiful art and admire it, and realize that it was created by human beings just like you, no more human, no less.

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.

When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we’re capable of, how…

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Recommended Reading: Montaigne’s Essays

I’m diving head-first into this!

The Daily Post

In case you thought you were hallucinating — yes, my blogging-related recommended reading for today is, indeed, from the 16th century. It’s the Essays by French writer Michel de Montaigne, who singlehandedly invented the genre (and the term!).

By Anonymous (Unknown) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons Anonymous portrait of Montaigne, via Wikimedia CommonsMontaigne‘s not your average Dead Classical Author, though. Before you fling your iPad out the window, take a look at the following quote. If you’re a blogger, odds are you’ll recognize yourself in this:

I have no other end in this writing, but only to discover myself […].

(Of the Education of Children)

Montaigne was an extraordinary man for any number of reasons. He’s still loved and admired by writers everywhere, though, for being the first to understand that writing, no matter what the topic might be, is first and foremost an expression of our innermost selves.

With every sentence in his Essays (available for free in a number of formats

View original post 508 more words

The Martian Chronicles

“Raw, gentle, and easy, it mizzled out of the high air, a special elixir, tasting of spells and stars and air, carrying a peppery dust in it, and moving like a rare, light sherry on his tongue.”
-Ray Bradbury

Note: If you have not read any of Ray Bradbury’s masterpieces of lyrical beauty, then you have been living your life in a dank, subterranean cave, only hearing stories of the sun and all it’s glory, and not experiencing it for yourself. My writing and the lens in which I examine the world have been enhanced a million times over, thanks to Mr. Bradbury.

Stepping down from the soapbox, I get back to my purpose…

I recently read “The Martian Chronicles,” by Ray Bradbury. A few months ago I read “Fahrenheit 451,” and my mind has been drooling ever since. His artisan grasp of words leaves every sentence a stroke in the masterpieces that are Bradbury’s The quote given above is just one of the jewels from “The Martian Chronicles” that I pulled out for my personal enjoyment.

Aside from his colorful descriptions, the format of the story was brilliantly orchestrated. The story is set up as a recounting of the history of the settling of Mars by the citizens of Earth. Rather than having chapters, the book is broken into journal entries detailing the general settling of Mars, much like an anthology of American pioneers’ diaries. Thus, there is no single storyline about a person and their life, but a snapshot of individuals throughout the history of Earth’s settlement of Mars.

All that aside, the story was filled with thought-provoking incidents. The topics Bradbury weaves through his tale range from love to obsessive serial-killing, madness to revenge, joy to tranquility, and enough to fill the space between Earth and the Red Planet!

My favorite “entry” happened to be a rather macabre tale of revenge, surprising me as I’m not usually a fan of the macabre. The tale was about a wealthy heir who moved to Mars and hired a host architects and home designers to recreate “The House of Usher,” a renowned Edgar Allan Poe’s. With all of its dreary, ghoulish splendor he planned to ensnare venerable leaders of Earth who had banned literature and the creative arts, killing them with creations and machinations from those famous works, using dragons, the pendulum from “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and various other gruesome methods.

After reading it I wondered why I had enjoyed it so much: it was a grim story of unrelenting slaughter, anyway. Then I realized that the artistry of words, the cleverness of the revenge, and my indignation at the burning of beautiful literature all put this story into perspective for me, and it is now a classic in my mind.

[prepare yourself for your over-used, shameless plug]

So, if you’re ever looking for a delightful, thought-provoking, imaginatively beautiful tale, read the The Martian Chronicles, it shall not disappoint. Trust me.

Peace out homies! ✌️

[yes, that name is not real, but it’s a cool, fantasy name I made up as a pseudonym, so violah!]