12/21/12
A thick blanket of fog covers the Earth
I look out to see the new day
a bright ray of sun breaks through the darkness
and only those who see the light
will dream.
Posts tagged ‘prose’
WHEN NOTHING IS EVERYTHING
‘There is Nothing in the Desert, And Every Man Needs Nothing’
The actual quote is from ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ and it reads, ‘There is nothing in the desert, and no man needs nothing’. It was recently used in the film ‘Prometheus’, from Ridley Scott. It’s a great line and very significant in the film. Where once again we witness the dangers of technology and the humans that create it. Mary Shelley warned of us how our passion for striving to be as powerful over others as God, could lead to our own self-destruction. But we don’t have to read ‘Frankenstein’. All we have to do is look around us every day. Man’s attempt to reach that divine plateau of knowledge, mimicking our own concept of ultimate power we have perceived as God, can be both a blessing and a curse. It is only by our own cautious manipulation of those great powers we have achieved, that we will control our own fate toward advancement or destruction.
Need I remind you of this as you stare at your computer screen? Or dabble with your phone? Or sit complacent for hours in front of your television? What I can remind you of . . . is how every technology is simply a tool. And like any tool, it can be used for good or for evil. A hammer or a wrench can build or fix the greatest of challenges, but they can also be used to strike the life of another living being. And a tool is not a human being. We can use tools to improve the lives of other beings. But tools do not have a heart. They do not feel and they do not love. We often use tools to win the love of others; a new car, a new phone, a new toy. But are we giving with the assumption that the work involved to acquire and gift that tool to win someone else’s love, is equivalent to the love we gift as fellow humans? Is the material gift we give, equivalent to the love of our smile, our compassion, or most important, of our time?
Most of us do not live in a desert. We live in a world where the illusion of abundance surrounds us. An abundant illusion so perfectly manipulated, that we feel no remorse when discarding those things we no longer deem valuable. Our abundant world immediately offers a replacement. We can always buy a newer car, a smarter phone, or another plastic container of water; all of them disposable and replaceable. Of course, only if we happen to be lucky enough or wealthy enough to afford them. But where has our disposable existence of material objects led us? It has led us to another illusion. An illusion where we do not have to face what becomes of our disposable resource once we discard them. We are allowed to wear our blinders and walk away from the refuse of our own existence. There was a time when man’s only disposable waste was his own excrements, or the bones left behind after a meal. We were equivalent with all of life around us, because we shared the same requirements, and we left behind the same by-products. We weren’t leaving our discarded by-products strategically buried for future generations. We were simply returning them to the Earth, where they would recycle into the basic elements of the Earth.
We have learned to accept the illusion of abundance, surrounded by all those material possessions that provide us with the comforts we require. And so I journeyed to the desert. And it is here I realized . . . every man needs nothing. Without a relative perspective in our existence, we have no bearing. And without bearing, we have no existence. All of the material possessions in the world cannot provide the necessary direction for existence. This is the lesson Buddha learned from self-depravation. This is how he achieved enlightenment. There are two examples I will provide (although many others exist). The first example is the child born to wealth. Unlike his parent, who may have started with nothing and achieved great wealth, the child has only known wealth. An entire life will be wasted in a pursuit of happiness through material possessions. And although this person may achieve limitless joys in hedonistic exultation, there will always be an inescapable empty hollow within their lives. Without ‘nothing’, ‘something’ is worthless.
The second example is the starving artist. A master of their Art, but impoverished. In their barren material world, they can create masterpieces of painting, music, and literature. They have the perspective of ‘nothingness’. So to them, every meager possession is a possession of wealth. Here again, their life’s fate can move in either of three different directions. They might continue broke and desolate, creating magnificent works of art. And likely die broke and desolate, but a great artist. Or they can achieve wealth, and their lives will take one of two paths. Either they will lose their creative spirits and immerse themselves in their newly found material wealth. Or, if they are wise, they will continue to create art, but maybe not as passionate or inspired as before.
There are countless examples, every day, all around us, of both the wealth born child and the starving artist. And then there are the rest of us, somewhere in-between. Without knowing ‘nothing’, we will find nothing. And without finding nothing and knowing what we have found, we will not ever find anything else. I have found nothing in the desert. And in the desert I have found everything. I can now see that although I have had everything in my life, without finding ‘nothing’ in the desert, I would not know what it was that I had. I would not know what others do not see. And I would not be able to give you ‘nothing’. Knowing that it is the only ‘something’ I could ever give you, that will keep you nurtured and without thirst, in any desert.
“I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams…”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
WOODS END
I followed her nightly into the forest
her pain was azure blue
stems of her legs
thin saplings
trunks of stone
between the leaves
and the autumn moon
she would whisper her secrets
unfolding in the darkest brush.
One night of the new spring
our eyes met
we had no one road to travel
only empty pastures
of drunken light.
————————————
Snake Oil Cures for Little Men with Smaller Dreams
I heard your poem on the radio today.
Little children were crying and bleeding
bowing to your mighty power.
I pulled my glass eye out
and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk.
Three flies were mystically immersed in conversation.
They were talking about you, of course.
How you fought off all the angry slaves
so we could all drink milk and hug when
the cheerios were no longer crunchy.
I stepped on a pile of you today.
But my new no-stick nuclear shoes
kept me balanced and poised
for your next question.
I had to answer honestly
as all the satellites were
joyously listening
and the quiet drone
of your newly found synthetic existence
filtered the last ounce of sincerity
in the world.
Now everything is happy blue
and darkness hides inside a solar flare.
My chain keeps rattling loudly
inside this cold locked chamber.
And all of our hammers and shovels
were worn down to splintered oak.
But I forgot what trees looked like.
And when I pulled your plastic vagina
from underneath the dusty glass dome
it wouldn’t talk to me anymore.
It dried out and shriveled away.
Now all I have left is a rusty nail
and two holes in my blood soaked hands.
—————————————————
GRANDPA
With his brittle bones and his sun cracked face he rode near ‘bout every mile of the round-up trail. He licks the wind and stares out at nothing tobacco dripping lip, spits. Hell, I fought the sun, and I won fought a sneakin’ coyote once, he lost. Broke rattlesnakes in half between bare hands. Got caught in the drought of the Tulsa ride, too. Thought I’d die in that damn burning desert never have I thirst, so much for one wet drop. They found me about four miles from Breakers Pass. Eighteen-ninety-seven, that was my last long ride. Too many damn city boys tryin’ to run the drive. And now my grandson drives off in that noisy pick-up. He’ll never know the dry taste of sand and grainy dust between your teeth. Wind kicking in your face like a thousand angry hoofs punched in your mouth. And my friend, cold black night. Damn all this fancy fiddle. ___________________________
THE POETRY CIRCUS
– a day on the playground –
It was a sunny day in the park
and all the world was roses.
The playground toys around the gym
were spread about with vision.
In the garden of the park, the poets
played with poesies. They danced and sang like
foolish ones and praised the words
that brought them.
The poesy poets on words with wings
within the sun, without the suns
all about were scattered.
Playground fun allowed to run
what else then should much matter.
-Dark Clouds In A Rainbow Sky-
Suddenly in the happy playground
all the birds were silent.
Everything began to change
even knights and mystery.
Round the bend was heard
the sins, of all of mans misgivings.
In the playground, smells of men
whom smelled as no man ought to.
Two torn t-shirts, big boy, thin
stank the park. Stopped all the barks
and all the poets scattered.
But poets pass where powers lost
and no one is the wiser.
– The Sinister Sisters of Words Un-gathered –
Then the menace unto the park
descend a death, feline faced fat.
From steroid soaks and moldy books
his toy sword poking
maybe nothing matters.
Into the spin, swatting thin
bull dog face fly swatter.
Came to beat the big boy thin
came to beat the batter.
But no one came to watch him swath
the same. That was the matter.
Panjo pirate, one eyed brit
between the feathers, tickled him the parrot.
What sweet scheme, if rhythm matters
save the world. One mad librarian
a perfect world I gather!
(2003)
MINDY AT THE COFFEEHOUSE REVISITED
Mindy leans at me with wide blue eyes
sparkling stars above a steaming cup
of Bailey’s and Vanilla Bean.
Mindy always has a question
really meant for God.
Expecting me to answer her
mystified and energized
in canyon deep philosophy.
Why do lovers lock embraced
in fear and desperation
fighting odds against a world
fighting odds against a universe?
My buttered bowl of grits
stare back at me.
Lump-less and textured white.
Because they know they’ll never win
a vulnerable surrender.
Her fingers rubbing gloss red lips
hungry and seductive.
Listens distant
quite intent and satisfied
enough to pass the salt.
IN A TOWN ON A FARM
dedicated to G. O.
In a town on a farm
not too long ago
a farmer told his livestock
‘this is how it is,
this is how it should be’
and all was well
the chickens were fed
the cows had hay
and all the pigs were happy
in the mud.
One cold December day
the farmers dog went rabid
he told the farmer
‘I don’t care.
it doesn’t matter
we can all do
what ever we want.’
The dog bit the farmer
who later died.
The chickens had no feed
the cows had no hay
and the pigs lost weight
while rolling in the mud
they were not happy.
They all died.
——————————————
CHIQUE GOTH
It was around the time of the Middle Ages,
no the real Middle Ages, Goth
we were pretty much scared of anything moving.
We’d piss and shit in the streets.
Damn the smell of it all was horrid.
There were lots of fortune-tellers
making two bits or a byte
as in your mouth bite.
Lots of people using stupid shit
like frog eyes and newt nuts
trying to cure people dying
from black plague, an AIDS 1.0, duh,
or leprosy, venereal disease, or starvation
from no money honey.
Ya’ understand that, don’t ya’?
Religious fruits called monks,
no, not all, Sate-loon child,
there were some good ones hear,
and Court priests walked around
all the time and everywhere,
just like today, really, it was creepy,
in black robes,
and they’d cut your head off
if ya’ didn’t give ’em
a head job or your wife or
something for gods sake.
We ate with our bare hands
and burped and farted at the table.
Now we were Goths.
These kids today,
all dressing up like it’s Halloween
all the time.
As we look back now,
those were the really good times.
Lots of death and rotting flesh
in the streets. Plenty of corruption
and murder and rape.
Now those were the days.
Yeah, the good old Middle Ages days, huh?
Write, write, write…
If you become obsessed with being published, you will become just another frustrated writer like so many others in the world. Write every chance you get, no matter how ludicrous or nonsensical what you write might seem. Write for yourself not for others. Most writers who write to make others happy lose their soul. Don’t ever let any critic frustrate you into not writing, this happens very often to too many writers. All you are doing is giving in to someone who probably doesn’t even know what good writing is, and you only hurt yourself.
Don’t be frustrated by vultures, such as may often be experienced on the web. Experience life! Good writing material comes from true life experience and your unique interpretation. Desktop writers are usually stale or journalists, and we all know most journalists are rarely real writers, they are just paid record keepers. Those that never go beyond their own four walls can not possibly know what the rest of the world feels. Keep pads of paper and a pen wherever you hang out, by your bedside, in the kitchen, at your desk, in the bathroom, in your car…and don’t be afraid to pick them up and use them whenever you can.
Keep your writing organized. If you write a lot of crap and just keep throwing it in drawers, that is where they will die. Type your stuff into a computer. Bind it in an organized fashion. Catalog it. This way you will always know where it is. You will also be able to come back and read it, figure out if it sucks or if it has potential, then polish it till it makes you cream. But don’t over polish. Anything too slick is worthless. It has no heart. Read as much as you can…from other writers, about writing. Read and study all the grammatical rules, then make your own.
Courses and seminars are just fine, I guess…but usually you learn what works for others and not what works best for you. Often they will fill your brain with rules that cramp creativity. Take anything any academic tells you with a grain of salt. Academic writers usually think they know it all and are great writers. Usually they are creatively isolated and lame, and they only write for other academics, who are usually the only ones that understand their misaligned gibberish complete with obscure and insignificant references. Write so that anyone can understand what you read. The more sensibly and sincere you write, the more it has universal appeal and significance. Never, ever take the publishing world seriously. It is a marketplace and like any other marketplace it is full of prostitution and idiots. Treat them as such and you are sure to succeed. Remember… published writers have very often sacrificed their own personal creativity for some sleazy magazine or some high brow snot nosed esoteric rag which hardly anyone reads.
If you do decide to waste your time trying to get published instead of writing…this requires lots of letters, postage and time. Eventually someone will publish you. Never be discouraged by rude editors who never acknowledge or reply…this is a majority in the publishing world. Play the contest game if you like, but if you do, go for the big ones, with big rewards. Don’t waste your time on the little guys, they do little to advance your career. Before you submit anything, polish it. Ask someone with half a brain to read it, and listen to their idiocy, somehow you might manage to extrude a grain of truth. Visit as many little artsy fartsy writer get togethers as you can. Here you will find other hopeless circus clowns, but every now and then you might just meet someone who can actually advance your writing ambitions.
Write, write, write then write some more. Then edit, edit, edit and then edit some more. This is the true secret. And as previously and wisely mentioned…have fun! If you are not having fun when you write, it becomes a job. And in this case you might as well become a journalist, or write for magazines or journals or Hallmark cards. Invest in a current copy of the Writers Handbook. Visit the Poets & Writers web site…these can be good resources if you know how to use them. And finally, never ever put up with anybodies crap or sell your soul. Editors, agents and their kind can be vicious, self-serving and butchers…tell them to kiss your arse. And write what you feel…this way you will always be happy and you will not feel like you are a writing prostitute, like so many other best seller list sluts.
THE CIRCUS . . . . . . . . . AND THE ZOO 