publish

read.write.publish

this morning i woke up at dawn and followed the river for a while. the sun came up and the breath disappeared. dogs ran up and down the levee. i showered and dressed and took a spirited step out the door and drove down to a sacred place where i met with some friends to create a reading and writing group. though i have never brought folks together before formally for the purpose, my whole life i have preferred the society of artists and writers, rebels and dreamers. and mostly caring friends. so i am hoping this read.write.publish initiative will go off well for us, and come in with twenty eighteen.

2 artists

to all aspiring artists

You can be an artist if you are creating as you go. you live your life and you record it with whatever materials you choose, in whatever way you wish to record it, not necessarily how it appears to you, but how it feels to you, not necessarily each and every thing which transpires, but those instances which stand out for you, for whatever reason, good or badness aside, morality unnecessary, judgment removed, recounting perhaps some infinitesimal change may have established in your thoughts, feelings, sentiments, or even your style, behavior, fashion, or manner of dreaming or daydreaming, it’s all up for grabs, whether it pushed you forward, pulled you in or dropped you out, whether it silenced you, gave you pause, made you more vocal or expressively settled you into new rhythms or arrhythms. you can be an artist in any medium but if you wanna be an artist try to be an artist every day. the chore may feel quite burdensome at times, and especially at the start but not only in the beginning, either, very often midstream, do not let this deter you, this aversion to effort, do not mistake it for a lack of inspiration, okay, we all get tired by work on mammoth projects in need of our unceasing attention, just battle on through and love yourself more for your ceaseless, tireless devotion to what you do. and remember, when you come across a crisis of confidence in yourself, perhaps in the face of the contender, or in light of a culture which has not yet opened its eyes to you, to your content, remember the unquestionable and valid fact of your life, that only you have lived this life, this life can neither be price-tagged nor questioned, this life is yours and your alone and you are and always will be its great historian. and without you telling it, showing it, representing it? it will not otherwise be known! let this thought alone drive you forward in your quest!

come on. december

Oh happy bedraggled

holy days

of three-legged canines

a-hopping behind

humans

Small yet mighty

effort in the rain

We broke the yolk

on eggnog lattes

the last day

of November

Broke the bank

of well-wishes

one day shy of dear

December

Come on, December

come on, now make me cry

you sure aren’t what you once were

when i was a child

And you. And you. And you

may you have

what i have not

Simple ordinary days

i share with you

leftover turkey in

the pot

Happiness? abundance?

I really hope they are!

If it helps

i can sing some xmas songs

on my guitar

For those left in the margins

i will turn it up a notch

awash in lonely visions

drowned in single malt

scotch

it is you whom i believe in!

my extra-ordinary bees!

it is to you my prayers go out while

down

upon my knees

Keep busy pushing visions

upon the streets tonight!

keep faith. keep faith. keep faith

everything comes out the wash

all right

I will be beside you

making colors!

out my mind!

With faith

we face the void

together

Though apart…

you are always

in my heart

residue of the insecure

Some hoped to conveniently write off all the past, of wrongdoings. Forgiving themselves. Writing checks off their taxes. They tried to whiteout the black, with new grinds and new axes. Well, someone would remember, for history’s sake. How they tried and tried, to discourage our creations.  To overshadow our humble beginnings. To damage our reputations. Out of fear for the same. Discouraged, the more they saw us encouraged. Shrinking back, as they watched us rise. Terrified of being left in the dust.

Insecurity is a motherfucker. 

We tried to include them and smile and be friends. But they had lost sight of the journey and got trapped at the end of the line they had drawn for themselves and surpassed. Their demise was a prophesy, self-fulfilled, coming fast.  Their self-perpetuating machinery, would never take flight. Unless picked up by bouncer, and tossed out in the night.

Postmortem

Sanity went on vacation. Everyone could enjoy a fine primal scream. Finally! Windows were jacked open at any hour for the purpose. It was awesome. Really awesome. Like painstaking creations tagged harmlessly on brick walls, by parking lots and railroad tracks. Adding some light where there was none. For passer-bys to enjoy… meanwhile, at 4:20pm, greenwich mean time, all the breast pockets of all the starched shirts in the financial centers of all the cities of all the world, simultaneously blossomed black-and-blue inkstains.