| Here is Poetry and part of my Novel in Textual Form. |
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Text from my Latest Book, "Letters to Esmeralda" Reinvent the Wheel May I beg your indulgence? Can I divulge the taboo without a pregnant viral bulge? Why does my opinion about the mortal curse and its doom keep me silenced like Mohamed in his tomb? When vulgar death roles over in his grave, sin doesn’t stop, nor does the drinker of Gin stop and behave…nor do the Muslim Jinn Ghosts. The vulgar bite of sin with its sharp teeth never pauses, for a clause, even when sin’s gloomy eyes open on perfect innocence as it appears in the eyes of sin’s protesting victim. I hopelessly hope that sin chokes to death on its on wickedness and dies of a stroke. I hate the way it thinks that the yoke and burden of itself is just a joke. The wicked shouldn’t be able to breathe in the divine secrets of innocence…there is nothing innocent about the Mafioso as he breathes in a smoke. Why doesn’t gold kill the miser? Why doesn’t the sparkling diamond make a person wiser? Why are the blind man’s eyes poked out? Why does the carpenter cut off his own limbs? Why, when I finish turning all these wicked pages, must I reinvent the wheel? Noah’s Apocryphal Love You taught me how to say no. You taught me to mock when friend’s faces started to glow. You let only those on your ark who only you liked. You let some cling to the Ark’s sides, but you knew they would eventually let go. You said the ones who would drown were the ones who would go with the flow. `I remember how first off you tried to embark on denial, by making me count every screw, and you made us sharpen the dull knives as we walked in single file. I remember your haughty smile that in irony put down everyone who hadn’t crawled with you a mile. I eventually in desperation would go down to the level below, to purgatories desolate row. I often thought of your negative seduction as a forbidden no. But seduction became a yoke and a duty that kept my little raft undertow. I could see deep emotions swirling in the sea around the Ark, but I knew that it was meant for the lost to go to, to drown themselves in those depths. Down below in Noah’s bilge there seemed to be no room for love down there either. There were many whose ship never came in. Was Noah’s love only apocryphal? Cut off your Nose to Spite your Face Othello was an odd fellow… The Turkish nosed Othello was a Moorish monkey man, who dropped the devout Hankie in front of Desdemona, as he defied all faiths and principals. On one side he was a Turkish spy, on the other, he was the Li’ Abner of Shakespeare. This drunken sailor learned how to trick human nature and religion in big brother’s spy schools of Istanbul. Everybody is a sucker for the magic hankie trick… Keep the criminal tranquil and sedated, don’t ask him questions about the covert hints of hatred…the hints he never stated. The jungle of society lacks the rules to conditionally control his rubber soul. Lies aren’t always observed when the mule gets skinned on parole. His soul was wild, not tame. Rome was ruled by his wolves when Rome didn’t have a name. His hidden lameness defied the Shamus. His threats of death kept the Skunk Works alive and kicking. He had his skill to kill hardwired from his early electric experiments. He never paid his debt to the mad scientist who taught him. His approach to sanity was circuitous. Perhaps if he dressed himself in links and chains his hard-wired brain would realize that his skill for killing was unlawful and lame. Why do people still echo that, “The poor monkey is not to blame?” Othello couldn’t reserve indebtedness to a single bull of a man, such as the likes of like his opposite, Jesse. Just as Lil’ Abner, when on the spot, lacked candor, it was also true that his jealousy for Jesse was ever the more grander, and, because to the truth Abner never pandered, it was Abner’s demeanor that caused him to at Jesse take, a deadly pot-shot, because his nobleness raised Abner’s dander. Perhaps it was because much like Abner, Othello was the monkey’s uncle of Jesse James, and the games where too hard to play when you didn’t know everybody’s names. You need two tanks to hold a monkey: one for Othello and another for his twin, Lil’ Abner, the trump card of the junkie. My Imaginary Friend Come Alive Are you my imaginary friend come alive, brave soldier? When I believed in eternal peace I was at the same time tragically upset because my father with his searching eyes didn’t know his way to my door without you. My father remembered in the photo tried to guide me had empty eyes of a soulful pet. You stoic vigil comforted me and my father, and filled the gap and brought peace to my soul. You filled the gap and made the empty whole. I was happy that I could fill your cup with unified purpose too. You saw me, a pacifist with a basket of eggs, worried that they would all break, worrying that someone might call me a fake. You knew that peace was all I had to cling to and that I wished deeply that I could fill you and your soldier’s soul with peace and hope, because you alone knew the tragedy. You knew all the faces and names. You saw all the locks of our houses that were unlocked. You secretly protected us with a wish for recompense. Mother Mary was a mother of a nine/eleven child named Jesus. You, brave soldier, as in Trojan wars came to save and unify us. You were Helen’s imaginary friend that came alive. You were her child’s toy Trojan horse. Soldier of war, I carry your cup of peace that you have saved for the parents of victims. |
Text from, "Mystic Babylon Revisited" The Ghost of Jan Kerouac (Haunting divinity or random order) Just as the truth is cloaked in mystery, you are a mystery Jan. You are a mysterious query into tangled beauty. You, that delicate jigsaw piece of the “One Mind”, have seen through the glass darkly, yet astutely. Our brains, even though separate, are one in mirror mind. Shattered glass doesn’t keep us from seeing our own symmetry beyond the, ego’s material bind. We swept the broken glass under the rug…we kept our transient selves in our hats. The clown mirrors that our fathers look at us with, reflect the delusions of an older generation. We are to them like clowns who suffer indignation. I can still see you in your peasant hippie dress. My mind touches your mind… there is no need to confess your frustrations to your breast. I feel your love, even as the memory of you blurs. I can still see your demure face…and when your mind desperately whirs, I can see in your eyes the connection between us in our rapport, as conversation manifested, and heated debates about life occur. Why does the ego sever direct connection to the “One”, why is the “One” so glaringly pure? We know the significance of us being a piece of the big puzzle but we don’t see all the pieces together melded as one demur picture…we seem so separate, but so cock-sure. “Things slip by,” don’t they Jan? My memory is flashing…this wheel is on fire! I trusted you more this time around, a little less afraid of the distant look in your eyes. I wasn’t afraid of you because in your eyes I could see the home-fires there that burn away the lies that burn so bravely as we both beseech one another for truth, while our small egos are judged and tried. Om. Gold in the Gutter When one lives in the gutter, selfish pride doesn’t control one’s life, and boasting about social prospects is not something that the poor of spirit are concerned about or have to utter. Even though, in this monetary deficiency, when one feels unsettled like the California Gold Miner Sutter, before he discovered the gold that eventually caused his heart to start to flutter, things remain more predictable than if you were like him, a well-to-do, and had to ponder more materialistic convoluted matters, that could bring on the need to moan and mutter. One great thing that one no longer has to do is wear medals, of battles, of self-centered triumph, which really only have been borrowed or stolen, nor does one have to accept petty challenges, because you don’ t hear the discord of self-indulgence and its clash in the mind like thunder rollin. When the pot of self-worth bursts its bottom, and water boils over in the kettle, you will be sure that there was no need for that kind of medal. On the streets you don’t have to be anyone but yourself, and the only person you have to please is your soul with its inner wealth. Maybe then you can stop the rain and end your little hurricane. It is not something that is real, nor should you let it, your temper strain. It is good to remember that when weather is inclement, that it ruins only on those who are vain...those are the unrepentant souls of bad intent, who don’t know what it really means to be healthy and sane. How can excessive greed be the patent answer to happiness… isn’t an austerity of body and spirit a much better invent in the main? It is so much better to be poor, and ascetically constrained. Honor without compassion is worth no more than one uninteresting red cent that is rusted and stained. From this type of self-indulgence, man must abstain! Intense There were no suggestions by the old to the young, about sights unseen, of the obscure hidden truths, that defy the intellect of the naïve individual teen. The educated elders didn’t try to elucidate and separate fact from fiction about the hidden psychic and moral menaces lurking in the child’s mind… if one compared the child’s mind to that of the seasoned adult, their minds surely weren’t as keen. There were no attempts to try to guide the child on the path of conscious recognition that sanity is not always present in his genes. They also didn’t instruct the youth in proper caution, nor did they escort them through tutoring in self- awareness which is the proper way, to a child, nurture and wean. Nor did these elders candidly guide the young teaching them the type of conscience that would help them avoid the ridiculous and obscene. The child couldn’t tell what truths were coveted by the elder, nor what he was hinting under that dark cape of knowledge, because the elder was pompous, and his presumptuousness was laced with secrets that were hidden and veiled. The children didn’t learn from the elders which road to follow, because the elders wouldn’t teach them the idiosyncrasies of knowing how to walk the path with a compass so as to know the location of the right trail. These unrevealed details, made these cloaked truths ungraspable, because the young did not know the elder’s secret holy grail, nor did they know what mature truths were coveted by the elders…little did they know about the purpose of the nail. No one could see in him, the child, his apparently crushed soul that crumbled at the last second as his reasoning failed. Nor did a single child know what these capes hid, nor why some of those innocent young people would falter in their learning and end up behind the bars of a jail. They had never been told the tale that the elder had been told by his father on one stormy night in the lightning and thunder as the night winds wailed. The children ponder in their fogs of ignorance, unable to remember or comprehend a single instance, when they might have perchance observed an obvious offense against the common man who stumbles in the miasma, who, forgetting his own nature, is unaware of God’s works because the makeup of the mind is so dark and dense. The child of God can’t make sense, out of how he has lapsed and has fallen behind in this psychosis of ignorance, and while he is qualified to make rhyme and reason out of these delusions, he can’t help being incensed, because the delusions have changed the focal point of his psychic lens. Why does the truth come after much terror and suspense? The Child of God, even though clever and quick, lives within this ignorance; in the eternal second of repetitive error, instance by instance. He, the Child of God, not being properly warned to watch how to conduct himself in the fog which is so thick and dense, does not perceive or realize that he should carry a magic lantern or light, to keep away the ghost of terror which is so deep and intense, that light being his only defense. |
| Text from, "Spirits of Bondage and Inherent Transcendence" Psychosomatic Fear in the Mountains In and around the mountain we drive. My mind flickers with fear and instability as we drive over the rugged and dangerous mountain by the lake. I secretly hoped I wouldn’t fall in the lake, like the lake of fire, even though it was quite placid. I felt strong by the mountains, I could feel its winds like the mountain’s breath. I wish the wind would have whispered to me, “Be careful, my paths are dangerous.” My soul felt slightly moved as we drove over the hazardous road. I could feel my limitedness when I compared my soul to the power of the mountain. As I shuddered at the cliffs, I felt as if the mountain shuddered with me. It was as though, if I and the jeep I was in were to fall, the whole mountain would fall. The mountain looked big and tall, but, somehow, fragile as if, were I to leave the mountain overnight, it would tumble down in a fright. It was as if God could knock us both down with his bare hands. Lift Me up to the Stars! Don’t we think we are unintelligent, and that is why the wise men looked to the stars? We lack an agent to get us out of this celestial farce, because our honor it mars. The repo man is going to come at Christmas, instead of Santa, and repossess all our cars. Because there are so many bad actors, of which whom the saints haven’t paid for their sins; they fill up our bars… and now we are going to have to listen to them whine on their guitars. The martyrs are many, but in the heavens there must be less. The way we live now they are locked up by Eliot Ness, and then the imprisoned saints seem to serve eternity in jail… Instead of serving penance cleaning up societies mess, with a mop and pail. They chase Ishmael instead of the Great White Whale. I believe that justice might not be in the stars, but there the sentences are not doled out unequally, and the saints brains aren’t as if locked up in jars. I think the dominoes of accusation may in heaven fall, but they go straight down the road, and knock and lock up those who they know really have gall and carry no load at all. In heaven the mixed-up kid who, on Earth, gets locked up for life, will get a short sentence for carrying his cross, and his sin like a pocket knife. The God of Earth knows Mother Earth is his maid, but she no longer cares, because she was polluted, slain, and in the earth laid. The servants of earth that remain, no longer call the fireplace a happy place that has worth, nor, can their bodies and souls sustain, the years of pain, which for their suffering God has not repaid them, from his purse. The blood of the lamb has not been removed, that is on them, and has left a stain worse than Vietnam, neither has anyone paid for their certificate of birth, or even removed the meddlers curse. The servants also wonder, and ask questions that would make people wonder whether God has preserved the neighborhood. The clay we were made of was once a cosmic swirl, but God ribbed Eve when he didn’t have enough clay to make a girl. The saints we still have are scarred by their works, and are stuffed turkeys, who are called by people jerks. It is getting so bad that people are afraid to admit like a pet, whether they have sinned at all because all they did was bite their master, the vet. If the aliens come, the pets will be set free, and the animal that is fed food won’t bite the hand that feeds. When will the master take the blame for the unruly pet he has taught to bite… not for just once upon a time, but the dogs life has been the same, since time immemorial, and I know you don’t know this dog, because God didn’t even give John Doe a name. Natural “Haiku” No need to reason, climbing a mountain; instinct is all one deals with on its jagged paths. There is no need to fight brother lion’s inquisitive wrath, when through the math of unity, all is one, as wonderment defies the beating of the sun. Society’s social machine does have power over the land, but many times even the seemingly unbending find it natural to give a helping hand to the forest and man. It feels good to know no affliction, and to be free as the wind, but conversely, natural words bound by a cover and structure can sooth the grieving soul, and cause the untamed mind to heal and mend. The potter’s mold is unnatural to the clay that is found in the hills by the wayside on a sunny day, but how effortless and serene a pot looks, balanced on the shelf, molded into a useful silhouette, as you meditate on its simplicity, and keep your unwanted thoughts at bay. Faces shift more than the mountains, hills, and open spaces; much of the scenery rarely moves or even changes places. Images in the campfire are both wild and tame… reality is made up of both, and is not always a game. |
| Text from Podcast Novel, "Little Bird Told Me" Chapter One Leaving Home FEELING AT THEIR LAST, BIGOTED STRAW, Steven Colt, Sr., and his wife, Lydia, were assessing whether to kick their son, Steve, out of the house for his drug habit and his chronic scholastic underachievement. The young man’s inability to apply himself in school was caused by his general confusion and bewilderment about how to manage his education. With an undetected learning disability and no fitting mentorship, there was little to be done to ensure his success. Steve’s efforts were significant, but without proper guidance they brought him no due success in school. Even worse, he did not learn how to relate to students or teachers. Colt and his wife were opinionated, yet vague, when explaining their agenda to their Steve. They had all but decided that he would have to leave, but wanted to give him a few last chances to redeem himself, as if he were the dark horse in a race and might yet win back their favor if he ran the course well. So, Steve naïvely attempted to patch up his relationship with his parents. He wanted to raise their spiritual sensitivity by taking them to see a favorite guru of his who had arrived from India to visit their town. The Guru was, as most gurus are, a pacifist and had even known Mahatma Gandhi. However, both of these facts were contrary to his parents’ mindset, and the only thing Steve’s plan achieved was to further irritate them. During one hot, oppressive afternoon, as they all sat in the living room discussing the prospect of hearing the Guru speak, Steve’s father said, “We’ll listen to this Guru of yours talk. But I’ll tell you now, there’s no need for us to learn about these vain, pagan habits and idolatrous ceremonies. I don’t think it will help, but we’ll go along with it.” As he spoke, a globule of spit flew from his lips and landed on the toe of Steve’s left shoe. Steve said ardently, “Pacifism is never a vain pastime and the gods of India, like Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, are fantastically surreal and interesting. It’s not just idol worship, but true religion!” “You are an elaborate dreamer with fanciful thoughts; your concepts are all wrong! I don’t know why you believe in pacifism!” Lydia asserted, stomping her foot as if to smother Steve’s passion for innovation. Steve felt stifled and inadequate. He worried, and not for the first time, that perhaps he was being irrational and the worry made him go pale. He swallowed past the hollowness in his throat and declared, “The fruits of pacifist revolution will change the world!” So, Steve naïvely attempted to patch up his relationship with his parents. He wanted to raise their spiritual sensitivity by taking them to see a favorite guru of his who had arrived from India to visit their town. The Guru was, as most gurus are, a pacifist and had even known Mahatma Gandhi. However, both of these facts were contrary to his parents’ mindset, and the only thing Steve’s plan achieved was to further irritate them. During one hot, oppressive afternoon, as they all sat in the living room discussing the prospect of hearing the Guru speak, Steve’s father said, “We’ll listen to this Guru of yours talk. But I’ll tell you now, there’s no need for us to learn about these vain, pagan habits and idolatrous ceremonies. I don’t think it will help, but we’ll go along with it.” As he spoke, a globule of spit flew from his lips and landed on the toe of Steve’s left shoe. Steve said ardently, “Pacifism is never a vain pastime and the gods of India, like Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, are fantastically surreal and interesting. It’s not just idol worship, but true religion!” “You are an elaborate dreamer with fanciful thoughts; your concepts are all wrong! I don’t know why you believe in pacifism!” Lydia asserted, stomping her foot as if to smother Steve’s passion for innovation. Steve felt stifled and inadequate. He worried, and not for the first time, that perhaps he was being irrational and the worry made him go pale. He swallowed past the hollowness in his throat and declared, “The fruits of pacifist revolution will change the world!” “Bah! Revolution, insurrection!” barked his father, which killed the conversation altogether. Time passed, and the day arrived when the family planned to see the Guru. Steve’s heart lurched, as the hope that his parents once again would accept him into the fold swelled within his breast. Steve grew impatient as he waited to leave. Trying not to sound presumptuous, he carefully said, “The Guru will start speaking in an hour. Shouldn’t we, maybe, leave soon?” As if he were announcing the burning of Rome, Colt said, “We’re not going. We decided that anybody who preaches pacifism the way this Guru does must lack tenacity.” Brazen with sudden rage, Steve shouted, “You never address my feelings! Can’t you compromise? You say that the worship of Indian gods seems like idol ceremonies. Well, you are dull ceremony! You must learn from other people’s ways!” “Your generation needs to be censured!” Colt interjected. “You shouldn’t knock the ruling order! You are nothing but a pacifist Machiavelli rag doll! The only way you have is drugs!” Trying to comfort his ego, Steve searched for a term in his unsophisticated mind to define his parents’ rejection. “Isn’t this called pretentious and pigheaded?” he wondered to himself. |