Zombies (A Poem)


These people

Soak themselves in amnesia.

Their brains swathed with dreamy cotton

from cradle to grave.

These people

are as dead as light switches.


They are as dead as door knobs,

Yellow highlighters,

Butane lighters,

Soft pillows &

Garbage bags.


All the corpses masquerade as the living

while the corporate clowns smile

with big, shiny trademarked teeth.

Behind each Colgate commercial –

Behind each plasticine mask –

A wriggling face is decomposing in worms.


Their each act is a senseless trapeze.

Their each moment a continued suicide.

Never once do they breathe

That holy, eternal breath of life,

Never once do they engulf themselves

in a flicker of freedom’s flame.


What a shame!

Opinions & Ponderings: Second Lives, Writing and Art.

Second Lives

I despise these alternate, secondary lives we have created for ourselves – all out of vanity, selfishness, pride, illusion, and a desire to heighten our petty and unremarkable reputations. Social media outlets have facilitated the creation of whole, second lives — false and shitty ones. All of this wouldn’t be so bad, of course, if these redundant lives didn’t utterly diminish and at times obliterate our first life, the true, honest-to-god life.

Obviously, citizens may choose the scope and power which they give to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. but it often turns out that these media outlets will in turn determine the scope and power of the people whom use them to an insidious extent. Does a person use Facebook, or does Facebook use a person? Important questions for the contemporary, all inclusive, cybernetic age.

Well, here I am, age twenty-four, sounding like a cantankerous, old man. A Luddite. Could be because that is precisely what I am. Although I would prefer to be ascribed the word, “soul”. A cantankerous, old soul. I say to hell with these superficial gadgets, these needless material goods, these virtual existences! I want sunshine and stars. I want poetry and books (not nooks).

And I want lots of sex, too. I want a quickie, not a selfie. I want everything close to the heart, not binary-disseminated, soul-dislocated, virtually-separated, nor cybernetically evaluated. I want eternity in the present, not the sour promise of  praise in the future. I want the heat of passion and truth, not the cold atrophy of ego aggrandizement.

In short, fuck a life made out of ones and zeros!

What I want is Life, first – and not second.


A writer is a creative person whom is badly, desperately in need of seeing a professional psychiatrist. Instead he settles on writing because a) he likes it and it’s a nice thing to do and b) it’s simply a cheaper alternative to a shrink!


Art in the Subtle and Extreme

Subtlety (like the letter ‘b’ in the word) certainly has its rightful place in the realm of artistic endeavor. In fact, I would argue that a piece of art could not do without some subtlety. However, if all of your work is a subtlety, then all one has is a mediocrity. For extremes have their rightful place, too. Extremes of passion allow for the peaks necessary to the dynamics of any decent, well rounded, provocative piece of artwork. Extremes and subtleties go hand in hand, forming the hills and valleys, the lights and shadows of all captivating art.

Yet if all is a hill or all is a valley, then all is bland, monotonous, conservative, and in short – a terrible bore! Effective art requires us to balance color and form, sound and vision, as well as our own projected attitudes.



Life is a Memory in an Old Man’s Dream & other Telepathically Paranoid Musings.

I Have Created Myself

How very often do I find myself writing autobiographical things which end up becoming just as elusive as a stranger’s perfectly forgotten dreams. I begin my sentences with such great certainties — “I did this” or “this event had such and such an effect on me” — when all of a sudden I get that unsettling feeling as if I were being gently levitated from my seat, as if I were not really here at all. I become estranged and apart from my own subject, which is myself.

The dawning of the realization that you are an illusion of your own making comes first as an uneasy feeling in the tender-to-the-touch Almighty Ego. Inevitably, the knowledge becomes confirmed on the intellectual level and thus becomes wisdom. I have created myself out of the fabric of my own imagination!


The Differentiation of Illusions

Who is to say the artificial and painted theater stage background is more or less of an illusion than our artificial cultural backgrounds — our cities, homes, jet-ways, parking lots, etc. What makes the one artificial and the other not so? Both the stage and the city, the intended and non-intended illusions, come to the same material result. Both are products of human imagination. Every city upon planet Earth which makes up the whole of civilization first began as a seed in the minds of our strange and creative species. Perhaps even we ourselves are the complete constructs of our imaginations — an illusory product of purely neuro-biologic and chemical processes!


The Usually Quite Unusual 

If there’s one thing I’ve observed in this life, speaking from a subjectively objective point of view, it is that everything is usually quite unusual. Or at least, this the impression that one is given from day to day living. Absurdity is merely normality put on full, roasting and shameless display. The average freaks on the street are our fellow men. Coincidences and synchronicity happen all the time. The extraordinary is cousin to the mundane. The uncommon….all too common! Any seeing, feeling person with their eyes and minds open will know this in the back of their consciousness, or if they’re anything like me, at the forefront of their bleeding, pulsating and dreaming hearts.


My Paranoid Telepathy

I have this paranoid fear of people reading my thoughts and attacking me violently over the nature of their contents. This fear springs up when I am thinking something particularly nasty about a given human being. For example: I am on the day job. I’m pushing a row of shopping carts uphill toward the cart garage and there is a woman in the way. I push and heave the carts and finally divert them onto a separate path so that the customer and I are not running into each other. I am making this effort purely out of courtesy, and not that the situation required an apology, I apologized to the passing lady anyway. She merely scowled at me and continued on her way. That’s when I think to myself, “She’s just mad because she’s ugly. I mean, just look at that poor, tight-lipped cunt!”

Even now I feel the hysterical daggers of that woman’s pink-polished finger nails at the back of my neck. Thank the Gods-which-do-not-exist that telepathy is seemingly a non-existent human ability. For if telepathy were to exist, I would have been dropped in the river with cement shoes a long time ago.

The only form of telepathy I wholeheartedly believe in is the one where I write words and you are reading them in your mind. This doesn’t make me paranoid though. Just audacious. If you don’t like my word-thoughts, well, fuck you Jack!, ’cause they’re all mine!


Life is a Memory in an Old Man’s Dream

Life is inevitably but a memory. Living is only a semi-material experience, like sand falling through spread fingers, or phantom hands. In the tail-end of living, all we have are memories of having lived. Perhaps it was all some strange and great, meaningless dream? No. Couldn’t have been a dream. I was there. I lived it!….but am I here now? Am I living it…whatever it is? In five minutes past will I say I was merely dreaming this? The hourglass is emptying of its sand, from top to bottom. I recline on the couch and watch as the sand falls and I begin to fall too. I am falling like autumn leaves onto a cold, frosty ground…I am falling, falling into the nothing.

I am just a dreaming man going back to that eternal sleep, that thing I was before I was born…