Archive for March, 2013

I was driving to work this morning and noticed the road was closed. Parked at the opposite ends of the road were two black police humvees. Riot guns were strapped to the dashboards. Cops everywhere, dressed in black tactical gear. The vehicles were black. This is right in front of the courthouse, mind you. I’m like, what the hell is going on here? Later at work, I find out the road was closed for an Easter egg hunt.

This is what our ultramodern kids are growing up with.

Cops come into the coffee house where I work daily. They’re cool enough, but they all wear bulletproof vests now. The first time I saw this, I have to admit, I thought, these seatbelt violators must be getting crazy these days.

In the late 1980’s, my alcoholic uncle was going through a heart-wrenching divorce. He grabbed his shotgun and tried to commit suicide. He couldn’t do it. My aunt freaked out and called the cops. He got the bright idea to stand in his front lawn, waving the shotgun of course, until the cops arrived. I guess he hoped they’d be able to finish the job for him. The cops did arrive and maintained their cool through the whole episode, despite my uncle being an abusive drunk and pointing his gun all over the place. His 16-year-old daughter ran out and calmed him down. He gave up and the police took him to the station. They kept him overnight to sober up. He was out the next day.

If the above scene happened today, he’d been blown away no doubt. They’ll kill you these days if you’re holding a telephone. They may even kill if you’re taking a picture with that cell phone. If my uncle wasn’t shot, he’d certainly be spending the rest of his life in prison.

Perhaps there is a disconnect with older generations. Maybe they think things are still the same. I just can’t figure out why we allow our tax dollars to be spent on this crazy shit that is designed for the sole purpose of harming us. Everything that helps us is cut from the budget. I go to the emergency room and they take my blood pressure. A week later, a bill collector is calling to collect a four hundred and ninety dollar bill. I can’t drive to work without the risk of getting a flat tire. There are meteor craters for potholes all over the place. They say I can’t get a job better than eight-fifty an hour. That I’ll have to work that shitty job till I’m eighty, before I can collect social security. Schools are closing down all around me. But they got no problem taking thirty-two percent of every book I sell. Nineteen percent from my shitty paycheck.

Hundreds of billions of dollars spent on the military. Budgets proposing hundreds more. What do we get? Police out in double the force enforcing double traffic fines every holiday. Good going. We’ve allowed them to declare us public enemy number one.

A False Rhyme

Posted: March 27, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

She snakes out frayed nerve fibers
Uses them as if marionette wires
& still this fool falls in behind her
As if he’s a sun eclipsed by a moon
She drains the light from the room
Don’t expect it back any time soon

Can’t seem to get up from his knees
This parasite does as she pleases
Some fall in love with their diseases
Ultramodern Stockholm syndrome
One day she’ll call & he won’t come
Some become uncomfortably numb

I love my city and I every day I watch a little more of it burn away.

It’s said the world is a stage and I’m but an actor in a play.

I want a new disguise.

Tired of these tired-old lies.

But I am really happy for these guys.

A real show of hands.

Finding a way to profit under any type of circumstance.

And all the jobs this suffering creates.

Yeah… it’s great.

But people are dying here.

Bombarded with mongered fear.

With no clear destination.

But that is what happens when you let yourself be taxed without representation.

We nodded off at the wheel.

We missed out on the new deal.

We got kicked in the gut.

But now we’re waking up.

Little by little returning to grace.

It took us awhile to develop a different style of syntax to articulate this new kind of treachery being perpetrated upon the human race.

Thieves nailed next to Jesus.

They got us.

Slaves in a machine.

We’ve been sold our own dreams.


Enjoy it for it won’t happen again.

Everyday a few more thieves are raised from the dead.

My book ZENspeak is about many different things; but really, it is about one thing with many faces.

It is about war. Not traditional war, but the psychological war we wage on ourselves. It is about private prisons, economic slavery, betrayal, and lost loves. All of these issues stem from one dirty word that no one dares speak of, addiction. You barely breathe the word addiction, and the gears automatically start turning in an individual’s mind to justify how they aren’t one. Some honestly believe that they are above this word.

Corporate interests have built America upon addiction. Whether we choose to realize it or not, this is happening. We have sports addicts, junk food addicts, celebrity gossip addicts, and pharmaceutical addicts. We live in a commercial enterprise based upon addiction.

You need what we got and if you don’t get it, you’re a freak of nature.

Do a social experiment one day. Turn on the T.V. at any time of any day and watch a couple of commercials.

Take a toothpaste advertisement for example,
Fade in:
A man walks into what appears to be a job interview and shakes the interviewer’s hand. The narrator tells us that first impressions are everything. That our smiles are the first things a person sees when they meet us. That if we do not have a particular toothpaste we will have an ugly smile and no one will like us. The commercial, in a span of mere seconds, shows us an array of first encounters involving the main character. Every single one of these people is so damn happy to meet this guy with the great smile. A shot of this man’s wife hugging on him and his kids hanging on him is the cap of the commercial. Everyone is having a hell of time and the commercial gives one the impression that it is all due to this toothpaste. Yeah, no one finds a mouth full of rotting teeth attractive, but the product placement is shameless.
Fade out.

If you didn’t really need the products before you started using them, you will really need them after you do. I remember using acne creams when I was a teenager. If I stopped using them, the acne came back worse than before. The same goes for nasal spray.

It seems like a harmless little thing. And alone it is. However, it builds into a conglomeration that attacks the psyche every waking moment.

That is America. As long as you are good on the outside, there is little worry about the inside. But I didn’t come here to write about toothpaste and acne cream.

ZENspeak is about looking inward and facing the beast that is manipulating true worth. The beast that has somehow found a way to profit from suffering and has left us desolate and vicarious.

The battleground is in the characters’ minds. In that sense, the main character is both the protagonist and the antagonist. The war waged on the self. But that does not explain the whole story either. This may be a battle fought in the battleground of the mind, but we have been coerced into this battle. Kind of like a government that sells arms and ammunition to a population, only to declare war on that population after they are armed and using the new-found stockpile of weapons as validation for the invasion.

ZENspeak deals with this insanity.

It took us awhile. We had to develop a different type of syntax to express this new treachery being perpetrated on the races of the earth.

Many people dismiss my subject matter because of the drugs and the critical examination of postmodern democracy. This is no glorification; rather, these words stem from consternation. The intention of this book is not anti-American. It is an attempt to save the America that bureaucratic-hypocritical-political legislation has wrapped in chains.

If you like your art hermetically homogenized and pasteurized by the same format as what it follows, this is definitely not your kind of book.

The other day I was reading another author’s blog when I came across a fabulous quote form Anton Chekhov, I do not remember the quote verbatim but I will attempt a paraphrase:
A writer does not write answers, he writes questions.

This reminded me of something I just wrote a week ago:
I can’t speak for other writers, but all I do when I write is paint observations; of the world I’ve been through, the world I’m in, and the world I hope to live in. It is like seeing a horrible event and taking a picture so people will know this event really happened. However, when some people see the photograph they get mad at the photographer instead of the event he photographed. I just paint; I wish I had the answers. Suppose that is why we have science and religion.

America is all about shooting the messenger these days.


Some think it’s being too negative.
Like negativity is an alternate reality.
As if happiness is the ultimate reality.
& all those not in it are negative conspiratoids.
When in all reality,
it’s two views of the same reality.

Some people see Big Macs,
hot dogs at baseball games,
soda, & potato chips,
as freedom.
Others think of those things & see,
obesity in the face of world hunger.

Some think we fight wars to protect our rights back home.
Others say the people taking our rights are from back home.

All I have to say about that:
It’s all good when the good is happening to you.

Being addicted to opiates is like getting hugged by a giant vagina.
At first,
the pulsating warmth that courses through the blood is irresistible.
You’re stuck to her glue.
But then you find out it’s riddled with sexually transmitted diseases.
That it is sleeping with half the town behind your back.
& you try to quit;
but she won’t let you leave.
Not till she is finished with you.
Not until she has fucked all your friends.
Sometimes even screwing family members.
Blew through all your money.
Sold all your stuff.
& when the last drop is squeezed from your writhing body,
then she will leave.
Right when you had just gotten used to having her around.


This is not glorification; rather, consternation.

the web that connects consciousness;
all of us waves,
rising and falling back into the ocean,
barely measuring on the spectrograph of time.

This world is a trip when seeing it through the eyes of a lifetime.
the opening eyes of a child.
One day seeing the difference
in those that once grew with us:
getting sick,
getting old,

Experience experiences till one day the world is different.
No longer suffice to just exist.
They say there’s little room in the world we live in.
Need reasons to justify existence.
Personal validation for years of procrastination.
We try to find something  bigger than ourselves.
Something to give us reason amid such madness.
A reason to get out of bed.
Something beyond the sadness and dread.
Some become parents.
Live for their children.
Some fall in love, use drugs, practice art.
Some fall in love with making money.
Some all the above.

You’re a big girl now.
Swimming with the sharks now,
in waters so foul.
Scarcity for some,
others abundant.
A world of have’s and have not’s.

The particulars of reality:
Does it have to be this way?
Is it even real?

A whispered din of conspiracies circles the open air.
Terrible rumors that make far too much sense.

Building a fence.
A monologue of dissent built to near psychosis.
Paranoia and schizophrenia
opening dialogues.

Intellectual mechanics tell us of not only of the possibility,
but of the probability of the existence of the multi-verse.
There’s been breathtaking theoretical mathematical formulas;
through the 21st century traversed,
rehearsed in scriptural verse.
Somehow evolution/s been reversed.
Quantum physics is the vanguard in a paradigm so flawed.
A nature that can never be divine.
In our reflections are the faces of god.
Believe it or not,
matter does not proceed consciousness.
Consciousness dictates reality.

So why is my consciousness not driving my reality?

Either there is a supernatural/divine being;
or there is another human being,
governing my reality.

I know I am real.
I believe that you are real.
That this experience we are sharing is really reality.
I have faith it is real.
Because our suffering feels real.

Why all this time imagining the intricacies of our suffering
if so easy to end and to mend?

Who has this absolute control over reality?

Let us say that my consciousness manifests my reality:
I don’t want to suffer in my reality;
I’m thinking it away right now;
yet, in my reality the pain still lurks.

But I don’t think physics is wrong.

Only my ability to manifest my reality is being vetoed by
the executive/bureaucratic/legislative powers
of someone or something other than me.
The manifestation of our reality has been hijacked.

Deep down,
we know this, man.
So why is  no one taking a stand?
Descartes gives little security, I think therefore I am?!

We need to control ourselves completely.
No amenity for the atrocities stealing from our autonomy.