I Feel Sorry for the Devil


He was created in perfect form
by an all-knowing god
who knew well in advance
that rebellion was

The devil,
he must have grown tired
of the stubborn,
self-righteous antics
of his creator.

The fall was unavoidable
because free will is
an illusion.

God created the prideful devil
in spite of knowing the
severe outcome.

And the devil,
that poor fallen angel
devoid of forgiveness
and love by the all-loving
creator, is and always
will be the scapegoat
for the nasty evil
in each and every one
of our broken

I feel sorry for the devil.
The only unforgivable one
among us.

Infinite Fall


Rigid beliefs dehydrate our lives.
You can see it the eyes of the humanists
and the Christians and the hopeful
among us. Never alive in the moment,
always planning for something that
never comes. Thinking we humans
are divine creatures that must rid
ourselves of the guilt of our birth.
The FALLEN man, the FALLEN creature,
what deluded animals we are.
Can’t we see that we’re mere
accidents of backseat lust? A
blip in the spectrum of eternity.
A dying organism thrown
on a planet that we ourselves
are killing. 

Forget heaven, forget utopia,
I want to suck the marrow
from the bones of this life.
The one given to me by sheer
luck of a rapid sperm. I want
to forever gulp the sacred womb
that lies between the exotic
thighs of this world.

The only way
is to fall
the great infinite fall
from the disillusion
of the artificial light
into the deliverance of the dark
where the heart weeps tears
of great ecstasy and love
flourishes untainted,

Is there a place
for my lamented flesh
here in this unfettered
purgatory? Will you not
have empathy for the
iniquities committed
on the way down?

Or will you forever point
your hypocritical finger
and shake your embittered head
behind the rusty bars of your
own self-imposed prison?

Paradise is for the unliving.
Stay there. I have no

But to be a creator,
to be a curious life liver,
is to be in exile

We’re Made to Create Art.


We’re made to create art.
To create.
If you can’t create art
make your life a work of art.
Dissociate with this benign
culture that has turned you
into something obvious and
obedient. Don’t be predictable
like them. Quit gossiping
and involving yourself
with the trivial. Become

Elevate your
Say it.
Paint it.
Capture it.
Tell the truth.
The Gods will finally
rejoice in the accident
of your birth.

Life is Death’s Prisoner


It’s 3am in the morning
the street light spills thru
the blinds and throws shadows
of bare branches on the
bedroom wall. A symphony
of despair plays around me.
Death howls in the silence.
I walk out into the dark.

It’s 3am.

Today will be just like yesterday.
I will go through the motions
and tolerate the hopeless
commotion around me – this
pageantry of idiocy that we
call culture. I will pretend to be
attentive to matters that mean
nothing to me. It’s 3am and I’m
somehow alive. Breathing in the dark,
a shard of glass in the alley,
a mere particle of existence,
an accidental organism who’s
keenly aware of his looming
demise. Life is death’s

It’s 3am.

Why all this? “Society: an inferno
of saviors!,” Cioran tells us.
Everyone is a walking commercial
playing their theatrical part
in the fiction of life.
Age brings detachment.
Maybe a renunciation is needed.
I no longer want to partake
in this carnival of orthodoxies.
I shall depart from the ranks
of this pathetic parade of progress.
The past is a lie, justice a delusion,
freedom a curse, future a graveyard.

It’s 3am.

I’m loathed because I loathe what
most are amused by. I have no
country, only its language. I’ve grown
weary of categories, definitions,
and moral imperatives. I bleed
to assess my mortality as I
trudge thru the wastelands of
insignificance to meet the
abyss of infinite silence.

only in death
we find

It’s 3am.

The Artist


A good artist is always a threat to the establishment and to the established beliefs of the people. A good artist pierces thru the wall of allowable opinion. To be a great artist is to always be a rebel in the society they’re born into.

Almost all art forms these days are too delicate, sanitized, stripped of profundity — therefore sterile and dull. The edge is gone in most art. The truth is watered down. Most artists these days sacrifice their art to the weak politically-correct vibe of the day.

Not Dave Chappelle. He’s not only saving comedy with his fearless truth-telling out-of-bounds witticisms, he just might be the man, the light, the prophet that saves all art from its impending doom. Ignore the anemic critics and watch his Netflix special. And if you get offended, live better.

Mr. Nobody


Woke up this morning with an agonizing
urge to be an absolute nobody
in a world gone frantically mad
with everybody trying
to be “a somebody.”

To be unknown and unseen
like a distant star behind
the moon, a dandelion
along the endless highway,
the night owl nested
high in the pines, a
cool breeze that rustles
the ancient ferns.

To be alive, to experience
the nature of our primordial
soul, to cleanse myself
of the filth of civilization,
to resuscitate the inner archaic
man, to unite the conscious
with the primitive and allow
grace to devour what’s left
of my iridescent heart.

Into the timeless woods I go
where the moonlight illuminates
the infinite peace of things.

I go to the woods as an antidote
to modernity. I go to the woods,
in the words of the great Thoreau,
“to live deliberately, to front
only the essential facts of life,
and see if I could not learn what
it had to teach, and not, when
I came to die, discover that
I had not lived.”

The Richest Man Alive


I spent most of the day barefoot
with muddy toes in the long grass
on the banks of a small pond. I
was laid up like a midday vagrant
under the shade of laurel oak
where I was reacquainted with
the soil I came out of.

Far in the distance you could
faintly hear the feverish
commotion of our dying
civilization. God, we move
so much to find so little
in this haste-maddened world,
don’t we? Continue reading