I Walk Alone

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I walk alone under cloudless skies
willfully desperate but alive,
I walk alone in the night
after the pink misty light
has seeped down behind
the glittering sea
and the daydreamers fall asleep
leaving me free to be,
free to flee
as I trek alone
upon the wastelands
of destiny.

I’ve been around and seen some things
bathed my soul in the cosmic springs
been down some paths, stained my wings
shed some blood in the sad streams
of tears that flood the dreams
of the hopeless; I’ve sheltered
down in the cold thick mud
under ancient oaks in the
ghostly wilderness of
the mystic flood.

It is then,
at an undermined hour,
when the agony
arrives again
my tale will be told
before the years unfold
and it has all
died within.

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You’d Be an Illegal Immigrant, Too (If You Had the Guts)

 

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Mexico for the most part is
beautiful and safe. A lot
of Americans retire and
move there. In a lot of
ways it’s a considerably
freer place to live than
the US. But near the border
it’s a living hell, due mostly
to the drug cartel, which,
unfortunately,
is aided by the
US’s policies on
the so-called
“war on drugs.”

If I had a family and lived
in a wasteland, and a portion
of my community had been killed
off by the drug cartel, and I saw
no hope on the horizon, I too
would break a man-made law and
cross and an imaginary line
if it led to safer grounds.
I’d take the risk. For my family.
You likely would too. If you had
the guts. And if I got caught
I’d hope the
badged bureaucrats
would show a little
empathetic mercy
to my
desperate
predicament.

Vibration

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My spirit resonates
more with an “illegal”
immigrant than a
“just doing my job”
bureaucrat. I’d rather
sip whiskey with a
politically incorrect
social deviant
than a smiling,
suit-clad politician.
I like people
with an ornery soul—
people not pinned to a role.
Desperate people full of love.
These are the folks
that the gods
rejoice in.

Jim Morrison, Before

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Before the fame, before the music, before the Doors,
before the blackouts, before the Miami shenanigans, and
the arrest and the banned venues and his untimely death
in a Paris bathtub, Jim Morrison, little Jimmy was a
long-haired film student, an anonymous drifter, a
son of a naval admiral, a punk, a dreamer, a trouble maker,
a voracious reader, a renegade, a genius, a demented
rambler fueled up on Kerouac and acid with his thumb to the skies,
hitching a ride west out of Florida with the poems of Rimbaud
in his back jean pocket.

Arriving and leaving, loitering on the fringes
of big cities, conversing with the outcasts, the hobos, the unwanted,
street lights gleaming on shards of beer-bottled glass sprinkled
in the alleys, a razor blade pulled to his throat one night
in New Orleans by the lover of an erotic lesbian
he tried to fuck in a dive bar.

Writing, reading, always writing, jotting down conscious
expanding thoughts in spiral notebooks, scraps of dialogue
overheard at rundown bars, passages laced with the
wisdom of Nietzsche & Joseph Campbell, poems too,
so many poems written as the whiskey sang in his veins.

One more pill, one more drink, hell yeah there it is, little Jimmy,
a drunken Dionysus in exile from the age of anxiety, man, a time
when the post war people were paralyzed by fear, their minds riddled
with a peculiar unease, everyone everywhere just blindly conforming
to the whims of their authority figures, shit man, they’ve become
walled-in, domesticated, tamed pets caged up in air-conditioned
paradises as widespread consumerism siphoned the souls
right out of their obedient little bodies. Not Jimmy though,
Jimmy wanted a great awakening. He wanted to break on through
to the other side, shatter the brittle walls that separated the infinite
from the finite, always straddling that fine line between life and death.

Poetry was the avenue Jim wanted to take, fuck everything else.
A poet is what he is, “the priest of the invisible”,
“the unacknowledged legislator of the world,”
to attain and reveal the unknown, to push the established limits,
to throw all the senses into a frenzy and help people see beyond
the imaginary horizons that confined them. Jimmy understood
that to become a poet you must live with a fierce intensity,
gulp down the chaos,  revel in the sadness and despair, and yes,
even flirt with death so as to capture life as naked
and whole as possible. Jimmy saw that the people, the great masses,
have been led astray from the cosmic jungle and nudged into
the profane wilderness of modernity where they’ve lost contact
with the center of who they are.

On the road, on the road again because the west is the best,
arriving in Juarez at the midnight hour, big fat rats scurrying
across the damp dingy streets, little Jimmy sitting there spitting
his broken Spanish to Mexican prostitutes in a boozy cantina,
journeying deeper, ever so deeper to the end of the night, this is life,
Jimmy yells, hell yes, fuck it we’re all mad, up to Cali the next day,
California love, barefoot Jimmy, ditching his graduation to smoke dope
in the warm sands of Venice Beach with nothing but dirty jeans
and a ragged shirt he’s worn for 7 days straight, visions of
Indian blood on dawn’s highways, Shamanistic dreams during moonlit
drives, ride the snake, ride the snake to the end of the night
where the doors of perception will open for those who knock.

Summer of 65’ on a hot August day, Jimmy encounters an old film
school buddy by the name of Ray Manzarek walking along Venice Beach.
“Yo, Jimmy,” Rays says “what’cha been doing, man?”
“I’ve been writing, even wrote a few songs,” Jimmy says.

“Well shit, let’s hear ‘em.”

Jimmy kneels in the sand, collects his thoughts, and slowly sings…

Let’s swim to the moon/uh huh
Let’s climb through the tide
Penetrate the evenin’ that the
City sleeps to hide…

“Those are the greatest fuckin’ song lyrics I’ve ever
heard,” Ray says, “shit, let’s start a rock ‘n’ roll band
and make a million dollars.”

“Exactly,” Jim says with an ornery smirk and a subtle nod,
“that’s what I had in mind all along.”

 

On the Brink

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before the 13 years of public education
before the many church sermons heard
before the 5 years of military service
before the untold voyages into night
before the myriad of heated fistfights
before the career and the money and the bills
before the endless rules and laws applied
before the thousands of books devoured
before the hundreds of hangovers endured
before the burden of being became heavy
i’m 5 years old on a summer afternoon
lying on my back in the great clover fields of
northern Ohio, with pure eyes gazing up
at the big blue sky as dark clouds gather
in the distance. there i am, lying there
in the fragmented light
no hopes, no dreams, no regrets,
a flawless flower
on the brink

Run, Fight, Evade

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you traversed like an escaped captive
through the long cosmic night
only to be greeted by dawn’s dense
early fog, but you took it on,
wading wearily through the pale smog,
battle torn but alive, at last,
piercing through to the other side,
arriving on that lonely island of
self-awareness, smiling ever so gloriously
into the mirror of eternity as you start
to lead life on your own terms, leaning
ever so barefaced in the direction
of your own legacy.

you broke through.

but on the horizon you see something,
you see the belligerent herd approaching,
and they’re closing in fast, and they’re
coming for blood. Continue reading

Cut While Shaving

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5:03 am and it’s still dark outside.
I splash water on my face, lather it
up pretty good and then glide
the razor across.

who is this creature behind these green eyes I see?
who is this soul inside driving the vehicle of my body?
who is this heedless wayfarer in search of the unsearchable?
who is this demented wanderer looking back at me?

why am I conscious of it all, my past, my looming death? Continue reading