booksartyoume

http://www.neoprogressivearts.org/
go to this site and, if you choose, see an interview
as well as some paintings from two shows back at the same time.
It is a strange thing, for me, to write
all I need to do is to sit down and write, on most days.
To paint, however, or even sketch, I seem to be
inspired mostly by hope in order to do so. Hope comes in various forms,
sometimes, most times, with children that may not have any objective reason for it,
yet do have it nonetheless. This just blows me away. Then the other is a lover, but
this is memory's delight and desire to be truly in the present. Next to my children,
and others that may not have overt reasons for it, are friends that bring forth a smile from
me, and more so a laugh, and even more so when I find myself laughing out loud.
It is out of apparent darkness that light comes, and rarely is there any light beheld
save for a contrast or enlightening by a little tenderness of a shadow.
I've been sketching off on of late. Must be smiling. Must be laughing out loud.
'Moderation in all things,' a moderate thought that I've only learned after
a full baptism into the whatever of joy, at least each time in my eyes.
I love the to respond, and fully in all sincerity and honesty, as far as I am aware,
save for my own delusion, to each person asking me concerning my 'conversion experiences,'
with, 'This time?' Then, 'With each breath I am gifted conversion into the present.'

'Pagans and Christians sat down to eat' (trg, 11/27/03)

The Pagans and Christians sat down to eat,
both pronouncing a Blessing,
while the Wicker people are outside awaiting their feast.
Here accused of being one or the other,
neither proud of their death in this way, protesting often till the end.
'You're a witch!' the crowds cried out.
'You're a cannibal!' yelled the audience.
'You're a spell caster!' their accusers spewed out against what they didn't understand.
'You sex-a-oholics!' came from an Aphrodite in the back of the room, praying
that the you heard them.
Both have played the faggots thrown into the bonfire.
You can be the feast
or you can feast,
both know the cycle well,
watching the thirteen Moons
sometimes pictured as stars,
set as a crown for the Mother of us all.
Pagans sit at their table,
coming from an altar of Blessing.
Christians sit at their table,
coming from their thanksgiving altar.
"My God's bigger than your God,' both yell,
each await a stream of fire from heaven to consume their gifts.
There are those who say that they have no God, as they look at themselves into a mirror.
Dog, the true one, being dyslexic, the heavenly means of reading literature,
chuckles at their fun, thinking,
'At least the Wicker folks have a clear focus.'
We could be their altar and food set for meat
If we don't devour each other first.
I pray that I would say, 'Fuck off,' to both,
knowing that the corner on the market actually belongs to someone else.
This I can do.

FYI re the above poem:
Note: My heritage, as such, on this plain, is of Cherokee indegenous to this land now called America, my Grandmother's Mother was of the Cherokees, and my Grandmother's Father was from Germany. My Grandfather's Father and Mother were first generation immigrants to this country around the end of the Civil War between the States. Both of his Parents reposed from this time and space when he was barely six years of age, which left him orphaned to raise himself, not but a few years after the Civil War between the States. His privilge, as he would say, was to be raised by many and all. His love for people, period, and all species, still baffles me at times, when compared to all the hardship and heartache that he lived. His presence in the world when I was a young boy growing up into early adulthood, and still now his presence in memory and spirit directs my thoughts of what truly matters.