A man limps towards me, dreadlocks tickling his bum, eyes darting up 6th Ave then back at me. ‘Molly, marijuana, ecstasy, LSD, mushroom, quaaludes.”“Not today,” I say.‘Coke?’Usually, the pedestrian crossing would be thick with eyes, but today, it’s just me and a dreadlocked dealer making a marketing pitch in the middle of the street. “Have […]
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It has been a while since I have posted. Since last we spoke, I have left New York, sailed from Australia to Burma, lived in England, flown back to Australia and then back to New York.
I have written hundreds of poems, thousands of words, 1.5 books and countless letters to friends and family. Now, it is time to embark on a new adventure.
I’m going to slow the spread of fear. We need a new contagious, and COVID Operations is going viral.
Join my new blog for positive propaganda during Corona.
Stay safe, my friends.
Love is not my expertise. I prefer to tease-a dusting of snow, a splinter of sun, a cool breeze strolling to shore on a summer’s day.
But this, you, me, the way you make me, well, it’s different. Maybe the snow will stick, the clouds will split, and that cool breeze will linger long enough to steal the sweat from my skin.
Cliffs bitten by storms.
Rocks chiselled to grains.
Fish fly and birds swim.
The ocean is for everyone.
Wind still, but not forgotten.
Moons rise and suns drown.
Currents push and waves shove.
The ocean is for everyone but will spare no one.
Come voyage with me…..
The sails limp, the ocean still, the sun a distant beast
As it sinks I sip my drink and look out to the east
A pyramid rises, from the ocean depths
A molten pitted heart, bubbling steam its breath
I’ve started a new blog, please check it out.
I am white guilt. I am white privilege. I am white and aware that the color of my skin absolves me of sin. Police don’t see me. Shop keepers don’t suspect me. Employers approach me.
I am guilty of entitlement.
Just because I am aware doesn’t mean that I am innocent. I police my thoughts but I do have thoughts. I curate colored stereotypes, indoctrinated by a society that points fingers at individuals.
A society that birthed the individuals.
Philanthropic trending topics are as common as a bird that flies backwards. Youtube’s feed is starved of global needs. The latest sneak-peak releases get more hits than kids eating feces. Babies sucking lemons more views that US drone strikes in Yemen.
Don’t get me started on the gamers. The pre-pubescent teens that live in a world of pixelated death, uploading live feeds that draw millions of bated breath as pulses pound for who will die next.
Yes! We live in a world where humanitarian disasters are sidelined by “will an iPhone or Galaxy die faster in boiling water.”
I’m not here to spoil the boil. I just want depth in the trending topic list we create. Maybe then teens will tap screens and become aware of more than the Kardashian’s latest affairs, Donald Trump’s hair, what not to wear, how not to care. We have the power to click what’s trending, yet we live in a realm of pretending that the 1st world race has no 3rd place. Senseless consuming feeds what teens are exposed to. Our fingertips hold the power to skew whats viewed and bend the trends to lend themselves to humanity.
Just maybe if global plights populate social sites, teens will click. Ears will prick. Compassion will stick.
Awareness inspires change, so lets fill feeds with something worth digesting.
Pain sparks Art’s complexity. Pen inked by living’s gore.
Greedy ears ablaze with blood. I prowl the winds for more.
Rickety whispers stalked. An addict for morose.
Your fable breathing life to mine. Your cinders lighting prose.
Pain sparks art. A septic fuel, charcoal etching page.
Your facts becomes my fantasy. Your life consumes time’s stage.
Please let me know your thoughts. Critique inspires, whether the feedback is good or bad.
“An artist is a glutton for morose. They do not point the trigger. They are not innate bystanders. They are viscerally aroused by darkness, yet endeavor to cure that which arouses. A frantic pen intensifies morbidity as palpitations are released to the page. As the pen steadies and ink drips dry, so to does the artist’s gluttony. It’s now the audiences turn”
Mind to Unbind
The popping doesn’t damper when the night has calmed the land
The horns of horror sound from within the mind of man
The pops are not a kernel, yellow ruptured white
The pops are not a distant car, chugging through the night
The pops don’t stop when peace is pledged, when the roar of war is silenced
The pops will never leave the mind, as mind now holds the violence