The Power of Imagination

In a time of such division.  A time where people across the world are scared of terrorists.  A time where people don’t trust and fear their leaders.  A time when we seem to be moving apart from one another instead of moving closer to each other.  A time where fear is perceived to be more prevalent than love.

There is hope.

We as a people go through waves and there are always troughs as much as there are peaks.  You can see it in the way the cultural perspective has shifted.

The popular things now are reality TV, minimalistic music based around repetitive beats and repetitive lyrics, poorly written books meant to shock or entice.

We have weaved ourselves into a trough of apathy and complacency, where we let others tell us what to do or think and our entertainment is not there to entertain, but to anesthetize.

But out of the malaise comes art of quality.

Small at first.  A book here.  A movie there.  A song.  A painting.  A TV show.

Something that comes along that makes us think again.  That makes us wonder.  That makes us hope.

They come from the strangest places.  Disney’s Wall-E.  Bad Robot’s Star Trek.  Netflix’s Stranger Things.

You might be thinking what does this have to do with where the country is?  What does this have do with us as a people?

It’s about the power of Imagination (with a big I).  We as a species have separate processing systems in our brain.  One processes logic and the other processes creativity.  The creative part of your brain controls your emotions.  It follows that when you feel fear or hopelessness you have an absence of creativity.

The more imagination we develop, the more we will be able to process, the less we’ll fear; the more we will hope and dream.

Art leads the world.  Star Trek had one of the first interracial couples (and many of the first inter species couples). Star Wars ended the gritty anti hero hate that was brewed during the Cold War.

We went through such a boon in the 90’s that we couldn’t help but slip back.  The Cold War came to and end, Apartheid ended, the global economy was growing more than ever in history.

So we relaxed.  We let our imaginations grow cobwebs.  But the more you see unique new shows.  The more unique new art you see.  The more intricate the lyrics of the music you listen too.  The better the writing of the books you read…

Know that the more and more good or great art you see and intake, the more and more the culture is shifting.  Our hope comes from our imagination, so lets be more childlike.  Lets go on adventures.  Lets fight more dragons.  Lets have more tea parties.  Lets Imagine.


The Drifter

Today in honor of finishing one of my books which is based upon poetry, I’m submitting some poetry of my own.  I wrote this one a few years ago, but I never published it here. Enjoy!

Driftwood finds it’s way to sand, how is it that it’s so hard for me to find land?

and this state of constant wonder, leads me divided; torn asunder

in this horrid devil’s playground in my head…

My fingers tell the story, of the broken trumped up glory

when my mind refused to listen, drowned out by broken pistons

the silence beating louder than my heart…


The darkened frozen night glows, and the turgid sky just bellows

of my time examining seams, on the boulevard of broken dreams

as words flow down as kindling for my hearth…


But those wounds of empty pages, who speak louder than the ages

as the clock runs down to zero, I’m not a battered, broken hero,

just a man who wont give up until he wins…

The Haranguing of a forgotten art

Who was the last poet you read?  Were they living at the time you began to read their writing?  When asked about what poetry they like what does everyone answer?  cummings?  Frost?  Dickenson?  Shakespeare?  Have you heard the names Louise Gluck, Billy Collins, or Phillip Levine?  Why is it that there hasn’t been a visible cannon in Poetry since the ’60s?  Why is it that one has to follow poetry to know the current names?  Is this because we aren’t teaching anything than the previous Cannon?  Is this because it’s harder and less lucrative profession?  Is it because reading it is too much work for our sitcom/reality TV A.D.D. minds?  (I’m less inclined to believe this last one)

Whatever the reason Poetry, though not my favorite form, can create beautiful spectrum’s of emotion in a more succinct and visceral manner than anything written out in prose or text.  So the next time you sit in front of the TV think about picking up the latest Billy Collins for a quick poem.  It wont take you more than 2 or 3 minutes to absorb and let settle into your brain and heart.  It might start to change your opinion of its worth.

(by the way Gluck, Collins and Levine are all Poet Laureates from the last decade)

In honor, here are a few of my own:

The bright white flash of the city

Exploding paper is hilarious
more so than deconstructing
drinks.  The flow of time makes
for illuminous revelations with
exposition that makes no sense
and dialogue which is trite.
What better way to celebrate the
night than to discuss diatribes
of normalcy and illusions of delusion.

Sunday at the bar

Sycophantic rotoscum
devouring thier hoppy
indifference with the
order of benevolence.
Smiles as big as a
Chrysler grill.  Loose
immoral bodies thrusting
and grinding to the
Deferential beat.
Thud thud thud
Powerful aphrodisiac
That music
That driving
power these people
live by.
How is happiness so
How can this cause so much
At home squalor,
ignoring the fugus which
grows on thier month
old dishes.  Who is accountable?
Living a college life;
living paycheck to

Who Wins?

This is one of the desire poems from the Bowling Alley period.  This is probably also one of the very last times you’ll be seeing something from that time period, everything else is fractured and incomplete, sentences and phrases and short lines of verse.  I like to think that one day I’ll find the time to bring all that together, but for now I’m focused on finishing “Book of Antiquity” the first book of the Revolution trilogy.  Be warned…this is one of the most emo things I’ve ever written.

Who Wins?

I spend my time pining

while your attention

goes to him.

I fantasize about our embrace

The warm clasp that seems

to brighten the spirit.

A cold realization.

A Dream.

You’re dreaming too…

beside him.

I hold onto delusion

like a climber with no carabiner.

I’m at risk.

It feels good.

Danger and infatuation

go hand in hand.

You revel in the peace

and ease he creates.

Who am I to kid?

Who am i to compete?

Against convenience and memory?

I must have lost.

It’s hard to chase the horizon,

The empathetic myth of love,

When cold fronts pervade.

I see his smile

I feel sick

He knows he won.

But what is the prize?

A fake idea of property?


Who am I to kid?

Who am I to compete?

Against convenience and memory?

I must have lost.

Fake contrivance of belief.

Falsehoods once held true.

Facades of love.

Your relaxed smile,

his lazy arm around your shoulders.

So who am I to kid?

Who am I to compete?

Compete for love

and absolution to grief?

Against convenience and memory?

Fuck it, I lost!

The Sweetness of Love

This is a special poem for me.  It was written stream of consciousness style, on a beautiful day with the sun beating down on my face while I sat at a cafe by the beach.  I had just heard my Grandmother died.  I wrote it for her and I guess, a little for myself as release.

The Sweetness of Love

Sleep so deep

Let the warm glow

Bless your plight.

Dressing your inhibitions in a wooden box;

expressed ruminations hung so low,

desperate cries for your life,

depressed beneath.

Suppressed by urges of superfluous testosterone.

Do you still believe?

Do you remember the dream?

Your un-arching faith in me?

What was the motivation,

for love in this pedantic narcissist?

A poem so greatfully

dedicated to you,

now confusingly about me-

Perhaps this convoluted

search for meaning

is encapsulated by the words

you once said to me:

“I love you honey,

Never give up.”

The potential to have talent or “An Epiphany”

I’m going to give you a short essay I wrote during the “Bowling Alley” era, as well as a current poem I posted on Facebook, because I think they work well together.  Be aware that when I use ignorant I use it in the dictionary and not derogatory sense. It is a person who lacks a certain knowledge.

An Epiphany

There seem to be three types of people in the writing/reading world.  Those with Talent, those with potential and those who’re ignorant.  This fact causes great distraction and great despair.  I think I could be a good if not a great writer, I think I could have talent, but there is something in my brain which seems to block that switch.  I merely have potential.

It’s such a difficult process and yet for so many people it just flows…as if their body were an extension of their mind and their fingers were a conduit for their art.  They are the talented.  They can sit and let the vision flow through them for hours on end.  They see the course in front of them and they don’t think twice about it; they just go.

I have potential.  The majority of the populace has potential.  This is the ability to see something, to want to create something, but to lack the necessary drive, or vision.  This is the collection of people who like to write, like to paint, like to create with their hands, but employ their creativity as a hobby for all the aforementioned reasons.

Then there are those who have no potential.  The ignorant.  The people who read a piece of literature and don’t understand it; who see a work of art and see it as colors on canvas.  There are the people who just don’t care.  The reasons are irrelevant, schooling, culture, drive, class, it ultimately comes down to what is the interest.  These people would much rather catch a midnight matinee of the new Michael Bay movie.  Why would this be?  How can anyone look at a piece of art and not enjoy it?  Because it’s work.

I study art, but I’m no artist.  I contemplate it.  I assimilate it.  I gorge on it, then I fake it.  To people with talent it’s a drive.  It’s ever present and forceful.  It becomes deleterious to them in it’s absence.  The ignorant don’t understand at all.  They need to be told what the meaning is, it needs to be spelled out.  They don’t want to exert or do the necessary work.

But I have potential.  I love art in all it’s forms.  I see it, I study it, I embrace it, but I’m not artistically inclined.  I don’t have talent, I have potential.  I have become a student, I love the idea so much that i want to become it.  I crave talent, but it’s work.  It’s hard and it takes major effort, but there is a voice somewhere deep down that knows that talent is something you’re born with, it isn’t something you can develop.  So I keep telling myself to work harder, to try harder.  I have potential, I tell myself.

So I drive and hope people will mistake me for what I truly am.  I am a person with potential and I’m a fanatic and I’m trying to fool people into believing that I have talent; that I know what I’m doing.  But I’m still learning.  I’m still pushing myself forward, forcing the creative side to mesh with the analytic side and create something beautiful.  I have potential, but If I work hard enough I hope to fool the world.


And here’s a brand new poem that I think goes fairly well with the essay.  I’ve been having some writer’s block while working on my novel and have made very little progress in the last two months.  Then one day I sat down and for some reason the creative juices were just there and this poem was the result.  I’m still struggling a little, but at least there is some work happening now…

The Drifter

Driftwood finds it’s way to sand, how is it that it’s so hard for me to find land?
and this state of constant wonder, leads me divided; torn asunder
in this horrid devil’s playground in my head…

My fingers tell the story, of the broken trumped up glory
when my mind refused to listen, drowned out by broken pistons
the silence beating louder than my heart…

The darkened frozen night glows, and the turgid sky just bellows
of my time examining seams, on the boulevard of broken dreams
as words flow down as kindling for my hearth…

But through those wounds of empty pages, who speak louder than the ages
as the clock runs down to zero, I’m not a battered, broken hero,
just a man who wont give up until he wins…

A Song for Baby

While I work on the edits for “a place you cant come back from” I thought I’d give you another Bowling Alley poem.  In my opinion this one, “First Date” and “Sullen, but not quite repentant” are the quintessential “radio hits.”  They represent, more than anything else I was writing at the time, the attitude and demeanor I held during this time period. It’s risque but somehow dry, with that ever present youthful anger.  Enjoy…



A Song For Baby

Your Pedantic search for truth

through unsuspecting lives,

leaves girls wondering

faith and cosmopolitan sexuality;

leaves men pondering God,

in tumultuous copulation.

The vulturous squalor

of your predatory eyes,

the death you feel in age;

the uncouth joy you find in


I see the innocence,

the pure unkempt


in your smile.

The only vestige of

the life you desire.

You perspire and

extrapolate the need and desire of

men and boys.

The purpose your life has


With grasping limbs

and intertwining extremities

the pulse of distinctive,

and purely diabolic,

hearts pound in unison.

The power and force of

your vapid conjointedness

juxtaposes reality.

You ask for Faith

You ask for Belief

You ask for Hope

Why don’t you realize

these are pronouncements

only for the Holy?

What you really crave

what you really hunger for

is Desire.

That lust in a young man’s eye

The postulation behind the


That un-touched

That un-satiated

That un-natural


The type which doesn’t exist!

What you love is lust,

but what lust could love?

When is a lecher good?

When is lasciviousness absolute?

With your talk of luxurious tapetries

and proportions of men…

Wallet or otherwise.

The vivaciousness of women

competent  or otherwise,

of your overwhelming

denigrating Power.

Your false Hubris

Do you know?

How weak?



How useless it is?



Sorry Everyone!

Sorry everyone.  I was on vacation and had every intention of posting last Friday, but I got a little too busy and wasn’t able to.  Tomorrow I’ll post a Bowling Alley poem and if all goes well next Friday I’ll be posting a new never before seen short story called “a place you cant come back from.”  My goal with that story was to create both a character sketch of a relationship and also to write the scariest story I have to date.  Let me know how it panned out…

Once rich, always an emotional pauper

I’m slowly going through my backlog, and I thought the title poem for this post was particularly apropos. These poems were from my “Bowling Alley” period and the first is a short one titled “Self Help.”  It’s fairly self explanatory so I wont wax poetic, but it comes from the dark angry brooding mind of a early-mid twenties single man, angry and scared for what lay before him.

Self Help

Sitting in the cafe

with coffee and toast

laying the cheese on thick

I see the smile

and the sly coquettish gleam

that only encapsulates courting

I ponder the point of three little words

I wonder about aspects of  hygiene

It’s just one more dame

to waste more time

I need to get a new hobby.

Late night regret

a tasteless hubris

that only works in fiction

Drinks at the bar

and bottles of vain candor

which boorishness sweeps away

If I could just have some time

and a little restraint

I might obtain that trust.

I’m going to add one more, but remember that it comes from an angsty place.  All of these poems did.  So be ready to be angry at me, or be angry with me.

Once Rich, Always An Emotional Pauper

I’ve come to this place

and it’s all been said before

We’re conjoined

married for a time

so I can start a war

I just dont care

what you think is pertinent

or what we are fighting for

I know my mind

and my star is fading

so come here, my sick and poor

I’ll hand you a rifle

and set you free;

kick you out the door

Your bruised, broken

aphroditic desire for death

leaves me wanting more

But it’s ok, never fear

I’ll have a little letter sent

to your mother

To settle the score.

First Date

Sorry for the late post guys!  Work got crazy and I forgot to post on Friday, but since there is a dark week in the podcast, I thought I’d post a monologue from the “Bowling Alley” poems.  This could be dedicated to many, but it originally was spawned from seeing a young couple at the bowling alley, obviously on a date and just as obviously scared shitless.  I remember what those feelings were like and even now when you’re out with someone new, there is still that anticipation…


First Date

or Young Love

“Now here comes the most interesting part, eh?

“See now, imagine this:  you are standing on the porch of a date that went moderately well.  You stand smiling at beleaguered conversation.  The contrivance of hospitality and general politeness.  You come to a conclusion.  You must take action!  Things are brisk, people are fickle, derisive.  you are expected a move.

“You feel jumbles of chaos and confusion in that moment.  The person before you is perfect; an eloquent goddess perfumed with the scent of the earth.  You need to be impetuous; how else can you ensnare a goddess?  This is how you feel though; to an introverted, pensive onlooker you need ensnarement.  The only thing that runs through your mind is that this being before you has to be charmed with equal measures of chivalry, honor, and audacity.  The thought of love in return, at least in that moment, is but a fools dream, a fable told to children to ease and induce dreams of portentous avarice.  You want it all.

“So standing in front of you is your catch and instead of dazzling, you’ve only made due.  So the move that’s expected is pulled scratching and clawing from that reclusive, banal corner of your brain and saunters forward with pretentiousness of a despot ruling a land.  You see an opportunity, so you reach out with your right arm and cradle the soft small of her back, holding her weight while decimating the space between you.  Enter a wicked grin.

“Two things happen at this point.  Number one is, not only are you surprised by the sudden and definite intimacy of the situation, suddenly  conjoined,but number two; she is surprised as well.  There is warmth and feeling in an otherwise empty void.  A slight gasp of air escapes her…anticipation.  That air is the seed of dread and doubt that threads into the synapses of your brain.  ‘Did I move too quick?’ you think, but then she smiles.

“you cradle that warmth and you need more, you crave more, surprised gasp or not.  The thirst has been triggered, the worm is on the hook and the fly is being cast.  All that is left is to reel in with your left hand.  You feel it raise of its own volition and your heart beats so fast you are almost lightheaded.  Your arm is raising yes, but of the levity of the situation, not of your cognizant action.

“Yes, but see, the most dangerous part is coming.  When the left hand touches her hair and slides it back over her right ear, smiles fade and heads tilt.  Your heart does a peremptory flutter and your breath gets interchanged.  An intoxicating combination of carbon dioxide, making each party, just that much higher.

“your left hand slides through the soft silken tresses and caresses the back of her head; almost perfectly ergonomic.  But then apprehension takes hold, what if she pulls back?

“The fallacies of form and soul belie the synapses.  This girl.  This Goddess.  Is here.  Why me?  What far reaching disturbances could she mistake as eccentricities  in your insipid form?

“Then she does something totally unexpected.  She makes the move while you console your ego.  So taken aback, so incredulous at the action, so mirthful, you return her action with vigor.

“Though it takes no more than three seconds for this interaction it stamps on your soul the intonation of love and it is apparent and remembered.”

Sullen, but not quite repentant

I’m going to give you another of the Bowling  Alley poems, since you have another week of Another Ace in the Hole coming in Podcast.  This one has gone through many lives and currently lives under the name of “Trailer Park Lullaby”, but I think that might be a little pejorative, a little more than I mean to at least.  It was once (and maybe when it was at it’s best) “Sullen, but not quite repentant” and the reason that I brought it back here was because It’s my battle cry.  This poem is for the dreamers and the hopeful who see no hope; to the romantic and faithful, who are without love.



Sullen, but not quite repentant

What men do for promise of  Home?

The dogs of factories,

The slaves and drones

That live their lives in bars

Taking hoppy medicine

That drowns reality

Where believing in yourself is a Dream.

Where reality is a

Sore that wont heal.

Where substance takes precedence

and Joy is the difference

between the insane and the abstract


Words like Queer, Kike, and Nigger

feel succinct.

That world deranged into

Black and white.

Intelligence means you know pop culture

You win at Trivial Pursuit .

Where life is derision,

Confusion, contamination,

What is solace?  A woman’s touch?

Pedantic fantasies of love and submission?

Where priests are pederasts

and Presidents are puppets.

Where Solace lives in a

Bottle, or a

Pipe, or a

Line on a mirror, or a


What is life

But a series of mistakes?

Leading to an ultimate

Derangement of consistency.

To be laid in a hole, to feel Peace?

The power of the brain is punultimate

only to the passion of the Heart.

To live, to dream, to die,

No more!

The arrows of fortune

Are diligently avoided

And Powerfully Presuaded to

Destroy the weak;

The Deranged powerful

For the truth lay

in the heart and mind.

The power conjoined,

The passion omnipotent,

The opposition like

A lone bowling pin awaiting


Money is money and power is power,

but Hubris is the contagion

that destroys worlds.

Never mind the fragility of personality.

Avarice controls the world and

Destroys passion of the artistic mind

The Glory of civility is a myth.

These are peons who cautiously protect

the King and Queen.

In a cosmic chess game of

Power and verisimilitude.

Life is the game  of chance

Will you land on the right square?

Take the right career?

or will there be degredation and repression

in the mines for decimation of the soul?



Words only the fundamentalists

Hols as Gospel.

But precisely what is needed for Life?

Belief in the intrinsic merit of Desire?


And the everlasting hope of Humanity.

The desire to live your dream.

The frenetic evaluation of the soul.

The life of ones own dream.

Belief and faith in the dream.

Happiness is for fanatics

Like Whitman and Thoreau.

Contentedness is for

Realists and dreamers

Who understand that success,

Comes not from a bottle

Not from a mine or factory,

But from the heart,

Faith and belief in your heart.

The Melancholy Malaise of Last Nights Memories

I’m bringing you a poem this week, since the podcast will follow along the lines with the book and I preempted the podcast by posting Carol-Ann and the Nothing Man first.  So enjoy listening with Carol-Ann this week and enjoy the poem.

This was the second poem I wrote during my “Bowling Alley” period.  It’s simple enough, my friends went through a bowling phase, of which I’m not much a fan so my imagination ran wild while.  In between rolls, I looked around at others through the beer haze of the alley.  I saw old men gathering, I saw teenagers trying to steal drinks, I saw homeless looking for a place to stay, and women, old and young trying to seduce others.  These images and personalities clashed in my mind and brought forth some of the most brash (If not outright ranty) poetry and prose I’ve ever done.  Hope you like it!

The Melancholy Malaise of Last nights Memories

Your pedantic search for truth

through unsuspecting lives,

leaves girls wondering

faith and cosmopolitan sexuality.

Leaves men pondering God

in tumultuous copulation.

The vulturous squalor

of your predatory eyes.

The death you feel in


the uncouth joy you find in


I see the innocence,

the pure unkempt


in your smile.

The only vestige of

the life you desire.

You perspire and

extrapolate the need and desire of

men and boys.

The purpose your life has


With grasping limbs

and intertwining extremities,

the pulse of distinctive

and purely diabolic

hearts pound in unison.

The power and force of

your vapid conjointedness

juxtaposing reality.

You ask for faith.

You ask for belief.

You ask for hope.

Why dont you realize

these are pronouncements

only for the holy?

What you really crave,

what you really hunger

is desire.

That lust in a young man’s eye.

The postulation behind the


That un-touched,

that un-satiated

that un-natural


The type that doesn’t exist!

What you love is lust,

but what lust could love?

When is a letch good?

When is lasciviousness absolute?

With your talk of luxurious tapestries

and proportions of men,

wallet…or otherwise.

The vivaciousness of women

competent…or otherwise,

complimenting your overwhelming

denigrating power.

Your false Hubris.

Do you know?

How weak?



How useless it is?