I met someone through work who hosts a small radio show called “Somewhere in the Middle”. She was gracious enough to invite me to an interview.
If you’d like to hear the stream just click on the flyer Friday at 5pm PST.
There is going to be an avalanche of sunlight.
a sassy tree presents itself,
bent not broken,
emerging from the hillside
curved to reach the light
the terrain is covered with lightning scarred trees.
a tree trunk broken
still stands with long branches
embedded deep into the rings formed in youth.
the outer layers stripped away,
undressed by time’s erosion
like many of the foundations of stone houses.
rain reduced rubble
We pause at the vista for a group selfie
-For the Reeves Family of La Verne, CA
***This is probably not finished but I also probably won’t finish it for several years so… enjoy!
three by ten thousand bees
a heartless soil
the latest crusts of pollen accessory
the hive is a farce
the crown is lost
another heralds the end has come
God save the Queen!
God save the working class!
I prefer microbrew royal jelly.
*The title is lifted from a line in an article when I was checking how many bees are in a hive. If you want to know more about bees or organic farming it’s probably a good resource. Organic Farming – Bees
Trying to get out of the house
Or maybe we can grab a bite
Down there at the gate
A good app for the price
Yes, I am going to be in town for a couple of days
To pluck the vine and smash the sweet produce,
The warm sun shines down upon my habit.
Like a madman I sip nectar reduced.
Defrocked world, heaven’s honey, I grab it,
Smash it, blend it, until no dregs remain.
Castoff skins under the press of my sole.
The sweet residual pulp of my veins
Soaking the spaces of memory holes.
Shiraz, Chianti, valleys of Merlot,
All bred to beat my chest against the wind.
To cry “tonight the moon wears her halo!”
As she sighs down “Must you make such a din?”
Laughing in fear but not grasping for breath
Grapes from the vine in my glass resoundeth.
When I speak of anarchy
a million panicked sons and daughters
are imagined in the streets.
a 90’s Pop Punk band plays
in the background of associative memory,
while an angry 80’s leather jacket and jeans
smashes a window or kills a TV
rarely do I see an imagining of peace
a place of unenforced cooperative human responsibility
perhaps this is where John sleeps
and what do you see?
in what ways does one resist?
is it the spirit of Christ
hovering a finger over the chain of protocol
that leads to nuclear detonation
or comforting the poor and shivering
until with a flurry of muscles twitching
they are warm enough to sleep
two roads diverged in continuous succession
and every time I choose one
I am faced with two or more decisions
heading toward the sun as it breaks the sleeping horizon
I reach down to feel the dirt
and clutch it in my hand
as the dust and grains slowly sift away
There are many voices I cannot hear
as collective as we are
as much as we try to share
there are still many voices left unheard
borne upon the back of a blistering wind
a delicate balance and powerful suggestion
destroying homes while setting the crooked path straight again
There is a fire burning through verdant hills
while the poor are huddled under cobalt tarps
each one carries their own crisis
while in the taupe of suburbia the time passes uneventful
There is a highway that connects Beverly Glen to South Central L.A.
composed of concrete
congested with traffic
surrounded by high-rise towers
and office buildings covered in spotless windows
that glimmer like the Pacific at sunset
There is an intangible wall etched into the topography
formed by inheritance, ambition, and a myriad of ethics
separating the bases of destitution from the spires of prosperity
and in a vagrant community I have seen embers of love,
sparks of genius misfiring into insanity
while the same sparks from a wealthier mind
become images the world receives on a screen
and I wonder if I can any longer tell the difference
Goodnight camera lens
Goodnight QWERTY pie
Goodnight 3, 5, and 7 i
Goodnight AMD Radeon
Goodnight little Linux niche
Goodnight iTower of iVory iPhones
Goodnight Alexa, Cortana, and Siri
(and lest I forget those with no personality)
Goodnight Google Assistant
Thank you for your lullaby.
Thank you for the warm electric hum
and the rhythm
even if you fooled me with offbeat,
pauses when I was expecting a circuit complete.
To all the hard resets/
and the hard resets/
and the hard resets/
and, for the most part, each newly updated OS.
Goodnight my closest friends
Geminoid F is calling me to bed
and I must plug her in
before she rests.
***This one is a little weird but to get back into the habit of writing I must start somewhere***
A sigh released into the winter air
mixed steam swirling aloft around my face
Heated chocolate in a paper cup
with fresh pine and exhaust out in the lot
Forty trees arranged like a forest maze
To shepherd and ensnare consumer’s praise
I reach for my wallet holding my praise
My breath and cheeks are warm in the cold air
that meets us all in the Christmas tree maze
I pass thick pines as they brush by my face
Two weeks ago this space was a bare lot
And now it is Christmas, here, in my cup
Hot chocolate fills my overflowing cup
Each sip, upon my lips, a note of praise
No harm, no foul, Christmas trees mean a lot
Spirit of God swirls through the icy air
smelling of pine and chocolate. My face
Is like a flint and stone. My heart a maze
that leads me deep into the winter maze.
A man says, “Son, finish drinking your cup.”
A young woman alone, scarf covered face
thinks “O my Lord… worthy of all my praise.”
Her voice a lone vapor filling the air
“I’ll buy this tree. It’s small, doesn’t cost a lot.”
The sun has gone down far in the South lot
of heaven, and the night stars are a maze
of dead spaces. Bright gas in distant air
Galaxies swirl in the big dipper cup.
Father of heaven with dark matter’s praise
The stars and light and lives pass by my face.
The wind picks up. Jack Frost nips at my face.
The tree I find is dry behind the lot
Laying down in a stack, fireplace praise
Poverty’s timber outside of the maze
The hour is late in one empty cup
Onto the car, hoisted up through the air
The tree on its face thrown out of the maze
Leaving the lot, empty Christmas tree cup
The seasonal praise as vapid as air.
There is no song for me in the ability to type
decompressing ideas into linear forms.
The pen stroke,
the mighty pen stroke that makes beauty come alive
dies within the pixel cage.
Trapped under an air conditioned breeze and fluorescent light,
the ability to type binds another to the information age.
Raw data becomes artist interpretations
the hyper-meta-real material galaxy we could see with a less polluted sky
the amber glowing