Dearest,
Well, what can I say? The days are much too long now, and there are far too many of them. Did you know that a single one of them contains 24 hours? It sure as hell didn't seem that way when we were together. Back then there could have only been 6 or 7 hours tops. Wait. I'm sorry. I didn't intend to start my letter complaining, (especially to a correspondent as important and lovely as yourself), it's just that the truth tends to leak out at the most inopportune moments. The raison d'etre for this piece is quite simple; I want you back. No. I need you back. In your absence I can barely operate, rarely exceeding a mere 50% of my ability. But I bet you already knew that didn't you? It must come with the territory. Without you that two-headed beast of boredom and burden is free to reign and it's slowly grown too strong to overcome. When you were by my side it was only an apathetic creature and never stood a chance. Without you here it has clawed its horrid way out of the recesses of my mind. I fear I shall not last.
My darling, am I not worthy of your affection? Must I be forced to churn out mediocrity after mediocrity? What does this prove, that I'm less of a man without you? We both already knew that. And now you're in the arms of another, doing what you were created to do. If your plan is to not come back to me than I must confess I wish I had never met you. Seeing what I am now is nothing short of soul-crushing when compared to knowing what I was capable of. My heart aches for having known greatness as I feel close to the gods of legend who become stripped of their power and forced to live as a lowly mortal. They are my only companions in misery. The worst part of it is I'm sure you have heard all of this before. And like the grievances of those past has-beens, I know that one poorly written letter will have little to no affect on your decisions. Your attention span is short. This is not an insult, you cannot help it since it is who you are. If nothing else I want you to know that I forgive you. Now I only wish I could forget. Despite the pain and grief my wisdom has not been diminished and I know that I am a better man for having known you personally. You were my Erato, Thalia, and Melpomene all wrapped up in one. I miss you. Without you, I am nothing.
Unfortunately yours,
It never really mattered
12/4/09
From The Lab
Sham Grandeur
Flashbulbs pop, watch the frenzy grow,
The masses are crowding the streets
For front seat views in captive shows.
Thin steel lines dividing the freaks,
Confusing the fools for the fools,
Where all are shades and none unique.
World renowned with none of the tools,
Structure-less, they were bound to fall,
False one's envy defies the rules.
The moment approaches, enthralled,
Excitement takes over the mind;
All for one, with nothing for all.
Faced with ill truth, the quick will find
The images are ugly, grotesque
Is reflected back, sans the grind.
Without the struggle, the duress,
Privilege distorts the real world,
Blind to the price, purchased for less.
Accepting the stone as a pearl,
Wishing the spotlight shone on them.
Watch as the tragedy unfurls.
Flashbulbs pop, watch the frenzy grow,
The masses are crowding the streets
For front seat views in captive shows.
Thin steel lines dividing the freaks,
Confusing the fools for the fools,
Where all are shades and none unique.
World renowned with none of the tools,
Structure-less, they were bound to fall,
False one's envy defies the rules.
The moment approaches, enthralled,
Excitement takes over the mind;
All for one, with nothing for all.
Faced with ill truth, the quick will find
The images are ugly, grotesque
Is reflected back, sans the grind.
Without the struggle, the duress,
Privilege distorts the real world,
Blind to the price, purchased for less.
Accepting the stone as a pearl,
Wishing the spotlight shone on them.
Watch as the tragedy unfurls.
12/1/09
From The Lab
The Other Side of the Horizon
Turn back to darkness, there are comforts there
Among the unknowns and long trails past blazed.
Over the horizon change is abrupt,
Though almost the same as one would expect,
The views are different, the man is the same,
And internal growth depends on the size
Of the room of the temple paved with soul.
The future was certain and shy and coy,
Her shades are her own to reveal at will,
No matter how fast or how long you run
The other side is always out of reach;
Over the horizon nothing has worth,
Serenity despises Her hunters.
Turn back to darkness, there are comforts there
Among the unknowns and long trails past blazed.
Over the horizon change is abrupt,
Though almost the same as one would expect,
The views are different, the man is the same,
And internal growth depends on the size
Of the room of the temple paved with soul.
The future was certain and shy and coy,
Her shades are her own to reveal at will,
No matter how fast or how long you run
The other side is always out of reach;
Over the horizon nothing has worth,
Serenity despises Her hunters.
11/23/09
5 Awesomely Absurd Comic Covers
With these covers populating the rack it becomes harder to blame the older generation for their preconceptions about comics. It seems that most of the stuff before the late 70's was insane. Imagine seeing some of these issues today.
I guess there is nothing scarier to white society than an enormous black man with an interesting taste in costumes and a need to ventilate his stomach.
First of all the very concept of Christian recruiting comics is hilarious, especially one that involves the smuggling of bibles. Secondly, the boy is asking God to purposely blind people, (those people being Russians that look Japanese?)
Everybody knows there's nothing more heroic than killing animals, especially when that animal is the dreaded Snowy Cat Panda.
Apparently saying the magic words makes your crotch disappear. Notice that it's only men that are terrified.
And finally a comic so full of awesome I would pay quadruple the price (40 cents) to read it today. Going by its cover it involves cowboys fighting nazis and it stars Spurs Jackson and his gay boxing vigilantes. I'm not quite sure where space comes into play though.
11/17/09
From The Lab
Prepare The Dogs For War
The time has come to sound the horn,
Bear your arms and weather the storm,
Question if you have what it takes,
Break a sweat to deny those thoughts,
For when the future takes its shape,
There'll be no time between those shots,
The moment when all reason's gone,
Will be the time your called upon.
Pray for your chosen faith, rejoice,
In hopes that something heard your voice,
Ignore the violent ravages,
Stand back to back with your Judas,
Grow comfortable with savages,
And swim with the barracudas,
When hours pass into long days,
You'll see the viewpoints of the crazed.
Find ways to justify all needs,
Exhale gently and draw a bead,
Execute, as good soldiers do,
And improve those little talents,
The oldest sin is nothing new,
So just overcome the challenge,
Lie down and try to sleep the sleep
Of innocence and counted sheep.
The time has come to sound the horn,
Bear your arms and weather the storm,
Question if you have what it takes,
Break a sweat to deny those thoughts,
For when the future takes its shape,
There'll be no time between those shots,
The moment when all reason's gone,
Will be the time your called upon.
Pray for your chosen faith, rejoice,
In hopes that something heard your voice,
Ignore the violent ravages,
Stand back to back with your Judas,
Grow comfortable with savages,
And swim with the barracudas,
When hours pass into long days,
You'll see the viewpoints of the crazed.
Find ways to justify all needs,
Exhale gently and draw a bead,
Execute, as good soldiers do,
And improve those little talents,
The oldest sin is nothing new,
So just overcome the challenge,
Lie down and try to sleep the sleep
Of innocence and counted sheep.
Pic of the Litter
A provocative piece by multi-media artist Dave McKean, whose haunting, otherworldly art has inspired me for a long time. I believe it's called Blood Of A Poet.
11/15/09
From The Lab
Reflections On A Dream
Let us call it a beach,
(It is the idea closest to which we can understand,)
Although its surface is not sand,
The tide has little water and
Its horizon is always changing.
I am not the first to see it;
Indeed, there were people here when I first arrived,
Far away in the distance. Only now,
A few yards to the left and everywhere in between:
A woman who keeps her back to me,
Pretending not to notice, while playing
In the not-sand sand,
A mustachioed man writes on old parchment
Set against his lap, looking up at me every so often
Then back down at his yellowing page;
I wish he would not notice me.
A smallish girl was dancing along the water's(?) edge,
Collecting radiant pink gemstones
In her apron, before smashing them against the rocky terrain,
Cackling in delight as she did so.
Somewhere in the distance a bicycle bell is tinkling,
And for some dreadful reason
I hope the God-foresaken thing never reaches me.
Let us call it a beach,
(It is the idea closest to which we can understand,)
Although its surface is not sand,
The tide has little water and
Its horizon is always changing.
I am not the first to see it;
Indeed, there were people here when I first arrived,
Far away in the distance. Only now,
A few yards to the left and everywhere in between:
A woman who keeps her back to me,
Pretending not to notice, while playing
In the not-sand sand,
A mustachioed man writes on old parchment
Set against his lap, looking up at me every so often
Then back down at his yellowing page;
I wish he would not notice me.
A smallish girl was dancing along the water's(?) edge,
Collecting radiant pink gemstones
In her apron, before smashing them against the rocky terrain,
Cackling in delight as she did so.
Somewhere in the distance a bicycle bell is tinkling,
And for some dreadful reason
I hope the God-foresaken thing never reaches me.
From The Lab
Oversimplified
The world can end if one man lives,
Be he of evil mind.
Defiantly the country gives,
It's blood, sweat, tears, and time.
The days of doom are most unkind,
As death is neatly packed,
Trust those that read the clues and signs
To make the planned attack,
That leaves our truths intact.
Deception invades a homeland.
Continue with the fight,
We can destroy the holograms,
And dim those men of light.
Don't speak the truths that may give sight,
When we're the ones that see,
Report the facts that pierce the night,
The peasants will feel free,
(But never know the fee.)
The world can end if one man lives,
Be he of evil mind.
Defiantly the country gives,
It's blood, sweat, tears, and time.
The days of doom are most unkind,
As death is neatly packed,
Trust those that read the clues and signs
To make the planned attack,
That leaves our truths intact.
Deception invades a homeland.
Continue with the fight,
We can destroy the holograms,
And dim those men of light.
Don't speak the truths that may give sight,
When we're the ones that see,
Report the facts that pierce the night,
The peasants will feel free,
(But never know the fee.)
11/7/09
From The Lab
Wait A Little Longer
Reach out your hand, fair brother,
I will not slap it down,
My help was meant for another
Who was fed raw to the hounds,
But have faith in a stranger,
Look upon me with hope,
I see your creeping danger,
I plan to save you both,
Worry not for these bleeding wounds,
They won't slow me a little,
To think that these would spell my doom
Is foolish and a riddle;
Now I must take my leave,
Though don't distress that face,
I'll soon be back, before you bleed,
And use myself to take your place.
Reach out your hand, fair brother,
I will not slap it down,
My help was meant for another
Who was fed raw to the hounds,
But have faith in a stranger,
Look upon me with hope,
I see your creeping danger,
I plan to save you both,
Worry not for these bleeding wounds,
They won't slow me a little,
To think that these would spell my doom
Is foolish and a riddle;
Now I must take my leave,
Though don't distress that face,
I'll soon be back, before you bleed,
And use myself to take your place.
10/30/09
From The Lab
Explanation
You mustn't gaze upon my canvas
As it is, littered
With half-formed ideas and crude,
Disfigured shapes;
Pay no attention to the colors themselves,
They are ghosts dancing in its background
I cannot bring forth-
My eye cannot detect their whereabouts,
Perhaps for the best.
Shadows and shadows of shadows
Creep throughout, stretching
The borders, enveloped in melancholy,
Pride, and the fall thereof.
Maybe I'll transform the whole damn thing
Into that landscape after all.
You mustn't gaze upon my canvas
As it is, littered
With half-formed ideas and crude,
Disfigured shapes;
Pay no attention to the colors themselves,
They are ghosts dancing in its background
I cannot bring forth-
My eye cannot detect their whereabouts,
Perhaps for the best.
Shadows and shadows of shadows
Creep throughout, stretching
The borders, enveloped in melancholy,
Pride, and the fall thereof.
Maybe I'll transform the whole damn thing
Into that landscape after all.
10/21/09
10/19/09
Poker Chips (part 2)
(For the complete story be sure to read part 1)
It's now down to me and stoneface and it's my deal. He could buy me out at any time since he's got me beat by about $375,000, but he seems like a gentleman and he wants to take my money the hard way. It takes all of my concentration to avoid playing with and nervously readjusting my stacks as I know that Stoney will pick up on any weakness.
A couple hands later and the money situation is a little more evened out because I've been a little lucky, but I'm not so easily fooled. In the world of fast company this mother is the Flash and I wouldn't put it past old Wally West to have planned this all out. Gotta stay on my toes.
"I'll take two," I say in my surest voice possible.
It's his deal and he decides to take two as well, and as usual his face doesn't even twitch. I try to look deep into his eyes to read what move his soul might be thinking of but all I can manage is a quick glance. His vacant stare makes me uneasy. Not because I'm worried that he'll notice me watching, but because he might be trying to notice something in my eyes and I can't be sure that they won't betray me.
Stop it! I have to stop this line of thinking right now. My nerves are unraveling, and right in front of Stoney's big gaping eyes. I'm sure he's noticed to. He'd be able to look at my veins and see my pulse quicken so of course he'll notice this flop sweat. I've gotta be able to use this nervous energy to my advantage.
Paranoia aside, I manage to match his $25,000 bet and raise it another 50. A sum he abides to all too calmly before making his move. He doesn't go all in, he's too smart for that. I'm obviously on edge, and he's worried I'll fold. He might as well have went for broke though since he just raised my last $200,000. My two new cards are an ace of spades and a nine of diamonds, quite a bit helpful to the two aces I already have. Trips ace is a great hand but this guy is smart and betting much too strong for my tastes. He's beat me twice on a bluff before, although I can't be sure he isn't bluffing a bluff.
After what seems like an hour I manage to throw in the rest of my pot and I'm surprised at how easily the chips slide across the table. The damn things are all too eager to escape my sweaty grasp into the middle pile. By my estimation it's a little over half a mil and I realize I've never seen this much before. I'm embarassed to admit to myself that I can't figure out the exact amount but my mind's all over the place. It's taking all of my concentration to keep my composure.
He calls. We flip. And it's the first time this whole night I see a reaction on his face. Lucky bastard.
We shake hands and say our farewells but we do not leave on good terms. There's anger and deep feelings of suspicion hanging thick in the air. It isn't until I walk out into the cool night towards my truck that I'm able to start breathing again, and shortly after that I can think. When someone has such a shock to the system it takes them awhile to get their bearings straight.
What is it about the gambler that forces them to take risks? The petty thrill of it? How is a man supposed to know -- as Kenny Rogers says -- when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em? It's all a game of chance and the gambler plays the odds as best he can, but there's something to be said for experience in big game situations and in life.
Stonehenge had a four of a kind, all tens, and was confident in his victory. Too confident as it turns out because four tens will never beat four aces. And this time I can't help but smile as I pass a small covered garbage can and toss the nine of diamonds from my pocket into it. I wonder what he was thinking as he collected the few dollars he had left. I'll bet it was something about playing around with fast company, and I'll double that bet that the next time he's playing with a paranoid and sweaty fellow he'll question what it could be that would make a man that nervous.
10/16/09
From The Lab
Floating Towards The Distance
Lost in the salty air until a splash
Of ocean mist returns me to the breeze,
The sail, the waves, and the creak of the wood,
The tossing and turning, resting my eyes
On details of the falling shore, enlarged,
Sporadic, distant as the new world dream.
The grey skies tell me all I need to know.
With a jerk, tilting, the old ripped cloth sails
Begin to gain their fill; always hungry
For adventure and open sights unseen.
Seated above the keel, staring ahead,
I release the handle, thus allowing
A rudderless ship to take me away.
Lost in the salty air until a splash
Of ocean mist returns me to the breeze,
The sail, the waves, and the creak of the wood,
The tossing and turning, resting my eyes
On details of the falling shore, enlarged,
Sporadic, distant as the new world dream.
The grey skies tell me all I need to know.
With a jerk, tilting, the old ripped cloth sails
Begin to gain their fill; always hungry
For adventure and open sights unseen.
Seated above the keel, staring ahead,
I release the handle, thus allowing
A rudderless ship to take me away.
10/11/09
Poker Chips (part 1)
There is something to be said for experience, even though all the wisdom and practice one can possibly gain will never equal half of what life has to offer. Whether it's a malfunction in human capability or a deficiency in man's capacity, the fact remains the same.
Still, there's something to be said for experience, and that's about all I have to rely on now. I've been told that I have what's called 'big game experience', unfortunately big is relative. The problem was clear from the start; I know I'm in for a long night, and I have a lot more money to lose. Possibly gain, but almost certainly lose.
And here I thought I knew what pressure was...
This is the gambler's curse. Well, part of it anyway. Even though I'm unsure, even though I'm convinced that I can't win, there's still that slim chance. That little piece of hope is all it takes to risk the loss. The gambling man lives for that risk. Adrenaline junkies by nature, we love the thrill of putting everything into Fate's fumbling hands, on a simple turn of the cards. 'All or nothing,' becomes life's mantra.
There are a multitude of tricks, palms, slips, and cheats that can guarantee your victory in poker and I know all of them. Most are easy enough sleight-of-hand maneuvers, or other magician's table card tricks, all of which are nothing but giveaways for beginners. There are a few more advanced tactics undetectable by the human eye, but here and now, none of that matters.
Most of the other guys left already, leaving only myself and two others at the table, and these two were players. Fast company. And you just don't pull tricks in fast company. Fast company is quick enough to catch you and that can get you hurt, in some circles that can get you dead. Following the tradition of my luck, this is one of those circles.
Poker's a game built to test a man's nerves, and everybody has their own way of releasing the pressure that builds, they sometimes call it luck. Personally, I do this weird little thing where I push all of that unsettling energy out of my hands and into those tiny, round chips. I somehow force them and not the cards to represent the embodiment of luck in my mind, and only then can I relax enough to play. I really can't explain why so don't ask.
I've wisely folded my current hand; I'm just too unsure about one of my opponents. On the outside this is a game of hard drinks, cigar smoke, crude jokes, and a fragile camaraderie, but there is no friendship here. A man after your money is a man not to be trusted, and one should always be able to trust their friends.
The man to the left of me is a Stonehenge. He has no need for sunglasses or baseball caps because his face hasn't changed expressions - win or lose - since we started. As far as I can see he has no tells, unlike the man to my right. Even his high-collared jacket and thin rimmed glasses can't protect him. He's excited about what he's holding. He's trying to keep it in and it's exposing him, as his eyes dart back and forth to those circular plastic jewels piled high in the middle of the table. I'm certainly no pro but even I can see what's coming. He is far too confident in this situation and he's about to be gutted like a fish, poor bastard.
Sure enough, Stonehenge baits the hook by going all in and the fish bites. I almost can't watch. It's so much easier to take big risks when playing with chips. In their uniform, multi-colored stacks they're easier to lose than currency because a little represents a lot in terms of dollars. For example, Mr. Right agrees to the all or nothing bid and slides his last twenty-five blue chips into the middle of the table, something he might not have been apt to do if he had to deal with the $5,000 in cash each chip represented. $125,000 is enough cold green to make any sane person think twice. Two pair and a half dozen obscenities later and a fool learns a lesson the hard way to a full house, jacks over nines. Next time he'll think twice before he tries to bluff a half-hand for big money, but probably not. Some gamblers can never learn.
It's now down to me and stoneface and it's my deal.
(Keep checkin back for part two, coming soon)
Still, there's something to be said for experience, and that's about all I have to rely on now. I've been told that I have what's called 'big game experience', unfortunately big is relative. The problem was clear from the start; I know I'm in for a long night, and I have a lot more money to lose. Possibly gain, but almost certainly lose.
And here I thought I knew what pressure was...
This is the gambler's curse. Well, part of it anyway. Even though I'm unsure, even though I'm convinced that I can't win, there's still that slim chance. That little piece of hope is all it takes to risk the loss. The gambling man lives for that risk. Adrenaline junkies by nature, we love the thrill of putting everything into Fate's fumbling hands, on a simple turn of the cards. 'All or nothing,' becomes life's mantra.
There are a multitude of tricks, palms, slips, and cheats that can guarantee your victory in poker and I know all of them. Most are easy enough sleight-of-hand maneuvers, or other magician's table card tricks, all of which are nothing but giveaways for beginners. There are a few more advanced tactics undetectable by the human eye, but here and now, none of that matters.
Most of the other guys left already, leaving only myself and two others at the table, and these two were players. Fast company. And you just don't pull tricks in fast company. Fast company is quick enough to catch you and that can get you hurt, in some circles that can get you dead. Following the tradition of my luck, this is one of those circles.
Poker's a game built to test a man's nerves, and everybody has their own way of releasing the pressure that builds, they sometimes call it luck. Personally, I do this weird little thing where I push all of that unsettling energy out of my hands and into those tiny, round chips. I somehow force them and not the cards to represent the embodiment of luck in my mind, and only then can I relax enough to play. I really can't explain why so don't ask.
I've wisely folded my current hand; I'm just too unsure about one of my opponents. On the outside this is a game of hard drinks, cigar smoke, crude jokes, and a fragile camaraderie, but there is no friendship here. A man after your money is a man not to be trusted, and one should always be able to trust their friends.
The man to the left of me is a Stonehenge. He has no need for sunglasses or baseball caps because his face hasn't changed expressions - win or lose - since we started. As far as I can see he has no tells, unlike the man to my right. Even his high-collared jacket and thin rimmed glasses can't protect him. He's excited about what he's holding. He's trying to keep it in and it's exposing him, as his eyes dart back and forth to those circular plastic jewels piled high in the middle of the table. I'm certainly no pro but even I can see what's coming. He is far too confident in this situation and he's about to be gutted like a fish, poor bastard.
Sure enough, Stonehenge baits the hook by going all in and the fish bites. I almost can't watch. It's so much easier to take big risks when playing with chips. In their uniform, multi-colored stacks they're easier to lose than currency because a little represents a lot in terms of dollars. For example, Mr. Right agrees to the all or nothing bid and slides his last twenty-five blue chips into the middle of the table, something he might not have been apt to do if he had to deal with the $5,000 in cash each chip represented. $125,000 is enough cold green to make any sane person think twice. Two pair and a half dozen obscenities later and a fool learns a lesson the hard way to a full house, jacks over nines. Next time he'll think twice before he tries to bluff a half-hand for big money, but probably not. Some gamblers can never learn.
It's now down to me and stoneface and it's my deal.
(Keep checkin back for part two, coming soon)
10/5/09
From The Lab
Hibernating Butterflies
Draped in oranges, yellows, and reds,
Casually, they flutter together;
Bright, beautiful, rarely seen,
All dependent on the weather.
Fresh-faced, lively, a spring in the step,
An energy brighter than any seen,
Wrapped in flowing, patterned silk,
Fitting forms of lovely dreams.
The sun is high and the air is rich,
So pretty creature spread your wings,
But please continue through the cooler months,
For your subtle absence gently stings.
Draped in oranges, yellows, and reds,
Casually, they flutter together;
Bright, beautiful, rarely seen,
All dependent on the weather.
Fresh-faced, lively, a spring in the step,
An energy brighter than any seen,
Wrapped in flowing, patterned silk,
Fitting forms of lovely dreams.
The sun is high and the air is rich,
So pretty creature spread your wings,
But please continue through the cooler months,
For your subtle absence gently stings.
10/2/09
From The Lab
'As I stare into the evening sky'
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Noticed stars glimmering, shining just right,
Like lanterns of heaven, casting their light,
As comfort and guide to lead me by.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Am breathless from the twinkling sight,
The man in the moon soon claims the night,
And I try to give thanks between the sighs.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Admire the comets with tails lit bright,
Random specks of light against the void, that fight
To be noticed by men with heads held high.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Squint my eyes against the pale moon white,
And stare in awe, respect, and fright,
To see a God's artistry compared to mine.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Noticed stars glimmering, shining just right,
Like lanterns of heaven, casting their light,
As comfort and guide to lead me by.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Am breathless from the twinkling sight,
The man in the moon soon claims the night,
And I try to give thanks between the sighs.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Admire the comets with tails lit bright,
Random specks of light against the void, that fight
To be noticed by men with heads held high.
As I stare into the evening sky, I
Squint my eyes against the pale moon white,
And stare in awe, respect, and fright,
To see a God's artistry compared to mine.
Pic of the Litter
9/23/09
Site Update
All of the old mp3's on this site are back up and running, and stay tuned because in October I'll have more music posts for your listening pleasure.
9/22/09
From The Lab
The Threat
It's face is dark, the eyes are deep
Red, glowing like two distant suns,
Doomed to burn out before their time,
For shining too bright for too long,
Leering from behind its ancient
Iron helmet, stained a dark brown
From the dried blood of old wars past;
Shrouded in shadows made darker
For having lain on this twisted
New form of warrior's evil.
The intimidating weapon
Remains sheathed, holding its deadly
Secrets for the next opponent,
Although its very appearance
Proves the creature's intent enough.
The gauntlets and chain mail armor,
Gleaming in the absence of light,
Stand chipped, tarnished, and battle-worn.
Its steed, covered from nose to tail
In plated, blue-gray engraved steel,
Walks alongside his black-hearted
Master with nary a light snort.
Patiently, both rider and mount
Stop, stare, and wait confidently.
But if not for me, then for whom?
It's face is dark, the eyes are deep
Red, glowing like two distant suns,
Doomed to burn out before their time,
For shining too bright for too long,
Leering from behind its ancient
Iron helmet, stained a dark brown
From the dried blood of old wars past;
Shrouded in shadows made darker
For having lain on this twisted
New form of warrior's evil.
The intimidating weapon
Remains sheathed, holding its deadly
Secrets for the next opponent,
Although its very appearance
Proves the creature's intent enough.
The gauntlets and chain mail armor,
Gleaming in the absence of light,
Stand chipped, tarnished, and battle-worn.
Its steed, covered from nose to tail
In plated, blue-gray engraved steel,
Walks alongside his black-hearted
Master with nary a light snort.
Patiently, both rider and mount
Stop, stare, and wait confidently.
But if not for me, then for whom?
9/17/09
Readers: Endangered Species
According to new reports from the National Education Association in conjunction with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service a proposal has been put forth to protect the subset of the human race commonly known as 'the reader' under the Endangered Species Act (ESA). The addition of humans into the ESA is unique, however writers, naturalists, and teachers all agree that 'the reader' is severely at risk. The usage of books and other printed media has shown to be on the decline and they are struggling to compete with movies, TV, and other interactive media despite their portability. But habitat loss and underpopulation aren't the only problems that make 'the reader' an at risk species. Newspapers are closing down all over the country while many of the youth, and even whole groups of certain cultures are growing up without the love of reading instilled. Being inducted into the ESA will notify the world's governments but all that does is heighten the awareness of 'the reader's' plight. The real work in conservation has to be done by the people themselves so that we don't lose this precious treasure for good, and so that one day our great-grandchilden may have the opportunity to become 'readers' themselves.
9/15/09
From The Lab
A Slight Request
Smile upon me, fair muse,
Give me the gift of one of your faces,
I'd dare not demand who,
I'd be content with one of the graces,
Show me your beauty, pure,
To offer blessings of inspiration,
Dance around this poet,
I'll match your efforts with perspiration;
Any thoughts you could give,
In elegance, I'll interpret your lines,
Fulfilling favors asked
Of me for opportunities divine.
Smile upon me, fair muse,
Give me the gift of one of your faces,
I'd dare not demand who,
I'd be content with one of the graces,
Show me your beauty, pure,
To offer blessings of inspiration,
Dance around this poet,
I'll match your efforts with perspiration;
Any thoughts you could give,
In elegance, I'll interpret your lines,
Fulfilling favors asked
Of me for opportunities divine.
9/11/09
From The Lab
Casualties of Conversation
It seems that we have said too much,
So arm yourself for the near war of words,
A frantic fight is coming soon,
In the form of violent nouns and verbs,
I never thought that you would be,
Across the field with my ear in your sights,
Aiming your weapons desperately,
With a fiendish plan and a mad delight.
It seems that we have said too much,
So arm yourself for the near war of words,
A frantic fight is coming soon,
In the form of violent nouns and verbs,
I never thought that you would be,
Across the field with my ear in your sights,
Aiming your weapons desperately,
With a fiendish plan and a mad delight.
9/8/09
8/30/09
From The Lab
Starlight
Grudgingly, the populace settles,
And society is left with its confusion,
The chosen few, those delicate petals,
That thrive on the thorny vine's intrusion
In solitude, where the goals are made clear,
To clean an industry of its pollution.
An unseen power within the chosen,
Given by forces thrice unknown,
Locked in time, so often frozen,
Until talent grows wings and has flown,
Tested against the winds of the public,
Tempests of critique, still to be blown.
With necessary leaps of faith,
Against better judgement, appalled
At the comfortably rancid, bitter taste
Of total defeat and the loss of all
Confidence to soar with the clouds,
Braced to endure that possible fall.
Sharpen all weapons, the pen and the brush,
And prepare your dogs for war,
Secure an anchor in the seas of mistrust,
And work hard to paddle ashore,
Where fame and greed stand hand in hand,
But resist the temptations of more.
Through song or picture, original work,
Through painting and story or sonnet,
The difficulty of creating a first,
The medicine of minds, a soul's tonic,
That glow of the few who, for all or nothing,
Can grab hold of the tail of the comet.
Grudgingly, the populace settles,
And society is left with its confusion,
The chosen few, those delicate petals,
That thrive on the thorny vine's intrusion
In solitude, where the goals are made clear,
To clean an industry of its pollution.
An unseen power within the chosen,
Given by forces thrice unknown,
Locked in time, so often frozen,
Until talent grows wings and has flown,
Tested against the winds of the public,
Tempests of critique, still to be blown.
With necessary leaps of faith,
Against better judgement, appalled
At the comfortably rancid, bitter taste
Of total defeat and the loss of all
Confidence to soar with the clouds,
Braced to endure that possible fall.
Sharpen all weapons, the pen and the brush,
And prepare your dogs for war,
Secure an anchor in the seas of mistrust,
And work hard to paddle ashore,
Where fame and greed stand hand in hand,
But resist the temptations of more.
Through song or picture, original work,
Through painting and story or sonnet,
The difficulty of creating a first,
The medicine of minds, a soul's tonic,
That glow of the few who, for all or nothing,
Can grab hold of the tail of the comet.
Pic of the Litter
I don't know about you but I'd probably drink this. The taste might be a little iffy but at least I'd be sure to get my caffeine fix.
8/26/09
Top 5: William Blake Poems
As an artist I develop inspiration by studying great art. Therefore, in what will hopefully be a regular feature here on the Afro, I am going to delve into the catalogues of some of the artists I respect. Maybe you'll find a favorite of yours sometime soon, or maybe this will be your first introduction to a particular artist. The first one up is the poet William Blake. So, followed by a small excerpt, here are (in no particular order) my...
Top 5 William Blake Poems
1. The Tyger (1794) - Quite possibly one of Blake's most famous poems, known for it's wonderful description of man's look into the nature of the (supposedly) savage beast.
"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"
2. "Songs of Experience": Introduction (1794) - From his book of the same name, as a writer I love the subject of this poem and the musicality of the language.
"Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees,"
3. A Poison Tree (1794) - A short, truthful glimpse into the humanity inherent in hatred.
"I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow."
4. The Book of Thel (1789) - A little different than his earlier fare, it tells the story of a young female who questions the reasoning behind existence and death. Some consider it one of his prophetic books, but at the very least it's philosophically interesting.
"Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?
Or the glistning Eye to the poison of a smile!
Why are Eyelids stord with arrows ready drawn,
Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie?
Or an Eye of gifts & graces, show'ring fruits & coined gold!
Why a Tongue impress'd with honey from every wind?
Why an Ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in?
Why a Nostril wide inhaling terror trembling & affright.
Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy!
Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?"
5. Proverbs of Hell (1793) - Another famous work, this time from the book, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. This poem is a clever collection of proverbs written in imitation of the biblical prophecies but with Blake's own spin, questioning the perceptions of evilness about Satan and Hell.
"A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees."
"Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps."
"Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth."
"You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough."
Honorable Mentions: The Sick Rose, Auguries of Innocence, "And did those feet in ancient time"
Top 5 William Blake Poems
1. The Tyger (1794) - Quite possibly one of Blake's most famous poems, known for it's wonderful description of man's look into the nature of the (supposedly) savage beast.
"Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"
2. "Songs of Experience": Introduction (1794) - From his book of the same name, as a writer I love the subject of this poem and the musicality of the language.
"Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future, sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees,"
3. A Poison Tree (1794) - A short, truthful glimpse into the humanity inherent in hatred.
"I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow."
4. The Book of Thel (1789) - A little different than his earlier fare, it tells the story of a young female who questions the reasoning behind existence and death. Some consider it one of his prophetic books, but at the very least it's philosophically interesting.
"Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?
Or the glistning Eye to the poison of a smile!
Why are Eyelids stord with arrows ready drawn,
Where a thousand fighting men in ambush lie?
Or an Eye of gifts & graces, show'ring fruits & coined gold!
Why a Tongue impress'd with honey from every wind?
Why an Ear, a whirlpool fierce to draw creations in?
Why a Nostril wide inhaling terror trembling & affright.
Why a tender curb upon the youthful burning boy!
Why a little curtain of flesh on the bed of our desire?"
5. Proverbs of Hell (1793) - Another famous work, this time from the book, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. This poem is a clever collection of proverbs written in imitation of the biblical prophecies but with Blake's own spin, questioning the perceptions of evilness about Satan and Hell.
"A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees."
"Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps."
"Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth."
"You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough."
Honorable Mentions: The Sick Rose, Auguries of Innocence, "And did those feet in ancient time"
8/24/09
Pic of the Litter
Can you guess what this cool looking, steampunk-styled contraption is? Take a peek in the comments section for the answer.
8/22/09
From The Lab
A Seat Amongst The Clouds
I wish for a place in the cloudy skies,
Where the sun never rests and the moon doesn't sleep,
For definitive proof how I feel inside,
For a Lord is my shepherd, and I a lost sheep.
A place in the stars, of family and friends,
Of long lost loves, and short term kin,
With ambrosia flowing, the songs never end,
And pleasure subsides when another begins.
To finally feel peace in its purest of forms,
(The heart cannot hide, here in the secrets of flesh),
And knowing my body was used up and worn,
I made the most of my days before death.
I wish for the place where I truly belong,
Where shame and the such could never exist,
And the soul does right having known of the wrongs,
With freedom of choice and a pervasive bliss.
I wish for a place in the cloudy skies,
Where the sun never rests and the moon doesn't sleep,
For definitive proof how I feel inside,
For a Lord is my shepherd, and I a lost sheep.
A place in the stars, of family and friends,
Of long lost loves, and short term kin,
With ambrosia flowing, the songs never end,
And pleasure subsides when another begins.
To finally feel peace in its purest of forms,
(The heart cannot hide, here in the secrets of flesh),
And knowing my body was used up and worn,
I made the most of my days before death.
I wish for the place where I truly belong,
Where shame and the such could never exist,
And the soul does right having known of the wrongs,
With freedom of choice and a pervasive bliss.
8/18/09
From The Lab
Chained Gargoyles
As deadly as tonight has been,
With all the punches that were thrown,
O' how we divided the men
That seconds ago would have grown,
Now we're lost in frightful poses,
Caught in stone, an eternal sign,
Left here 'till the coffin roses
Bloom again where we walked the line,
Until that day of miracles,
There's nothing left of our hatred,
Just ourselves, the spirituals,
Locked in sins that we created,
Forced to fight for tender egos,
Hoping no one spots us bluffing,
Each of us thinks the other knows.
Potential's dead. We did nothing;
Repressed, regressed, enjoyed the scene,
And climbed, while time allowed us to,
The stalk turns back into a bean,
Beginning in an hour or two.
As deadly as tonight has been,
With all the punches that were thrown,
O' how we divided the men
That seconds ago would have grown,
Now we're lost in frightful poses,
Caught in stone, an eternal sign,
Left here 'till the coffin roses
Bloom again where we walked the line,
Until that day of miracles,
There's nothing left of our hatred,
Just ourselves, the spirituals,
Locked in sins that we created,
Forced to fight for tender egos,
Hoping no one spots us bluffing,
Each of us thinks the other knows.
Potential's dead. We did nothing;
Repressed, regressed, enjoyed the scene,
And climbed, while time allowed us to,
The stalk turns back into a bean,
Beginning in an hour or two.
8/16/09
8/13/09
In/gratitude
We as humans, and especially Americans, take things for granted. We expect things to go our way and just happen for us and when they don't we curse the gods for getting burned. We strongly believe in the illusion of control and feel that we must have it or exert it at all times. The simple truth is that control is a hollow form. We can't control God or Nature (human or otherwise) so our lives will always be a balance of both good and bad. No matter how hard you try, life will never be perfect, and believe it or not that's a good thing. Perfection is an ideal not to be reached because by it's very definition there's nowhere to grow from it. We must accept the gifts of the good times, but also the lessons that the bad and unfortunate times can teach us.
Acceptance and gratitude go hand in hand. It's easy to say that I should be thankful for what I have but it's harder to execute. It's easy to lose sight of what you've gained when, in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, we are always focused on planning or saving for our next big thing. However, if you allow yourself to take a breath and see what it is you actually have, you will truly start to feel blessed. And it's not just the small or material things, (i.e. new clothes, books, DVDs, games, etc.), but the big ones as well, (food, shelter, water). These are all gifts and should be looked at as such.
Different cultures view the various aspects of life differently but those of us in the western 'civilized' part of the world have become a bit spoiled and soft. Be it due to personal expectations, society, or how we were raised we become bummed when we don't have enough money to buy our new, shiny fetish of the moment, or don't have the time to go out to eat at our favorite restaurant. When really we need to show thanks for what we do have time for, the intangibles like friends, love, and laughter. I'm just like most people in this respect. Recently I've been searching for a new and better job and have been getting very few results. It's been depressing but lately I've been trying to remind myself to be gracious for all that I do have. So I've been struggling with changing my ways, all while learning to live in, and more importantly honor, the present moment(s).
It's hard to give thanks to the obvious that has grown to become passe'. First things first you have to recognize them; actually take the time and reflect on what's truly going on with your life, remembering that it doesn't have to be a boon to be a blessing. You should come up with quite the list but at the absolute least you should be thankful for another day. Another day is another chance at life, and if you don't like its direction, it's another chance to change. Now, when you do realize what you have, the trick is how you should give thanks.
Giving thanks doesn't mean you have to drop to your knees and pray, (although there's nothing wrong with this), it simply means taking the time to consider resources. For instance, how did that dinner make its way to your plate? I'm pretty sure you don't farm or butcher meat. What about your favorite comfy shirt, or that show that helps take your mind off the world for 30 minutes? How did they get to where they are? All it takes is a moment or three out of the day to reflect on what you have and giving a quick 'mental thank you' to the people, animals, things, or gods that let you have them. (Did you ever think, 'Man, I wish this moment would never end'? If so then that's the perfect time to do this.) Because the fact of the matter is you could always have things much worse. No matter how low you feel your life has gotten, you're always standing on the shoulders of someone that's underneath you, so its best to appreciate what you got while you still got it. Gratitude is one of the paths to wisdom. All you have to do is walk it and see where it takes you.
Acceptance and gratitude go hand in hand. It's easy to say that I should be thankful for what I have but it's harder to execute. It's easy to lose sight of what you've gained when, in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, we are always focused on planning or saving for our next big thing. However, if you allow yourself to take a breath and see what it is you actually have, you will truly start to feel blessed. And it's not just the small or material things, (i.e. new clothes, books, DVDs, games, etc.), but the big ones as well, (food, shelter, water). These are all gifts and should be looked at as such.
Different cultures view the various aspects of life differently but those of us in the western 'civilized' part of the world have become a bit spoiled and soft. Be it due to personal expectations, society, or how we were raised we become bummed when we don't have enough money to buy our new, shiny fetish of the moment, or don't have the time to go out to eat at our favorite restaurant. When really we need to show thanks for what we do have time for, the intangibles like friends, love, and laughter. I'm just like most people in this respect. Recently I've been searching for a new and better job and have been getting very few results. It's been depressing but lately I've been trying to remind myself to be gracious for all that I do have. So I've been struggling with changing my ways, all while learning to live in, and more importantly honor, the present moment(s).
It's hard to give thanks to the obvious that has grown to become passe'. First things first you have to recognize them; actually take the time and reflect on what's truly going on with your life, remembering that it doesn't have to be a boon to be a blessing. You should come up with quite the list but at the absolute least you should be thankful for another day. Another day is another chance at life, and if you don't like its direction, it's another chance to change. Now, when you do realize what you have, the trick is how you should give thanks.
Giving thanks doesn't mean you have to drop to your knees and pray, (although there's nothing wrong with this), it simply means taking the time to consider resources. For instance, how did that dinner make its way to your plate? I'm pretty sure you don't farm or butcher meat. What about your favorite comfy shirt, or that show that helps take your mind off the world for 30 minutes? How did they get to where they are? All it takes is a moment or three out of the day to reflect on what you have and giving a quick 'mental thank you' to the people, animals, things, or gods that let you have them. (Did you ever think, 'Man, I wish this moment would never end'? If so then that's the perfect time to do this.) Because the fact of the matter is you could always have things much worse. No matter how low you feel your life has gotten, you're always standing on the shoulders of someone that's underneath you, so its best to appreciate what you got while you still got it. Gratitude is one of the paths to wisdom. All you have to do is walk it and see where it takes you.
8/12/09
From The Lab
Eff Destiny
We the sons of pen and paper,
Heedless, jump the cliffs of chance,
Blind to paths well trodden down,
Deaf to the volume of the rants,
Ignore the perils of the myth,
Speak the mind and plead the fifth.
Set sail the notebook battleships!
Burn through all chains which bind the lips,
Withstand the force of stones and sticks
And watch what you'll accomplish.
Dodge the critic's accurate sting,
Who beat the peasant and praise the king,
Contributing nothing, but loudly sing,
That all true art is demolished.
Popular prejudice says that you
Should conform to the ways of yesteryear,
Stay within the thick drawn lines,
And follow your elder's trails and fears,
Let nothing new be done or made,
Until tradition presents your grave.
With swollen knuckles and bitten nails,
Withstand the stress to pierce the veils,
Fight off the sharks to swim with whales,
And thrive under that pressure which lingers.
Breathe easy, evoke a peace of mind,
Where fair muse will call and talent will find
The confidence to be one-of-a-kind,
And give Lady Fate a chosen finger.
We the sons of pen and paper,
Heedless, jump the cliffs of chance,
Blind to paths well trodden down,
Deaf to the volume of the rants,
Ignore the perils of the myth,
Speak the mind and plead the fifth.
Set sail the notebook battleships!
Burn through all chains which bind the lips,
Withstand the force of stones and sticks
And watch what you'll accomplish.
Dodge the critic's accurate sting,
Who beat the peasant and praise the king,
Contributing nothing, but loudly sing,
That all true art is demolished.
Popular prejudice says that you
Should conform to the ways of yesteryear,
Stay within the thick drawn lines,
And follow your elder's trails and fears,
Let nothing new be done or made,
Until tradition presents your grave.
With swollen knuckles and bitten nails,
Withstand the stress to pierce the veils,
Fight off the sharks to swim with whales,
And thrive under that pressure which lingers.
Breathe easy, evoke a peace of mind,
Where fair muse will call and talent will find
The confidence to be one-of-a-kind,
And give Lady Fate a chosen finger.
8/9/09
Pic of the Litter
This is a piece from the talented enigma, Banksy. (If you don't already know about this subversive graffiti artist do yourself a favor and Google his name and artwork.) I believe this take on the dove of peace was tagged in Bethlehem.
8/6/09
From The Lab
Outpost Outlook
"Report!"
It looks as if they're gathering arms, sir.
Only moments before their aim is drawn.
All tactics are lost in a bloodlust blur,
A strategy's weight bared down on the pawn.
They are miles away from seeing success,
But power unchecked can grow twice as fast,
Venturing forth, their desired effect
Is hidden quite well beneath faux-styled masks.
Soon they'll take to the streets, armed for the storm,
With a desperation that's unnerving;
A strategy to attack with a swarm,
The left hand kills, the right hand's diverting.
"Suggestions?"
The skins of law books protect their soft hide,
And ever-right badges conceal intent,
But the people are still strong on our side,
So strike at the fringes until we're spent.
I don't trust them to play by their own rules,
What is this world when only thieves play fair?
Defend and retreat, though it may seem cruel,
Only fools follow dragons in their lair...
And follow they shall, to get at our heart,
We're never as strong when foes think us weak.
It is there they will learn the wartime arts
Of power, harsh fears, and graceful defeats.
"Report!"
It looks as if they're gathering arms, sir.
Only moments before their aim is drawn.
All tactics are lost in a bloodlust blur,
A strategy's weight bared down on the pawn.
They are miles away from seeing success,
But power unchecked can grow twice as fast,
Venturing forth, their desired effect
Is hidden quite well beneath faux-styled masks.
Soon they'll take to the streets, armed for the storm,
With a desperation that's unnerving;
A strategy to attack with a swarm,
The left hand kills, the right hand's diverting.
"Suggestions?"
The skins of law books protect their soft hide,
And ever-right badges conceal intent,
But the people are still strong on our side,
So strike at the fringes until we're spent.
I don't trust them to play by their own rules,
What is this world when only thieves play fair?
Defend and retreat, though it may seem cruel,
Only fools follow dragons in their lair...
And follow they shall, to get at our heart,
We're never as strong when foes think us weak.
It is there they will learn the wartime arts
Of power, harsh fears, and graceful defeats.
8/3/09
Site Update
The few mp3's that are on this site (and subsequently any new music) will be down for a few days as I have found my file hosting system and audio converters to be unreliable. Stay tuned to the Fro for more info on when this problem will be corrected. Until then, me so sorry.
From The Lab
Diagnosis
"He is not healthy," the Elderman said,
"The passion inside him is gone;
Before it was said, 'twas illness,' instead,
But what was said before is wrong.
There's anger inside this man with no name,
You can see it within his eyes,
They stare at the world with common disdain,
Through false men of crafty disguise."
"He grieves for the many from yesteryear,
For moments that were too seldom,
The ghosts of the past do ever appear
And that grief could overwhelm him.
He's jealous of those with paper riches,
And doesn't realize they've nothing
But earthly things and unfulfilled wishes;
The target that's always running."
The Elderman stopped, gazed at his patient,
Cleared his throat and continued on.
"I see he's growing much too complacent,
He believes his love to be gone.
Never again might his heart take that flight,
The trust in himself is far lost,
He thinks another does not have the right,
That gamble has too high a cost."
"A happiness cowers deep down inside,
Afraid that if it shows it's face,
A long dormant part of the soul will rise
And he'd only get but a taste
Before reality comes back full force,
His hopes, once risen, shall fall hard;
The fear of that moment shattered its source,
Leaving only these gleeful scars."
"Disgusted, he tosses and turns with dreams,
Embarrassed with thinking these thoughts,
Hating himself and the minds' wicked schemes,
And all the destruction it's wrought.
There's a sadness in this man's tired eyes,
He feels, his ways, they would not mend,
And when, with confidence, he starts to try,
He stops, in fear, he'll fail again."
Content with his work, the Elderman left,
To his audience's dismay,
To them, the matter was far from it's rest,
But that's all they would hear that day.
Though I, with intent and my motives pure,
Asked the sage what he was seeing,
He answered, with simply, "He's insecure,
Which makes him the human being."
"He is not healthy," the Elderman said,
"The passion inside him is gone;
Before it was said, 'twas illness,' instead,
But what was said before is wrong.
There's anger inside this man with no name,
You can see it within his eyes,
They stare at the world with common disdain,
Through false men of crafty disguise."
"He grieves for the many from yesteryear,
For moments that were too seldom,
The ghosts of the past do ever appear
And that grief could overwhelm him.
He's jealous of those with paper riches,
And doesn't realize they've nothing
But earthly things and unfulfilled wishes;
The target that's always running."
The Elderman stopped, gazed at his patient,
Cleared his throat and continued on.
"I see he's growing much too complacent,
He believes his love to be gone.
Never again might his heart take that flight,
The trust in himself is far lost,
He thinks another does not have the right,
That gamble has too high a cost."
"A happiness cowers deep down inside,
Afraid that if it shows it's face,
A long dormant part of the soul will rise
And he'd only get but a taste
Before reality comes back full force,
His hopes, once risen, shall fall hard;
The fear of that moment shattered its source,
Leaving only these gleeful scars."
"Disgusted, he tosses and turns with dreams,
Embarrassed with thinking these thoughts,
Hating himself and the minds' wicked schemes,
And all the destruction it's wrought.
There's a sadness in this man's tired eyes,
He feels, his ways, they would not mend,
And when, with confidence, he starts to try,
He stops, in fear, he'll fail again."
Content with his work, the Elderman left,
To his audience's dismay,
To them, the matter was far from it's rest,
But that's all they would hear that day.
Though I, with intent and my motives pure,
Asked the sage what he was seeing,
He answered, with simply, "He's insecure,
Which makes him the human being."
8/2/09
Pic of the Litter
In memory of one of my favorite Pistons in a long time. I don't think I can root for him wearing that Boston green but in my mind (and my heart) he'll always be wearing the red, white, and blue.
8/1/09
From The Lab
Change By Itself
Change by itself is ambiguous,
Too broad a word and oddly confining;
One lone soul may plant the seeds,
But the environment nurtures and decides
The direction of it's accepted chaos,
While acceptance itself morphs and multiplies,
Unable to ever be accurately pinned down.
Leaders will grasp to catch this breeze,
And risk looking the fool of public servitude,
In that jester's costume of red/blue ties and loafers,
This being what freedom sometimes demands,
Though very rarely deserves.
The power to change lies dormant
In everyone, though it is no small feat to be awakened,
Yet, once the sleeping eye finally blinks open,
It can allow the flawed man to reach greatness, and
The perfect man to fall into ruined disgrace.
Change works in both directions, as does a country.
America as a country is far from perfect,
But this is not a negative thing;
Perfection should never be made a goal,
It is unobtainable and allows no room for growth.
The future of this nation is hazy,
While somewhere off in the distance, greatness hides within the fog.
Change by itself is ambiguous,
Too broad a word and oddly confining;
One lone soul may plant the seeds,
But the environment nurtures and decides
The direction of it's accepted chaos,
While acceptance itself morphs and multiplies,
Unable to ever be accurately pinned down.
Leaders will grasp to catch this breeze,
And risk looking the fool of public servitude,
In that jester's costume of red/blue ties and loafers,
This being what freedom sometimes demands,
Though very rarely deserves.
The power to change lies dormant
In everyone, though it is no small feat to be awakened,
Yet, once the sleeping eye finally blinks open,
It can allow the flawed man to reach greatness, and
The perfect man to fall into ruined disgrace.
Change works in both directions, as does a country.
America as a country is far from perfect,
But this is not a negative thing;
Perfection should never be made a goal,
It is unobtainable and allows no room for growth.
The future of this nation is hazy,
While somewhere off in the distance, greatness hides within the fog.
7/19/09
Update
Due to unexpected outside interference Afro Shamrock will be on hiatus until August 1st, whereby the posts will be continued on their regular basis.
7/8/09
From The Lab
From Another Perspective
Open your eyes to see the truth,
All men with sight that do not see,
Philosophers and kings of age,
Your arguments can never ease
The hearts of those whose ecstasy
Comes with tough times and strange beliefs.
Silent words, in comparison
To loud action, will not impress
The man worth his salt, sweat and blood
Need more than sound for happiness,
A hand to help through his duress,
Is worth far more than you'd expect.
Examples show the many, who,
Would help in times of need and strife,
The folk who, although blindfolded,
Could use a lift to see the light,
The positive role model type,
Perhaps then they would be all right.
Ignore these simple sentences,
A poet's words, his call to arms,
And in the days of your struggles,
When brain and soul cry out alarm,
You'll see that letters hold no charm,
For assistance in times of harm.
Open your eyes to see the truth,
All men with sight that do not see,
Philosophers and kings of age,
Your arguments can never ease
The hearts of those whose ecstasy
Comes with tough times and strange beliefs.
Silent words, in comparison
To loud action, will not impress
The man worth his salt, sweat and blood
Need more than sound for happiness,
A hand to help through his duress,
Is worth far more than you'd expect.
Examples show the many, who,
Would help in times of need and strife,
The folk who, although blindfolded,
Could use a lift to see the light,
The positive role model type,
Perhaps then they would be all right.
Ignore these simple sentences,
A poet's words, his call to arms,
And in the days of your struggles,
When brain and soul cry out alarm,
You'll see that letters hold no charm,
For assistance in times of harm.
7/5/09
Pic of the Litter
An interesting painting of one of my power/totem animals, the composition is brilliant. Unsure of the artist.
From The Lab
Stranger Nation
Blank faces pacing at a shuffling gait,
Shoulder to shoulder with all the unknowns;
Unspoken words being scattered around,
Snagged by receivers strong enough to hear.
That which is recognized clearly exists,
And dismissed just as quickly as needed,
To free up space on a cluttered hard drive,
Excuses, now only good for one thing.
Cold stares of indifference strike at the core,
Drowned in a mind-flood of pity, unhinged,
Identified, days past, for what it was;
A back turned without a how-do-you-do,
And a civil laugh in stranger nation.
Blank faces pacing at a shuffling gait,
Shoulder to shoulder with all the unknowns;
Unspoken words being scattered around,
Snagged by receivers strong enough to hear.
That which is recognized clearly exists,
And dismissed just as quickly as needed,
To free up space on a cluttered hard drive,
Excuses, now only good for one thing.
Cold stares of indifference strike at the core,
Drowned in a mind-flood of pity, unhinged,
Identified, days past, for what it was;
A back turned without a how-do-you-do,
And a civil laugh in stranger nation.
7/2/09
From The Lab
New Age Minutemen
To arms! To arms! The time has come;
Goodbyes to good wives and girlfriends,
Kisses for missus, hugs for sons,
In time to battle the whirlwind.
To arms! To arms! Iron and steel!
Strong backs and quick thoughts help reach goals;
Where Hell's but a trifle to feel,
Working through sweat in flaming coals.
To arms! To arms! The Pen and Ink,
May secrets and notes ever last,
Messages that force men to think,
Placed in bound bottles for the past.
To arms! To arms! People of wit,
Let loose and may all feel your wrath,
Peasants to kings, that subtle fit
That lies on the heart and the laugh.
To arms! To arms, enlightened few,
And hope Solomon's gifts bless thee,
Knowledge to grasp the other view,
And luck that some god protects thee.
To arms! To arms, cutpurse and fool.
Pass mischief and deceit to kin,
Instincts absent from books and school;
No lesson is better than sin.
To arms! To arms! The time has come;
Goodbyes to good wives and girlfriends,
Kisses for missus, hugs for sons,
In time to battle the whirlwind.
To arms! To arms! Iron and steel!
Strong backs and quick thoughts help reach goals;
Where Hell's but a trifle to feel,
Working through sweat in flaming coals.
To arms! To arms! The Pen and Ink,
May secrets and notes ever last,
Messages that force men to think,
Placed in bound bottles for the past.
To arms! To arms! People of wit,
Let loose and may all feel your wrath,
Peasants to kings, that subtle fit
That lies on the heart and the laugh.
To arms! To arms, enlightened few,
And hope Solomon's gifts bless thee,
Knowledge to grasp the other view,
And luck that some god protects thee.
To arms! To arms, cutpurse and fool.
Pass mischief and deceit to kin,
Instincts absent from books and school;
No lesson is better than sin.
6/30/09
Insignificant Earth
I got this message the other day, sent anonymously, and I thought I should share it.
Insignificant Earth
Silly Earthlings. One could almost pity you were it not for your massive ego and arrogance. Or is it ignorance? For a species that considers itself intelligent and self-actualized you really have no clue. No clue how blessed you are to inhabit that jewel of the universe. Of course, your civilization has only been around for a few thousand years and your progress is nowhere near your projected potential. This statement will not include everybody, as there are a few aware humans that are climbing the uphill struggle of self-preservation, but these are rare within your population. And in a population approaching over seven billion it's going to take more than the few to make any realistic difference. Those that do fight are managing to buy the rest of you a small amount of time and it is not enough. If one billion Earthlings decided to change their ways and dedicated their entire lives to fighting for long term survival, the task would still eventually face near impossible odds. However, it would buy you all more time, which is one of the many concepts you clutch to too closely, and this is something your species will discover, perhaps sooner than you would like.
It's hard to think of something as big and vast as a planet as a fragile thing, but in reality your position as a species couldn't be more delicate. Everything, from it's position in relation to your nearest sun, to the speed of it's rotation, is the perfect combination to support humanity and other forms of life, while the most minute of changes could have catastrophic results. To my species' amazement, it appears that with this in mind mankind is actively trying to destroy its planet faster.
The simple fact is that the Earth's life span is not that long under the best of conditions. Not in cosmic terms. It may appear to be an eternity compared to the average human life span, but in relation to the universe, a few million years is not that long at all. All stars must eventually burn out, no matter how powerful they may be, and your sun is no different. It is an amazing star nonetheless and because it has been around as long as you can remember, you humans do not seem to know how lucky you are to actually have it. Earthlings are a fiercely weak species and the sun has supported you for some time now. The least you can do is keep your planet running long enough until it can bow out of the spotlight gracefully.
As an example of the pure unlikeliness of life in general, we need look no further than your own solar system. Of the eight planets in the galaxy you have deemed 'the Milky Way,' only one of them is capable of supporting life in almost any form; that includes the satellites you know as moons. The proof lies in the mere miles that separate Earth from the scorching inferno of Mercury, where a small amount of microscopic life does exist but it is doubtful that Earthling technology will ever discover this anytime soon. It is also quite apparent in the real mystery of the system, Venus, with gasses so noxious hidden within its core that if the planet ever exploded, or leaked significantly, all life would be destroyed in several galaxies. Proof also lies in the tragedy of Mars, which according to your evolution progression rate, should have you just beginning to explore and learn of Her secrets around the time that you receive this message. It is our society's belief that the eventual revelation of the Martian story will have a dramatic impact on the thought process of the human race. But time will tell all truths.
Any species capable of evolving and forward thinking must use the resources and raw materials available to them when they begin to develop a method of life and society. However, the fact that this will lead to the dissolution of the planet itself must register with those who have the power to draw up a solution to the problem. Recognizing the problem is not good enough; measures must be taken long before you find yourselves running out of supplies. If there was an emergency and a created solution failed in any way your species would need a vast supply of food and fuel to fall back on.
That is considering that the planet lasts long enough for it's resources to be depleted. My species is not, nor has it ever been, the smartest in the universe, and we have two of the thought organs you would call a brain. Through the exhaustive research we have been able to complete thus far, we have catalogued the destruction of some twelve thousand, three hundred and twenty-one life bearing planets and the outlook does not look good. There is an uncountable and ever-growing number of ways a planet's life can end. The impact of a sizable chunk of space debris, the burnout of a head star, self destruction via war, and even invasion are just a few, and not the worst ones at that.
My contemporaries continue to taunt my efforts to send a message to Earth. They call it a pointless and unworthy exercise and I'm not sure I entirely disagree with them. In the vastness of the universe, Earth matters very little, in fact your entire solar system will have close to no historical impact according to our psychics and their records. However, it is almost always the tiny and insignificant things that can yield the best results simply because they are overlooked. So I believe that it is not a waste of time to send out this warning to your planet, and it is in all of our best interests that your leaders heed it. Because if there is one thing that surprises me about Earth and it's inhabitants it would be human potential. I have noticed sparks of greatness deeply ingrained within you all and it's time you realized this for yourselves. The potential lies within to change, not only your own world, but others as well. There are times when one must force themselves to have significance and if any species can I have faith that it is yours.
Sent in peace,
X
Insignificant Earth
Silly Earthlings. One could almost pity you were it not for your massive ego and arrogance. Or is it ignorance? For a species that considers itself intelligent and self-actualized you really have no clue. No clue how blessed you are to inhabit that jewel of the universe. Of course, your civilization has only been around for a few thousand years and your progress is nowhere near your projected potential. This statement will not include everybody, as there are a few aware humans that are climbing the uphill struggle of self-preservation, but these are rare within your population. And in a population approaching over seven billion it's going to take more than the few to make any realistic difference. Those that do fight are managing to buy the rest of you a small amount of time and it is not enough. If one billion Earthlings decided to change their ways and dedicated their entire lives to fighting for long term survival, the task would still eventually face near impossible odds. However, it would buy you all more time, which is one of the many concepts you clutch to too closely, and this is something your species will discover, perhaps sooner than you would like.
It's hard to think of something as big and vast as a planet as a fragile thing, but in reality your position as a species couldn't be more delicate. Everything, from it's position in relation to your nearest sun, to the speed of it's rotation, is the perfect combination to support humanity and other forms of life, while the most minute of changes could have catastrophic results. To my species' amazement, it appears that with this in mind mankind is actively trying to destroy its planet faster.
The simple fact is that the Earth's life span is not that long under the best of conditions. Not in cosmic terms. It may appear to be an eternity compared to the average human life span, but in relation to the universe, a few million years is not that long at all. All stars must eventually burn out, no matter how powerful they may be, and your sun is no different. It is an amazing star nonetheless and because it has been around as long as you can remember, you humans do not seem to know how lucky you are to actually have it. Earthlings are a fiercely weak species and the sun has supported you for some time now. The least you can do is keep your planet running long enough until it can bow out of the spotlight gracefully.
As an example of the pure unlikeliness of life in general, we need look no further than your own solar system. Of the eight planets in the galaxy you have deemed 'the Milky Way,' only one of them is capable of supporting life in almost any form; that includes the satellites you know as moons. The proof lies in the mere miles that separate Earth from the scorching inferno of Mercury, where a small amount of microscopic life does exist but it is doubtful that Earthling technology will ever discover this anytime soon. It is also quite apparent in the real mystery of the system, Venus, with gasses so noxious hidden within its core that if the planet ever exploded, or leaked significantly, all life would be destroyed in several galaxies. Proof also lies in the tragedy of Mars, which according to your evolution progression rate, should have you just beginning to explore and learn of Her secrets around the time that you receive this message. It is our society's belief that the eventual revelation of the Martian story will have a dramatic impact on the thought process of the human race. But time will tell all truths.
Any species capable of evolving and forward thinking must use the resources and raw materials available to them when they begin to develop a method of life and society. However, the fact that this will lead to the dissolution of the planet itself must register with those who have the power to draw up a solution to the problem. Recognizing the problem is not good enough; measures must be taken long before you find yourselves running out of supplies. If there was an emergency and a created solution failed in any way your species would need a vast supply of food and fuel to fall back on.
That is considering that the planet lasts long enough for it's resources to be depleted. My species is not, nor has it ever been, the smartest in the universe, and we have two of the thought organs you would call a brain. Through the exhaustive research we have been able to complete thus far, we have catalogued the destruction of some twelve thousand, three hundred and twenty-one life bearing planets and the outlook does not look good. There is an uncountable and ever-growing number of ways a planet's life can end. The impact of a sizable chunk of space debris, the burnout of a head star, self destruction via war, and even invasion are just a few, and not the worst ones at that.
My contemporaries continue to taunt my efforts to send a message to Earth. They call it a pointless and unworthy exercise and I'm not sure I entirely disagree with them. In the vastness of the universe, Earth matters very little, in fact your entire solar system will have close to no historical impact according to our psychics and their records. However, it is almost always the tiny and insignificant things that can yield the best results simply because they are overlooked. So I believe that it is not a waste of time to send out this warning to your planet, and it is in all of our best interests that your leaders heed it. Because if there is one thing that surprises me about Earth and it's inhabitants it would be human potential. I have noticed sparks of greatness deeply ingrained within you all and it's time you realized this for yourselves. The potential lies within to change, not only your own world, but others as well. There are times when one must force themselves to have significance and if any species can I have faith that it is yours.
Sent in peace,
X
6/29/09
From The Lab
The Obstruction
While forging these forgotten drops of gold,
Still surprised to be howling in the dark,
Toiling for a small, random work of art,
That warm my hands from the desolate cold,
With letters and phrases I sadly stole,
To avoid the chum and swim with the sharks.
That unexpected happiness creeps in,
As I have no control over the reins,
And beats back the cynic, destroys the pain,
Back to places where men mumble and cringe,
Stumbling through darkness, tripping upon sin,
Leaving only a child, afraid and lame.
The pressures of oxygen build on me,
So I stifle the accidental breath,
Clearing that air locked deep within my chest,
Fighting the inclination to believe
That poison will burn and my veins still bleed,
But reckless men don't know of cautious steps.
Vision is shady in the fearful fog,
My sense of direction is all but gone,
Lost amongst the brute masses of the dawn,
Withholding that grave urge to get involved,
A moral question, as yet to be solved,
Stuck in the muck of the need to belong.
While forging these forgotten drops of gold,
Still surprised to be howling in the dark,
Toiling for a small, random work of art,
That warm my hands from the desolate cold,
With letters and phrases I sadly stole,
To avoid the chum and swim with the sharks.
That unexpected happiness creeps in,
As I have no control over the reins,
And beats back the cynic, destroys the pain,
Back to places where men mumble and cringe,
Stumbling through darkness, tripping upon sin,
Leaving only a child, afraid and lame.
The pressures of oxygen build on me,
So I stifle the accidental breath,
Clearing that air locked deep within my chest,
Fighting the inclination to believe
That poison will burn and my veins still bleed,
But reckless men don't know of cautious steps.
Vision is shady in the fearful fog,
My sense of direction is all but gone,
Lost amongst the brute masses of the dawn,
Withholding that grave urge to get involved,
A moral question, as yet to be solved,
Stuck in the muck of the need to belong.
6/27/09
Tossing & Turning: Thoughts that keep me up at night
The White Gene
I want everybody to take a second, close their eyes, and imagine all of the streakers, sky divers, and bungee jumpers you've ever seen. Think of all of those images you've come across in your lifetime and all of the times that person has been black, latino, or asian. What's that? Zero times? Shocking.
What is it within the white gene that drives a person to take off their clothes and run through public, tie a rubber band around their waist and jump from a bridge, or leap out of an aircraft with a sheet in a backpack, (and sometimes all three), just for kicks? Whatever this look-at-me, closeness to death feeling is, why does no other race seem to pursue it in these ways? I wonder if it's just that living regular everyday life can be thrilling enough for minorities, so they don't feel the need to go out of their way to seek it. I don't know, but I'm stumped. As always, feel free to leave your opinion in the comments.
I want everybody to take a second, close their eyes, and imagine all of the streakers, sky divers, and bungee jumpers you've ever seen. Think of all of those images you've come across in your lifetime and all of the times that person has been black, latino, or asian. What's that? Zero times? Shocking.
What is it within the white gene that drives a person to take off their clothes and run through public, tie a rubber band around their waist and jump from a bridge, or leap out of an aircraft with a sheet in a backpack, (and sometimes all three), just for kicks? Whatever this look-at-me, closeness to death feeling is, why does no other race seem to pursue it in these ways? I wonder if it's just that living regular everyday life can be thrilling enough for minorities, so they don't feel the need to go out of their way to seek it. I don't know, but I'm stumped. As always, feel free to leave your opinion in the comments.
From The Lab
Wind Walkers
Footsteps on the fluff,
Bits of the Nimbus stuck on the heel
Like toilet paper, trailing off,
A breadcrumb path revealing
Past crossroads chosen.
Hidden within the high fog,
Nestled in a bed of imaginary
Imaginings, they drift along,
Silent as a folding wing.
High within their misty haunts,
Numerous eagle-eyes observe
The long grounded species.
Hear the silent chuckles
Floating on the breeze,
These are the Wind Walkers'
Words, mocking the races
That are beneath them and Beneath them,
In all possible ways.
Call it arrogance if you will,
But who's to say that confident things
Do not have confident falls?
Footsteps on the fluff,
Bits of the Nimbus stuck on the heel
Like toilet paper, trailing off,
A breadcrumb path revealing
Past crossroads chosen.
Hidden within the high fog,
Nestled in a bed of imaginary
Imaginings, they drift along,
Silent as a folding wing.
High within their misty haunts,
Numerous eagle-eyes observe
The long grounded species.
Hear the silent chuckles
Floating on the breeze,
These are the Wind Walkers'
Words, mocking the races
That are beneath them and Beneath them,
In all possible ways.
Call it arrogance if you will,
But who's to say that confident things
Do not have confident falls?
6/23/09
From The Lab
Underground Crown
In kingdoms built of ancient dreamer's lies,
Demolished, sadly, by a careless thought,
Though supported by all with depth to try
To separate themselves and seek what's sought,
Which, buried deep, confirms untold delights,
Away from standard wishes, goals, and wants.
Here, far below in everlasting night,
Shine stars from memory's familiar haunts,
And self appointed kings in darkness thrive,
Unseen by those without third-eye belief,
To knight themselves as lords of their own lives
And reach for goals before the chance has ceased;
Let nonbelievers plant heels in the ground,
And I shall stay where royalty is crowned.
In kingdoms built of ancient dreamer's lies,
Demolished, sadly, by a careless thought,
Though supported by all with depth to try
To separate themselves and seek what's sought,
Which, buried deep, confirms untold delights,
Away from standard wishes, goals, and wants.
Here, far below in everlasting night,
Shine stars from memory's familiar haunts,
And self appointed kings in darkness thrive,
Unseen by those without third-eye belief,
To knight themselves as lords of their own lives
And reach for goals before the chance has ceased;
Let nonbelievers plant heels in the ground,
And I shall stay where royalty is crowned.
6/21/09
Top 5: Transformers (G1)
Top 5: Transformers (Generation 1)
In anticipation of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, (which despite it's bad reviews is still going to be guaranteed eye candy), I've compiled a list of my favorite morphing robots, (of which I know at least two of them will be in the movie). Take note that I am a child of the 80's, so these are all from the original toyline, cartoon, and comic.
5. Blades- the most violent Autobot; this pistol-packing rescue copter fights with bloodlust, and with his fellow Protectobots combines into the heavy duty Defensor.
4. Onslaught- the Decepticon tactician and anti-aircraft truck rolls with a sonic stun gun as he always develops a strategy that gets him ahead. Ballsy enough to once try and overthrow number 3 on this list, Onslaught combines with the other Combaticons to form Brutus, one of the strongest Transformers alive.
3. Megatron- You've got to be the baddest of the bad ass to oppose the G that is Optimus Prime and Megatron does that nicely. The leader of the Decepticons transforms into a Walther P38 but doesn't really need to due to the hefty fusion cannon he carries.
2. Grimlock- The leader of the Dinobots transforms into a T-Rex and carries a big ole energy sword, what more do you need? He values only strength and is probably the only other robot on the same level as Optimus and Megatron, despite sounding like a caveman.
1. Soundwave- 1st off, he transforms into a giant boombox (and what child that grew up in the 80's doesn't love a ghetto blaster), 2nd, he's like 10 bots in one since he rolls with his tape collection; some of the standouts being Laserbeak (a condor spy), Ravage (a panther with guns), and Frenzy (a tiny psychopath), and 3rd, he spoke with a vocoder before it was played out. He was also one of Megatron's most trusted generals (the one that held him as a gun) and had some form of telepathy. Hands down, the coolest robot ever.
From The Lab
Hiding From The Watchmen
O', the things that shift behind the fragile stone veils,
Are better to be hidden from the prying eyes
Of watchmen, staring from across the misty bay.
Here, we can dance the dance of the ancients, in tune
With a melody the watchmen will never hear,
Even if their ears could penetrate the blue fog,
They could not understand what they're listening to.
Under the protection of impenetrable
Walls, our faceless forms are free to be what we choose,
On occasion, watching the watchmen from behind
Our safe, concrete ideals. It is during these times
That the massive, sickly bay seems but a few feet,
Hardly wide enough to keep us from each other;
Slowly, we'll transform into statuesque models
Of simplicity, and who wants to be seen then?
O', the things that shift behind the fragile stone veils,
Are better to be hidden from the prying eyes
Of watchmen, staring from across the misty bay.
Here, we can dance the dance of the ancients, in tune
With a melody the watchmen will never hear,
Even if their ears could penetrate the blue fog,
They could not understand what they're listening to.
Under the protection of impenetrable
Walls, our faceless forms are free to be what we choose,
On occasion, watching the watchmen from behind
Our safe, concrete ideals. It is during these times
That the massive, sickly bay seems but a few feet,
Hardly wide enough to keep us from each other;
Slowly, we'll transform into statuesque models
Of simplicity, and who wants to be seen then?
6/18/09
From The Lab
Secrets & Lies
Secrets and lies and truths untold,
Hidden whispers and words of gold,
Spun from voices built to conceal,
Distorted facts of weapons, real,
And pure, built to maim and destroy,
Threatened by an enemies ploy;
Soldier be warned, your time was now,
So fit the yolk and pull the plow,
To pave the way as they see fit,
Fight the good fight, refuse to quit!
Don't question why, (that's too absurd),
Just risk a life and prove their words,
Distant battles to reach an end,
For the delights of petty men,
Whose spineless backs receive the rub
Meant for brave souls, payed harsh with blood;
Deception lies within these scenes,
Where everything is as it seems.
Secrets and lies and truths untold,
Hidden whispers and words of gold,
Spun from voices built to conceal,
Distorted facts of weapons, real,
And pure, built to maim and destroy,
Threatened by an enemies ploy;
Soldier be warned, your time was now,
So fit the yolk and pull the plow,
To pave the way as they see fit,
Fight the good fight, refuse to quit!
Don't question why, (that's too absurd),
Just risk a life and prove their words,
Distant battles to reach an end,
For the delights of petty men,
Whose spineless backs receive the rub
Meant for brave souls, payed harsh with blood;
Deception lies within these scenes,
Where everything is as it seems.
6/15/09
From The Lab
Masked By A Hologram
The light plays off
of the facets,
carved long ago
by the wisest of wise.
Yet a select few
that build up walls
of false smiles and
a kindness not there
wrongly reflect
their true desperation's,
loves, hopes, desires,
hatreds, and hidden fears,
with purposeful motions
thrown to conceal
like sleight of hand
of the mind and soul,
in a world devised
from blueprints that
were drafted for
a person no longer there,
for here there are only
shades and masks.
The light plays off
of the facets,
carved long ago
by the wisest of wise.
Yet a select few
that build up walls
of false smiles and
a kindness not there
wrongly reflect
their true desperation's,
loves, hopes, desires,
hatreds, and hidden fears,
with purposeful motions
thrown to conceal
like sleight of hand
of the mind and soul,
in a world devised
from blueprints that
were drafted for
a person no longer there,
for here there are only
shades and masks.
6/11/09
From The Lab
Art's Fiercest Spark
What causes man to create,
His hopes, his thoughts, his desires?
Can imagination substantiate
The first spark of the creative fire?
Can the artist deny their fate,
Or will the consequences be too dire?
And if the mind and soul collaborate,
Will the passion be accepted? Admired?
What causes man to create,
His hopes, his thoughts, his desires?
Can imagination substantiate
The first spark of the creative fire?
Can the artist deny their fate,
Or will the consequences be too dire?
And if the mind and soul collaborate,
Will the passion be accepted? Admired?
6/8/09
From The Lab
I Am That Figure In The Distance
Let me ask you;
Can you see the world clearly?
As it really is, not
As it appears to be,
Sheltered within the walls
Of your 6 sided box,
Complete with the 1 fogged-up window.
I am that figure in the distance,
Shadowless,
Faceless, but watching you all,
And I can see you all too well,
Comfortable beyond reason,
With your leather and latte's,
Mood enhancers, and fresh exotic fruits,
All of the little lies and half-lies that make up your existence.
Over here, on the outside, reality
Is not comfortable or forgiving,
Out here we wince with the wind,
Exposed beyond your comprehension.
Let me ask you;
Can you see the world clearly?
As it really is, not
As it appears to be,
Sheltered within the walls
Of your 6 sided box,
Complete with the 1 fogged-up window.
I am that figure in the distance,
Shadowless,
Faceless, but watching you all,
And I can see you all too well,
Comfortable beyond reason,
With your leather and latte's,
Mood enhancers, and fresh exotic fruits,
All of the little lies and half-lies that make up your existence.
Over here, on the outside, reality
Is not comfortable or forgiving,
Out here we wince with the wind,
Exposed beyond your comprehension.
6/6/09
From The Lab
Take Shelter Inside The Beast
The struggle of the knot is harder yet,
His eyes are blind with sweat,
The stronger the push, the stronger the pull,
In cranial contexts,
The wars of the mind are brutal and long,
Each battle takes its toll,
When common sense slowly loses itself,
And anger grabs a hold.
Choices swept away by currents of pain,
Leaves evil standing high,
The criminal element shows its face,
And spreads its wings to fly,
Thin masks falter and fail to hide the truth,
They crack, then fade like dreams,
There's nothing left but to fight the lies, and
Rage against the machine,
To stop the gadgetry of tender hearts,
And heal the split chambers,
Provoked by people who want his downfall,
Jealous, little strangers.
So he hides behind thin walls for safety,
Knowing it won't matter,
And finds a shelter in grief and hate, there,
Amongst the Mad Hatters.
The struggle of the knot is harder yet,
His eyes are blind with sweat,
The stronger the push, the stronger the pull,
In cranial contexts,
The wars of the mind are brutal and long,
Each battle takes its toll,
When common sense slowly loses itself,
And anger grabs a hold.
Choices swept away by currents of pain,
Leaves evil standing high,
The criminal element shows its face,
And spreads its wings to fly,
Thin masks falter and fail to hide the truth,
They crack, then fade like dreams,
There's nothing left but to fight the lies, and
Rage against the machine,
To stop the gadgetry of tender hearts,
And heal the split chambers,
Provoked by people who want his downfall,
Jealous, little strangers.
So he hides behind thin walls for safety,
Knowing it won't matter,
And finds a shelter in grief and hate, there,
Amongst the Mad Hatters.
6/4/09
From The Lab
Flowing Through My Veins
Down, through the corridors unseen,
Pours silently figments of dreams,
Drip, drip, slowly drip.
Where toxins spread and grow immune
And buried weakness, now exhumed,
Drips, drips, slowly grips.
Infected cells divide the load,
Hold passwords for genetic codes,
Drip, drip, all in vain.
Pure crimson blood and insulin
Takes place of poisons, interim,
Drip, drip, all the same.
Hear the rush of anger anew,
Those drug-laden tubes, royal blue,
Drip, drip, feed the beast.
In ducts ragged and raw with love,
Uncertain from the flows above,
Drip, drip, for the least.
Down, through the corridors unseen,
Pours silently figments of dreams,
Drip, drip, slowly drip.
Where toxins spread and grow immune
And buried weakness, now exhumed,
Drips, drips, slowly grips.
Infected cells divide the load,
Hold passwords for genetic codes,
Drip, drip, all in vain.
Pure crimson blood and insulin
Takes place of poisons, interim,
Drip, drip, all the same.
Hear the rush of anger anew,
Those drug-laden tubes, royal blue,
Drip, drip, feed the beast.
In ducts ragged and raw with love,
Uncertain from the flows above,
Drip, drip, for the least.
6/1/09
A Poet's Fame (part 2)
As unnecessary as it may be, respect is a fickle thing, hard to gain, and it comes in varying doses. When it comes to the arts as a whole, writing is somewhere in the middle in terms of the likelihood of making good money and enjoying success. It's easier to make a living as a writer than say an ice sculptor, but the billions of dollars aren't being tossed around as they are in the movie, TV, and music industries. On occasion they can be for the rare writer that manages to balance the art of his talent, material, and marketability, but this is hard to come by. The person that does make a good living through words often does so by writing for various mediums, telling their stories in any way they can. With the exception of one writer in particular, the profession as a whole can offer many opportunities for those who are lucky enough to get their name out there. This lonely exception, in a profession surrounded by solitude, rarely tastes success and recognition, at least while they're still alive.
The poet is different. If the artist is an odd job than the poet may be so far gone as to be unexplainable. Poets are those little kids by themselves in the corner of the world playing with a leaf, or pining away after some unreachable ideal, while the rest of the writers are off in their small teams playing an organized sport. Motivation is different for each writer, especially each poet, but for the latter money doesn't even come into consideration. It can't, there's very little money to be made in poetry, and none of this matters to a true poet.
A true poet is a rare breed indeed. For some of them, fame and that which glitters gold conflicts with who they really are. These poets have little consideration for monetary things, all they have is an urge to capture a moment, object, or feeling into words; perhaps for the comfort of similar thinking people but most assuredly to express something and purge it from one's system. It is a blockage that needs to be broken through and a virus that needs to be cured before it overpowers the sensitivity of it's victim.
The strength of the poem lies in its words, of course. They can rhyme and have a lyrical nature to them like a silent melody, a tune that lies within the ear of the reader. They can be perfect in their blunt and simple stated commentary, or enlightening in reaching a surreal and higher form of art. As long as the words steal the essence of the subject, the magic of the topic, in a way that can become synonymous with the feeling or moment in the brain, then all of the poet's struggles will not have been for naught. Some reader out in the stratosphere will understand and connect and learn and evolve. Those readers aren't easy to get either. To gain a certain level of notoriety there usually needs to be a large body of work to blitzkrieg the shrinking potential readership and bring them into the poet's world. It's the rare soul that can create a small limited number of works and expect to ride high with them on the waves of history. Unfortunately, the fact is that many poets do not gain their hopeful receivers until after their death, not always of course but it does seem to be a final joke on them in a cosmic jester sense of the word.
So a big question remains; why does the poet do it? Why do they write, secretly desiring a modicum of fame, when in the field of poetry the brass ring is such a fickle, fragile, and far away thing that it may as well be nonexistent? To this I can only guess. I think they have to. On some level the poet has to reach out, even if that means only reaching other poets, those few and far between ears in the sea of humanity. Because that's what it's all about, expressing and communicating directly to a like minded soul in an attempt to form that unspoken connection of mutual appreciation.
The poet is different. If the artist is an odd job than the poet may be so far gone as to be unexplainable. Poets are those little kids by themselves in the corner of the world playing with a leaf, or pining away after some unreachable ideal, while the rest of the writers are off in their small teams playing an organized sport. Motivation is different for each writer, especially each poet, but for the latter money doesn't even come into consideration. It can't, there's very little money to be made in poetry, and none of this matters to a true poet.
A true poet is a rare breed indeed. For some of them, fame and that which glitters gold conflicts with who they really are. These poets have little consideration for monetary things, all they have is an urge to capture a moment, object, or feeling into words; perhaps for the comfort of similar thinking people but most assuredly to express something and purge it from one's system. It is a blockage that needs to be broken through and a virus that needs to be cured before it overpowers the sensitivity of it's victim.
The strength of the poem lies in its words, of course. They can rhyme and have a lyrical nature to them like a silent melody, a tune that lies within the ear of the reader. They can be perfect in their blunt and simple stated commentary, or enlightening in reaching a surreal and higher form of art. As long as the words steal the essence of the subject, the magic of the topic, in a way that can become synonymous with the feeling or moment in the brain, then all of the poet's struggles will not have been for naught. Some reader out in the stratosphere will understand and connect and learn and evolve. Those readers aren't easy to get either. To gain a certain level of notoriety there usually needs to be a large body of work to blitzkrieg the shrinking potential readership and bring them into the poet's world. It's the rare soul that can create a small limited number of works and expect to ride high with them on the waves of history. Unfortunately, the fact is that many poets do not gain their hopeful receivers until after their death, not always of course but it does seem to be a final joke on them in a cosmic jester sense of the word.
So a big question remains; why does the poet do it? Why do they write, secretly desiring a modicum of fame, when in the field of poetry the brass ring is such a fickle, fragile, and far away thing that it may as well be nonexistent? To this I can only guess. I think they have to. On some level the poet has to reach out, even if that means only reaching other poets, those few and far between ears in the sea of humanity. Because that's what it's all about, expressing and communicating directly to a like minded soul in an attempt to form that unspoken connection of mutual appreciation.
A Poet's Fame (part 1)
What compels or motivates the artist? In that case, what is it that makes an artist? Is it simply a strange, impulsive combination of imagination and creation? Can the creator still be considered an artist if, (or when), they gain money and notoriety? Some would consider the words 'artist' and 'career' a contradiction in terms, as if it's unnatural. All of these questions simply prove that the artist is an odd job at best. It normally isn't considered to be hard work in terms of a blue collar job that is physically straining; not that the artist doesn't get their hands dirty, the job itself just appears to be fluff work in comparison.
An occupation in the arts is a risky one and full of pitfalls because one can only advance as far as their talent allows, and humans are easy prey to their delusions. It is a path much easier walked by an artisan of little integrity or scruple. All artists need some form of solitude, (and being trapped with one's self can be dangerous), while appearing to embrace a self-serving, almost selfish ideal, but this is a necessity. In order to be successful, or at least stand out above the rest, they have to have a me-against-the-world mentality in order to suffer through the barrage of critics, competition, doubters, and other assorted dream crushers.
I believe that people who create good art are naturally bestowed a great honor. Their work has been accepted by the public eye as superior, (not that the public always knows best), and they are able to make a living by transforming nothing into something. Oscar Wilde once said, "All art is quite useless," and this is true in that it serves no practical purpose to society, at least bad art doesn't. Good art can have several purposes. It can help to make sense of the world around you, it can add meaning to life, or say something in a way that you may not be able to express. It entertains, informs, and serves as a beautiful distraction. Imagine a world without art; no paintings, drawings, fictional literature, music, movies, TV, sculpture, theater, dancing, nothing. The world would be unbearable.
An occupation in the arts is a risky one and full of pitfalls because one can only advance as far as their talent allows, and humans are easy prey to their delusions. It is a path much easier walked by an artisan of little integrity or scruple. All artists need some form of solitude, (and being trapped with one's self can be dangerous), while appearing to embrace a self-serving, almost selfish ideal, but this is a necessity. In order to be successful, or at least stand out above the rest, they have to have a me-against-the-world mentality in order to suffer through the barrage of critics, competition, doubters, and other assorted dream crushers.
I believe that people who create good art are naturally bestowed a great honor. Their work has been accepted by the public eye as superior, (not that the public always knows best), and they are able to make a living by transforming nothing into something. Oscar Wilde once said, "All art is quite useless," and this is true in that it serves no practical purpose to society, at least bad art doesn't. Good art can have several purposes. It can help to make sense of the world around you, it can add meaning to life, or say something in a way that you may not be able to express. It entertains, informs, and serves as a beautiful distraction. Imagine a world without art; no paintings, drawings, fictional literature, music, movies, TV, sculpture, theater, dancing, nothing. The world would be unbearable.
From The Lab
Lost To Myself
Now that they have all left,
All those ears, all those mouths,
All of their opinions,
All those fears, all those doubts,
I can finally see,
Partially through the haze
Of dark, inner shadows
Reflecting off the maze.
The labyrinth of thought,
With all it's twists and turns,
Where logic grows backwards
And every synapse burns.
Here, within the anguish
Of tragi-comic scenes,
Hiding behind tall walls,
Are fading, tired dreams;
Tired of being chased,
Leading their pursuers
Deeper into the dark,
Then losing their allure.
Now that they have all left,
All those ears, all those mouths,
All of their opinions,
All those fears, all those doubts,
I can finally see,
Partially through the haze
Of dark, inner shadows
Reflecting off the maze.
The labyrinth of thought,
With all it's twists and turns,
Where logic grows backwards
And every synapse burns.
Here, within the anguish
Of tragi-comic scenes,
Hiding behind tall walls,
Are fading, tired dreams;
Tired of being chased,
Leading their pursuers
Deeper into the dark,
Then losing their allure.
5/30/09
From The Lab
Changing of The Guard
Your time has come and gone, old friend,
So stop trying to make it last,
You're tired, and you've got nothing left;
An ancient relic of the past.
Now those of us who've learned your ways,
And stand on shoulders tall and proud,
We plan to go beyond your goals,
To speak with voices strong and loud,
We plan to see the shadowed side
Of thoughts you can't imagine true,
Now rest your weary head, my friend,
And let us do what we must do.
Your time has come and gone, old friend,
So stop trying to make it last,
You're tired, and you've got nothing left;
An ancient relic of the past.
Now those of us who've learned your ways,
And stand on shoulders tall and proud,
We plan to go beyond your goals,
To speak with voices strong and loud,
We plan to see the shadowed side
Of thoughts you can't imagine true,
Now rest your weary head, my friend,
And let us do what we must do.
5/28/09
From The Lab
Incomplete
Faded dreams and moments past,
Beyond the sinking sun,
Thoughts of future's gentle crash,
When the crest has just begun,
Envelop minds too soft to know,
Of roads too long and harsh,
Despite the timeless desperate show,
Go, weary soldier, march,
Strap up your boots to walk through hell,
Watch the sinners toss and turn,
Ignore that constant tolling bell,
Pay no mind to the burn,
Portray your truths as well as can,
I know it's a simple thing,
The world was ours to plot and plan,
As the designated king.
But petty men have petty goals,
It's in their nature to,
And no man may deny their role,
When building Xanadu,
Flow like the breeze of distant lands,
That carry 'cross the seas,
The bottled message of the man,
Whose trapped and long deceased,
For destiny's incomplete.
Faded dreams and moments past,
Beyond the sinking sun,
Thoughts of future's gentle crash,
When the crest has just begun,
Envelop minds too soft to know,
Of roads too long and harsh,
Despite the timeless desperate show,
Go, weary soldier, march,
Strap up your boots to walk through hell,
Watch the sinners toss and turn,
Ignore that constant tolling bell,
Pay no mind to the burn,
Portray your truths as well as can,
I know it's a simple thing,
The world was ours to plot and plan,
As the designated king.
But petty men have petty goals,
It's in their nature to,
And no man may deny their role,
When building Xanadu,
Flow like the breeze of distant lands,
That carry 'cross the seas,
The bottled message of the man,
Whose trapped and long deceased,
For destiny's incomplete.
5/26/09
From The Lab
City of Mists
Wicked, dark thoughts in the city of mists,
Undisguised senses lost in awe and fear,
The midday rain's after-breeze stinking high,
Tossed on wings, in variations of sky,
Above the labyrinth of twisted streets,
Amidst the pickpocket vendors and grime,
Knee deep in sewage for innermost schemes,
Blind to reality's beckoning call;
Where misogynists dip and dart in pairs,
And the magic of the moment made dull
Compels one towards the alley wars, and
At sight of the revival of peril,
Those lowbrow tactics emerge once again.
Sheets of drizzle refuse to wash away
The message of the 'hood's harsh, sad sermons,
Baked long ago in the clay of the mind,
For Athena's wisdom has no place here
In Apollo's world of courage and strength;
Deadly individuals romp and roam,
Claiming their resurgence to be their own,
Drowning in hatred and other symbols,
Clustered together like peas in the pod
On blocks built crooked from cold glass and steel.
Ghostly forms sprint along the razor's edge,
Fading under the streetlight's washed pale glow,
Wading through the spent ammo of choices
Gone wrong, with little to no slick riposte;
The shadows of this century grow long,
Creeping along the pavement like bandits
Hell-bent on using their sticky fingers.
Wicked, dark thoughts in this city of mists.
Wicked, dark thoughts in the city of mists,
Undisguised senses lost in awe and fear,
The midday rain's after-breeze stinking high,
Tossed on wings, in variations of sky,
Above the labyrinth of twisted streets,
Amidst the pickpocket vendors and grime,
Knee deep in sewage for innermost schemes,
Blind to reality's beckoning call;
Where misogynists dip and dart in pairs,
And the magic of the moment made dull
Compels one towards the alley wars, and
At sight of the revival of peril,
Those lowbrow tactics emerge once again.
Sheets of drizzle refuse to wash away
The message of the 'hood's harsh, sad sermons,
Baked long ago in the clay of the mind,
For Athena's wisdom has no place here
In Apollo's world of courage and strength;
Deadly individuals romp and roam,
Claiming their resurgence to be their own,
Drowning in hatred and other symbols,
Clustered together like peas in the pod
On blocks built crooked from cold glass and steel.
Ghostly forms sprint along the razor's edge,
Fading under the streetlight's washed pale glow,
Wading through the spent ammo of choices
Gone wrong, with little to no slick riposte;
The shadows of this century grow long,
Creeping along the pavement like bandits
Hell-bent on using their sticky fingers.
Wicked, dark thoughts in this city of mists.
5/24/09
From The Lab
Plant A Life
Dig deep into the soil and grain to find
The roots of the soul, twisted, and tangled,
Entwined with lessons of time, unraveled,
And scattered throughout. Lost in the moment,
When problems are larger than life or death,
Where guides are few, (whom allow one to solve
Difficult issues by strength of advice,
Without revealing the buried answers.)
Pick up a shovel, sweat, and inspire
Others to break ground in harsh, new places;
There are treasures to find under layers,
Not to be reached with the strength of one man,
All while seconds tick by, shadows grow long,
The reaper hovers nearer. What seems short,
Is even quicker; will your mark be left
In the earth as blueprints for peace or hate?
Generations always pass, and few learn
The reasoning of age-old rocks and stones,
Overturned by those with foresight to see
Visions hidden in their muddled surface.
All is cyclical. The ebb and the flow,
Tomorrow's hero is history's fiend,
When motivation lies in blood and bone;
Would you plant the seeds of greatness today?
Dig deep into the soil and grain to find
The roots of the soul, twisted, and tangled,
Entwined with lessons of time, unraveled,
And scattered throughout. Lost in the moment,
When problems are larger than life or death,
Where guides are few, (whom allow one to solve
Difficult issues by strength of advice,
Without revealing the buried answers.)
Pick up a shovel, sweat, and inspire
Others to break ground in harsh, new places;
There are treasures to find under layers,
Not to be reached with the strength of one man,
All while seconds tick by, shadows grow long,
The reaper hovers nearer. What seems short,
Is even quicker; will your mark be left
In the earth as blueprints for peace or hate?
Generations always pass, and few learn
The reasoning of age-old rocks and stones,
Overturned by those with foresight to see
Visions hidden in their muddled surface.
All is cyclical. The ebb and the flow,
Tomorrow's hero is history's fiend,
When motivation lies in blood and bone;
Would you plant the seeds of greatness today?
5/23/09
From The Lab
Just Beneath The Flesh
Tensions mounted and cleared to ride,
Weapons drawn for the wars,
Sentenced for doom on either side,
Conquer fear and grab swords,
Ready to join the horrid mass,
En route to divide all,
Fall in line. Watch the front lines clash,
Hear the loud bull horn call!
See anguish felt in every breath,
In every step and moan,
Nearer to thee, Sir coward Death,
The smash of bones to bones.
Veins expanding, hope in earnest,
There's room left in the cells,
Captives of the bloody skirmish
Could always kill themselves,
So muscles tense in self-defense
When Evil's free to walk,
To pierce the heart and smile unkempt,
And watch the tiger stalk,
Feasting on liver, eyes, and lung,
Slow and painfully robbed,
While tipping their hat to the hung,
Blind to the breath of God,
Things beneath the flesh have demands,
Always best to meet them,
Now's not the time to take a stand,
One rarely defeats them.
Tensions mounted and cleared to ride,
Weapons drawn for the wars,
Sentenced for doom on either side,
Conquer fear and grab swords,
Ready to join the horrid mass,
En route to divide all,
Fall in line. Watch the front lines clash,
Hear the loud bull horn call!
See anguish felt in every breath,
In every step and moan,
Nearer to thee, Sir coward Death,
The smash of bones to bones.
Veins expanding, hope in earnest,
There's room left in the cells,
Captives of the bloody skirmish
Could always kill themselves,
So muscles tense in self-defense
When Evil's free to walk,
To pierce the heart and smile unkempt,
And watch the tiger stalk,
Feasting on liver, eyes, and lung,
Slow and painfully robbed,
While tipping their hat to the hung,
Blind to the breath of God,
Things beneath the flesh have demands,
Always best to meet them,
Now's not the time to take a stand,
One rarely defeats them.
5/21/09
From The Lab
Thunderclouds
The rumble is growing, building in strength,
And a darkening presence draws nearer,
The covered sun gives all shadows their length,
Distorting the objects in the mirror.
A downpour's coming, and not one of rain,
Taking certain steps to remain unknown,
In order to hide misery and bane
Before the caged bird realizes it's flown;
The grey doom divides and morphs once again,
Foretelling the ever-changing bad news,
Shifting with the breeze, with ease drifting in,
Silent as Fate, with her vague, somber clues.
The rumble is growing, building in strength,
And a darkening presence draws nearer,
The covered sun gives all shadows their length,
Distorting the objects in the mirror.
A downpour's coming, and not one of rain,
Taking certain steps to remain unknown,
In order to hide misery and bane
Before the caged bird realizes it's flown;
The grey doom divides and morphs once again,
Foretelling the ever-changing bad news,
Shifting with the breeze, with ease drifting in,
Silent as Fate, with her vague, somber clues.
Top 5: Detroit Red Wings (All-Time)
In celebration of my favorite hockey team making it to the Western conference finals (yet again), with a chance to win (yet another) Stanley Cup, I present my indisputable top 5 Red Wings (not necessarily my favorites).
5. Datsyuk #13/Zetterberg #40 - To me the euro-twins go together like PB&J so I find it hard to
separate the two. Their skill in the opponents zone has won them rings already and the sky is the limit with their potential.
4. Nicklas Lidstrom #5 - Cool and calm Lidstrom has been consistent for 17 years, earning his
name on the cup 4 times, and winning the Norris trophy 6 times. In any discussion about the top defenseman in the sport, his name's at the top.
3. Alex Delvecchio #10 - Often outshone by number 2 on this list, Delvecchio was consistently great. A member of the infamous Production line this 13 time All-star had a pinpoint accuracy that won him 3 cups of his own.
2. Gordie Howe #9 - With over 25 yrs. under his belt, Howe earned the nickname Mr. Hockey. Nuff said.
1. Steve Yzerman #19 - He wasn't the biggest guy, or the strongest, but for 23 yrs. Stevey Y.
was the face of the franchise and it's heart and soul. Simply put, he was and is, The Captain.
5. Datsyuk #13/Zetterberg #40 - To me the euro-twins go together like PB&J so I find it hard to
separate the two. Their skill in the opponents zone has won them rings already and the sky is the limit with their potential.
4. Nicklas Lidstrom #5 - Cool and calm Lidstrom has been consistent for 17 years, earning his
name on the cup 4 times, and winning the Norris trophy 6 times. In any discussion about the top defenseman in the sport, his name's at the top.
3. Alex Delvecchio #10 - Often outshone by number 2 on this list, Delvecchio was consistently great. A member of the infamous Production line this 13 time All-star had a pinpoint accuracy that won him 3 cups of his own.
2. Gordie Howe #9 - With over 25 yrs. under his belt, Howe earned the nickname Mr. Hockey. Nuff said.
1. Steve Yzerman #19 - He wasn't the biggest guy, or the strongest, but for 23 yrs. Stevey Y.
was the face of the franchise and it's heart and soul. Simply put, he was and is, The Captain.
From The Lab
Creative Chaos
The unsatisfied artist,
The trails of thought,
Leading to hidden paths,
Seemingly for naught,
The muse remains buried,
Lost in the mind's folds,
It cannot be forced,
Out of the creator's soul,
Comes whimsy and wonders,
Of all shapes and sizes,
In forms of frustrations,
And other such disguises,
Where nothing is what it seems,
When first it unfurls,
And the most realistic art,
Comes from an abstract world.
The unsatisfied artist,
The trails of thought,
Leading to hidden paths,
Seemingly for naught,
The muse remains buried,
Lost in the mind's folds,
It cannot be forced,
Out of the creator's soul,
Comes whimsy and wonders,
Of all shapes and sizes,
In forms of frustrations,
And other such disguises,
Where nothing is what it seems,
When first it unfurls,
And the most realistic art,
Comes from an abstract world.
5/20/09
From The Lab
Dying Dog Days
Today I did glorious nothings.
Lovely, forgettable nothings, from dusk
To dusk. And then something sparked.
Some flickering synapse, buried deep within
Memory's soil, became unearthed,
Flirting to me of moments past,
Not unlike the past few moments;
And made me smirk a tragic sort of smile,
Soft stone-hearted at the fading days,
Times, memories.
Moments.
Nothings.
Glorious, forgettable nothings.
Today I did glorious nothings.
Lovely, forgettable nothings, from dusk
To dusk. And then something sparked.
Some flickering synapse, buried deep within
Memory's soil, became unearthed,
Flirting to me of moments past,
Not unlike the past few moments;
And made me smirk a tragic sort of smile,
Soft stone-hearted at the fading days,
Times, memories.
Moments.
Nothings.
Glorious, forgettable nothings.
From The Lab
Elevating The Artform
To men of colors, word, and song,
Who stir the sense of life,
Drop those critiques, pick up your tools,
Create into the night.
The plight is hard to weed the weak,
With currents strong and deep,
For they who stand the undertow
Are built with concrete feet,
The times have changed, the themes have not,
But tell that to the Fates,
When things unique are all but dead,
Why bother to create?
Beware the many jealous fiends,
That work and sweat all day,
One can't expect to understand
The pains of driven ways;
One can't expect to see too clear
If their mind's eye is shut,
Where no amount of convincing
Can pry the thin lid up,
So, save your breath all wild cards,
Focus upon your craft,
Set sail for those uncharted lands
Not yet known to the map,
Ask yourself if it's worth the strain
To see the sights unseen,
Are coffin ties and six foot lies
For men who dared to dream?
To men of colors, word, and song,
Who stir the sense of life,
Drop those critiques, pick up your tools,
Create into the night.
The plight is hard to weed the weak,
With currents strong and deep,
For they who stand the undertow
Are built with concrete feet,
The times have changed, the themes have not,
But tell that to the Fates,
When things unique are all but dead,
Why bother to create?
Beware the many jealous fiends,
That work and sweat all day,
One can't expect to understand
The pains of driven ways;
One can't expect to see too clear
If their mind's eye is shut,
Where no amount of convincing
Can pry the thin lid up,
So, save your breath all wild cards,
Focus upon your craft,
Set sail for those uncharted lands
Not yet known to the map,
Ask yourself if it's worth the strain
To see the sights unseen,
Are coffin ties and six foot lies
For men who dared to dream?
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