At Nineteen,
I bore witness to the live Birth of my Son.
He was adopted out via Open Adoption
to a very nice Family a few Hours away in Ukiah.
I'm still in contact with them, I get pictures every six Months
and I'm very happy to also be able to see Him every so many Months.

At Twenty,
I lost my Father. I found him on the floor and called 911. I paid for his Cremation the next day.
It was what he told me he wanted; his ashes are in a box in my room.
Perhaps even moreso than he was my "Father", he was by best Friend;
for better and for worse.

At Twenty-One;
my Girlfriend of Five Years, who was also Mother of the aforementioned Child, and I
broke up on Friendly terms. Now she lives about 200 miles away.
We're still cordial, and I'm glad we still speak.
Eternal Allies are rare to come by,
to say the least.

So far, Twenety-Two has been rather turbulently eventful, as well.
Between Family and their lack, personal choices and relationships,
and the furtherment of my Self as well as my expressive Capacities,
it's been a hell of a Twenty-Two so far,
to say the least.

All of these things leave me with an Understanding
that I cannot ever judge anyone, for I know not of their struggles
and that no One can ever truly judge anyone else,
for the same reason.

Through all of this, I feel evermore
that this Life is ******* great,
and that's no sarcastic remark:

Life
is a trippy and tumultuous Journey
and I'm thankful for this opportunity
to experience this Holiest of Realities, to say the least;
though it is a Lesson in Humility, to say the least.

And thus:

Thank you for reading my writings.
Thank you for taking time out to read what I have to bring forth.
Thank you for existing and expressing.

Blessings upon thy Paths;
wheresoever you've been
wheresoever you're going
thank you just for Being.

Please be your Self; you owe it to your Self,
for that is all you ever have, to say the least,
and so, once more:

*Blessings upon thy Path.

"Your words, linger, for about a second. They then, falter, dropping. They do not resound into space. I can't see them echoing from my window; they cast no great entrance, no chance looks from the masses, no media news coverage.

Thoughts, however, thoughts, and some rare words, spoken in the exact tone, pitch, and with precise volume, with sincerity, resound forever. Thoughts, ideas, intangible bits of matter, resounding forever and ever and ever, audible to the trained ear. Imagine! Imagine the chaos, no-- imagine the beauty, that would follow."

The man turned away then, lost in thought. She could see his wrinkled arm on the armrest of his cozy chair. She could see the dust building on his slippers. He had been in this chair, thinking this concept through, for quite some time.

She offered him a fourth cup of coffee, and he politely declined, reasoning that he didn't trust the coffee beans these days. She exhaled, trying to remember why she'd come.

"This man could be the future. He could be the breakthrough we've been looking for. Imagine the furtherment of psychology this man could bring about. The furtherment of literature, of movies, books, conversation, nothing would be the same! Of course-- he is probably just a scam. But, these things have been right before. And if there is anything this man has to say or teach us about, we will be the first to discover him."

THEY walk / Just one / Alone on the cracked pavement / Toes dragging, head sagging / tripping over lines that aren’t there.
High tops / the likes of God himself /sanctified, glorified, / pearly white as the gates of heaven / Consumerism, cleverly disguised / as divine ascension, the righteous liberty of choice / the steering of your own destiny- / and yet / ... / those footprints in the dirt /  seem only to last as long  / as anyone cares to look.

THEY / THEIR / THEM / Words rarely respected / most often neglected / every conversation, a silent battle / for the right to exist as THEY see themselves / THEY are a complete deviance from / the suffocation of two / neither pink, nor blue. / THEIR body, our bodies / once beautiful in our youth and vigor / now condemned as destitute wastelands. / Reaped of any / dichotomized consumeristic value, / that the world instilled during our years of innocent persuasion. / We are dust now, society tells us / just ghosts of what the earth once bore;  / our place is nonexistent in this world. / Little choice but the next,  / a test with limited boxes to check. / Maybe they’ll listen when our cold, nighttime howls / are too loud to ignore. / Maybe one day, we’ll fill the ears with our voice / never to be quelled again. / But until then / existence becomes more a question than fact.


A red rover world; / it croons to us lovingly,  / as does the sun coax the flowers to bloom / come out! the world says / come out! / our wayward sons / come out! / our wandering daughters / come out, oh battered children of the world / let us cradle your broken hearts! / let us see your tears!  feel your anguish! / and maybe we will know you better for your suffering. / And so we came, and continue to come. / not all, but enough for the satisfaction of the status morale / Be different! the world challenges / And so THEY dare to live differently, / and by extension, dangerously. / We ascend, just like the logos told us we would- / only to be brutally thrown aside / because we’re all the wrong shoe size. / our punishment is most often internalized / we knew all along, our woes an offbeat cry / to the rest of the planets unwavering bass line.


Scrutiny badgers us, in the guise of necessity / when in reality, it is the / furtherment of our marginalization. / What’s in your pants? / What bathroom do you use? / How do you ****? / Liquidated words flow free like water, / but stay behind, slow and thick like hot tar; / it hurts just the same. / Has it occurred to you / that THEY might want to share with you / more than the anatomy of THEIR mortal shells? / THEIR minds, THEIR souls transcend ignorant thought. / Ask THEM something beautiful, because that is what THEY are. / Do THEY come together like a star, in a glorious explosion of light and motion? / Or is it more like a flower blossoming, fragile pulses beating under translucent skin?


The labels of today / the toxic expectations building up from within / like residual filth trapped under your fingernails / never gone, bound to return, nearly inescapable / and never directly addressed / for the sake of not / corroding. / The stars are within kaleidoscope eyes. / yes, dexterous hands have crafted this being / see the light, the mystique and wonder of / this stardust child, set to change the spin of things. / and THEIR heavenly shape is beautifully flawed / maybe marred by the solar winds of the sun / or glimmering with interstellar dust- / a lingering kiss of radiation  / from THEIR time among the asteroids. / This person of universal intent / THEY must be big, and THEY must be brave / for whilst joined under flag and name, THEY are still just one  / a lonely phantom wandering cracked, forgotten sidewalks / Where the lights flicker and the air is stagnant and thin. / THEY cast THEIR eyes skyward, searching for something / a twinkling like THEIR own, in the map of the vast unknown / A reflection of what THEY must become / to simply be.


In a way only the universe can, / it whispers back on the celestial winds / with an unnoticed correspondence. / One of those skidded toe marks / Has smudged the lines of / blue and pink / Hopscotch lines, much like unspoken, unbroken lines / that is where THEY reside. / the fray, the cusp, the precipice / THEY see THEIR world in the skidmarks / a grand spray of color, like the nebulas that THEY once knew / Not the line, but the divergence of what is known / into something new... / and a hopscotch hymnal, / a broken prayer on clumsy lips / not to the God with the high tops, / pearly and clean as heaven’s gate, / but to a vast and anonymous universe / is answered.

I feel I've discussed this before, but I feel compelled to write it, nonetheless.
To me, the purpose of my Art is not to be an epitome of an ideal Philosophy,
nor do I seek that it is thought of as a direct reflection of my Self or my Philosophy.

To me, the purpose of my Art is to postulate a question.
I hereby claim not to know the answer
I simply seek that we ask of ourselves these questions
because the pursuit of Understanding
is the Path to Understanding.

The Destination is unable to be reached.
Travel the Path anyway,
for it leads inward.

The Journey is the Path.

The Obstacle is the Path.

I hope that others find these sorts of things worthwhile, as well.

Let it be known:
I do not necessarily identify by my Art-
that is to say
I do not necessarily agree with my Art.
Art is an Expression.

Sometimes it is dark
sometimes it is a coping mechanism
sometimes it is funny
sometimes it is loud
sometimes it is abrasive
sometimes it is music
sometimes it is language
sometimes it is silence
sometimes it is true
sometimes it is simple
sometimes it is complex
sometimes it is improvised
sometimes it is planned
sometimes it is hyperbole
sometimes it is paradox;
sometimes it is all of that and more.

Art is an expression of the Artist.
Art is the Purpose of the Artists;
to reflect upon their Experience
and that of the Human Condition.

Art; in it's purest form,
whatever the medium,
whichever the Medium;
is a language of Spirit.

I see how this can sound lofty
but I beseech thee to look deeper.

Perhaps my experience is unique,
but I lament if that is the case.

Art, for me,
is a means of liberation.
A means of enlightenment.
A means of furtherment.
A means of actualizing logical and creative potential.
A means of interpreting Life.
A way of Life.

If you owe anyone anything,
you owe it to your Self
to express yourself purely:

That's the only voice that cannot be censored.
That's the only vote you're ever guaranteed.

"The greatest weakness of my own character is the inability to bear the suffering of others for the furtherment of my own interests–my inability to inflict suffering."