Now, if you think I am the only writer or poet of my kind in this New Age Millennium, you are mistaken

There is me that is, Sammy Kendricks and my crew of reject ragtag writers extraordinaire who are going to change this world

First on the roster we have Haden Zanders, a poet who tackles topics from a humorous but  intelligent and eloquent way

Then there's Zach Nichols my personal shaman, he's into paganism, mysticism, alchemy and spirituality as a whole
His writing is out of this world, literally and add to it he's a musician who is single handedly innovating the neo tribal music genre

Next In Derek Neman, a poet and musican close to my heart, a bit younger than the rest of us but still hold his own
He is loving, caring and has a strong spirit that I know will take him wherever he goes
His words can make mountains weep

Then there are Kaspar and Otto
Kaspar is a poet of the romantic variety, hopelessly devoted to love
Otto is a writer who can sum up any topic in a matter of a few lines
But powerful lines they be
Short, sweet and to the point

Up next is my good friend Jeeves, Jeeves isn't his real name
His real name is Nat but that was too boring so we all call him Jeeves
He is one of the mad ones, stricken with a severe case of wanderlust and wonderment
He served in the navy for three years
Now he's back and writes of his travels and his loves and losses
He paint, plays bass and philosophizes the human condition

Of course how could I forget Pete, a clean cut good 'ol boy
Always down to meet woman and have a drink and make a night out of a day
He writes rhymes like I've never seen
So vibrant and addicting

We all have that friend we **** heads with and Sonny is that friend for me
We're opposites in every sense of the word
You all know me so imagine the reverse
But his writing is political, realistic, stoic, emotional and completely him
I love him to death, there will come a day where we throw down

Now finally last but not least
You know him
You love him
You hate him
It's the Don Juan of Dumont
The one and only
Quincy Valero
His writing reads as fast as he lives
A mile a minute
Girls, cars, drugs, food, parties
Excess and excitement
Memories and mistakes
Highs and lows
Yes

But of course we have other non writing friends
Zeik Adams my engineering friend whos gonna be rich someday
Nyal Jensen our dancing friend who always brings it to the floor in every club we hit
Ahio Rikashi our best bud from the far east, romantic and deep
Kyle Filmore my trippy drummer
And Mike Neman, Derek's younger brother and one of my closest friends

We've all shared pain and laughter
Trips, drunken evenings
Road trips, meals
Quarrels and misunderstandings
But we all care about each other
And all of our writing and our goal to always be there to check the pulse of this world
Hell, even start it up when it wains off every now and then
We're here to give this generation a kick start
A reminder of what we can and will do
We can revitalize our world with knowledge, understanding and unity
We are the pulse generation

I let it take control,
the thoughts of him,
it was painful,
once the pain was gone,
I still didn't want to let go,
no,
not of my best memory.
Now someone new has interrupted my thoughts.
"Someone,"
I cry to the sky with tears filling my eyes.
"Someone,
please tell me what to do."
No one told me.
So I rejected everything.
Love?
Pity?
I'd out-grown those thoughts.
But....
What about memories?
I haden't
I couldn't out-grow the pain.
The first was the worst,
that's why I regreted the second the most.
First I thought nothing of it.
I told him sorry,
I  said goodbye.
Soon after the deed was done....
I cried.
It was hard to believe it.
I was really regeting it.
I really loved him.
In the end my memories came back.
My memories of my first love.
I hate you.
You ruined my life.
My
worst mistake....
was my best memory.

Humans come and go,
Existence melts like snow
Stained an angry red.
We’d be better off dead:
Strewn on the autumn ground
Where leaves slowly compound
Their scarlet shades a-seeping,
And we forever sleeping.

Children, listen close:
Do not become the host
Of deceit’s deadly blight.
Power is a parasite.
It’s easier, you’ll find,
To leave the law behind
When faced with what’s unfurled:
Purge evil from this world

And ****, ****, ****.
The wind whistling shrill
Is mimicking their cries.
Everybody dies,
But some with lesser worth.
The winds shift back and forth
To cover their pale faces,
Safe in hidden places.

****** were their bones to rot
Until the Earth forgot
What sickness walked its soil.
Let ivy softly coil
Around their vile remains.
Thank nature for its pains:
Pray we’re rid of the worst
Of mortal beings so cursed.

Some drift among the waves
That carry unmarked graves
Of countless peaceful souls.
The tide endlessly rolls
And whispers countless names
Of once-extinguished flames
Smote in the ink-black sea,
Hushed for eternity

And binded in their fate.
Their bones sink with its weight
And scrape along the floor,
Touched by the sun no more
As stars look coldly on.
It seems my soul has gone
To the sea to plot.
(I know, I know. I thought

That normal were such musings, but
I find I seem to visit there a lot,)
On any given whim.
It waits there, quiet, grim
Under the waxen moon.
It will come to me soon,
With a salt-weathered shell
And many tales to tell.

Sometimes I think that-- hey,
Don't quickly walk away.
When our time comes, they say,
The ocean will hold our bones too, someday.

Forgotten Printmakers of the 19th Century

Scent of wet leaves
sharp signpost leavings
on every rock and tree
from here to The Women’s Club turnaround
expectation of another stale treat
from the sidewalk bin at Café Muse
sheer ecstasy of your kind on leash
in numbers enough to banish
any thought of Sir Francis Seymour Haden
not to mention Adolphe Marie Timothée Beaufrere
and that unabashed vulgarian Louis Legrand
from the soulful clutter inside your head.
Edgar Chahine and Paul Gavarni
even Achille Deveria
are absent from my own
this autumn afternoon
still swimming with the artless
death of my mother
grateful on this end of the leash
to be led back home
in such agreeable silence.