There is a hilarity to this travel experience

and a truth to the omens still very much alive

speaking from thousands of meters up:

Your life will move on quicker if you rip the bandage off

Boarding the plane,

I read those words of Lord Byron

I love not man the less, but Nature more

appearing as another gift from the Estonian pilgrim chef

I suppose I am not going home

as I have none…

Just making a stop

on the way to the next journey

af

(written with pen on paper on Turkish Airlines in Istanbul)

Damn tired I am;

seems like the sun just set and this clock is

yelling at me already…Already!

Oxygen yawns into me

coffee drip heroin into my blood;

The Forbes 500 oligarchic monolith is waiting for

me to press those buttons;

to stare at them, beckon for them, wake live eat die sleep for them

How silly of me for not having gratuity for their crumbs

these many hours pre-dawn;

Maybe today is the day I finally quit

after I load my trunk

then unload, then setup, then load again, then unload again;

Maybe today I break the pattern;

It is just too early to look at

the bright side of life;

The sun even refuses to have a bright side at this hour

At least it’s quiet

At least there will be no traffic

At least there will be some microwaved ovum

and dry cured fried salted cobroller back fat

waiting for me

At least what I am doing

is a third cousin second removed from the passion

I always swore to follow

…All is not lost, I suppose.

I suppose I could try to make the best of today

True, it is the eighth month of winter

True, I am almost there and still cannot feel my hands or my soul

True, I am fighting the good fight, as the alchemist says

True, I am a department of one, necessary and invisible expendable, insignificantly important within daemon’s cinematic society;

but I could make the best of it

plan something exotic;

Yes, I could map out brainstorms of creativity,

wake decaying projects from the back of my intentions,

inspire a laceration to bleed out the monotony

Who am I kidding, though?

I’ll arrive to a producer who not only won’t remember my name

but will not even know my position in his animal kingdom;

I’ll talk the good talk, laugh, take a piss in the bathroom that

some bulimic actress just shit out her four pieces of fruit in,

hustle for hours over tasks meaningless to

the impetus of the human condition

then spend sixteen hours of rinse and repeat while

a dozen porn-interns-turned-high-ranking-advertising-execs

pine and argue over the cosmological significance of the

upward vs downward inflection of the name of a product that

will accomplish nothing but anally leak the life out of

frightened ignorant consumers during the segment breaks of

Judge Judy

while I eat obscene amounts of high fucktose corn solids

disguised as craft nourishment,

watch Youtube, text my wife the repetitive revelation of

how today is the day I take control of it all,

she’ll laugh, say I’m charming and

that she still loves me;

I’ll eat some more, have lunch, force my own

constipated fecal protoplasm into filthy toilet water

entertain my epiphany of freedom once more over

small coffee and small talk

then shuffle back to my metal auditorium chair

Roll Camera

and fill out my day contacting whoever else I had

the honor of contracting for, hoping to book more and more

of these days until I make enough

money to make one of these booking’s my last

—

—

—

…alright

…time to get out of bed and begin.

af

(written on computer, about to get back in the biz)

the void

blackness passing
outside the windows
of the midnight train
breathing oxygen that
rusts once well working
organs

succeeding but not advancing
living
knowing nothing matters

taking many steps forward
yet it is the one step backwards
which makes the soul sink deeper into the
dense mud;
standing in place, careful not to disrupt
unknowing that the clay gets harder around
the ankles with every still minute

the void

being consumed with a passion
pavestones laid so clear
then the frustrated sadness
bereft of the luxury of choice
cloaked over the flesh;
the obligation of loyalty

to remain lost in motionlessness

the blank mind, blank page, blank canvas
the nothing where something used to be
the bleach as you attempt to burn the
ropes and weights free from
this moment and all moments to follow

Knowing what must go
what choices must be made
the hope and drive and
perfect dose of the courage/stupidity elixir
to
live
a
life

Staring into the doorway of endless freedom
…and the room you inhabit will not let go

the void

 
af

(written on computer)

Do I learn?

(Do you listen?)

Stubborn completely through

(in success and failure)

Surrounded by kids

(a pilgrim amongst men)

Giving finds my smile

(drumbeats of love)

My classes are over

(time for a real world)

Surrealistic reality

(you passed with honors)

I am a rock

(an island)

Its surrounding waters

(and all else Spirit)

I’ve listened and learned

(Now…)

I go my own way

af

(written)

Exposing myself to histories that
have struck psychological nerves:
Tales of slavery
facing death among hatred of fellow humans
Tales of ghosts
battling with paranormal past-lives of energy
Tales of love
the road of self-sacrifice for shared passion
Tales of reality
knives guns and fears of those unable to cope
Tales of the present
understanding life in a world which condemns the moment

In eighteenth century cafes
the question out the windows force a choice:
frigid sunshine
warm gloom

Knowing everything and nothing
are the same;
do not wanna disappoint
while always set-up in the position to do just that

These stories come from life
only adding pressure to my carefree exhaustion

 
af

(written with pen on paper)

 
Finally settling into the fact that I am crossing
over into something different…
Need to make the lost choices and need to adhere to them
There is no reason to not trust her
if I am to be trustworthy
…we hold the same torture
same love-scorn chaos

Who am I to judge that which I am?

In six days, my batteries have been depleted
trying to inhabit this lost city,
cabin fever, commercialism, superficial anxiety,
returning to hollow homes bombed out long
before I ever realized

…leave memories be in old york city

af

(written in little notebook)

When I think about all the troubles I have, I feel deep inside that my life is really good; feel ashamed for feeling so depressed and unsettled;

What worries me the most is the debt I have, the loneliness I feel, the uncertainty of answers, the search for a purpose.

I know I am a person who exists beyond privilege.

I try to put it all into perspective, try to be objective, but something shuts down.

I begin staring at the tree outside my window and I am silence, peace, nothingness.

I look up, see the bridges, then begin hearing the trains and busses and I realize I am trapped in the urban jungle.  I begin collapsing, inside, my mind begins compressing, my breath feels different, more shallow, strangely painful.

And I finally understand not all journeys are physical.

I have listened to everyone, paid my dues, kissed my asses, and received my rewards for it, but, it is a new path I tread upon.

The natural rewards of this earth are the answer to our dilemmas, and the answer for itself.

The world created music, not buildings.  The world created ideas, not money.  The world created paintings, not commerce.  Life is not a negotiation, neither is nature.  Do good, get good.  Do bad, get bad; So incredibly simple.

It takes strength and will to follow art, to turn away from money.  I often forget until I write, I play a song, I dance and everything begins healing. It feels right…it’s the only thing that has felt truly right.

Art is intended to heal the artist.  The beauty it creates for someone else is as simple as a flower’s visceral purpose.

I am beginning to think my purpose, our purpose, is to just sit back, respect and create.  Regardless, that’s what I am going to do…

af

(written on computer)