Poetry. Reading poetry. Thinking about poetry. Talking about poetry. Writing about poetry. Poetry.
Danny Solis died in his sleep last Thursday. He was in New York to once again perform his poetry, as he had done in pretty much every state in the US and some other countries as well. Danny was that rarest of poets, a working poet, a troubadour. In addition to reading his poetry widely, he led numerous workshops and seminars. Probably a thousand…
Ropes soaked rain-wet stretch taut across the back of the beast and secure its burden. Traversed alongside the great mountain, a narrow path winds towards the summit. Loosed pebbles dance over the edge of the road and skitter into the valley maw. A half-blind eye cast toward heaven, the other surveying the cautious limn of the abyss, each step adds one, each foot adds…
The sun sat shadowed in a cloud of dust as we waited to march toward the sea. Ahead the trumpets blared the triumph march. The drumbeat of boots matched our thumping hearts. Mounted leaders adorned with pallid glory portend: War is our end and our fate is folly. Sages say some men are born meant to lead, and other men thus are born to…
The idea of living one foot in the grave comes from the Zen masters, some of whom would carry a tiny coffin with them when they traveled, a reminder of their mortality, a token of the temporary nature of existence. The idea has become misused and distorted in the West, which tends culturally to make an enemy of death and view it as something…
After the New Year we sailed our sandbikes along down the gulf where we hung around the landfill plinking rats with pellet rifles. The rats are the size of kittens so they make good targets. We found this place at the end of the world where old surfers end up after one wave too many and every scruffy sailor with a boat claims…
Lately I’ve been watching a lot of John Cassavetes movies and staying up late with gypsy minstrels composing musical space opera set on the Jovian moons of Io and Europa. Fire and ice are prominent themes. When the musicians get hungry we make soup from empty cans and then mourn the death of irony. A drummer named Ivan dances on the table while a…
Ronald Reagan died and went to hell. He was just as surprised about it as you are. He wasn’t expecting a standing ovation but he got one. Many souls enduring torment appreciate a rousing speech. It gets tiresome, all that weeping and gnashing of teeth. The tedium of torture begs variety and change in its hellish routine. Reagan demurred but the damned insisted. Always…