Archive for August, 2014

MY HEART


MY HEART words by Igor Goldkind; Percussion by Gilad Atzmon

heart copy

My Heart Is

Still ticking like a bomb…

Beaten like a dusty rug.

Still ticking like a bomb…

 

Unbroken, unwavering.

Still ticking like a bomb…

Not unbruised but

 

Still ticking like a bomb…

Not yet fatally wounded yet

Still ticking like a bomb…

 

My Heart is

Strong but not hard.

Still ticking like a bomb…

 

And safe in its own discontent.

 

My heart is still ticking like a bomb.

 

MY HEART Cracked concrete Heart_by_Bambrhttp://is-she-available.deviantart.com/art/My-Heart-Is-She-Available-477421844


GRAVITY’S CONQUEST


This is from my upcoming  collection of poetry, art and music entitled IS SHE AVAILABLE?  (Chameleon; October 31)

Artwork by the incomparable Liam Sharp (an ostrich, a rhino?  a toaster?  a xylophone?  See, you can’t compare him.)

This image, conjured from his reading of the poem below, is  Copyright Liam Sharp 2014.  

The poem GRAVITY’S CONQUEST may be reproduced widely without restriction,  as long as it is intact, attributed and appears in a place likely to  incite civil and/or psychological unrest.  Please write it on lavatory walls and biology school books.

Don’t fall too far from your self.

Who else is going to bend over to pick you up?

Gravity's conquest low-res copy

 

GRAVITY’S CONQUEST

 

You know, you’ve already seen the inside of your guts
Looking for a way out.
You know, you’ve already seen what you’ve seen:
You know what you know.
You know the truth like an elder brother.

 

You know, it’s usually right ‘there’,
The last place you looked.
The last place you wanted to forget:
Your bare feet,
Pasted against the concrete;
Gravity’s Conquest.

 

Nailed through the heels.
Poised,
Gracefully
On the precarious cusp
Between this death and that life.


MADEFIRE.COM ANIMATIONS of IS SHE AVAILABLE? Spoken Word, Animation, Music


CON FLYER REVOLUTION in JUST 2 DIGITS hh photo 1 What We Do th-2 radical_22

poem

THE LINE YOU WALKED

photo by Tiina Komulainen 543867_4461826376024_2083558171_n mindfulness 559235_429780530417814_1780624763_n tumblr_mby12zqG3S1r6kh2uo1_1280 Cathedral Trees The Vortex of Language neuron-mini-360.jpg 


DRIVEN


DRIVEN

you need to alleviate your stress
by laughing at yourself,
and the madness
that drives you far from your self
down a long winding road
without pause to reflect on your loneliness;
your motor addicted to the thin white lie:
the difference between what is 
and what merely might be.
how can you tell while in perpetual motion sickness
heading nowhere so fast
nowhere that lasts
heading for a train wreck:
destination: 
Final Stop.

– Igor Goldkind 2014 (From IS SHE?)

Photo: DRIVEN

you need to alleviate your stress
by laughing at yourself,
and the madness
that drives you far from your self
down a long winding road
without pause to reflect on your loneliness;
your motor addicted to the thin white lie:
the difference between what is 
and what merely might be.
how can you tell while in perpetual motion sickness
heading nowhere so fast
nowhere that lasts
heading for a train wreck:
destination: 
Final Stop.

- Igor Goldkind 2014 (From IS SHE?)

 


SUICIDE IS PAINLESS!


mash_-_suicide_is_painlessThis morning I did cry for Robin Williams.  Not for long, I didn’t know the man except through his acting and performance persona.  

But he was such a familiar fixture in my tube zone from the 70’s onwards.  First as the alien Mork who merely by being an SF element on mainstream TV made me an instant fan.  it was a silly show but reeked of that 70’s innocence I would pay hard currency to recover.  

It was a memory and then I grew older and so did Robin and he became a hyper-ventilated, hyper-active, hyper-real stand up and I related to him.

By the time of Good Morning Vietnam, I knew and loved Williams as part of the anarchic fraternity that embraced  him, Andy Kaufman, Eddie Izzard, Lenny Bruce, Groucho Marx: that fearless plunge into the surreal.    Riding what we considered normalcy into its logical outcome: the absurd; he surfed that beach, skated that ice.   Late,r I grew to like him less but forgave the absorbing amoeba of Hollywood we succumbed to; he deserved success, what of it?  The drugs made him seem dangerous to me; that was atttractive once and then repulsive.  Now I’m more indifferent.  If I had been in his shoes, doing his career; sure, I’m sure I would have been a coke head too.  And the Alcohol?  I’ve got my own ghost stories to tell.

What made me cry for Robin Williams was that occasionally, during his film work or  talk show appearance, he would let the Harlequin’s mask slip and we would briefly gimpse this quiet, very contemplative man, honing his sense of attack, thinking his next line . . . the timing.  And I recall distinctly that look of vulnerable humanity and I felt touchd by him, like he would be someone I speak to if in the same room.  It was this Robin Williams I wept for, because I knew exactly what he was feeling as he took his own life.  

Or maybe it was nothing like what I felt when I took my own life at 16.

I felt  bad for Robin because I could imagine the moments as he decided, as his intent hardened to resolve, and the long run off the short cliff of the emotional, psychic plunge that he took.  I felt I was there with him like a ghost; out of reach, trying to connect—trying to just have a word with him.

I took my own life with  a cocktail,  over dose of my mother’s medications including lithium and barbiturates.  What my father’s doctor had prescribed her for her anxiety and perpertual angst from living in a perfect suburb.  

I say I “took” my life even though I am still alive writing this (barely).  Because the intent was there.  I was not pretending.  I was not seeking attention.

I waited until my mother had left the house to go shopping.  I crept upstairs to her medicine cabinet, took out all her plastic jars of pills and empied them into my mouth.  Just what the doctor ordered.    I then went downstairs to the den where my teenage years were to end.  Lay down on my bed, crossed my arms and prepared to die.  My typewritten note still in the manual typewriter on my desk.  I was prepared.

Then my mother came home.

She had forgotten something and then noticed that I hadn’t done the dishes.

Se knocked on my door.

I ignored her.

[I’m dyng here, for chrissakes!]

She banged on the door, yelled at me and then came into my room.  She wasn’t going to leave me alone to die or anything else.  I was still her child, her responsibility, her burden of karma.

She made me get out of bed and go do the dishes.

I did.

You had to listen to my mother or a metal spoon might find your bottom; or the back of  your neck might attract an open palm slap.  Once my other slapped me full in the face in front of others.  When I asked her why she told us that she didn’t like the look I had given her.  My mother has always lived the intuitive life, dangerously.

I started to wash the dishes, laughed and then woke up in hospital.

That’s what it seemed like at the time.

I survived.

And recovered.

It was my mother’s insistence on engendering my self-discipline that saved my life.    That, and the unwashed dishes.

I so deeply regretted my stupid, solipsistic, life-changing attempt to die, that I subsequently trained and worked as a suicide counsellor in San Fransisco in the early 80’s, while I attended SFSU.

A saw a notice on a board and I answered it.

I used to work shifts in a call centre-like set up near the Haight.  I would spend 4 hours taking calls.  Random calls.    Calls from women mainly, but then there would be evenings, usually Saturday nights when it would be nearly all male voices. Long, lonely voices.  Soft voices.  Tearful voices.  I took it all in.  I was a young man but I had been where they were and I figured I owed dues.  I owed dues to my mother, to my sister and to the ever loving pack of hairless apes that share my cage on this muddy spinning marble.  I oed dues to the life I had so nearly come so close to squandering.

At first I was shy and repeated the same “I’m Listening” cues, over and over.  But the one woman who’s husband came home each  afternoon and beat bloodly her in front of her toddler.  The patient dying of cancer.  The executive who stole money.  The teenager, like me: hurt, confused, in pain; not knowing where the pain is coming from.

Then, I got good at it.

I left the Suicide Center script behind and began to ask my own questions; harnessing Socrates and my own empathy and expereince of suicide to try and connect.  I spoke to suicides from the place of wanting to kill your self, not trying to talk you out of it.  When I left the center, the director gave me a certificate, a thank you and shook my hand in front of the team.  He looks like Alan Watt’s in my mind’s eye, but I’m sure that I’m confusing images.  He shook my hand and said “We are all fortunate to have had such an old soul amongst us”.  I had no idea what the hell that meant.

sisyphusIllustration for Sisyphus Shrugs (from IS SHE AVAILABLE?) ; by DIX

Suicide is never a cold, calculated choice.  But it is a choice.

I’m sure there as many reasons as there are suicides; but the step that one takes across the line from intent into action is a huge ascent.  It takes every fibre of ones will to align onesself to a task that goes against ones own body, one’s being.  This is precisely what is so incomprehensible to non suicides ; that the act of taking ones life takes such a great force of will.  If will is Life how can it will its own end?     Your body will fight you every step of the way; *it* wants to survive.  You, on the other hand, can think of better alternatives to merely surviving.  

There are classes amongst suicides and we don’t rate religious or insane self-immolators at all.  In fact we think they’re chicken-shits.    They tell themselves a story or someone does and next thing they know, they think they’re getting off at 25th street when it’s actually the upper east side.  KA-BOOM!!! 

No.  That’s not real suicide.  

Real suicide is when you know absolutely that you have no idea what happens next.  THAT’s the step into the abyss that takes a force of will.  A will, an intent borne into action more often than not as an alternative to the fact of ones existence:  A bully, a spouse, a bank statement.   How can I describe the agony of hating the world?  Chasing the orbit around the source of the confounding pain round and round like a mad dog chasing its own tail.   Try chasing your own tail for year, two years, five years in agonizing concentric circles of self loathing and pain and self-repulsion and then tell me how selfish suicide is; ok??

Most of us contemplate or will contemplate suicide at one time or another in our lives.

Fact.

But when’s the last time you shared any of your darkest thoughts with anyone?  What’s the matter, scared you won’t get an invite to the Prom?  Well yes, precisely.

You may be thinking about it right now as you read these words.

It can just cross your mind, a wandering Jew of a thought.   A casual, whimsical speculation that takes shape and form into something viable, no: necessary.  Necesssary to allieve the agony of this existence.

It’s time to speak out about this.

It’s a good thing.

it’s a natural thing.

Yes it is, it’s a natural thing to contemplate killing yourself; people have been doing it for thousands of years.

It’s part of the process we go through in becoming human beings, in gaining a greater depth of understanding of what it is that we are so willing to chuck away.  Life and Death are a mirage; it’s just 2 sides of the same deal, baby.  

But what exactly is the deal, huh?

Do you know?  

No, neither do I so who are you to tell me that you understand the value of my life better than I do?

I’m happy  to reveal what so many of us hide from their own polite eyes: that we are deeply unhappy with our lives, that we do not know why and that we are suffering, mostly in silence.  So many of us.  So many of us continue and persevere; so many of us don’t.  That’s the way the cookie crumbles

I am fortunate that I can translate some of these dark thoughts, impotent cries of anguish into words, poems that might invite you to open your heart and reflect: on your self, on your life, on your neighbor.  What’s his or her life like, I wonder?

But I am just one lonely poet.

An obnoxious one, at that.

This existential torment I describe is the privilege of the intelligent,  the sensitive, the insightful, the visionary, the artist, thinker, the Artist: All High Suicide Risks.  Robin Williams was an artist and an artist uses their metier not so much to exorcize their demons, as uncover them.    Williams crafted his art,  I’d like to think, as a shield, as his own private shelter against the raging cold of indifference that surrounds us.  

But we who lurk  at the center of the cyclone, where our care and concern  huddle at the tranquil center, are perplexed and confused.  “He had so much to live for”.

That is why I  try and describe these thoughts and  ideas and  sensations as best as I can,      I do so not out of exhibitionism; on the contrary, I’ve kept these facts about myself  secret for some time; I want to inform anyone who has been affected by suicide, either someone you knew or a loved one, or in fact yourself, what kinds of thoughts may cross your mind that make you want to take your own life.  If this gives some small respite or comfort to someone in their moment of profoundest grief, then it is no chore on my part.

It may seem displaced; it may even seem selfish and insensitive; but there’s an arrogance to the suicide  that does place us one step removed from the lives you are living.  Impulse and sheer clumsy stupidity aside, the intent to take your own life, with all the thought that that act entails, is not an easy course to stay.  

It is not, to the suicide, a real choice.  In the Camus-like sense of choosing every day to either commit suicide or NOT commit suicide as an exercise of free will.  To NOT committ suicoide is of course to choose Life and whatever else happens to you that day as something you have willingly chosen.  No, the existential blanket is often clung to but the act itself requires more desperation than merely a wanting to know how to live.

The same with the code of  honor or Bashido that motivated both Yukoo Mishima, Japan’s greatest post war poet and the executive in charge of compensation to the 400 families of the Japanese Boeing jet that went down in the water with no survivors.  The verdict was pilot error and the compensation payments were in the millions.  After filing the paperwork for the 400th claim, the airline executive neatly arranged his desk and then committed ritual seppukaas his personal apology to the families.  In this way the samurai, the man of honour makes his entire life a gesture, a conscious act of volition in ending it.  He knew what he was doing.

I did not.

I was a child growing up in 70’s San Diego.  Down the street from me was the school where the shootout that gave Bob Geldof Why I hate Mondays.  And of course there was Danny Alstadt.

Death-is-not-the-End_Wallpaper_1gtcz

I published my first poem entitled UNDER THE GIZMO in the California State Education Poetry Anthology describing my experience when my French teacher, a former Playboy bunny, discovered my poetry journal that had my imitations of Baudelaire and Nerval.   She called the school counsellor who called my mother who then got browbeat her into taking me to a child psychiatrists.  Upon the first ten mintues of meeting me and suggesting that a French Symbolist’s lifestyle was not compatibel with an academic career, he prescribed  medication.  Apparently, a 14 year old with a morbid interest in late 19th century French Symbolist poetry does not conform to the cirriculum standard and I was sentenced to be drugged.  

Fortunately my father had returned from his conference and was able to intervene where my mother’s English could not.

So I wrote a poem about the dehumanization of the state educational system.

So the state educational system published it in their journal state-wide.

My long term social alienation had been  augumented by my parents disintegrating marriage.

It was the summer of 1975 that my father moved out and it was later that summer that I took my own life.

When I went to 10th grade, before I was expelled for organizing a student demo (another story), I fell in with a group of older students who seemed to appreciate SF, poetry, classical music and art as much as I did.  They adopted me as a sort of odd mascot and I took pleasure in finally have found a social niche I felt welcome in.

B became my best friend  and it was B who enthisiastically invited me to the library after school one day to introduce me to S, his new girlfriend.  I had never met anyone like S before; half Armenian, half Jewish; S was the girl I had been dreaming of since I first started dreaming about girls.  And she was my best friend’s girlfriend.  And beautiful.  And intelligent.  And she new everything about Matisse!

Needless to say this fated triangle would not hold.  That summer was a Shakespherian torture of frustrated libido, yielding to honour.  Eventually B “gave” S to me.  It was during one of those ridiculous emotional roller coaster rides that S had called me to tell me that she had reached a final decision and was choosing to stay with B.  

We were all children at 16 and 17.  Children playing with fire.

I accepted this, hung up the phone and sat down to my typewriter to write my goodbye.

When I awoke in hospital, stomach pumped, having endured the enagelism of an all night Christain nurse wo kept waking me up to tell me how much I had disapppointed Jesus.  

[HE”S disappointed?  I would shout at her now.]

When I awoke to the pair of clear blue confused yes of my little sister looking at me, anxious and scared I realized like a freight train what my life was really worth.   At the time, it seemed like the only thing to do.  That morning, I hated myself and when I looked at the hurt confusion in my mother’s eyes, I knew that this could never, never ever happen again.

These days it merely takes a split second of my daughter’s face in my mind to assure my immortality.

But I’m with Robin Williams.  I know what that step entails.  I know what it means to make the final choice.  And it is something we must air out.  It is something we must allow to enter the public sphere.  We are all masters of our own destiny and the ability to choose to take our own lives is an act of assertion; an act of identity.  To label it as weak or sick or wrong is to deny your own awareness of your own identity and the need to control and detmin who and what it is that you are on your terms.  There are many things worse than death and there are at least a billion living it.  But is life is deemed to be precious, indeed the only value there is, then that value must be defined by its limits.

It is my life to choose to live it as I choose and to choose to die as I choose to.

Robin’s chocie may be tragic to us, but it is also a reminder that death rests waiting on all  of our shoulders.  There is no way out, is what we all share in common.   

Peace, and an ease to all suffering.


The tears of a clown: RIP Robin Williams


Excellent assessment of a clown’s career from ex Time Out editor, Dominic Wells

London, Hollywood

Robin Williams' star-making turn in Good Morning, Vietnam (1987) Robin Williams’ star-making turn in Good Morning, Vietnam (1987)

I am shocked and devastated to read, just as I was going to bed, that Robin Williams has died, seemingly from suicide due to asphyxia. It’s common now for sit-com stars to move on to film –  Woody Harrelson, Will Smith, Tom Hanks, Jennifer Aniston – but Williams, along with John Travolta, paved the way.

Mork and Mindy was one of the sweetest programmes of my youth. Williams’s innocent alien, Mork from Ork, first appeared in Happy Days (Williams got the part before the audition even began, when the director asked him to take a chair and he sat on it on his head), and was so popular he got his own show, and catchphrase, “Nanu Nanu” (you had to have been there).

As a film actor he always risked overpowering his co-stars, being a barely contained tornado of irrepressible energy. He was…

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IT’S NICE TO BE 15 AGAIN . . .


hitchhiker. . . in nervous anticipation of the world.  Curiousity, tempered by peer acquired knowledge  butts against the barricades of adulthood.  We’re ready to storm the Citadel of your privilege!  We are the next generation and that world you’re holding hostage belongs to us!  (Now hand it over before anyone gets hurt.)

My daughter, Olivia is 15 and visting me from just outside Oxford, England where she lives with her mother and has never had less than a straight A+ report card.  She just took a flight by herself from London Heathrow to San Diego, at 15.

When I was 15 my parents were getting divorced, badly.

So I ran away from home.

I told my mom, my dad  had moved out, that I was going camping with my friend Barry Alphonso for a few days and I asked her if she could give me a ride to Pacific Beach where Barry lived and where his mom was driving us from.hitchhiking-1

I didn’t see my mother again for another 12 weeks. I met Barry alright in PB near the freeway on-ramp onto 5 heading north.  I had an overstuffed backpack, a golf club (for walking and protection), about $40.00 I had stolen from my mother’s purse: the source of all comforts.  At  15 I found myself standing on an on-ramp in Pacific Beach  holding my glof club in one hand and sticking out my thumb with the other.  Barry lingered, somewhat doubting I would hitch a ride and curious as to my sticking my toes over the precipace into the unknown.  Would I really jump or just go home?

hitchhiker-2

 

Me, all I had was the certainty I needed to leave my broken family behind.  There was too much incomprehensible grief, the loss of our house, our income, our home.  My mother and father’s loving looks twisted into evil eyes of anger, hatred and contempt for each other.  But me and my sister couldn’t help but suspect that we were the root of the problem.  After all, if they hadn’t had us; they could split up and both be happy somewhere else, with someone else.  Idiots think that children are somehow less responsible.

That’s not the problem.  A child is much too responsible, in our minds we feel responsible  for the world.

A delusion I have heartily welcomed back into my life at this late age.

At 15, I find myself standing on the verge of an open highway with my thumb sticking in the wind: the greatest gesture of hope and faith I have ever made in my life.  I had never hitchiked before and all I had were vague images of an Emerald San Francisco where my dad had driven us to years ago and near where my older brother was dodging tear gas on his way to class at Berkeley.  I had the swirling images of Bob Dylan songs and Paul Simon melodies to sing to my self on the side of the road.  If you really hit the groove on the song, you were always guaranteed a ride.  The joy of music and singing is infectous and hits the bubbled drivers like a laser, traveling 80mph!

This was also  still the time of war and the rice paddies and tunnels of Vietnam were making their way  underground into the California bread basket.

Hitchhiker JerichoLots of people I met on the road were veterans.  I hear its the same on the road today.  An army comes home to a lost highway.   Damaged souls with haunted eyes.  Hanging with  flea bitten ex fighting dogs and still wearing their green fatigues.  Some even still wore their dog tags that flickered in the sun and the sterno-light alike;  chained butterflies at the end of a beaded  neck chain .

Some of the sad were mad and would wander way from the fire or the on-ramp or under the bridge and howl at the sky.  No one ever paid them any mind.  it was impolite to comment on a soldier’s anguish.  These lost souls, these fragmented  men taught me so much about hitchhiking and rail car hopping, how to get a free meal at a road side McDonald’s in exchange for picking up the litter . . .  th

Which Jesus shelters were tolerable and which to steer away from.  (Generally, a meal, a sermon and a bed were tolerable.  Anythng more than that was considered risky.  I had a Christian woman visit me several times in one night in my bunk bed trying to convince me to accept Jesus while she  roamed her hands under my bed clothes.

Religion is allot like sex except that unlike sex, it gets it wrong.)

Most of all those lost soldiers, ghosts of events everyone wanted forgotten, they taught me how to forgive my father, another broken soldier who had taken out his white light rage on me and my brother, with his belt and with his fists.  Those men, may killers, taught me at 15 what I needed to know for real, so I could later tell my father what he had done to me  and I could look him I the eyes and forgive him because I knew and understood that  wasn’t his fault.

It was the War, the same fucking War that had crippled him.  The same War that crippled the ghosts from Iraq and Afghanistan.  The same War that is manufacturing new ghosts in Israel, in Gaza, in Syria.  It’s the same fucking War peeps, the same fucking War from the desert to the frozen tundra, through the jungle, to the rice paddies, to the streets of downtown LA.

It’s the same fucking War, peeps: when we going to call  it quits?

How much more do we have to endure of your arrogant greed, your inhumanity, your thoughtless disregard for Life?

I had adventures on that road to Oz.hitchhiking

Through the valleys of the Jesus people.

On the highway, pulling all sorts of motorised vehicles with my magnetic thumb.

Drinking beer for the first time at the cowboy ranch Bacchanal after the rancher’s hand picked up 5 of us hitchers in the back of his pickup truck, just to give us beer and music at the farm.  Being kissed by a girl who’s name I never would know, or need to,  for the very first time—There is no thrill greater than a fleeting one.    In the back of the Wizard’s goatee-ed van who dressed his poodle in a bright green doggy sweater and  offered to buy me dinner  later if he could show me his doggy tricks.

The biker under the bridge who’s hog had broken down in the downpour near the Oregon border.  And me, a drowned puppy carrying a golf club for protection, drenched to my bones and shaking like the Devil at Communion.

The big, bearded, bike-bear stared at me under the bridge for awhile and made me nervous.

This was his bridge.

HitchhikingAfter awhile, he broke his stare and waved me silently over across the road.  The only bikers I knew anything about were the ones that put Hunter S Thompson in the hospital because they didn’t like what he had written about them in his book.  Shit!

But ‘Lucky’ was a quiet mountain.  He gave me a green wool army blanket from his bike’s saddle bag and a Camel straight from his half empty pack; my first ever.  The rain was coming down steady, heavy and cold.  I had “smartly” chosen the month of November to make my break to freedom.  Lucky had a can of sterno, a metal cup and Nescafe.  There was water, water, everywhere and more than enough to drink.

Lucky didn’t say much but when I stopped shaking he poured from a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 into the hot metal nescafe cup and we shared it.  I did not know this quiet dark bearded man, where he came from, what his story was or even it was safe to hang  with him under this bridge in the rain.  But he was my older brother  in the moment we were in and when Lucky finally did say something to me it was a 3 word question:

“Do you play?”

I glanced down at the the minature wooden chess set Lucky had extracted from his saddle bag.

“Sure, I play.    I play ALL  the time”.

Paying chess with a leather suited biker under a bridge under the pouring Oregon rain.

That was what I was doing  when I was 15.

 

 

 

 


ZINC’S DULL REFLECTION


zincbars_slide1Reflecting in the dull, scratched reflection of a zinc counter, too many empty pastis glasses and I look towards the mirror and the sepia light and the prostitute sipping her espresso at the bar, her mouth like a red angry gash, and in the mirror behind her, I see her back, black lace dress, net stockings and then her front reflected from the opposite mirror and then a disappearing corridor of back front back front flipping back and forth into infinity.

And I think to myself: behind me was my continuing education, a phd in philosophy, a professorship, a book, a wife, a life; in front of me was an unknown Paris that had seduced me upon the first whiff of her urine scented perfume. And real prostitutes! Here in real life! and that guy over there wearing the basque, actually is a starving painter! And I am actually Henry Miller and this is my circus of sex and discovery and absinthe and old bar maids with concentration camp tattoos and butchers drinking cafe calvados at 4 in the morning after dropping off their bloody carcasses, half the blood blotting their aprons like they were serial killers meeting for a social.

All that looking from one end of the endless bar to the other.
And then back again.528a0ffbd7340fc005d427eff29d3a2c
From my hindsight glance at my past, how I got here and the anxious certain dread that I at some point, have made a lasting, life long mistake!

And then I gaze in the direction of your Paris street, I so badly need to hurry up to catch what’s around the corner. I used to walk so fast in Paris, I was literally running and no one ever gave me a second glance. In Paris there is always some place to go. But it’s not the future that’s around the corner, it’s more of this, this past, these aspirations, this humble beginning, this arrogant courage, this reckless abandon and the picking up of the consequential pieces and most of all this desire to go on, to keep going to escape from the shadow that is following me. It would have caught up with me sooner and swallowed me whole with the phd, the wife and the life. Instead it’s stopped chasing me; maybe because I’ve slowed, it’s slowed its pace to a stroll.

It knows that I know now where we are heading.
Where we’ve been going all along.

My shadow’s not chasing me anymore,
it’s just casually following out of vague curiosity.


WIN! THE REVOLUTION IN ONLY 2 DIGITS


Last Minute Re-Versioning.  I think it works better now.  Soon we will be launching the animated version of the illustration for the piece by the intensely wonderful and visually lyrical Jeff Christenten.  Thanks to Evan@Madefire.  As well as an original composition for the entire multimedia piece from the  intense genius of Gilad Atzmon.  Please stay tuned.  Please enjoy.  Please comment good or bad.  What’s the difference dantes-hell1?

 

 

THE REVOLUTION IN ONLY 2 DIGITS

 

Home again.

 

Thomas, you were wrong to doubt it:

You Can Go Home Again and

Bask in the healing sun of Osiris

 

This isn’t home

This is recovery.

From the fevered scurvy of my own forgetfulness.

th-1

I eat limes for breakfast, lunch and dinner now;

My bowels move regularly now.

And I feel just like Thomas Payne

 

His bursting desire to model the ideal citizen

 

Not our uniforms, but our blood, sinew and muscle.

To present to the Crowning Glory and

To the Revolutionary Congress and

 

To the Revolutionary French Senate

Thomas and his Pain made the American struggle a personal fight:

The universal pull of the upright ape on the chains holding him down.

REVOLUTION in JUST 2 DIGITS

Chains forged by the forgetful hairless ones.

The ones we will overcome.

But we are not revolutionaries!

 

We are the Revolution.

We are what happens next.

The R/Evolution of our Selves: the inner/outer seeing through Alice’s mirror

 

Into mindful awareness

Into homage to our honored masters and their children:

The ever loving human race.

 

We have already won the revolution.

We have already won the revolution.

 

2 Shots were fired from far, far ago:

One from Lovelace’s boudoir,

Another from Giordano’s spinning wheels and the memory of his funeral pyre.

 

And from the bit of the apple Alan choked down,

We have already won the revolution.

 

We just need to take charge.

 

We have already won the revolution.

 

In only 2 digits.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE REVOLUTION IN ONLY 2 DIGITS

 

Home again.

 

Thomas, you were wrong to doubt it:

You Can Go Home Again and

Bask in the healing sun of Osiris

 

This isn’t home

This is recovery.

From the fevered scurvy of my own forgetfulness.

 

I eat limes for breakfast, lunch and dinner now;

My bowels move regularly now.

And I feel just like Thomas Payne

 

His bursting desire to model the ideal citizen

 

Not our uniforms, but our blood, sinew and muscle.

To present to the Crowning Glory and

To the Revolutionary Congress and

 

To the Revolutionary French Senate

Thomas and his Pain made the American struggle a personal fight:

The universal pull of the upright ape on the chains holding him down.

 

Chains forged by the forgetful hairless ones.

The ones we will overcome.

But we are not revolutionaries!

 

We are the Revolution.

We are what happens next.

The R/Evolution of our Selves: the inner/outer seeing through Alice’s mirror

 

Into mindful awareness

Into homage to our honored masters and their children:

The ever loving human race.

 

We have already won the revolution.

We have already won the revolution.

 

2 Shots were fired from far, far ago:

One from Lovelace’s boudoir,

Another from Giordano’s spinning wheels and the memory of his funeral pyre.

 

And from the bit of the apple Alan choked down,

We have already won the revolution.

 

We just need to take charge.

 

We have already won the revolution.

 

In only 2 digits.



See the latest animations and musical tracks from my forthcoming collection of poetry, comics and prose : IS SHE AVAILABLE?  (Chameleon Editions) out in hardcover and audio (one in the same?) from October 31st, 2014   Buy a copy. Keep a poet alive.   http://fav.me/d7ru7e6mystical-experience-1


THE LATEST ANIMATION TEASERS FROM IS SHE AVAILABLE?


See the latest animations and musical tracks from my forthcoming collection of poetry, comics and prose : IS SHE AVAILABLE?  (Chameleon Editions) out in hardcover and audio (one in the same?) from October 31st, 2014

 

Buy a copy.

Keep a poet alive.

 

http://fav.me/d7ru7e6

 

 

mystical-experience-1


The San Diego Human Centipede Convention


photo 5The San Diego Comic Con is a four day event, the largest trade show of any kind in California with over 300,000 attendees.

Feeling like a ghost haunting my own past, I waltzed (on my crutch), up the professional registration desk and gave them my name.  In return they graciously granted my Perpetual Prefered Professional  status (or something), entitling me to a life times worth of Comic Cons and for my close, personal guests.

Like the waitress at the Anaheim WonderCon who’s 11 year old son was crest fallen that she hadn’t been able to get tickets on line inn time.  Him, her and her daughter got in  that very day courtesy of yours truly and the SDCC.  My PPP status is earned by happenstance.  I happen to be the SF coordinator for the 1974 San Diego Comic Con when I was a young and fervent fan and wanted to walk up to Harlan Ellison and tell him that god spoke through him.

What We Do

Image ©Jeff Christensen for the poem WHAT WE DO in the upcoming collection by Igor Goldkind IS SHE AVAILABLE?

I was there this year,  aeons later, wandering around like a sack-bearing minstral touting my upcoming debut collection of poetry  IS SHE AVAILABLE?  and it’s complimentary music and animation.  In principle I was supposed to be touting to industry movers, shakers and cheque writers.  In fact, it was mainly artists, some old trading friends, a  few young fans and a homless man who benefited from  news of my impending launch.   I reckon if I can corner the homeless reading market sector, I’m on my way.

San Diego Comic Con 2014 reminded me most of all of that episode of South Park in which Steve Jobs exercises the terms and conditions from the Apple licence agreement (you know, the one you always just click through without reading), to collect human specimans in order to fabricate human centipedes.  The joke being how ridiculously absurd it is that anyone would voluntarily put up with day upon day of physical and emotional endurance just for the sake of a quickly forgotten signature.

photo 9But the hairless apes endure a great deal more for the chance to take  an intimate dream, a very public but nonetheless private fantasy one step closer to reality by getting to peek behind the theatre curtains.  I will pay for the privilege to meet the writers, the artists, the TV and film stars.   The latter attracting a pestulance of clicking, wirring cameras like someone kicked a over wasps nest.

The attraction is the focus, not the object of focus.

We not only comprise the public eye we are self aware of its meandering focus; like the guard’s light in a POW camp, the focus must keep moving, bouncing; taking in the walls, the ground and the towers of our narrow realm.  Quick!  Run over there, it’s over there now.

It is remarkable how like Carp people are.photo 2

They always wind up filling up the spaces  they inhabit, regardless the accommodation.photo 7

The San Diego Conference Centre is Enormous; a Star Ship sized concrete mass.  on the ground floor  one room large enough to build a couple of passenger jet planes in, stretching from the center of San Diego Bay to seemingly, Tijuana; if you were walking.  As if there were an alternative to walking, or limping.   The upstairs Upper Deck of the Convention Center is a Gormenghast castle of windows and endless corridors of  rooms and as many culdesacs.  The entire homeless population of San Diego could easily fit into two panel rooms; and the panels wouldn’t be too much different from the writers, artists and TV stars ones. photo 4

What would you rather do?  Give money to a panhandler or pay to hear him appear on a panel regarding the new Marvel universe infringing on Dante’s 10 Circle of  Hell? .

The Convention Center is Enormous and yet unmoveable for  stagnated flow of people.  These are human currents of motion.  Anyone who has ever been swept up in a crowd knows exactly what I mean.  It’s terrifying in a profound way, even though logic and civilization dictates otherwise, it is still intimidating to feel the raw, brutal energy of the mob.  The Mob: that entity  formed by shaping a collection of humans (and the spaces of interaction between them) into one singular mass of motion and motive.

[Funny, that:  a flock of birds, a school of fish, a pack of hyena,

a Mob of people.   And we invented language.]

This collective swarming of people tends to occur organically, specially around sporting events and the escape of man-made monsters.  In this case it is due to the First Through Tenth Laws of Acquisition that motivates the herd.

The grass is collectable.

The commodification of value; selling Art wrapped in newspapers and doused in salt and Vinegar.

SDCC is  a trade show, a place of business of commerce of PT Barnum huksters selling your dreams back to you.  It is the most successful animal of its kind and it  demonstrates how commerce has successfully replaced  the human imagination.

photo 3And what drives the currents of human traffic?  Distant stars.  Usually at the exhibit stand near Hall G  while you had to go all the way  to Hall A just to find that out.  How did you get to Tijuana?  I walked there.  And there, finally, after swimming upstream against the trecherous human currents, you find the comics artist, your respected hero, who’s every word you hang on to,  just so you can brag about it to others who have also spent the same money for the privilege of basking in the sunlight of a comics artist.

And most of them are really quite funny; and charming and grossly underpaid for the craft of that they do.  But hey  that’s publisher’s innit? nothing to do with comics.  Comics illustration is an amazing craft in that it is generationally passed on, like shoemaking or wood turning used to be; so it has an antique heritage: the smell of newsprint funny papers is never far from even the glossiest deluxe graphic novel edition.

I’ve known a legion of comics artists; meaning commercial illustrators who primarily do and want to do comics.

I’ve known some of those luminaries both writers and artists when they were breaking in and then when they were breaking out of the comics industry.

It’s a self-contradictory life to live and work in complete isolation and then be at the centre of so much focus, so photo 6much adulation and demand

God what a lonely life that must be, to be living at the nub of your pen, gliding across an endless white surface of  parchment, flying from city to city, convention to convention, drawing pictures, sketching characters, signing books, signing prints, signing the bellies of beautiful women  and the arms of worshipful fans.   Always  in the air, always on the move, always either landing or taking off; never falling, always floating but never quite touching the ground.

An artist’s studio is his home but his work is all around him, all over the world.

The secret brotherhood of comics artists who quietly cross hatch the world, behind our backs,  behind hidden doors.

They scratch away with their pens and inks and digital tablets’ eradicating this world  with their framing shots of new ones.

For very uncertain futures.photo 8

 

Last time I checked the Hawaian Comics Artists and Writers Retirement Orgy  Island  had a waiting list for placement openings some 160 years long.

 

Well at least they have all those conventions awards they can pawn to cover any unexpected medical bills that might come up in the future and what about us centipedes for the rest of the year?

 

While we can all see their latest enduring creations at the box office for about $12 for a decent seat on a weekday, or play the pixelated interactive version; long after our heros have all moved onto another Universe.