The Long Island Poetry Scene: The Jackal and the Ghost

Long Island is arguably one of the most vibrant artistic locations on the face of the earth. I am confident in that statement. It is almost as if anyone who passes through New York City on their trek towards the "fish-shaped Paumanok" is somehow laced with an untraceable level of inspiration that slowly seethes until it unwillingly incorporates them into a culture of artists, poets, writers, musicians, and everything in between. It is infectious - a beautiful blight.   

Last night, I had the honor of being a part of Bards Day, an annual event celebrating the release of the yearly anthology Bards Annual 2013, which included my poems Tete-a-Tete and I Am Thankful, published by Local Gems Poetry Press (the one's who released by book Death By Active Movement) in association with The Bards Initiative. I was honored with the Up-and-Coming Poet Award at the ceremony and am truly humbled by that gesture. Seeing so many people gathered at the Walt Whitman Birthplace in Huntington Station, NY, I could visually see everyone who had come to be a part of my extended poetry family. Not only poets - all expressive people on this Strong Island of ours are part of the collective effort to make this world better and to be a part of something bigger than themselves. We are a hellbroth of many different people, juxtaposed to each other like brilliant contradictions. 

There is a revolution coming and us artists need to be the ones to organize it, to drive it home, to take back this great nation of ours, and to unite the globalized world under a canvas of culture, community, and equality. Language does not separate us, beliefs, traditions, we are a oneness bequeathed with being, this existence, together striving to make it more than what it is. That is the burden of the artist and we can help each other carry it. Long Island seems to carry more weight than others, but this is a call to all expressive peoples everywhere - 

UNITE!!! 

The Jackal And The Ghost

This is a shot in the dark

A road with no signs

A blind man’s pointing finger

A sentence without an end

This is a depth nothing can fall to

A hole no one can dig

This is a thought you can’t have

An heir you can’t breathe

This is a sight you can’t behold

A picture of nothing

A tree without roots in a world without gravity

This is a baby’s dream

This is a number you can’t count to

A hunger you can’t crave

This is a journey you can’t take

A trap you can’t escape

This is a knot that can’t be untangled

A well you can’t well

Decadence you can’t taste

A kiss you can’t feel

A peace that lays waste

A future you can’t make

A past you can erase 

This is a blasphemy

A virtuous sin

A fleeting permanence

This is a split second glance

With no one else around

This is evidence

This is all the leafs in autumn

All the seeds you blew away

All the toys of childhood

All the games

These are all the jokes told

All the laughter

All the tears

All the boys and girls you’ve desired

All the fears

This all the preparation

This is all the grace

This is all the building up

The tearing down

The waste

This is the paper in the morning

The painting of a room

The doodles on a chalkboard

The gazing at the sky at noon

The trying and the buying

The regret and the hope

These are the nicks and scrapes

The jackal and the ghost 

Fight For Your Passion: Omasum

Don't second guess yourself. 

If you feel it, if you taste it, if you can't escape it, embrace it. 

Everyone has a passion. Some of us are consumers, indulging in things or experiences. Some of us are producers, people who have a drive to create things. Some of us are both, but nearly all of us has a passion. All of us has something we are passionate about. 

Is there something you can't live without? Is there something that motivates you against your will? There are good addictions and there are bad addictions. Bad addictions destroy you. Good addictions sustain you. They can be hobbies, they can be interests, they are things that make you happy and help you reconnect with yourself. Often, it is when we are enraptured in our passions that we feel most alive.

In the hustle and bustle of contemporary reality, it is sometimes hard to find the energy and the time to feed those passions. We feel the drive, we feel the desires, but we convince ourselves there are more worth-while things to be done. That is you denying yourself. That is your heart telling you what you need. It's a hunger - feed it!

This life is a gift. That means it has been given to you and you own it, so you do whatever you wish with it. Would you rather pursue your passions and fail or never pursue them and never unlock your full potential? Don't be afraid to stop EVERYTHING and GO!!! 

Book signing for DBAM at Stony Brook University

Omasum

The iridescent taffeta that covers my stain glass bones

Builds a wickiup of plasma that smolders and corrodes

And this algid patina that covers my radiant face

Keeps from the world the smile that it scolds.

In the black and white albedo of a lunatic sphere

That bleeds a curious complexion, both brutal and queer,

Its prism projects molten opal upon the cardboard race,

Who communicate with buttoned lips and listen with biased ears.

While they fold in their lackadaisical limbs,

Taking off their hats, splitting their lips upon the brims,

I cast my crystal cobwebs across their noses in disgrace,

Listening as gravity crinkles my thorny heart like tin.

I can hear its asperous teeth dig into it like pi

As that morose masquerading marionette in the sky

Continues to encircle me, soldering my carcass in place,

As the golems peregrinate around the apocryphal sty.  

Listening to the masticating music as it unfolds,

Transcending the bitter warmth and sweltering cold

Until a dynamic paralysis trickles into the case

Of alligator skin that covets this once human mold.

And what I knew of longing seems to gangrene into fear.

That gentle glow has turned to tarp, through which I’m forced to peer

Upon a smithereen of what was once my cosmic base, 

Which I snatch up starvingly like a begrudged souvenir     

Until that nimbus vulture that emblazons my chagrin,

Hovering like a noxious conversation that’s been drawn too thin,

Bursts like an aneurism, cascading naked shards of space

That land upon my gasoline tongue, quite saccharine. 

And I taste the aureola, combusted before my elytroid eyes;

And I collapse onto a padded pedestal, whose pain is amplified; 

And as my heart gallops off, its bent-in bruises throttle its pace,

Until it too is smeared across the flippant canvas and dies. 

There I fall like argyle rain

In the foyer of consequential refrain,

Collecting like autumn leaves

In puddles of psychedelic disdain.

I cachinnate at all the almighty delusions I sought to free,

Yet I still pursue the jaundiced cud that trundles out of me.

Shout Out

I met a guy through the grapevine who has his own poetry blog and is trying to get people excited about his writing, especially his new book. His name is Plot 121 and his work spans a large swathe of themes. Check out his blog and support your local artists. Much love.

UPDATE: Dreams As A Mirror Of The Self: dream

Dreams are interesting things. For millennia, mankind has attempted to interpret his dreams, to divulge their esoteric and other-worldly meaning. No doubt, our mindset, our waking thoughts, our worries, and the circumstances surrounding our lives have an influence over the unconscious manifestations in our dreams. You can learn a lot about yourself if you listen to the content. 

I always gage the quality of my sleep based on how many dreams I can remember in the morning. Some people can't remember their dreams, although I'm sure they still exert an influence on them while they're awake. Even our nightmares, particularly recurring fears and themes, are a means of getting more in touch with ourselves. Perhaps they represent an opportunity to face something that hinders you in your waking hours and challenges you to overcome your conscious fears.    

I know many expressive people who's dreams have made thier way into their poetry, painting, and music. Always reflect on your dreams in the morning to learn something from them and use them to enrich your life. They are, after all, yours.      

dream

behind these rancid eyes

hides a bag of hopes and a box of lies,

i push aside 

to find you still asleep

your eyelashes were fluttering,

a symphony of peace they spun,

just like the night before

until i woke up to find the sun

my mind was still a haze

as i erased the past few days

and found myself alone with thoughts

of someone i had never known

with her image in my head

i laid there in bed

and knew her love had still in me yet grown

yearning for that gift,

i fell silent once again,

awaiting if or when

into sleep i would drift 

as i did, she was there

and hadn’t moved a finger or a toe,

and as i crept closer,

i felt the lust in me grow

feeling her breath upon my lips,

in my head i begged, ‘a kiss’

‘a kiss for i and no one else’

‘a kiss for me’

‘for myself’

i knelt beside her breast  

and now the heart inside my chest,

the heart i held for years alone

and shared with no one else

had fallen silent hence no more,

erased the pain i had abhorred,

and beat faster,

ever faster,

far faster than before

my pulse felt shattered with delight

having found a love of which i’m sure

this loneliness in me i see will vex me no more

for now i lay my lips to hers 

and know this is no dream

her taste is sweet, her affection pure

and in that moment, i believed

but as i opened up my eyes,

the sunlight compelling me to weep,

i see 

i had never known true love 

for i had lived it in a dream 

UPDATE

My first book of poetry, Death By Active Movement, has officially released. You can order your copy by going to the link above.

#DBAM