March 4, 2022

A Challenging Spiritual Exercise…

February 16, 2022

Weltschmerz Sandwiches

The demand for less…

https://artillerymag.com/the-frugal-meal/ 

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December 29, 2021

Hold back the River…

November 13, 2021

The Truth about Minimalism

A Conversation with William Minor…

THE TRUTH ABOUT MINIMALISM

August 21, 2021

Gone to the Dogs

On the subject of dogs and their owners…

GONE TO THE DOGS

 

July 15, 2021

Everybody Wants Some

https://artillerymag.com/everybody-wants-some/

… some pandemic nostalgia.

April 6, 2021

On The Road, Again

Upon rereading On The Road:

https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/on-the-road-again/

April 6, 2021

Heroin Heroism

On the exhausted genre of the rock n’roll junkie memoir:

https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/heroin-heroism-on-the-rock-n-roll-survivor-narrative/

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March 16, 2021

Pilgrimage


Snow falls outside the hotel window,
floating carelessly through the air…
and I don’t care.
The town spreads out below me:
A sprawling red brick dream,
with white capped peaks beyond.
But I don’t respond.

Crushing boredom, grueling emptiness,
purifying alienation:
This is exactly what I came here for.
There is nothing more.

The snow brings silence with it,
sinking into the frozen darkness of a Sunday night.
On these tired, sour, leaden streets,
the bitter desolation is too much to take
for very long.  I return to my station:
stretched out on a bed,
gazing at a distant mountain range
or staring at a faucet in a trance.
It’s not refreshing, it doesn’t seem strange
and seductive, as it appeared in advance.

Far from the City of Refuge,
with no practical scheme,
constantly ruing the latest version
of what might have been; emptying myself
into the emptiness, negotiating the rush,
as a pick-up truck plows through the slush;
and I resign myself to another night, another day,
serving out a sentence.
I told myself I’d stay.

Outsiders here are quickly identified:
they’re clean-shaven.
I observe the bartender’s warmth
with other customers.
Surrounded by laughter,
I watch the bubbles in my beer,
shooting from the bottom of the glass
to a rapidly nearing surface, evenly spaced,
like asteroids in a primitive video game,
and leave unthanked.

On the street a creature is drawn to me:
a vicious black dog, grudgingly restrained
by an unapologetic owner.
These excursions strike me now,
as they always strike me at this point,
as being selfish and pointless.
What am I doing here?
When will I learn?
Despite all the goodwill I brought with me,
the place gave me nothing in return.

March 7, 2021

The Creative Process


The moment slipping away,
sinking into the unseizable day.
The sapping sun, the sadness
kept at bay; the churlish thoughts
that are allowed to circle freely,
while clinging
to a perverted form of integrity.
A threadbare urgency,
as pointless as poetry
but tighter than time.