Aaron A. Brooks

"Artists Who Shit Where They Eat"

2007-09-01T02:51:00.000-04:00

I was having dinner tonight with a group of friends and something that was said in conversation struck me, invigorated me and reverberated like a .22 caliber bullet in my brain.

I'll preface this briefly:

The comment was made by an acquaintance of mine who is a painter, sculptor and artist. He is deeply intelligent, soulful, charming and funny and I've always respected him for his wit, insight and charisma, though we've never really known each other beyond surface chit-chat, mutual acknowledgment and (I presume) casual respect. From what I know, he has become successful enough as an artist to enjoy the fruits of his labor. So, what he said (through my perception) is basically this: Is art something because it is beautiful or meaningful, or is it something simply because a museum, gallery or critic or friend says so? (This is no revelation or new thought mind you) but it is a quintessential question and it reminded me...for example, of the art exhibit "Cloaca".

I quote:

"Cloaca is a giant machine that makes shit. At one end of the machine, they pour 2.6 gallons of water and a meal from a fancy SoHo restaurant. 27 hours and 33 feet later, a nozzle squirts out a well-formed piece of crap".

"Basically, Cloaca is a computerized mechanical system designed to mimic the human digestive process. The machine, which eats better than the majority of us, chews the food using a meat grinder and a garbage disposal, then passes it through six reactor chambers that use various chemicals to do the job of a digestive system. At 2:30 PM every day a crowd gathers, and the machine dutifully drops a shit onto a conveyor belt. The crowd cheers. Hooray for shit!"

"Why is it art when this machine shits on a conveyor belt in a museum? And why don't the cops think its art when I take a shit on the sidewalk outside the museum? As Duchamp teaches us, there are two ways to look at Art: Cloaca is shit that is art, or Cloaca is shit that is shit. There are two ways to look at Cloaca: Cloaca is shit that is art, or Cloaca is shit that is shit".

This is the fundamental point:

"As shit art, Cloaca has engendered some important thinking. But as shit, Cloaca has played another role: making fools of the literati. From the outsider's perspective, it's pretty funny to watch a bunch of book-learnin' types waiting breathlessly for shit, and then applauding when it arrives. Cloaca makes the wildest stereotypes of intellectual snobs a complete reality".

"In its most essential reading, Cloaca (and my friend) directly confront the contemporary state of confusion regarding when or where human life begins and ends. Through a monumental simulacrum tracing the path made by what we eat from the mouth to the anus, Cloaca forces us to see this process as something more than simply mechanical and catch ourselves in the act of self-identification and realization".

My initial reaction to my friends comment was anger! And as I examined my anger and it's roots...I had an epiphany! I was angry because I'd not given it any thought myself. I'd not deconstructed, chewed the fat, nor examined my own art enough to mock it, revel in it, destroy it...create it. I felt vain, self absorbed and stupid. I was angry because I'd held the belief that I was in control, and my perceptions of "art" were set, immutable and unchallenged. My ego, had become my undoing. By limiting myself to these set perceptions, this comfort zone, I'd built a wall around my own creativity and ability. I'd forgotten to break down my own barriers and revel, laugh and examine the irony of my own "shit". Intellectual snob...indeed!

From my perspective, the primary function of art is to question, convey or otherwise enlighten our human perspective, viewpoint or realizations of life...in it's highest form...life! Yes, shit is shit...but it is also our highest aspiration...because we are alive, and we can shit, love, laugh, fuck, create art and procreate...

I am learning not to be an ignorant snob...nor take my shit...for granted...

In the immortal words of Descartes, and in honor of the conversation..."I think, therefore, I am"...

In the immortal words of my friend: "Shit it, and they will buy it"...

In the immortal words of George Carlin: "Buy your own shit, this shits mine"...

Ok...enough shit...

"Free Will"

2007-06-20T20:46:00.000-04:00

This is some heady fucking theory...dig it! I did...

"In a way, in our contemporary world view, it's easy to think that science has come to take the place of God. But some philosophical problems remain as troubling as ever. Take the problem of free will. This problem has been around for a long time, since before Aristotle in 350 B.C. St. Augustine, St. Thomas Aquinas, these guys all worried about how we can be free if God already knows in advance everything you're gonna do. Nowadays we know that the world operates according to some fundamental physical laws, and these laws govern the behavior of every object in the world. Now, these laws, because they're so trustworthy, they enable incredible technological achievements. But look at yourself. We're just physical systems too, right? We're just complex arrangements of carbon molecules. We're mostly water, and our behavior isn't gonna be an exception to these basic physical laws. So it starts to look like whether its God setting things up in advance and knowing everything you're gonna do or whether it's these basic physical laws governing everything, there's not a lot of room left for freedom.

So now you might be tempted to just ignore the question, ignore the mystery of free will. Say "Oh, well, it's just an historical anecdote. It's sophomoric. It's a question with no answer. Just forget about it." But the question keeps staring you right in the face. You think about individuality for example, who you are. Who you are is mostly a matter of the free choices that you make. Or take responsibility. You can only be held responsible, you can only be found guilty, or you can only be admired or respected for things you did of your own free will. So the question keeps coming back, and we don't really have a solution to it. It starts to look like all our decisions are really just a charade.

Think about how it happens. There's some electrical activity in your brain. Your neurons fire. They send a signal down into your nervous system. It passes along down into your muscle fibers. They twitch. You might, say, reach out your arm. It looks like it's a free action on your part, but every one of those - every part of that process is actually governed by physical law, chemical laws, electrical laws, and so on.

So now it just looks like the big bang set up the initial conditions, and the whole rest of human history, and even before, is really just the playing out of subatomic particles according to these basic fundamental physical laws. We think we're special. We think we have some kind of special dignity, but that now comes under threat. I mean, that's really challenged by this picture.

So you might be saying, "Well, wait a minute. What about quantum mechanics? I know enough contemporary physical theory to know it's not really like that. It's really a probabilistic theory. There's room. It's loose. It's not deterministic." And that's going to enable us to understand free will. But if you look at the details, it's not really going to help because what happens is you have some very small quantum particles, and their behavior is apparently a bit random. They swerve. Their behavior is absurd in the sense that its unpredictable and we can't understand it based on anything that came before. It just does something out of the blue, according to a probabilistic framework. But is that going to help with freedom? I mean, should our freedom be just a matter of probabilities, just some random swerving in a chaotic system? That starts to seem like it's worse. I'd rather be a gear in a big deterministic physical machine than just some random swerving.

So we can't just ignore the problem. We have to find room in our contemporary world view for persons with all that that entails; not just bodies, but persons. And that means trying to solve the problem of freedom, finding room for choice and responsibility, and trying to understand individuality".

-An excerpt from the film "Waking Life" by Richard Linkletter

"We Are The Authors"

2007-06-22T20:59:00.000-04:00

"On this bridge," Lorca warns, "life is not a dream. Beware. And beware. And beware." And so many think because Then happened, Now isn't. But didn't I mention the ongoing "wow" is happening right now? We are all co-authors of this dancing exuberance where even our inabilities are having a roast. We are the authors of ourselves, co-authoring a gigantic Dostoevsky novel, starring clowns. This entire thing we're involved with called the world, is an opportunity to exhibit how exciting alienation can be. Life is a matter of a miracle that is collected over time by moments, flabbergasted to be in each other's presence. The world is an exam to see if we can rise into direct experience. Our eyesight is here as a test to see if we can see beyond it. Matter is here as a test for our curiosity. Doubt is here as an exam for our vitality. Thomas Mann wrote that he would rather participate in life than write 100 stories. Giacometti was once run down by a car, and he recalled falling into a lucid faint, a sudden exhilaration, as he realized that at last something was happening to him. An assumption develops that you cannot understand life and live life simultaneously. I do not agree entirely. Which is to say I do not exactly disagree. I would say that life understood is life lived. But the paradoxes bug me, and I can learn to love and make love to the paradoxes that bug me. And on really romantic evenings of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion. Before you drift off, don't forget. Which is to say, remember. Because remembering is so much more a psychotic activity than forgetting. Lorca, in that same poem said that the iguana will bite those who do not dream. And as one realizes that one is a dream figure in another person's dream, that is self awareness.

"LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!!!"

2007-09-14T08:19:00.000-04:00

This is by far one of the most funny, strange and sad videos to recently come out of youtube. As I watched the pathetic spectacle, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry (I laughed, then felt bad). It's a testament to the pure power of celebrity and the media's depravity.

So, for fucks sake, LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!!!

(Actually, the more I watch this...the more I sympathize. The media are pariahs, leaches and bloodsucking maggots...right?).

"The Question"

2007-08-01T21:10:00.000-04:00

I'm going to ask you a question? Yes you...the one reading this. Right here, right now. The one who is willing enough to be interested, focused, curious, brave, deliberate, resolute and poised on the brink of discovering my thoughts, my spirit, my infinitely small, yet precious point of view and all that it encompasses...

I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to be totally honest, unafraid, unbiased, unabashed, unashamed and unequivocally committed to the expression...even if it hurts, is superficial, is beautiful, malicious, kind, trite, complimentary, defiant, difficult or rude...

I'm going to ask you a question, because I believe in you. I love you, I trust you and I want to know how you feel, think, dream, laugh, love, cry, desire. I want to know how it feels inside you, your mind, your spirit, your soul, your ugliness, your beauty, your divinity and sublime singularity. I want to know who you are...

I'm going to ask you a question, because I'm reborn, sanctified, forgiven, justified, appreciated, impacted, inspired, elevated, reviled, delighted, scorned, enlightened, betrayed, complete, vilified, loved and dignified by your answer...

I'm going to ask you a question...because it's the only question that matters, that defines, that is significant, that binds us to our humanity, our fears, our joy, our brilliance....

The question is: Who are you?

"A Response To: The Question"

2007-09-05T21:13:00.000-04:00

The question is more of a metaphorical one. The metaphor being: If you share with me, your mortal coil, your thoughts, your desires and I, in return, love, vilify or otherwise revel in your soul, will we be any closer to the truth of who we are. Obviously, I say, unequivocally...YES!

It is also a statement made out of my desire to connect with my "friends". To decipher and understand the banality, glory and truth of who I am, who you are, who we are. Of course there is no simple answer. Our spirits, soul and human core is obviously more broad and complex. But, the question remains: a singular, direct, honest appeal for us to reveal and revel in our humanity via dialogue, communication and the recognition of our own existence. Our precious and rare collective singularity.

Here are some profound examples of this question or similar metaphors. Of course, I'm not nearly as eloquent nor as brilliant as Shakespeare, Descartes, Einstein, Henry Miller or Horace. Hence, I have too paraphrase.

1. "I think, therefore, I am" -"Cogito, ergo sum" (Latin: "I think, therefore I am") or Dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum (Latin: "I doubt, therefore I think, therefore I am") is a philosophical statement used by René Descartes, which became a foundational element of Western philosophy. "Cogito ergo sum" is a translation of Descartes' original French statement: "Je pense, donc je suis", which occurs in his Discourse on Method (1637). (See Principles of Philosophy, Part 1, article 7: "Ac proinde hæc cognitio, ego cogito, ergo sum, est omnium prima & certissima, quæ cuilibet ordine philosophanti occurrat.")

2. "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that". -An excerpt from Shylock's defense in "The Merchant of Venice" by William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene 1.

3. "To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd".
-An excerpt from Hamlet's soliloquy in "Hamlet" by William Shakespeare, Act III, Scene 1.

4. "A human being is a part of a whole, called by us "the universe", a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest...as a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty." -Albert Einstein

5. Any genuine philosophy leads to action and from action back again to wonder, to the enduring fact of mystery.
-Henry Miller

6. Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi Leuconoe, finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros. Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati. Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam, quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrhenum: sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem quam minimum credula postero -Horace, Ode 1

So...the question stands...and should always be asked...

Who are you? And...who are we?

Thank you for inviting me into the mystic...

P.S. This post may seem a little pretentious or bombastic...but I mean it, with all my deepest sincerity. So...take it...or fucking leave it...

Blank Page

2008-02-02T04:28:00.000-05:00

The aspect of this blank page, this emptiness that resembles cold snow in an barren field, this defiant void of white noise, staring back at me, taunting me, teasing my senses with promises of redemption, depravity and solace if I only give in...release, expel, explain...

I've been fucking staring at you for 2 hours...and nothing has happened. Though I've committed to your blankness, I've nothing to commit. So I sit...and I stare...barely able to breathe, to think, to dream, to desire and engage your provocation...your whim...your absolute silence.

What can I say? Today...against all odds...I've nothing to say. Nothing to reveal. Nothing...but this moment...here with you. I think I'll have another cigarette, sit and stare...just a while longer...

Fucking Love

2008-01-16T23:43:00.000-05:00

This rage I feel, as strong, pure and raw as the love I have for you. This rage, this lingering, ugly, rage...scratching at my bones like brutal noise, like rusted metal, like your your fingernails on my skin when you come, when you hit me, when your angry, when you have nothing but my heart in your small lovely hands. I fucking hate you...and it drives me, as much as your passion, your lust, your ego, your pussy, your love. It destroys me, lifts me up, rapes me...

This rage I feel, as defiant as a child's, in need of a mother, constant, immediate, unrelenting...

This rage...full of hope and despair, brutality and compassion, hungry for you, dying for you, aching for you. That's all there is...and it hurts...like scraped knees and bicycles.

This love...this fucking love...fucking love...

Inside Out, Falling Down

2007-09-28T01:16:00.000-04:00

I've got her under my skin,
green grass eyes and golden flesh.
My veins ache for her, relentlessly,
though we've never met,
we will...I know...we will.

She doesn't know how fierce my blood flows,
on the floor of this temple, tonight.
She doesn't know I love her, here,
in this silence, in this light,
but she will...I know she will.

I've got her under my skin,
her fingernails digging in, and digging in.
I see her face, above my lips,
our bodies inside-out and falling down.
She's in me now and holding still,
I know she is...I know she is.

(She doesn't know I love her, now,
I know she will...I know she will).

-AAB

Sparrows

2007-09-22T12:08:00.000-04:00

will you take me there,
to all the places you've been,
with the crosses you bear
underneath your soft skin.

will you take me there,
through the cracks in the night,
into white burning light
and the hands of our sins.

will you take me there,
with the warmth of your mouth,
we can trip all the wires,
over and over again.

will you take me there,
to watch the sparrows die,
as they drown in your eyes,
as they burn in your sighs.

will you take me there tonight, baby...
take me there tonight.

-AAB

The Beggar

2007-09-20T17:40:00.000-04:00

He has no place with her now. His hands so dirty, worn and raw. Scraping the pavement of his desire, where only the cold wet stones know his name.

He has no place with her now. His aspect cracked and broken. Stinking of horror, sweat, wine and a lust for all that remains of a long disregarded dream.

He has no place with her now. His black coal eyes of willing rage. Burning holes in the sun, the seconds, the hours and death's voracious, ugly pallor.

He has no place with her now. His hungry heart, debauched, devoured. Cast out by a love that does not suffer a fool, the furious, the divine, the righteous, the coward.

He has no place with her now. No footprint. No vestige. No trace. No mark. Nothing to hold her face close, to kiss, to claim, to love, to harm.

He has no place with her, and now he is gone. Dissolved into shadows and acrid dust, beyond hope of Elysium's sweet embrace, a lovers glance, a state of grace.

He won't be coming home again, he won't be coming home.

-AAB

The Subways Of New York

2007-09-18T21:33:00.000-04:00

One of the things I enjoy the most about being a New Yorker is taking the subway late at night. If you've ever done it, you may understand. There is a certain raw sensuality, serenity, peace, solitude...in the echoes and vibrations of the tunnel, when the silence is only broken by the foul wind, scurrying rats, lone musicians wailing in song, trains rumbling into distant stations or the whispers, howls, laughter and babble of lovers, drunks or the homeless...offering kisses, gropes, prayers, ranting and curses into the damp rattle and hum. In the frenetic abundance and chaos that is NY, it is one of the few moments I have the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts, ideas, inspiration, music, sadness and reflections. In NY, being alone in the subway, is a commodity I truly enjoy...except...when I'm in a fucking hurry.

Blot Out The Sun

2007-09-18T03:33:00.000-04:00

Her anger blots out the sun
and the green is gone from her eyes

Desire dissipates, like a summer flower dying
yes, she told me once, but I had forgotten
and my fingernails are dirty still
now the green is gone from her eyes

She loved me once, it doesn't matter now
when her anger blots out the sun
tomorrow, yes, tomorrow
I'll hold her closer, closer then

I should have known, I should have cared
the green is gone from her eyes

-AAB

Sex and Religion in Advertising

2007-09-17T15:14:00.001-04:00

I was going through some old photographs I'd taken on the road and found this one. It was taken on the side of a highway in Tennessee. I love the way they do it in Memphis. Leave it to southern Baptists to utilize sexuality in advertising the good will of the holy spirit!

Think I'm going to re-examine my personal relationship with god and start praying more often! Please feel free to join me in this revelation and "COME" as often as humanly possible. Amen.

The Delicate Hour

2007-09-16T02:00:00.000-04:00

You are inside me. Like time, like air, like water. I think of you, I breathe. I think of you, I'm alive. I think of you and I'm aroused, revealed, free and nothing else matters. I think of you, as I walk, as I desire, as I drift and wander alone because you are not here. I see you in the faces of strangers, friends, lovers, enemies. I see you in all of them, beneath the skin, beneath the flesh, beneath the marrow. I think of you when it's dark, cold and unforgiving. When the thought of you washes away the fear, the anguish, the memory and the dirt from my feet. I think of you and wonder, if the man I am is worthy of you, your love, your divinity, your sorrow...when we're on the floor, broken, raw and ashamed. When every shadow bears the face of angels. When every whispered word, cuts to the bone. I want to kiss you now, hold you, fuck you, touch you, speak too you in tongues and in the darkest hours, when there is no mercy, embrace you. I want to know no illusions, no fear, no hesitation as the world dissolves and you are there, naked and alone but for me. I think of you, in this graceful, delicate hour and all there is...is the thought of you.

-AAB

Strange Fruit

2007-09-15T02:30:00.000-04:00

Moby recently sent me this photograph and video. Racism always inspires the same visceral reaction. It would be an understatement to say that I was not enraged, moved beyond tears and filled with an immense sense of anger, despair and revelation. Even though I have seen these images many times before, each time, the impact is as absolute. They have never failed to reanimate the horrid realities of the ignorant, hate fueled, racist and violent roots of America's past. In sharp contrast, I was also completely elevated and enlightened by the video, song and Billie's power, courage and spirit. Though the photo and the song are almost 70 years old, I believe they will reverberate in the human psyche forever.

This story must be remembered, not only to remind us of the lowest aspirations of man, but his highest. And though there are thousands of similar stories regarding man's depravity, inhumanity and cruelty, from Darfur to Guantanamo, Abu Gharaib to Auschwitz...each story can help us to remember, understand, aspire, transcend and prevail to the highest aspects of our nature and humanity.

So...here is the history of the song. It was written by a New York activist named Abel Meeropol after seeing the Shipp/Smith photograph. On an side note, Abel was also the adoptive parent of the children of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, the couple who were executed in the 1950's for allegedly spying for the Russian KGB.

"Strange Fruit"
Single by Billie Holiday
Released: 1939
Genre: Blues
Label: Commodore
Writer: Abel Meeropol

"Strange Fruit" is a song most famously performed by Billie Holiday that condemnsAmerican racism, particularly the practice of lynching and burning African Americans that was prevalent in the South at the time when it was written."Strange Fruit" began as a poem about the lynching of two black men written by a Jewish schoolteacher from the Bronx Abel Meeropol, who used the pen name Lewis Allan (the names of his two children, who died in infancy). Meeropol and his wife were also the adoptive parents of the children of the executed alleged spies Ethel and Julius Rosenberg in the 1950s. "Strange Fruit" was written as a poem expressing his horror at the lynchings, and was first published in 1937 in The New York Teacher, a union magazine. Though Meeropol/Allan often asked others (notably Earl Robinson) to set his poems to music he set Strange Fruit to music himself and the song gained a certain success as a protest song in and around New York. Before Holiday was introduced to the song, it had been performed by Meeropol, by his wife, and by black vocalist Laura Duncan, who performed it at Madison Square Garden.

Meeropol said later that he had been inspired by seeing Lawrence Beitler's photograph of the lynching of Thomas Shipp and Abram Smith in Marion, Indiana. "Strange Fruit" was eventually heard by Barney Josephson the founder of Cafe Society, New York's first integrated nightclub, who introduced it to Billie Holiday. Holiday performed the song at Cafe Society in 1939, a move that by her own admission left her fearful of retaliation. Holiday later said that the imagery in "Strange Fruit" reminded her of her father's death, and that this played a role in her persistence in performing it. The song became a regular part of Holiday's live performances.

Holiday approached her recording label, Columbia, about recording the song, but her producer John Hammond—the man credited with originally discovering her—did not support her choice, and Columbia refused to record the song. Holiday arranged to record it with Commodore, Milt Gabler's alternative jazz label in 1939. She would record two major sessions at Commodore, one in 1939 and one in 1944.

"Strange Fruit" was highly regarded and in time became Holiday's biggest selling record. Though it became a staple of her live performances at the time, Holiday's accompanist, Bobby Tucker, later commented that Holiday would break down after every performance of it.

The "strange fruit" referred to in the song are the bodies of African American men hanged during a lynching. They contrast the pastoral scenes of the South with the ugliness of racist violence. The lyrics were so chilling that Holiday later said "The first time I sang it, I thought it was a mistake. There wasn't even a patter of applause when I finished. Then a lone person began to clap nervously. Suddenly
everyone was clapping and cheering."

The club owner immediately recognized the impact of the song on his audience and insisted that Holiday close all her shows with it. Just as the song was about to begin, waiters would stop serving, the lights in club would be turned off, and a single pin spotlight would illuminate Holiday on stage. During the musical introduction, Holiday would stand with her eyes closed, as if she were evoking a prayer.

The song became an instant success and came to be the piece most identified with Holiday, and was ultimately to become the anthem of the anti-lynching movement. The dark imagery of the lyrics struck a chord, and can be said to have planted one of the first seeds of what would later become the Civil Rights movement of the 50s and 60s.

Dust

2007-09-15T01:02:00.000-04:00

Why are you chasing devils my love? Do they drink with you and laugh remorselessly when your rage comes. I can smell them on your breath like death. Are you afraid my love, afraid of the pain that clings to every morning, like dust on the shelves? Are you afraid when you sleep, when you scream, when you fuck? Is love the only solace the day brings, but too late, too little, too much? When you left, my heart soared...but no further than these walls that ache for your presence. I cursed you my love, for not having the strength to hang on, for letting go and falling into the emptiness. Do you like it my love, need it, want it. That emptiness that binds us, holds us too the promise of all regret and insolence. Why are you chasing devils my love...why? Because they are there, as I am. Bursting with the same rage, the same love, the same bitter pills of illumination. Don't leave again, don't leave again my love, nor chase the devils. My hands are softer than those jagged edges you call home and my stomach is empty.

-AAB

I Have Known You

2008-02-17T05:09:00.010-05:00

I have known you since the beginning. You left no footprint to mark your passage, but I know you were there, invisible, like stone, like wind, like water and the emptiness of time.

I have known your name for a thousand years, carried on my breath in silent revelry, in unnamed places where lovers touch, empires die, spring falls, lions roar and willows rage against the light.

I've known your face for a thousand years, walked its deep lines and shining pallor, with tears, with laughter, with joy, with fear, with lust and the immutable, decaying, mortal coil.

I have gazed into your eyes for a thousand years, delighted, reflected, naked and raw. I've seen them burn with my desire and loneliness, like the eyes of devils, lost children, the starving, deceivers, the trodden, the drunks and the faithful.

I have walked with you for a thousand years, in dreams and on paths of all that has ever been, alone, brave, divine, shattered. Where death dissipates, where nothing matters, and the earth trembles beneath our feet.

I have spoken to you for a thousand years. Spoken, precious and sacred words, so beautiful, so broken. I have known you now, forever still. Unashamed to hold on, to love, to die, to fight, to surrender.

Nothing

2007-09-26T03:00:00.001-04:00

Do you ever have days when nothing happens...

No simple conversations, no movies to see, no mags, no papers, no great books to read, no time to think, no email to send, no pennies to borrow, to save or to spend, no smiles, no fights, no stars in the sky, no food, no water, no darkness, no light,
no songs, no art, no pen, no ink, no music to play, no songs to sing, no lovers to call, no dates to break, no friends to bury, no flowers to bring, no place to go, no paths to take, nothing to touch, protect or save, no urgent need, no mouths to feed, no gigs, no work, no impossible dreams, no booze to drink or dope to kick, no grand designs or petty schemes, no visiting friends, no hearts to break, no phones ringing, no claims to stake, no plans for lunch, no plans for dinner, no raging parties or celebrity scenes, no letters from home, no push, no shove, no major event, no signs of love, no mountains to climb, no words to repent, no laughter, no sadness, no anger to vent, no fires burning, no raging storms, no sun, no rain, no children born, no lies to tell, no peaceful sleep, no dishes to wash, no fields to reap, no magic, no vision, no worries, no stress, no clothes to wear, no wounds to dress, no money earned, lost or spent, no desire, no tears, no laughter, no sex, no god, no religion, no life, no death...

Today was not one of those days...

Breathe

2008-03-04T06:59:00.004-05:00

What do you do...breathe I guess. All your instincts say breathe. breathe in. breathe deep. stay alive. just stay alive. god is in you...just breathe. you suck down a drink, a cigarette, a sigh, the pain...but no air. you silently gasp, scream, suffocate and die just a little. but then, you breathe, just breathe. you can't, you won't, you don't, but you do, you will, you can...just breathe. it's the first thing you do, and the last. How many breathes, who knows, who cares, just breathe...

Know Thyself

2008-03-07T10:06:00.002-05:00

I came across this poem last night. Very inspiring...

"Know Thyself"

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind is Man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act or rest,
In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast,
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such
Whether he thinks too little or too much:
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself abused, or disabused;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

-Alexander Pope

RIGHT WING HOMOPHOBIC MORALIST ASSHOLES...AGAIN!

2010-05-08T17:47:00.013-04:00

After a long hiatus from blogging, I've decided to pay a little more attention to expressing my ideas, thoughts, opinions and points of view by developing my blog in a more in-depth manner. So, to cut to the chase, here is what's on my mind today: RIGHT WING MORALISTIC ASSHOLES. Here is another fine example of hypocrisy, lies and moral grandstanding in action. It's enough to make your stomach turn, and tickle your funny bone. I mean, we all have skeletons in our closets, so I make no claims of being "morally" right or wrong, but I'm smart enough to read between the lies and call it as I see it. From the baptist minister who published a book entitled: Who Am I? The Lord and Growing Up Straight: What Families Should Know About Homosexuality! It seems that life does exist with a sense of irony. Please Observe...

"George Rekers is a homosexual says escort!"

http://blogs.miaminewtimes.com/riptide/2010/05/george_rekers_is_a_homosexual_says_escort.php

The immoral often hide behind radical, misguided and extreme morality. It's a defense mechanism that protects them from their own shame, that is, if they have any human decency left after wiping themselves clean of their dirty little secrets. The really upsetting part is that most Americans in the "moral majority" trust in and allow these assholes to control so many aspects of their lives, liberty and freedom. In the immortal words of Kalil Gibran: "Morality is but a veil for the eyes of the unclean". Or, in the immortal words of Forrest Gump: "Dirty IS as dirty DOES!". And, in my immortal words to all the "moralists out there: "Go FUCK yourselves. instead of fucking everyone else" End quote!

That being said, I've decided I'm tired of political correctness and societies rabid and apathetic tolerance towards genocide, hunger, poverty, greed, immorality, hostile governments, bad television as art, corrupt financial institutions and the the general capitalistic and commercial avarice that plagues our "modern" society. I'm fucking MAD as hell, and I'm NOT going to take it anymore! (Well, at least not sitting down). I have to say something, do something, take a stand, light the torch, sound the alarm, call to arms and get to battle stations. This is a war, of words, thoughts and ideals, that I only hope will be inspiring enough to compel myself, and the world I live in, to take ACTION. I'm really happy George! Now he can face the truth, come out of the closet, wash away the "shame" and join the human race!

Carpe Diem brothers and sisters. It's time to give the world an enema...

Chasing the Blues « fillermagazine.com

2010-06-02T03:36:00.000-04:00

Chasing the Blues « fillermagazine.com

A Poem

2011-04-15T18:18:00.000-04:00

In our darkest hours, words thrust as daggers from our mouths,
Sharp and perilous as a bitter cold wind.
The birds sing, the church bells tremble, the cocks crow,
and our hearts shake in agony and laughter.

The curve of our breasts, entwined, is immeasurable,
unholy, no...just divine
and every breathe we take is our last,
No bitter choirs or regrets.

Our bodies move, in time with the ancient goddess,
as passion does, without sparrows, sun and darkness,
just light, cigarettes and wetness,
and the will to be unbroken.

Frail, gasping for breathe, tingling memories,
We scream our names, the only names that matter,
as god sings of wine and desire,
We moan, sigh and hold on...

2011-05-07T22:52:00.000-04:00