I don't want to loose your hold on me

People speak of talent.  There is no such thing as talent. Quite simply there is a person that worked harder than you.  People use the word talent the way they use the concept of divinity.  Talent is an explanation for how someone could be better than I am.  God must have done that.  God didn't do that, the collective hard work and experience of an dedicated person did that.
People call Mark Ziya "talented" every time he picks up a guitar.  I know better.  That man has no talent.  That man sat angry in front of a Johnson Millennium amp, guitar in hand, until his fingers bled.  He doesn't have talent, he has something to prove.  Stop giving credit to talent, start giving credit to agony, start giving credit to being the smallest kid on the bus, start giving credit to the part of you that would rather die than come in second.  You are talent, you are capable, you are your own hero!

I gave my everything

truth is a spurious devil.  

Truth tells our febel mind that it is correct.  A sinister whisper falling on the footsteps of an


What color are your leaves.  Is it your autumn or your fall.  In what particular circumstance and fleeting attitude are you embracing this day , this season?  Your truth is no more relevant than the color of ink on this virtual screen.  What you possess is the greatest farce of the human race.  Lucid is the dream that you are in, real is the play unfolding before your delicate, feeble mind.  Your truth is no more or less collective reality than that of Hitler's.


How much do I know?  I know all that I have lived.  I know all that has been told to me through a perpetually jaded filter of a life lived by those with regrets.  I have a lifetime of tainted and otherwise corrupt memories salting the streets of my feeble mind.  I have little more than a drowning chance of knowing what truth is than any mislead creaton which exposed themselves to the realities of humanity as any other.  I know no truth.  I know only what has been feed to me.  I know only one more thing than most, I know that I know no truth.

On this, the stone

 On this, the stone....
On this the stone we carve ourselves.  We grind our delicate cylindrical shape into a jagged edge.  We use that edge to cut those that would challenge our belief.  Reasoning, when in line with our own, goes unchallenged and applauded.  A freedom to speak out, a freedom to oppose and make fervent against is the very spark which stone to surface omitted.  Why then is there anything but gratitude when one uses that spark?
Dissension is the highest honor that a citizen can bestow upon a soldier.  To blindly give thanks to a series of actions is more insult than compliment.  Human emotion prevents the course of logic more often than it lends favor to it.  To see the inanimate object for which one fought desecrated somehow supersedes the simultaneous preservation of ideology for which both that object stands and the underlying reason for which it was fought for to begin with.

through the Evergreen park

In its origins this was to be a place free from the judgement of audience.  In its infancy the intention was to serve as equal parts journal and creative outlet.  As all things in life should do, there has been an organic evolution of ARTV.  It is still unclear to me where this thing is going.  I am not sure if this place is a necessity the way it once was.  The vernacular that I once whispered to myself in the safe dark confines of my tiny basement apartment is now read, recognized and appreciated by more people than I can count.  This platform has, for sometime, acted as an unintentional whetstone.
There is still a long way to go before I am a great writer but for the first time I recognize that that is the direction I am headed.  Does a polymath set out to be such?  Or is a similar condition in which I have found myself entangled in?  Often I wonder what it would be like to be the very best at something but it has never been a pursuit that has interested me enough to follow.  Through more endeavors than I care to discuss I have achieved a reasonable level of success and moved on to another, completely abandoning the previous.  From the earliest age I have found passion in things.  Those things become all consuming until the point in which I know that I have mastered them and then I become uninterested.  The same can be said of many of my relationships.  There have been only three women that I have loved in such a way that they could cause me pain.  My belief is that was because they remained illusive and unconquerable.
One of my only fears is that this idiosyncrasy will leave me forever alone, never having mastered any aspect of life.  For now I will write.  I will do so until the entire world knows me for being a great writer, when that happens I will grow tired of writing and evolve once again to the foothill of another seemingly unconquerable peak.  In time I will summit all that life will present to me, all the while truly and forever alone.

this bell tolls for an old man by the sea

"Writing isn't hard, you just sit at the keyboard and bleed."


Have you ever been called a coward?  Have you ever had a random person that you have never and will never meet sling an atrocious tittle in your direction via a keyboard?  I have been called everything by humans in more countries than I can count.  I have allowed the better thoughts from the last four years find their escape through my fingers and the best of those have been apprehensively presented for public consumption.  Never, not once did it feel painful or exposing to write those words.  Maybe Hemingway was right, maybe writing is little more than a hemorrhage, something we are all capable of.  Bleeding, however, doesn't hurt.  There is only one thing that hurts more than an uneducated, ignorant retch of a human being attempts to belittle you in a public forum because of what you have written.  That is when no one says a thing.

and by opposing end them?

Hate


Hate is a word that I try to avoid using.  There is so much more power in that word than the amount of gravity that it is given.  The word cunt seems to be atrocious.  Saying the word nigger in certain company will get you killed.  Yet the word that gives power to each of those arrows is tossed around with obnoxious frequency.  I reserve its use because the significance that it carries.  To hate something is beyond loathing, it is beyond reasoning, it is beyond comprehension.  It is pure, unadulterated emotion at the opposite spectrum from love.  No, I don't use that word lightly.

I hate myself.  I hate myself more than I could ever hate anything or anyone.  There are certain things that disgust me.  Intolerance disgusts me, prejudice disgusts me, ignorance disgusts me, yet as bad as those things are I still don't hate them.  No, I reserve that designation for the worst offenders, I reserve that for myself.

I hate that I am the reason why I am constantly in pain.  It is not my choice to feel every pin prick with the magnitude of a dagger.  It is not my will to be an open reciprocal for the purging of life's overflow.  Yet for some reason I feel things that I believe others do not.  In short, I am an emotional lighting rod and I hate myself for it.  Its not that I cry when a kitten dies, I don't even like cats.  I'm just not wired the same as those I share a crowded bar with.  In them there is a chase, a pursuit.  In me there is a struggle, a battle.  I don't even want to be here, I want to be with her yet the women here are calling my name.  I am their celebrity and I hate myself for it.  Above all else I hate myself for, once again, for wanting her more than she wants me.  I hate myself for finally caring for a person in the way that I swore I never would again.  I hate myself for exposing my naked chest to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Tall truths topple taller tales.

.
Entirely Dictated by Life is life. That every thing we do, every decision That we make, every word we utter is the by-product of a previous interaction or experience. Tastes and intolerance is molded by the joys and pains Which seared Themselves into our deepest crevices. Phrases uttered by an unnecessary impact on illustrious idol makes idiom.
We learn to love the setting sun, the demise of a day and all the hope that its predecessor brings.  We adapt approach to prevent the repeated torment of our central pump.  Like a wild animal once kicked we flee from any potentially aggressive boot.  Even the slightest shuffle can create a stampede in the opposite direction.
We are a ransom note strewn together from the pieces cut from others.  The truest version of ourself is not our our title, our cover or even our pages.  Who we are is the shifting of the eyes of those who read our words.  We are a letter cut free from a magazine in an effort to construct someone else's sentence. 
When the letters used to construct our sentences are abrasive we do not do well to comfort the eyes of our readers.  If, by chance, your misfortune is that of having struggled though similar symbols to those of a new note it is natural to remove yourself from such a circumstance.  Life is easier lived when mistakes are not repeated.  

In trust we survive

Infidelity is a choice that we must trust another not to make.  We lend our lives to others in hopes they tred lightly.  No pain could be greater than betrayal at the hands of our own heart.  No human emotion can so closely compare to sheer and utter lunacy as that of love.  Truly a condition worthy of incarceration for its absolute form is unadulterated madness.  To give yourself completely to another in hopes of remaining unscathed is asking a star not to fall.  It may come maliciously or without intent but at some point the ones we love hurt us, they are the only ones that can. ....



It is a dangerous trail we tred when committing to the condition of love.
A scary rail we ride when placing another so far above.
A light, a flash and wave to crash.  A beach, a shore you've never wanted more.
A touch, a taste, a feeling you can't replace.
A pain so real, one you long to feel.  A helplessness in absence.  A relief in embrace.
This pain somehow alleviates the pain of living.






..... That pain is unique.

HIM

I would not call myself a pious man.  In fact I have, on several occasions, contested the notion of a higher power.  However, a very simple connection occurred to me as my feet carried me closer to home this evening.  What of love?  True unconditional love.  Quite simply, the extent of loves power is such that it exceeds the parameters of what can be constructed by man.  Such a divine thing must be the creation of a divine being.  This is not speculation as love has been discussed by the great thinkers of every generation.  It is widely accepted as having an empirical value.  Many have attempted to create definition, in verse and in prose.  No one who has felt it will even begin to deny the totality of its effect.  The things that love will make you do are a testament to its undying unwavering force.  The magnitude of your devotion to it displays how humble a servant we are all capable of being.  Its force fills every pore in your body. Man has neither the understanding nor capacity to even replicate let alone create an energy of that intense complexity.  Such a thing is the advent of an architect higher in thought and deeper in emotion than we as humans have the ability to fathom.  Love, therefore, is proof that God exists.

 Ergo she is the greatest proof that there is a God. 

Notch on a Wall

There is no place for humanity in war, there is no place for war in humanity.  If, as a nation or dictator, you have a requirement that a war be fought by any human in your kingdom, without you yourself engaging in the very perils of said conflict, all rights to prescribe morality ergo are omitted.  War is not for man it is for the cannibals.  When the victor of the game played is decided by which side brings more death upon the other we create an existence outside of the parameters of civilization.  To affix rules to such a scenario is contemptuous and often only done so by those who themselves would never dare engage in such acts as the intentional mutilation of another human being.  There is no civilized way to remove the soul from a thinking, feeling, living, loving, breathing thing regardless how strict the rules of engagement.  

Cast away the pretentious nature of so called civilities and send those cannibals to feast, cease with the spurious concept of a noble conflict or take direct opposition to its very existence.  But do not tell the killing man how to kill, for he is the one who swims in the ocean of those decisions while stones cast from those upon the shore.  Beyond all else it is well known at this stage in history that when you make a cannibal of man he will never again return to the fruit of the earth for sustenance.  Externally and internally cast out to roam among the others whose disposition is taboo to discuss.  The act of or assignment of the killing of one man for the sake of anything other than direct personal protection is, as such, the homicide of all of humanity.  If we are marked to fight let us shed the constraints of such rules and let the battle commence.  If we are to mitigate the act of mutilation let us be done with war and all the hell it creates. 

Warrior

The last time that I had my nose broken was in an MMA bout in Alabama.  After securing a very deep triangle hold on my competitor he stacked me up and released one final last ditch effort to get me to release his neck from between my legs.   The back of my head was the only part of my body in contact with the mat as he came down on the center of my face with his 4oz glove.  It was the kind of hit you take from a mule if you have the misfortune of startling them from behind.  I felt my nose explode and the coup contrecoup action occurred as my brain bounced to the back of my skull.  It occurred to me with startling clarity that if I release this man he would repeat that violent action toward me and I was not sure in that moment if I would survive another shot such as that.   A wave of relief washed over me as his hand tapped my leg three times.

As quickly as the fight began it was over.  I stood victorious in front of the crowd.  My coaches, teammates and friends all erupted in jubilee.  Back in the dressing room my hands shook uncontrollably as the professional tape job was cut away.  Andy, the gentlemen who just moments before shattered my money maker stepped into my warm up area looking pretty unscathed and extends his hand.  He congratulated me on my victory and we exchanged pleasantries about training until a friend handed me a frosty cold adult libation.  I didn't pay for a drink all night after that. 

During my third combat deployment as a Ranger I have to estimate that our platoon did somewhere close to 100 direct action raids.  It wasn't abnormal to hit two or three objectives in a single night.  One evening that was no different from the rest, I recall a very large Iraqi man charging at the squad that I was attached to as we entered the front door.  According to the rules of engagement we could have shot him but no one did.  Although the man presented himself as a threat he didn't have a weapon in his hand.  I struck that man once, hard, right in the middle of his face.  My friends unceremoniously flowed passed him as if he was as inanimate as a coffee table.  The threat had been controlled.  Those same exact men that erupted in celebration just months before when they were watching me in that cage stepped over the bleeding man to gain access to the back room of the house in case their happened to be additional threats. 

I was sitting at a football game a week ago when these two distinct memories came to surface.  Someone described one of the players as a "Warrior” and I couldn't help but find that designation inaccurate.  While I respect the athleticism and sacrifice of football players, and professional athletes in general, these individuals are not warriors.  Their intent is crowd appeal and approval.  They are entertainers.  They are idolized for their feats and are rewarded with fame, accolades and Escalades.  They sacrifice themselves for self gain.   These men are gladiators.  These men occupy arenas for the purposes of entertaining the masses.  I myself have occupied those arenas, sacrificing myself for the entertainment of those in attendance.  Yet even in the most tumultuous of athletic pursuits and endeavors I had not earned the title of "Warrior"

A Warrior is a quite professional, one that also sacrifices his body, his youth and his mental health but not for applause or recognition.  He commits himself to his craft and dedicates his life to a cause that few will ever understand and even fewer still will ever see.  He walks until his feet are bloody stumps hoping those dear to him will never experience the noose of tyranny. He voluntarily deploys himself to the most austere environments in the world and repeatedly does the dirty work of his nation.  Decisions that would take most weeks to make he decisively executes before his next inhalation.  He holds the life of those around him in the distal phalanges of a single finger.  He flows silently into the homes of the world’s most dangerous men with the autonomy to take their lives.  He has no concern of who feeds upon his cost, and his victories will never be celebrated in a packed stadium.   And after the battle is over and the smell of war has left his nares the memories of his actions will be carried like cinder blocks upon his back.  He will continue to shoulder more than his share of the task, without ceremony.  This man is a warrior.  This man is the reason we can sit and enjoy the displays of the gladiator
.

The lion

To state it simply, there are few lions. There are many sheep, fewer wolves and even fewer sheep dogs yet the lion has become an endangered species. The value of the once revered hunter in the times of ancient Greece has corroded and dissipated under the guise of our so-called civilized nature. The lion does not guard the sheep and should not be thanked for doing so. The sad state of our society is one that has not the ability to distinguish between a sheep dog and a lion. The lion does not watch over those poor timid souls who cannot protect themselves, he hunts for the sake of hunting. Under the cover of darkness, he brings violence to the den of the wolf. He does so because that is his nature, he does so because to do anything else would make him something that he is not.

The sheep cares not which creature protects it as long as it stays safe, and when safety is ensured the need for those who have provided it is cast to cage. An arbitrary thank you may be a welcome exchange to the sheep dog but to the lion it is a thing held in disdain. The lion’s concern is not of the gratitude of the sheep, rather the eradication of the wolf. As long as there are sheep to consume, the wolf will attempt to navigate around the protection of the sheep dog. As long as the lion is allowed to roam free, the wolf will exist in a state of unparalleled torment. Sadly, being the minority means that the lion is somehow at the whim of the sheep. Since the sheep is simultaneously ignorant of the lion’s role and fears its overwhelming power, it will maintain its value at a diminished worth until the time when the wolf is a threat once more.

So when you cast gaze upon my tattoos and scars from behind the bars of my cage, do not approach me with gratitude for you are a sheep and I am not a sheep dog. I am merely awaiting the time when killing the wolf is once again permitted.

the devolution of consciousness

Have I ever, in a single day, had this much to say?  Have I ever, in a day, had this much rum to consume?  The Jesus turned that water to wine, I turned the wine to whiskey, the egregious import tax turned the whiskey to rum.  I would murder a hundred babies for some bacon right now.  Ohhh the return!  The return of a place of no concern.  My mind’s playground and a child without supervision.   This place, where the lunatic in me resides.  He exists in all of us this I am sure of.  The difference between my lil Charlie Manson and the rest of the twats on this planet is that I bought mine a gun and told him to run free.  To cage that animal is a recipe for disaster.  I saw the new planet of the apes, sure it was awful but you would do well to be kind to a smart monkey.  Let that fucker run, don’t collar that primate, let it out!  Feed it well and watch in childlike wonder as the feces speckles the walls of your Victorian home.  Sometimes I wonder if the only talent that God saw fit to bestow upon me was the ability to not only except but to embrace that crazy little primate in me.

...

I get fucking weird sometimes!  Like really strange.  I pace the corridors of my loft looking back and forth as though the greatest minds in history are sitting about my apartment conversing with one another.  These voices are not in my head, they are in my living room.  I hear their thoughts and think how platitudinous they are, a pretentious little cunt I truly am.  Only in my own head though.  I swirl the contents of the glass that provides the final piece to the tetrahedron.  Sappy acoustic songs and a longing for a flame so far away and a lack of television provide the rest of the algorithm.  I sit on the 15^th of 27 steps and challenge the voice of every person that has ever lived, myself included.   I ponder and record.  The words dancing on my screen like a stripper at amateur night begging for Benjamins are the exact ones that smash themselves against the walls of my cognition.  I have so many words.  They won’t stop.  My life is being narrated by some stoic poet yet I have the mind of a child, incapable of truly understanding the gravity of the words he is using to describe my life, my interactions, my observations.  I’m just here listing while these smart men banter back and forth in my living room, spilling their wine on my couch.  It’s obnoxious, they never clean up after themselves. 

white light

And like that the once dark room is alive with light.  Where have you been hiding my creative gnome?  My brilliant little bastard that dances about my mind with the grace of a jack hammer.  Perchance the rub that does you silent is the one that is known by many as happiness.  I was thinking today that she could never be in my shadow for she is the essence of my light.  One push will require two pulls as a kind word seems to be the act of petting a turtle.  The sanctity of a shell is really not much different than the brown blanket that surrounds the ice in my glass.  The fire that we start is meant to warm us yet we are the greatest bastard when attempting to control its wild flicker.  There is as much success in owning a flame as there is in owning the wild mustang that tramples the softest parts of your heart.  Sure, you may contain it for a moment but that does not make its essence yours.  Some say that to warm your cold hands before turning to the tenebrous chill of the night is the proper course of action, that the saddle is no accessory for this majestic.   Previously the tactic had been to set myself ablaze in hopes of matching the ferocity of the flame, a tactic that no doubt left me charred with regret.  I believe my only recourse is to sit close to the wild swirl of orange and blue, provide it with the fuel that it needs to not only sustain its burn but to grow and enjoy every bit of heat that it provides.