Blinding Mara...

To see through the
invisible third eye
one must first learn
the equanimous art
of blinding mara

Alone one chooses
and alone one sees
alone one loses
and alone one frees

Amid the universe
the heavens converse
and among the heavens
sings the solace verse

As the breeze whispers
the stillness listens
and the vastest of fissures
can cast no excision

Abiding great storms
as the shadow does light
-devoid of binding forms
while remaining in sight

Open then to the realm
that no border can reach
with no force there to whelm
and no cause to beseech

As all thinking
becomes a part of each thought
Eyes never blinking
see beyond all this is
and beyond every ought

In the expanse of oblivion
overflowing of all things and nothing
dissolves all ambition
into the light loomed from nothing

After all sight has vanished
and blindness appears
from existential now banished
are all hopes and all tears

for then and there
in no place with no time
the mara be blinded
as a third eye is born
to the sight of sublime

Memorial Death March...

War was fought so long ago
and along the courses of this war
soldiers were sent on
what accurate language
called death marches
as the two sole things
such soldiers did
was march
and die

and now
there are events held
to memorialize such things
where people flock
to witness and participate
in replicated pacing
along designated courses

they march
without death presiding
in a perpetual pursuit
as they attempt to honor
the suffering
of the marching dead

For somehow such suffering
has become synonymous
with the enamored elements
of what the word freedom
is espoused to represent

and now
I wonder
how it is these foreign scars
can remind a heart so well
of what it is to have flesh
I wonder
how wounds of ghosts
can sooth unblemished skin
I wonder
what world such beings
would have to walk upon
if such memorial marchings
were tossed instead of tread
...

the flesh forsakes
and the mind forgets
of the un-felt and unknown
truths of time's own tribulations
though all these things keep marching
in search of remembrance, or truth, or honor, or...
Or maybe this is all there is to do
or all there ever was to do

And now
as it all continues marching
and it goes on as if undying
in the memorial sense of vying
there's a sense of tears left sighing

Hands Down...

What kind of hands are sought
of the many various kinds?

Those raising their fists in the air
strike at nothing
and point their fingers
in all the wrong directions

Those that raise their fists in anger
break their bones against
all the wrong opponents
and place their hands in cuffs

Those that sit on their hands
all the while
get their thumbs stuck up their asses
and get more than blood
on their hands

Those that clap
for the ones that merely speak
and do nothing more with their hands
deserve a proper spanking

Those that wave
at hands too busy to wave back
and consider it a slight
are themselves a slap in the face

Those that only raise their hands
to be supplied with answers to every question
gain no knowledge of their own
and hold hands with zombies

When power is placed in the wrong hands
too many hands are readily held out to them
as too few grasp the hand they have
in allowing this to occur and continue

While fingers point at some other hands
to place the same powers into
so much power is kept
out of their own hands


All of this is wishing into one handand defecating into the other
while pretending this is how
dreams can be molded into something
to fill hands with more than nothing/shit

Though somewhere even now
there are skilled hands
that hold their own power
and apply it to everything they do
without extending them too far,
making them too heavy,
or putting them where they don't belong

Being A Nobody...

I like being a nobody
Being somebody seems overrated
You have to become some thing
to be anybody
but to be a nobody
you don't have to
be or do anything

And yet if you're clever about it
you can still do anything
It can even be easier to do
everything you want to do
because no one will be around
to tell you that you're supposed
to be more like somebody else
or act like anybody else

Pretending to be somebody
doesn't make you anybody
Being a nobody doesn't mean
you can't pretend to be something else
You just don't become known
for being anything in particular
by anyone that believes
they are something in particular

Being a nobody
can make some resent everybody
These are the nobodies that wish
they were somebody

The nobodies
that genuinely prefer
being nobodies
can find themselves at peace
with almost anybody
and find greater peace
without anybody
which almost nobody else
can do

Being a nobody
can be as good as being anybody
but a true nobody
wouldn't just take my word for it
or anyone's word for anything
Being a nobody
you don't have to...

Macro-Machinations...

I don't want to hear
of the world
I don't want to know
what it is
or what
it's getting into
or where it's headed
or how it's going
I don't care what
is in it's press-releases
Because it has no soul
it isn't human
I can't relate to it
and it doesn't matter

I don't want to hear
of the factions, organizations, or movements
I don't care what
armies, nations, or forces
are fighting over, about, or for
Because they have no mind
they don't think
they don't feel
they don't live

I want to hear
of the individuals
that still breathe fire
that still move mountains
that still live, and think, and feel
according to their own majestic will

I want to listen
to the singular voices
that aren't like the muddled choruses
and don't recite well rehearsed lines
I want to listen
to independent words
of independent minds
in independent souls

I don't want to hear
my own thoughts echoed back to me
I don't want to hear
the same anythings I've heard before
I don't want to hear
variable novelties of sound either

I want to hear
voices with a personal perspective
declaring uncensored thoughts
that challenge my ears
and open my mind

I want to listen
to what each singular mind
has to say
in the way only that being
can state it

Because everything else
is planed, polluted, processed,
pretentious, perpetual mimicry
that isn't alive,
doesn't matter,
and can go straight to hell
rather than put each and every
solitary thing through worse

Blood and Ink...

He bled onto every page
that he ever wrote
or at least that I've ever read
His writing can only be mistaken
for ink
because of how dark it appears

I scan over the words
and I see the same dark blood
on those pages
that's in my own
 bloodshot eyes
 and on the hands
 of many villains

I start to bleed
onto a page of my own
and I see some of the
same marks
in what I leave down
as he left long ago

These aren't the marks
he left on me
These are the marks
this world leaves
on everyone
that doesn't hide
in the shadows of some
lifeless ink

His blood wasn't
what made his words
The words were in his blood
all along
His blood just ran true
onto every page

As I sit behind these keys
bleeding on and on
about all these bloody things
that death collects or has collected
I wonder how dark
death might appear
next to all these marks

and I imagine Hank laughing
at the reaper in his cloak
Laughing at his bloodless bones
Laughing at how he hides under
that faded black rag
Laughing at the lack of darkness
in that bloodless realm
the dead are escorted into
And I imagine that skull of a face
turning bright red
 as Hank keeps laughing right in there
mocking every clattering step
while he taunts those bones
 calling them a lost tour guide
 and telling them where to go

I fill my blood with laughter
as I imagine these dark things
and it keeps leaking out
like a menstrual tide
against the tampon shores
of another soiled page

Book Review...

The Curse of the High IQ

Personally I give little credence to what reviewers or other readers have to declare about a given book. I would much rather enter into reading a book blindly or with only a brief preface as to the direction an author intends to lead their narrative. This allows me to read a book in a way that is akin to fitting a frame around a portrait rather than trying to fit a portrait into a given frame.

With that said, many people use reviews in order to inform them as to the merits of what they might be interested in reading. They use reviews as a sort of quality control for the books they are considering investing their valuable time and money. In doing so they may avoid investing in books that would prove to be unsatisfying, or they may choose not to read something that would actually prove elating had they gone against the reviews. Their results end up being dependent upon their interpretation of the reviewers. So what about the reviewers?

Many contemporary reviewers have backgrounds in Nazi-grammatical tactics, agenda-conforming assessment-criterion, and antiquated comparative consensus measures. They tend to praise books that resemble previous works they've been taught to appreciate, and demean the works that differ from these standardized methodologies for assessment. In doing so they place the emphasis not on the ideas presented or the style used to project them, but on adherence to conventional grammar and application of contemporary tropes and techniques.

The result of these reviewing methods in a marketplace driven by reviewer standards has been a homogenized and redundant collection of books that fail to stand out, fail to engage readers, and fail to advance the craft of writing. This in turn leads to a market that is increasingly diminished, antiquated, and inevitably doomed to become irrelevant. Judging by the ever declining number of readers and decreasing sales volumes of books it would appear that this or at least something has alienated the market.

In response to this negative trend I began to think of what other standards I would use or recommend for reviewing literary prospects. I soon thought of someone that had already proposed a method for assessments in a related field. When asked what he looked for in evaluating musicians Miles Davis named only two criteria. The criteria were that a guy's gotta have ideas and he's gotta project. This method of evaluation proved to be useful time and again as Miles successfully changed lineups, the course of social music, etc.

It would seem reasonable to consider using this method for evaluating other art forms as well. In using this method to evaluate a literary work I might choose any number of titles. Considering the books that I have read most recently and that might be especially poignant I proposed to review Aaron Clarey's The Curse of the High IQ.

Aaron has written and self-published a number of books, and I've enjoyed all of the selections I have read thus far. In full disclosure, it was for this reason I sent Aaron a copy of my own novel, which he has been graciously endorsing on his own accord. If you look to the right of this post you will see a section of links to Aaron's books that is featured purely out of appreciation and admiration.

While I have enjoyed Aaron's works critics have routinely discounted them for grammar/conventions, lack of conformity to their own ideas, &c. The same predictable critiques have been given for his latest The Curse of the High IQ. However when evaluating Aaron's latest book in terms of its ideas and projections it would appear to me that the prototypical critics are missing more than the grammatical errors their teachers would be proud to know they've found.

Aaron's works are marked by an informal/conversational use of prose to convey the author's perspective on topics that are predominantly expected to be treated with a technical/academic tone. The result of this method of writing in The Curse of the High IQ is perhaps more defiant of standard reviewer expectations than his previous works. Reviewers expecting an essay format to this book will find a more editorial tone, and those that presuppose an editorial format will discover a more organized and empirical presentation of ideas.

In this book Aaron addresses various aspects of how having a high IQ can be disparaging from the vantage of his own personal experiences with respect and reference to various studies, statistics, and other data. The book is not a mathematical proof to validate his claims beyond the point of scrutiny, nor is it a mere ranting of unsubstantiated opinions. What this book does do is present an interesting perspective that proposes what someone with a high IQ might experience, how it may impact their life, and what actions such a person might consider as a means of coping with these conditions.

Clarey's books do not merely demand readers conform to his vision, but challenge them instead to determine the validity of his claims, the personal relevance of his ideas, and how they will ultimately respond to his proposals. In this book Clarey challenges the reader to consider the nature of how their IQ may relate to society, and encourages them to make the most of their life despite any inherent difficulties they might experience. Because of Aaron's use of informal language the book is able to allow the reader to relate to the author in a way that is more autonomous than the autocratic dependency induced by textbook lexicon and less dismissively than typically associated with editorial styles.

If you find typical reviews to be consistent with your own personal taste, and would rather read grammatically/politically correct content then this book and method of review will not be of much use to you. However, if you can abide the occasional typo and are more interested in ideas of how having a high IQ may relate to various aspects of contemporary existence projected in personal/informal prose then you may find The Curse of the High IQ to be a bit of a blessing. In any case, I'd advise you make up your own mind- regardless of the standard or deviation it is consistent.

The List Goes On...

The list goes on
and names are added
all the time
or omitted
by neglect
or obliviousness

Put an exceptional mind
in the same entity
that holds a decent soul
and the odds are
that the list will find them
or come very close to doing so

Call it the curse of their being
or a symptom of the universe
It's the same in the end

Society is ugly
and jealous
and pathetic
and it's no place
for the brilliant
the beautiful
or anyone
or anything
greater than the
excrement
they'll have to wade through
only to be buried under

How thick do you have to be
to wonder why
Why wouldn't
the prophets abort themselves
the missionaries be sacrificed
the saints succumb to suicide
and the gawds play dead
  all the while

The hypothetical creator
seems most sadistic towards those
that appear closest to its own image

Humanity is a horror show
masquerading as a blundered farce

The bullet is a knight in armor-casing
The blade is a liberating prince
The poison is an antidote
The noose is a welcoming embrace
when you've had a good look
at the friendly things of this earth

As the wind testifies through the trees
that it forces into submission
As the beasts tear the flesh
from the bones that can't hold on
As the sky turns black
and the rivers run red
It's not so much symbolic
as redundant

Life gives up
sooner or later
The more life you see
The more life you live
the sooner it runs out
the sooner it gives in
So it comes down to
living out your death
or letting your life die out

Life is a suicide mission
without any objective
without any opponent
without anything at all
Life is just the time
that death hasn't gotten to yet
as the list goes on

Fervor Facade...

Pull a face and point it
down the barrel of the lens
Show your teeth
but not your fangs
Speak the words
your handlers taught you
Placate the planet
with platitudes and pantomime

and listen to the divided masses
that alternately cheer and hiss
and watch them show
their true colors
in bland and washed-out
blacks and whites
while you hide your own
lack of color and character
behind fingers pointing
at the colorless image
behind an opposing facade
pointed like a mirror back
your way

Don't look anyone in the eye
to see through the windows
into the souls that are no longer there
Don't listen closely or speak honestly
to anyone other than yourself
and more importantly
DON'T DARE
try to see or hear or speak
of your true elusive self

as reality becomes more and more unreal
and authenticity seems endangered
if not extinct
don't show any courage
don't risk any of your own reality
Hide it behind the same facades
that you can find in everyone else
and everything they share
Don't be honestly flawed
Don't work on improving your self
SHAME others
DECRY everything
LIE
LIE
LIE
until fear and futility
overtake you
as everyone that ever pretended to know you
along with those foolishly believing your facade
will face you with fading fervor
feigning through their none-too-sad
goodbyes

Thus Spoke The Forgotten...

Thus spoke through a
thick German mustache
these words
beyond both
good and evil
unforgotten still

Blessed are the forgetful:
for they get the better
even of their blunders

If we had known this
We'd have forgotten
If we forget
We'll hardly know it
If we remember
We might know better
than to do it all again

Oblivion
abhors all
knowledge
and
Knowledge
abhors this
oblivion

Blessed are the forgetful
for they get...

history is a contrived reality show
and today is just another re-run
that will have never made it to air

Blessed are the forgetful...

these forgotten things forget
as these things forgetting
are all forgotten

blessed...

(forget it)

This isn't a mime...

This isn't a meme
This isn't a mime
So nevermind
This doesn't contain
a picture with a caption
to summarize an entire history
or expanse of developed content
This isn't some diminished being
with a painted facade confining itself
into some invisible box
while insipidly pleading for attention
So nevermind
This doesn't demonize or deify
any group, individual, or ideology
So nevermind
This won't EXPOSE
This won't ANNIHILATE
This won't show someone getting
OWNED!!!
This won't show something being
DESTROYED!!!
So nevermind
This doesn't represent a #hashtag
This isn't a part of some movement
This isn't aligned with any cause
This isn't something outlandish
This isn't something SHOCKING
This isn't something from
HuffingKids Post or InfoWares
This isn't a mockery or a joke
You won't find it on
the UnYoung or a Farce-News Daily Show
This isn't a meme
This isn't an ad
This won't be going VIRAL
So nevermind
If you scroll through your BookOfFaces
it won't jump-out at you
it won't scream at you
It isn't going to make headlines
It isn't going to read across the ticker of any MSM broadcast
So nevermind
This is only a lament
for the days when people
could talk to each other without an agenda
and say more than buy-lines and hot-words
This is only a lament
for conversations
about more than what's trending
This is only a lament for
individual human beings
that were more interested
in making the most of their existence
than existing mostly in the making of...
This isn't a meme
This is a lament
So nevermind