POEM: OCCULTED MAN, WAITS.

A thousand years inside a stone, at the bottom of a frozen...lake. Glacier slow the earth reactors warmed it, the sun dried up the lake. New green showed it's tender leaves. And crowding in around, and thought it theirs.   Years flicker in time, like bubbles in clear glass. Images from one brief life, onto the next. I've lived a life of just one day and lived also a hundred years...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 2

... I have reached a measure of greater understanding of who I am, and am proud of my abilities, the skills and talents I have had to achieve just to remain off the street and not a homeless man. To have taken advantage fully of the many gifts personally, but have not achieved the success in those that I should have had, all those that were given, along with the emotional baggage and emotional immaturity and insecurity and weirdness sometimes that I can be. I am a greater artist even though, condition stopped me from painting. I have made many inroads into music and my guitar and carpentry and working with my hands; my writing of poetry and storytelling which has helped me to develop a way into my own mind and find out where I falter with language. I am an obsessive dictionary reader, always unsure of my use of the language...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 3

Autism has left me in ruins sometimes emotionally -- many times socially, and yet as the artist, I have soared to the highest ground it has shown me I feel. The risk-taker, the expanded vision, the imagination journey as visuals are my chosen language. The ability to see something so very complex and decipher it and und4erstanding its meaning. Collaboration with other artists has produced works by me but not me solely.  Objets d'art I would not have been able to accomplish alone. I am a gifted painter in my own right, and I say that without any false modesty. Autism has made me quite visual in my learning and expression of myself...

IN THE JAWS OF THE BLACK DOG: Part 1

Being autistic is a highly volatile condition to be involved with as a human -- of course involved would intend one's participation, willingly, intentionally. That is both wrong and right. I have no choice really in the matter. I am autistic, it is me. But then again I know who I am.   Autism is difficult to describe from a personal point of view. From that deeply personal point of view. Some days its world ending and others it is magic; an affliction sometimes, a life-long confrontation with reality -- and if asked I would prefer not to have it -- and yet again, I absolutely cannot see myself in any other way, and being autistic and different is something I would miss if I was neuro-typical (whatever that terrible term means). I believe it has something to do with linear thinking. Convergent as opposed to divergent in the thinking process. Study shows a threatened and shortened lifespan in most cases for those with autism -- ASD, Asperger's. That is a considerably shortened lifespan. And what I mean by that is, that the high functioning autistic adult is averaged at a lifespan of about 54 years old, forty years old if that autistic is unable to speak or communicate...

What do you think AI is all about?

Individual spirit -- they just don't get it. You speak about spirit as the real self, and you get that look from them that you get from your dog when your playing an harmonica. Spirit is about freedom, and freedom is not outside, I find it is inside me. And I have no idea why I keep forgetting that. Oh yeah... stimulus-response. And so the question came up the other day, from my friend Jon Rappoport. It was based around freedom and the loss of it. Now, I must say Jon is an excellent fellow and after reading him for decade or so, I am convinced now that I am not crazy, that the world that we live is a manufactured reality, that there is a massive industry that 24 hours a day, 365 days a year toils to came our minds enslaved...

POEM: WHAT NEXT!

Eight-carbon molecules in rivers of waste, and the sun in a sack cloth hauls itself up again into the sky. And looks down in disgust at what was…a good idea. These mayfly lives, passing through and piling up, one upon the other as sediments on the basement of this world. Built up in that wake of seconds upon seconds. Relent. Red cushion for a place to sit, amidst rancor. Nihilism for a heart, and reluctance. And crazed mystics still keep pushing shopping carts up hills of abuse...

Poem: IT’S NOT THAT COMPLICATED…

  by Michael Burns The versions of old stories took on a life of their own. The sheer amount of time involved, expressed itself as well. It began to no longer be a campfire tale, an interesting thing one speaks about on a long voyage. It seemed it became the most logical answer to that age-old problem -- well, wonder that is...many people tried to exploit it, they push mystery into what otherwise was a simple thing. Claimed they had inside information. Claimed all kinds of things. Swore to high heavens they knew someone who, knew someone...told lies, to impress their friends or lovers. And some were, genuinely delusional, or crooked, or just plain old lonely, and looking for attention, swore they knew the real truth of it. It was in fad, and then out of fashion. Some even threatened, to eradicate that curiosity for good. Others, went to war over it -