big sur

I see a river of flames pouring through the sky of my mind. I witness Star Pine Marionettes in deep green silhouettes making love to the powder blue canvass of dusk. I see a clusters of Bumble Bee Palms milking honey from thin air and smiles everywhere.

In this silence that is our universe unfolding I hear a voice from deep within my inner knowing.  “Brother Jesus is a diamond polished by the sea. He is this sunrise bleeding reds & blues into the day. Buddha is a butterfly. His fluttering wings are a soothing balm for our flaming hearts. Yogananda is a sacred pearl shimmering black & glittering blue. His is a simple beauty composed of pure grace lacking nothing but kindness for you & I. Muhammad is a desert wind shifting shapeless upon the landscape of our souls. He is nothing at all yet everything there is. Confucius is the rain. He nourishes the very clouds we walk on. Yahweh is a songbird singing good morning to the day. Mary is our mother. It is her breast milk which gives us life.”

I shudder. I feel the heat of the breath of our loving creator; our mother divine cleansing our hearts with most compassionate love every moment of every day. We believe her when she holds us in her loving arms & tells us we are all diamonds polished by the sea … every day in every way. I am bliss.







Peace flows through the waterfalls of my land. Hawks with river red shoulders soar upon trampoline skies high above fertile ground where everything grows without asking. On these boulders at the mouth of this river I call forgiveness near redwood groves standing tall upon razor blade cliffs of desire, I keep a company of one. I am happy. Each morning I tend my crops. At midday, I give thanks to the sun. When dusk arrives, I drench myself under blue dot starlight & give thanks to the moon. When my prayers are done, I lend my gaze towards the creatures who are always about. We share a fond curiosity for each other. We are equals. Their love keeps my heart polished. I soothe theirs with songs from my soul. This is the way of the world for a simple man living a simple life upon holy land. It wasn’t always this way.


I am sweaty naked standing over a filthy floor in an emptied room beside a fireplace that has never seen a true fire. I survey the battlefield before me. I am shocked, but I do not flinch. I am wounded, but I do not bleed. I am an atrocity. I am the last hope of my kind. I must survive. I haven’t a choice. I feel shame yet I am proud. I marvel at the accumulated detritus of three years worth of grief. My smug admiration for this excremental no man’s waste land laying prone before me is tempered by a pervading sense of self-deception. Regret crawls under my skin. I cannot scratch this itch. There is no one here or anywhere who can scratch it for me. There are no drugs, illicit or otherwise, that have the power to reconstruct my faulty fractured DNA.

I have my viewfinder set to intricate detail, but something is not right. I cannot figure out exactly what that something is, but I know something is missing. There are no cannons. There are no tanks. There are no rotting corpses here. The trenches were far muddier in my war. The pools of blood were tar black & thicker than that of this battlefield before me. There are orange poppies painted in bold relief upon the fireplace mantle. There are no orange poppies in my war. This war is an impostor. I should know. I have a damned medal of dishonor knifed into my brawny chest. This scene may look dreary enough, but it lacks the heroic brutality I proudly claim I suffered. If I were to tell you it was me who caused this suffering with explosives I had planted upon the dark side of my heart, I would turn to shattered glass. I will not utter another word about it. Speechless or not I remain the same …

… a desolate landscape. Life doesn’t live here anymore. I’m meaningless. I have lost the only war I ever truly cared enough to fight. If I could I would turn back the hands of time, but I am unable to do such a thing. I’ve tried. I can travel without moving through a multitude of parallel universes with you in the room. You’d never notice. I’ve morphed into a butterfly more times than there are trees in the forest, but I cannot go back in time. That would take a miracle. It’s just as well. Why would I want to go back in time? These are the best years of my life, for I have the memories of the best years of my life living, loving & being with you. If this is true, where has the sun gone? Who am I? Who are you? Where are we?


Moments slide backwards then stop altogether. Deep spaces in between billions of misfiring synapses within my skull are illuminated by flashes of electric mind-blowing white. My eyes are mesmerized. My face is paralyzed. My body is now a paradise. I don’t know what this means. All I know is if I don’t allow whatever my mind wants to say flow freely out of my mouth, I shall explode. My body is now a paradise for strangers with no faces. What does this mean? I’m frightened. Time is still but not so my mind as it forges its escape … and …

… I am a blue translucent dragonfly careening through thickets of moss over the rushing creek of this canyon. I am frantic frenetic to find the source of my lovers cries within a crystallized powder blue shroud of mist. The faster I go the further away I am. My consciousness shifts instantaneously. I cannot breathe. I see through my contorted version of reality in a flash of warped time & space. I don’t like this. I hate it! I’m claustrophobic but I never realized this until now. As I spin upward seeking my one last gasp of air, enough room explodes within the implosion of my soul. I remember. This is the place I fought my war. I am its lone survivor. I cannot bear it a moment longer. I can barely hold my head up. Before I am able to screw my courage to the whipping post, this moment is gone forever.


Below me is the exalted grave of a spiritual warrior I could not live up to then, & I cannot live up to now. As worthy as I may seem in the eyes of the unknowing, I am a dwarf star next to a supernova. I know this. I wonder why it’s always me who survives? I have been gifted throughout my life with profound love from great men & women only to sever my spirit’s spine every time.


I wonder at the emotions & the crack hearted questions splattered all over these wounded walls. There is blood on the floor leading into a darkened hallway. I thought I knew where that hallway leads to, but I don’t remember now. As hard as I try to recall, all I see is a blank screen. I am a television turned to thunderous static on mute. If I were not deaf, I would go completely insane. The channel I am looking for has been moved to another world where I no longer get the signal.

I vaguely recall a man’s heart dripping a trail of tears; tears of blood from a shattered heart. That is what these stains in my eyes are. I see that much. I remember this much; a man squatting in the corner of this room. His eyes shut blind between ears without sound to hear. He resembles me. I turn away as fast as I can. I am afraid. I’m almost too frightened to breathe, but not too afraid to cry. It passes. This moment passes into eternity along with all the others.


War is over. I survive. I may be crippled, but I’m not lame. I have scars deeply etched into my soul’s flesh, but I shall sing again. I hear music even when it isn’t playing. I know I shall sing once again.

I see snapshots of your mind everywhere. Wow! It feels like the fourth of July. Hmm… I wonder how the debris on these walls & this floor ever came to be. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter now. Thank you for taking my mind to a different sort of landscape. The soul creatures you create are quite beautiful, but they always were. The ones you have sent to cover my heart in winter are the loveliest ones of all. That kind of living artwork cannot be taught. It cannot be given to anyone as if it were a mere commodity. One must earn it & learn it through lifetimes of service in joy. I know that now. Here comes the sun.


sun am











~~~ ~~~ ~~~

My prophet rises from snow white sands. He is cut & bruised with bloody hands. His metamorphosis is marked by purple flowering feathered wings immaculately conceived. He reaches into the eye of the sky & fondles memories from before my time, back when this river flowed with twice its heart & the sky more volatile with twice its strike. When this desert land was twice as young, He walked along these very skies now dusked across my mind like a churning holy electrical explosion.

My prophet rises from the deep blue sea with gaping wounds for all to see. His metamorphosis is marked by the inhalation of deep & conscious breath. His yellow diamonds are draped upon his brawny chest strung side by side with cosmic thread. He is future, present & the past. He’s courage fed by fathers brave & mothers strong. They’ve taught him well, both right & wrong. This world unceasingly expands its view. With opened eyes & a child’s pride, He is my harness. I love this ride.

My Prophet rises. I am He. I’ve wept in pain but now I’m free. Upon this sand my heart is burned. There is so much I have to learn. My metamorphosis is marked by the song of my soul echoing through the cathedral of my mind. I know I am more than looks perceive. My well is full. I have no greed. Christ is here & surely bleeds. He is my lover. I am He.



Nena ~ 99 Luftballons ~ I do nothing. Alesha Dixon – The Boy Does Nothing.

If you train your binoculars on the stable area of Chump Trump’s MAR-A-LARGO WHITE WHORE HOUSE in TAMPEX, FLA., you cannot actually see Russia but you can always see VLAD DADDY PUTIN naked having sexual relations with an old cow, or is that a giant pig? It is hard is all I can say.

putin sex

Hey there, y’all. I have been very engrossed in projects which are fulfilling but most of the time I’d rather just hang out and stare at the sky or hang out and watch old reruns of Perry Mason; things that abide and hold true immortal meaning, including the Morticia Addams Family series, The Munsters and All In The Family. (and anything I appeared in, particularly my proudest achievement as THE PATIENT in GENERAL HOSPITAL) I’d rather not do anything but that which I want to do, which is nothing. So that’s exactly what I do. I do a lot of that. As far as I am concerned, I’ve done my time on Planet Prison Earth and I want nothing more to do with the USSR of A Police State and all who have anything to do with such a colossal failure. It makes me sick to my stomach. I resent and regret my family’s and my immense contributions to a nation of dunces. On the bright side, I’ve saved a fortune on my car insurance. Having said that, and that being said, may I say, may I ask one more thing? Has has he jumped yet?



THIS JUST IN: I have made a few decisions which are intractable. Without any doubt whatsoever, and my *[so-called] delusional episodes of hallucinatory flights of schizophrenic para-normal psychosis set aside for the moment, we remember that what I say is crucial not because my surname is UTLEY (the revered first family of humanity), but because my first-born, my son, calls himself Jesus of the Levant. His sisters & brothers are {REDACTED} Now, how do you like that?
When I was still in the primitive human form, there was a woman who lived in an old cottage across from my apartment at Harper and De Longpre Avenues off the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood. She was evicted, taunted, demonized, psychologically raped & brutalised by the *WEST HOLLYWOOD CITY COUNCIL along with their XXXX buddies, **building developers in favor of yet another snooty, stuck up, LA DEE DA, tickey-tackey condo nest.
BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH & CNN: This cuckoo nest is not what its looks like, winged bronze angel at entrance notwithstanding. It is now stands sentinel over more ashes in urns, more graves than you can imagine. They were placed there by me and my friends during those first 17 most horrendous years of the USA CREATED AIDS GENOCIDE. Think upon this a moment.
Under each and every tree in that cross-section of the two streets mentioned above, are the remains of some of our friends. These beautiful, young and talented people were just the people who actually lived right at that section of West Hollywood; seven people of whom lived in at my (1327 North Harper Avenue # 2) six unit apartment building alone, which was also 8200 De Longpre Avenue. Think about that a moment, why don’t you?
They are not forgotten. I could roll off names right now if I wished to. Harper & De Longpre is certainly some sort of treasured national shrine but I wager the city council would even give a fuck (they must know by now), so to hell with them
That corner is famous for the celebrities who lived there from the nineteen twenties to this day. I recall … there was a woman I do not believe people think about today or know about at all. This woman had a national commercial campaign running non-stop for what seemed like eternity. Her tagline was, *** “It’s not nice to fool mother nature.”
What I am trying to convey to you is: I do not support Israel, the Palestinians, the (USSR of A) USA, all fundamentalists of every stripe and color, particularly a freaky, ass-backwards coup d’état currently holding court in the USSR OF A’S DC WHITE WHORE HOUSE which, for your information, smells so bad, I can smell it nearly 3000 miles away (approximately 4828.032 in your language), on the USSR OF A’s west coast in California.
Imagine if you will, decaying corpse of skunk, defecating hippos consorting with pygmy giraffes at the London Zoo in the middle of a very warm day in May along with formaldehyde and sulphur mixed in a bottle of Pepsi (It’s the real thing), Dr Pepper (Be a pepper) and boiled fresh tongue of mad-ox and brain… now mixed it all together with any words coming from anyone involved with the Dumb Trump Crusade for Stupidity & The American Way, and wallah!, that is what the above mentioned entities smell like. PUTIN and North Korea’s SIC YOUNG MOON ASS-FACE smell even worse… yes, even worse than Saudi Arabia & Assad of Soviet Syria combined. Have a nice xxxxing day. And remember: Straight Men Are People too.


If you’re mystic, come this way & play for me. 

Tune your strings sharp & clear 

with all the pressure I can bare. 

If you’re mystic, stroke my hair & kiss my lips. 

Take me to your mother ship. 

Rifle me with your tough grip. 

Anchor me to your bright blue. 

Show  myself to me through you. 

Your platinum strings are clear & true. 

Play your harp, this is your cue. 

I know you’re mystic, I am too.

Say the word & I’ll play for you.

harps ff