It’s like a big blank screen

with a blinking cursor in it

waiting for you to type—


but no matter how much

you type

the cursor keeps blinking



because that’s life

that’s us…


a joke without a punchline


a long shot in the blank


a rolling stone made of moss


the cud that God is chewing…

And all the people you meet are but different bodies of yourself

the same depthless presence we are—


we cannot give anything to each other that we do not already have

we can trigger highs and lows with a vengeance but ultimately

we are all the same one thing interacting with itself


the possibility of our interactions is the payoff

the joy of creation is the payoff

the singular moments of our encounters is the payoff

giving yourself chances is the payoff


it all happens here

there is nowhere else

but here.


The Candid Are a Little Wild

“Honesty’s on short supply and we subsist on mendacities in times of grave crises. We cannot afford such luxuries as truth or common sense in drastic times.”

Norman Spineles



they are worse than zombies. they are holier than thouing their willfully blind way through the china shop of your conscience.


The meek shall inherit the earth.

the hell,

all that the meek can accomplish is be weak

and thus a vehicle for evil.


it’s only the little wild

who can

open their heart a little wide.


Bukowski on ChatGPT and AI art

auto-generated sonnets (by courtesy of GPT-3 say) all but vindicate Charles Bukowski. when in regards to art and the creative process he wrote:



and no:

machines will never be able to emulate the intuitive intelligence of an artist. approximate: yes. but to replicate? no way.

machines may only (impeccably) embody the empty and formulaic aspects of the human. the mind. as it were. without the heart.

which is plenty meager.