Art is everywhere, but most only see it when it’s put in a fancy frame, installed in an art show or defined as such by pretentious critics’. I do love art. I love Bukowski and Kerouac….Their pens like divining rods, separating raw sewage from raw beauty. Some people breakdown playing the piano into a math problem, into intervals and the frequency of notes on a page, but that’s missing the point of playing the piano. Why paint by numbers when there’s so much more waiting outside the lines. Doodle, scribble, close your eyes and let the music flow through you, out of you, into you——like a new color that’s yet to be discovered.
stream of consciousness
God, Vaginas and Wieners
There should be a little bit of nothingness in all our lives I’m talking about the nothingness that my lazy ass cat shamelessly flaunts She could care less about worries, victories or life goals She’s at her best when doing absolutely nothing She sleeps when she wants to sleep She eats when she wants to eat She yawns, stretches, then takes another nap in a sunbeam What others may think of her, does not concern her If you get on her nerves she’ll put her ass up in your face To remind ya who’s the boss She squints her eyes like Clint Eastwood, as if to say “kiss my ass” Woman are like cats, fickle, complacent, impossible to figure out and even harder to please A pissed off woman is a frightening thing There’s “mean” and then there’s “woman mean” They’re more interested in being right, than being happy You’ll never out-talk or out-argue a woman They’ll always get the “last word” They’ll smirk, pout and then vindictively proclaim “I told ya so” They find contentment in the nothingness that fills their nothing-less day It’s all too much, causing a man to mutter, stammer and cus under their defeated breath——sheeeet! But when a man needs a woman, he’ll act a fool You’ll see him heel at her side like an obedient dog on a short leash She’ll yank on that choker-chain every now and again to keep him in his place Men will connive, lie and feign politeness in a futile attempt to get into a woman’s heart—or more importantly, their pants So, ya buy them jewelry, take them out to dinner, comment on how beautiful their eyes are, how stunning their dress is All the while, she'll absentmindedly stare into her compact mirror Women's personalities are hidden, just like their women parts Men don’t understand how a woman’s body works Everything about it is a mystery It looks like a gapping wound that sometimes bleeds Nipples, breasts, legs The softness of their ass Where to start? What to do? It’s all to much for a simple man to grasp But grasp, they shall try—-and try, AND TRY! Women don’t have time for a man’s bullshit They have more important things to do They construct purpose out of life’s nothing-less—ness They fill every moment, of every hour, of each day with endless busyness They fabricate grand schemes Things they're determined to make men orchestrate Life becomes one long laborious “To Do list” To women, everything means something, especially the insignificant petty shit Wipe your feet, take out the garbage, feed the cat, cut the lawn, bring me my tea, it’s too hot, it’s to cold—-did you hear me? They somehow make babies out of their own flesh and blood Their bellies swell up to accommodate a parasite living deep inside their womb—— Men only know about the fucking part of making babies Men are happy in their nothingness Men’s body parts, are like their personalities, right out there for the world to see, compare and giggle at They grab at it to show dominance They believe theirs is bigger and mightier than anyone else’s They expect it to be worshiped and fawned over In reality, it’s the goofiest looking thing you’ll ever see And if they can’t find anyone to grab on it, they’ll jerk on it themselves I guess this is the way god planned it And what a sick sense of humor he must have
Vows
BROKEN WORLD, POETRY, PROSE, RANT AND RAVE, SLICE OF LIFE, TRUTH SCRAPS, UNCATEGORIZED, WEIRD WORLDLEAVE A COMMENTFreestyleLoveProseRelationshipsStream Of ConsciousnesVows
One of life's greatest mistakes Expecting to be loved Expect is a word best not attached to love There’s many versions of love Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable Some covet it as if it were property Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries At times it’s confused with sex You can have sex without love And you can have love without sex After all the gyrations and moaning Even if she lets you put it where you want? You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night Humor is the best aphrodisiac Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants It's naively offered up with open arms Like a soon to be broken Vow Vows are for love-struck suckers It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops All noise and no melody Like a sympathy composed for the deaf Most want love to be soft and tender Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem But it's none of those things It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky Yet, there are those rare flashes of something Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all Where does it come from? Why does it go? Who knows? It's a vexing enigma It comes with no warranties, no guarantees It’s fragile, so handle it with care If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards Once the shelf-life has been reached You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out? Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour Salmonella is a bad way to go The trouble with love—-is It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments It has no soul or conscience No sense of right or wrong It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims
Vows
One of life's greatest mistakes Expecting to be loved Expect is a word best not attached to love There’s many versions of love Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable Some covet it as if it were property Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries At times it’s confused with sex You can have sex without love And you can have love without sex After all the gyrations and moaning Even if she lets you put it where you want? You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night Humor is the best aphrodisiac Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants It's naively offered up with open arms Like a soon to be broken Vow Vows are for love-struck suckers It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops All noise and no melody Like a sympathy composed for the deaf Most want love to be soft and tender Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem But it's none of those things It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky Yet, there are those rare flashes of something Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all Where does it come from? Why does it go? Who knows? It's a vexing enigma It comes with no warranties, no guarantees It’s fragile, so handle it with care If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards Once the shelf-life has been reached You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out? Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour Salmonella is a bad way to go The trouble with love—-is It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments It has no soul or conscience No sense of right or wrong It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims
At The Speed Of Foreverness
In spite of our long days and the swiftness of these passing years We’ve reluctantly grown old Old as in running out of time The potholed street of aging leads to a cul de sac of convalescence Age robs us of youths vanities It rubs our hair off, dulls our eyesight and deafens our hearing We slowly cave in on ourselves We can no longer get by on our sexiness or youthful bravado We’re left with a fading wit and the shreds of a once charmed personality This leaves some bitter, while others are liberated There’s nothing more attractive than someone who no longer gives a shit about what others think of them Shriveled skin, brittle bones, hemorrhoids and varicose veins ain’t so bad It’s the fading of memories and the onset of feeble mindedness that leaves us befuddled There’s that moment of confusion when we enter a room and forget what we needed there, or what we were looking for, or even why we came there in the first place??? But, I’ll fight like hell to forever remember your face
Tigers Or Table Scraps
The universe keeps trying to convince me that I’m mediocre, but I refuse to give in. All the greats have had to fight that urge to shrink and fit into normalcy.
Crazy is better than normalcy, going mad is better than normalcy. Do something, do anything to prove that you’re still alive—-that you’re a worthy opponent. Release your bullshit on the world like a tiger ripping into a fallen gazelle.
Kill or be killed—–most are already dead and feeding on table scraps. The true holy ones aren’t afraid to climb free solo—they know that no one is tethered to security.
Make fear your best-friend and nothing will ever scare you again.
Life Lesson
There’s no free lunch
No free-ride
There’s but one life lesson
No Ticky
No washy
Fatally
I’m homesick for a time that no longer exists
Unfulfilled dreams from youths lost innocence
What happens to a love that no longer calls my name
She just stands there not even knowing how sexy she is to me
I want something back I’ve never had
She looks like a memory, lost
Dim the lights of truth
You’re that song that makes me miss you
I want you to find yourself inside me
I want me to ache inside of you——- too
Only the broken know how love is never eternal
Lonely inside, without you
Wanting you is unbearable, far beyond unbearable
Falling through ghosts of you, where angels and buzzards circle
Fatally falling asleep after hours of telling our biggest dreams and secrets to each other.
Such beautiful sadness in your eyes
I’m your night inside you
I shivered inside when our souls touched
Progress
The August sun traces the southern horizon as the silent tree’s cast long shadows over the lazy afternoon. There’s no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. It’s too goddamn hot to be ambitious. I pull my ball-cap off and let the cool breeze tousle though my sweaty hair.
I’m hiking through the Washoe Meadow. I imagine that the path I’m on is the same one that the Washoe Tribe followed on hunting expeditions. Their ways and traditions are no longer known. I’d give anything to know the things they knew, to see the things they saw. We’ve traded our place in nature for our love of power and progress——–Progress? Huh?
The trial turns and twists through Jeffery Pines. The sweet scent of Sage permeates my body. I take the fragrant air into my lungs and it becomes a part of me——maybe this is what they mean when they say “all things are connected”. I exhale my breath. It dissipates into the pine needles and becomes absorbed into the blueness of the out stretched skies. I feel bigger than my body.
A stellar jay sits atop a Spruce Tree and loudly scolds me, a chicory scampers across my path and from a distance a coyote keeps a weary eye on me. The coyote is my spirit animal. He’s a trickster, a loner and a little bit scruffy—-but most of all he’s a willful survivor. Yeah, we are a part of one another. The trail opens up to a huge meadow displaying purple lupin and yellow scrub grasses. It’s a pretty place, a calming place. It would be nice to share this with someone, but I’ve always been my own best friend, so I’m in good company. I take my boots off and rub my toes in a patch of cool green grass. I feel the sun on my face causing me to involuntarily smile to myself. A breeze blows across the meadow, it blows across the sweat on my body, it cools me down.
The Lost Art Of Letter Writing
Letter writing is a lost art. In the olden days receiving a letter was a momentous occasion. It may be the only link to a loved one who’s now many miles away. It might be a soldier who’s off to war, or a prospector who’s gone out west to a gold rush in search of his fortune, or maybe someone who’d left everything behind to seek freedom and opportunity in the new world, or maybe a letter from mom and dad after they’ve shipped you off to summer camp. To the homesick, a letter is like a life preserver tossed from home.
Somehow, written words are more intimate and heartfelt than texts, zooms, emails or face-timeing. There’s a formality of ink meeting paper, there’s something unique about thoughts laid out in black and white—–it’s like letting someone peer into the corners of your mind, to hear your voice, the timber, the rhythm and the flow of words being enunciated—-It’s like being given wings when standing on a collapsing bridge.
Written letters are saved in old shoeboxes or under well worn mattresses. It would be a foolish thing to throw away someones words and thoughts. Letters are snapshots of moments in time. They can be pulled out and reread and given life again. It’s like placing the needle of a phonograph on a favorite song. You can pick the letter up and smell its scent, imagining the hand that sealed the envelope. I once had a girlfriend who’d put on lipstick and then leave an imprint of her kiss on the letters she’d send me. She’d spray perfume on the stationary and leave “X’s” and “O’s” next to her name. It was a virtual hug and kiss.
I’d always carefully put my letters back in their envelopes and then place them in a box I dedicated to these precious communications. Most folks won’t let you into their world the way a letter can. A well written letter requires time and attention to create a composition that expresses what is laying dormant beneath ones tongue.
We’re all adrift on a vast ocean of loneliness and a letter is like a bright red flair against an ebony sky. It begs the questions—- Can you see me? Do you hear me?—Please don’t forget me?
Victor S. Uriz II
Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 