Author: evolveorigin 2

Writer of fiction, poetry, political and social discourse. Apprentice of stone and wood carving. Logic freak. Nature freak. Seeker/Spinner of truth & beauty in form and content. Sometimes, a chainsaw wielding maniac in digital purgatory.

Hero’s hands

“You the hero in here” I said,
as a newly boarded passenger opened up the windows
on the late afternoon bus into the county.

An early April day felt like early May
on the shoreline toes of the Cascades,
buzzed from cheap beer and rays caught in the grass.

She needed air after a quick run to the station
in knee-high black leather boots at that,
and a knee-high wool-blend skirt.

The bus was full enough to bring strangers close together,
body heat, sweat, and a pheromone chamber
breathing hard, but steady from exertion
adrenaline and something sweeter breathes its way inside,
firm shoulders pressed against my own
as she reads Ken Kesey’s ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’.

I know the book and I know the movie,
yet I’m trapped inside, silent like a lobotomized Randle Murphy,
or maybe Billy Bibbit, biting his tongue,
waiting for the right words,
but Chief knows that talk is cheap.

I see her hands.
They look like mine,
but I know the hero’s hands will never find
the ones that type this script
carefully describing
a life lived in fantasy
ever after


when shadows dream

i dream one day of striking it rich

taking the hard work and creativity of others

and branding with my own trendy label


i’ll tell others they can make it if they want it bad enough

and kick them down in the very same breath


i’ll use my wealth to buy myself

all the drugs, hoes, and cars i could ever want

say “fuck the world” and i’ll do it too

leave the rez in the dust like i never knew

who i was, am, or ever will be


see, they say money corrupts

but poverty does the same

surviving or thriving is all a game

you can play the cards you’ve been dealt

or drop the ones up your sleeve


we see what we want

but they don’t see me

just a pallid reflection of our former selves

casting the shadow of reality

new year’s champagne

diamonds in the sky

timeless wanderers

still to my perception

frost bitten earth

sparkles like new year’s fireworks


guns pop like champagne corks

drinking the glacial breath

drifting across a melting world

motion and elements

burning slowly still


not a foot fall to be heard

from the forest dwellers

seeking comfort underground

cold air and body heat

evaporating sack of meat


stars burn bright

across the breathless distance

moon sickle falling back

pulled down behind

the cedar-toothed mountains


I am alone

my breath and I

the clap of volleys fired

a million blinking stars

from forever to the earth

A reflection/question/direction on Baudrillard’s escape from objectivity

Beyond Duality
are we
for it
>/< ? !

“Perhaps it is to escape this terrifying objectivity of the world that we are currently derealizing it; perhaps it is to escape the ultimatum of a real world that we are currently rendering it virtual. For though it lends force to existence and happiness, the concept of reality even more surely lends force of reality evil and misery. In a real world, death too becomes real, and secretes a commensurate horror. Whereas in a virtual world we dispense with death and birth, as we dispense with a responsibility so diffuse and overwhelming that it becomes impossible to bear. We are doubtless ready to pay this price so as no longer to have perpetually to perform the overwhelming task of distinguishing between true and false, good and evil, etc. The species is, perhaps, collectively ready to reject the moral and metaphysical anguish which ensues from this and has eventually built up into a neurosis, as well as to reject the privilege of critical consciousness, and accept instead a liquidation of differences, categories and values. Perhaps it is ready to abandon transcendence and metaphor for metonymic sequences. No more polarity, otherness, antagonism, but, instead, a superconductivity, a static electricity of communication. Perhaps by paying this price we shall pass death by, in the transparent shroud of a made-to-measure immortality.”

Jean Baudrillard, The Perfect Crime, p.39

Hocus Focus

What is my focus?

Why am I here,

and not there

or nowhere?


Am I qualified to answer such questions,

as a shadow blind to its own existence?

Who exists?

I, or the guy

casting characters

with empty hands

traipsing in solitary confinement

by the backlit parted door?


Forget this self-

abnegation to a muttering fool

that dictates my every move

in obtuse turns and stops.

He listens to the trees and the breeze,

yet he turns his back on me

like I’m a painful past

he runs from on a treadmill.


What is my focus?

And why am I stuck in the room

with this dysphoric mess

deaf, dumb, and blind to me?

Sure, I may lose myself in shades

or creep obliquely behind his back,

even split into a menagerie of actors

bored, without direction or a script,

improvising to pass

the blanching corrosion of time.


For better or worse,

till death do we part,

I am a part of you

like you are a part of me

so don’t pretend you and I

can live this story separately,

as a shadow puppet without a master

and a master without an illusion.


What is my focus?

the confluence of light, dark

and the body in motion between

wandering wondering

what the peculiar shadows

could be whispering.

Contrast contradiction

bloodlet and boredom

image and ground grounded in

the digital paradoxy of

reality revealed

in a hi-def cacophony


creative non-

fictions unfolding in time

measured in clicks by the ghosts

tricking you into immersion with

unseen reflection resurrecting

ashes of fallen sons

and fullest moons rising

around a

perpetual horizon

bowing gracefully before

gravity’s pull

Daffodil’s defiance

narcissus pushing up
along the road side
with the crushed beer cans
planted in the thirsty grass
his crisp golden corona
tipped by a careless breeze
greets an early spring
when the waste blooms
proud and away
from the precarious white line
separation between
the creatures
and the plants


burn me

clean me

throw me

in your arms


i am a pebble


waiting by the whims

of gravity

welcomed by the clouds

heavy, gray

grown thunderous



i am a drop

ascended from

the saturated




restless soil

kissed by the sun


give up


and fly into

the long-burning fire

carried by the air

into unfathomable







above the lights below

above the creatures below

above the dead





with countless others


in the moment


you too will crash


you too will congregate

will consummate

the marriage of

One and One

you have become















splashing into others

to become

still one


and falling

some more

reaching terminal velocity


It seems like you will



and fall

















melting and molding

sinking and growing

flatter flatter flatterflatterflatter

you are

a stain

upon the rock

from whence you came



it seems like you’ve done this

a million times before

but you don’t know anymore

who you are

or what you’re doing

but you do it

because that’s the way

you are


In a world the embraces real freedom
real freedom of speech
real freedom of expression
everybody is a poet
everybody is free to speak the truth
and the starving artist dies
and the starving artist dies
and nobody

the starving poet
forced to get
a fucking job.

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