This particular time in history, a time of great experimentation and exploration, was intensely exciting and frightening at the same time. There were great opportunities to learn about this world around us. Understanding more about our world would allow us to understand more about ourselves. We were beginning to use our reason and our instinct to question beliefs and challenge the established system. It was enlightening. It was empowering. But also quite terrifying.

 

For what if we discover something that contradicts our beliefs? Beliefs that we’ve clung to for so long? What could this do to our nice, comfortable foundation upon which we have built our lives and framed our understanding of the world? Sometimes liberation is not so easily accepted. It could force our world to change dramatically. And being creatures of habit, we usually don’t take too kindly to disruptions in our routines.

 

I think this idea resonates loudly with a lot of people. Do we really want to know what else is out there? How much do we really want to know? A part of us is curious to know more, and a part of us is frightened about how that knowledge will alter the way we think about ourselves and the world around us. There’s always a gamble. For better or for worse, there would be no turning back.

 

 

I guess I would want to know if he had any alternate plans if he was wrong. I mean, what if the world really was flat? What then? I am curious if he ever seriously considered this question, or if he was just absolutely positive that the world was round. I can’t imagine how you prepare yourself for the possibility of falling off the edge of the world.

 

 

What did the discovery of the “new world” do to the “old world?” It abated our role in the universe. It shrunk our world overnight. All of a sudden the world became round; it came full circle; it was finite. The world was no longer flat. We were forced to ask, then, what other beliefs of ours are also false? How much can we really say we know? How can we be sure if we are ever right? Ironically, the more we discover about this environment around us, the less we realize we actually know about any of it. Soon the earth would no longer be at the center of the universe: we would orbit the sun, which itself would be only a moderately-sized star among the peripheries of the universe. These discoveries may have opened our eyes to a “new world” of exciting ideas; but exploration of this “new world” has eroded our innocence and our importance. How small we truly are amid such a vast unknown.

 

This is what I am trying to capture: that while we are continually and excitedly searching for the “truth,” our new discoveries often break down our old beliefs and present us with even more questions than we began with. And then we wonder, are any beliefs safe? How do we know when our beliefs are incontrovertibly correct? A growing ambiguity arises between what is and what is not. And with that a growing ability to accept and internalize beliefs other than our own. It has brought us new perspectives—and we become unified in our solitude. As we become aware of our own insignificance in this temporary and finite life in the physical world, we simultaneously recognize the ever-expanding infinity around us, and with it the elusiveness of the “truth.”

 

 

My writing process is rather unregimented. The majority of the times when I write it is unplanned. Very spur of the moment. I’ll get a little fragment of inspiration during the day and just start throwing words and ideas down onto paper. My inspiration is generated largely by my interest in the processes of human mind, which I observe most closely in existentialism, art, history, and language. It can be an idea, a photograph, or even just words that I find to be provocative. I try to combine great sounds with great images. And I want the reader to have to think in entirely new ways when considering the words and ideas they have read. I am drawn to the unusual, the esoteric, the nonsensical; in a word, the abstract. To me, this is the most accurate reflection of reality. Reality is random. It is unpredictable. Much of what we experience on a daily basis would make very little sense to us if we had not trained ourselves to give it meaning.

 

I like my poems to have an unpredictable quality to them for the same reason: so they can mirror unadulterated reality. The reality that lacks certain meaning until a human mind experiences it and reacts with it. I want to encourage various interpretations. Relative perspectives. I want people to question their own realities. No right. No wrong. Just an opinion or a thought, no better or worse than the next.

 

It was only fitting that I became quite fascinated with the form of the prose poem. I feel its loose structure is a great way to capture this unpredictability. It is conducive to depicting a verbal snapshot of a hazy, disjointed reality. As we try our best to sift through the chaos, we must consider that the meaning we give to it is derived largely from within ourselves.

 

 

Currently I am just writing and trying to get my work out there. Some new material, and a lot of sifting through old material to edit and rework it until I’m satisfied with it. Sometimes it takes a while to get it right. Other times it comes out right the first time. There’s no test for it. Either it feels right or it doesn’t. But you can’t force it. It will happen if it’s meant to. Patience is key.

 

 

Interesting question. So would I write purely for my own sake knowing that no one would read it? I would have to say yes. I do, of course, want to share my writing with others. One of my primary motives is to challenge people to question their realities. But I also derive a lot of personal satisfaction from putting my mind down on paper; being able to capture a brief moment, a thought, an idea in written word.

 

My role as a poet is that of a metaphysical photographer. I want to preserve an image that is beautiful in its own right. But once it is created I like to think that it stands alone, independently. That it belongs to me no more than it belongs to anyone else. That it is there for anyone to experience, whether positively or negatively. It’s living and breathing—it becomes a separate entity.

 

Being a part of this creative process can be magical. It’s creating new life. And this alone is powerful enough to keep me writing for the sheer beauty of it all.

 

 

 

 

I am an opinion. Utopia undone. Every vagrant

knows as little. Has whittled wooden ears. Who

hears the Cricket Symphony enough to believe. To

talk to oneself. To make believe.

When I walk abandoned streets. When I yell

through hollow doors. You should see the birds on

the streetlights scatter. Drop morsels of road kill

like red rain.

 

 

 

 

 

It was getting dark. We were hunter-gatherers

in a city for the blind. We imagined ourselves

sitting before a feast. The table was made of coffins.

The lights were dimming themselves.

In one window there was an exorcism taking

place. The Lord of Gluttony could be seen gnashing

its teeth. Our arms were open, ready to embrace

sailors who had been missing for years.

 

 

 

 

 

The summer we went crucifying

Delinquent ants

And ran off fast

So as not to hear them scream

 

Then found new species

In the cellar after lunch

To evangelize

With forks and knives

 

 

 

 

 

We were exiled to the land of hopeless

romantics. There we saw centuries of maddening

women, the blind school teacher, a beggar

worshipping his pierced heart. There were too

many to count. A growing number gathered

around a hypothetical game of cards. I sat

between jokers holding bloody spades. They

made fools out of every last one of us, including

the ones up in treetops heard screaming at

something not quite there.

To our left there was sobbing, the holding of

heads in hands. To our right much closing of one’s

eyes, much talking to oneself before a vast field of

nothings, of many crucified Jesus’ wearing

earplugs.

 

 

 

 

 

The world was once flat. Life was simple then.

One could walk forever in one direction and never

see the same thing twice. Life is different now. We

train ourselves on curves, on the cusp of the finite.

Here we are with blank faces. Here with black

curtains drawn. We wear the hats of dead pilgrims.

We’re the world’s frightened guests. One could

grow very old just sitting here.