A Call to the Artist Archetypes


When we gonna listen,
And realize we got nothing to say,
When we gonna break up,
‘Cause we got nothing new to
We’re all just on some mission,
some cheap and self glorifying
When’re we gonna listen,

(Electronic music interlude…

Still going….

Breaking it down now,

still…………breaking down…………… )

OK. Here we go…

i’ve got another question for ya.    Mr. Campbell. Mr. Camp-bell? Where are we to go once They shut it all down?They shut down all the Men’s cl-ubs!

You know, I’d really like to really like to really like to know. You know we live in a time when Pinterest is the new National Archive. 

it’s sad you know it’s sad you know it’s sad you know it’s true.

Soon we’re gonna wake up. Soon we’re gonna find, They drew a line between, the information you can afford, and the stuff they save for the East-coast E-lite. 

Now it’s time to live time to live it’s time to live

up to the archetypes.

We are the Starving Artist’s, starving though our bellies are full. It’s not the guns They wanna take, no, it’s your mind. 


When we gonna wake up,

When we gonna listen,
realize we got nothing left to say,
When we gonna break up,
Cause we got nothing new to
We’re all just on some mission,
some cheap and self glorifying
When’re we gonna listen.

(To the Bloggers)
We are the Artist Archetypes: Liberators of Minds come to free you from the market economy and Peddler’s of pedagogy. Destroyers of the dichotomy, that’s blasphemy, we live forever in our memory, in every cell in our body, that’ll be the death of me.

Because it’s up to us, the artists, the seers, to drive humanity forward with our questions. Our science imitates art, just look at how most science fiction has become science reality in the last decade. Scientists aren’t the most creative bunch, and so it’s up to us to ask the questions that will drive us in the directionless direction, the unnamed, uncategorized, nonbinary. Otherwise we’ll have to settle for this simulated reality.

Carried Away (A Poem)

Carried Away

Scattered leaves,
various shades of chrome-yellow, and currant,
stream endlessly, carried away by the current
over and over again leaves pass, not
too dissimilar to discern the difference.
However, without the underlying knowledge that
there is change, there would only be insanity –
Still, the water, seamlessly drifts –
flashes of silver and white water rush to
the surface, rippling wakes
that never completely dissipate,
but eventually reach the shore.
It’s like this.
BNSF thunders and howls,
trees thrash,
wind ripples molecules
and you sit, sturdy enough to
not fall over, though on the edge
of some kind of breakthrough
that just gets missed and
carried away like the

breath on the wind.

So High

(fuzzy keyboard droning.)

I saw myself finally,

I was really high,

(looping guitar riff.)

I watched from the sky

draping the atmosphere

like a weather balloon

I saw my story;

an American TV reality drama

And I’m the one                                        (strumming acoustic guitar.)

who played the fool,    (female vocalists.)                 played the fool       played the foo-ool, he played the fool.

( unaccompanied.)        and how do you come back down      from this,

from this  life lived with remiss.

(looping acoustic guitar.)

Well,     I saw myself beneath a patch of bitter grey,

where everything seemed in dismay,

and I began to laugh,

it’s hard to take yourself seriously,           when you’re only as big as a pinhead.

He played the foo-hool, played the fool.

life from up here can get pretty strange,

everything gets rearranged (female vocalists humming.) I let myself go further on the tether.

(looping guitar, acoustic strum, harmonize.)

Up here in the stratosphere,                   I feel just like a feather,

No ignorance,       no pain,                 not even shame.

(musical interlude, tempo mezzo.)

It’s about then I realize I’m completely outta my head

and I put all introspection to bed.

Just like that I come back down,      falling on the ground,

nothing is clear, except misery and fear.

Now all I can do is continue to live my story,

even if it means being stuck

in an American reality TV drama.

First let me apologize for my poor attempt at turning this into a song. I had it in my head, but realize that it would not sound the same in yours. Although I will admit I do like this about poetry, or art in general, that its subjective, hit or miss, however it makes the act of writing feel like it’s all for naught.

Either way I’ve ruined the art of poetry either through my lack of music notation, or my inability to relate the rhythm through silence (pause) and word. I realized in writing this that I need to learn musical notation much better in order to pull this off the way I want and so consider this just practice.

thanks so much for your patience and of course for reading!


Here on earth

we’re spinning ’round

mirrored reflections

Oh whoa ho

sometimes I catch myself

and everything goes streaming

by this is where I see

I’m a part of it.

Touching that

which can’t be touched

I’m touched.

We’re spinning ’round

heart reverberates

into the endless mirror chasm

Oh whoa ho-o



back into myself

to continue

the mirroring of images.

Stuck on a loop

it keeps repeating

spinning ’round

when I stop

it’s then I hear the sound.

Can’t stop me now.

Oh whoa-oh ho

Can you feel the flow?

it brings you closer

to the hole

inside the mirror.

Crystal Mtn Peak

I talked a lot on our way up the 6,500 ft peak. I talked and taught until I realized that the mountain said more than I ever could. The wind through the pines and birch, rushing water from a distance, the bird’s song, our shoes on the dirt trail, the clouds, the sky, sun breaks, light mist in our face, trickling streams running across the trail, the struggle to climb and keep climbing, the silence in between laughter. I wasn’t doing the teaching at all, my words were far inferior to that of the beginningless change of the forested mountain.

As foreigners, who’ve lost their way from home,

here to travel and explore,

To conquer and accomplish,

We found only exactly what we were looking for

A world of immediate wonder

Telling us that we are not foreign at all.

The Breeders

You sit in your suburban castle,

out of touch with reality.

Glued to your screens, life is such a hassle.

Maintain your ego through the fallacy

of free will. Subscriptions, deadlines, and headlines. Rewind.

Disheveled hair and yesterdays sweats.

You’re too busy to be kind,

I’ll never learn to live like you, where life is just cleaning up one big mess

after another. Now I sit in a castle of my own,

make the coffee, fire off a few emails, drop the kids off at school.

An expansive, hollow place, hardly a home

just a place to breed while staking our claim.

Time passes us by,

in our castle in the sky.


You should have heard the gulls last night.

They cooed and hawed in the fog over a rising tide.

Wind rippling echos in the mist.

Mist from what is certainly not considered fog anymore, but cloud.

Every once in a while one glides overhead, chattering, on some mission perhaps known only to nature.


We live forever in a moment;

Her head slumps in my shoulder

as she drifts to sleep

Through the window

half light fractures the red cedar bark,

peeling back layers of time.

It’s the kind of light that used to mean

time to head home.

Shadows of branches distend

to the fuzzy green and brown floor.

Mom calls me home for dinner.

I begin to slump into the couch.

My stomach rocks like waves lapping the shore.

For a moment our bodies are like the salty sea foam;

formless and not divided by numbers.

The birth of things.

Of love maybe.

Or something beyond love, something that doesn’t die,

and like the foam it returns to the sea

only to remanifest.

It won’t be long before dark.

I wonder what kind of childhood memories she’ll have.

It’s not easy to transcend Space and Time on your own.

You have to sit very still,

with your eyes closed,

for a long time.

And even then it’s not a guarantee.

It’s much easier with someone else,

The mutual understanding is already there.

An agreement to terms and conditions.

Then Space and Time collapses

somewhere between a smile.


Most of the time i can’t trust myself enough

To know that i know enough about what i’m doing.

Running on the treadmill always trying to keep up

Gnashing teeth. Wringing hands.

What is it i don’t understand?

I keep trying to fill this emptiness, with some goddamn ideal will it ever be enough?

Spiraling cottonwood seeds drift and build up like snow curbside.

Cracked sidewalk shifted and bent atop gnarled ancient tree roots.

When will I know enough to know that all this striving, this ideal of

perfection is what keeps me from peace.