A name that conjures ease
and carefree thoughts
in stark contrast
to the raging battle
waged beneath.
Harboring dangerous things.
Spider trees and periwinkles
sharp as spears and broken shards
and moccasins whose other name
is Death.
Skating across the glassine surface.
But my end almost came
from a pitiful excuse for rapids.
Water that could just barely
be called White.
Shenandoah,
you tried to consume me.
Caught between two fairly insignificant,
paltry, yet immobile stones
that might as well have been
Charybdis and Scylla.
That turned our lazy retreat,
our blissful excursion,
into defiance of the liquid tomb
which sought to enshroud me.
And now?
Isn't Life that much meatier?
From 'Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon
(Musings on Death, Grief and Loss)
© 2019
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Shenandoah
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Verminous Terminous
Great-grandmother is wasting away.
Pass the head and you’ll be alright.
That’s what I’ve heard.
Otherwise, the damned thing will regenerate.
What is the purpose of these parasites?
The same could be asked of Man.
It’s all a matter of perspective.
Why do people have to die?
I mostly remember the toys and sweets.
Only vaguely do I recall her face
which could be mixed up
with an actress I once saw in an old movie.
The nerves in her cheek were dead,
severed by a surgeon
to spare her from the pain
caused by some exotic malady.
Tic douleroux.
So if a fly landed
on the right side of her face
she wouldn’t notice
like the people in documentaries
about places like India
and Ethiopia.
She’s gone now.
So are all of her children.
Now they live
only in fading sepia photographs
and more rapidly fading memories.
Someday, my father and mother,
my sisters and brother,
all of my friends and loved ones,
wife yet to be,
children not yet born,
and I will die
and give birth to worms.
Curious cycle.
From ‘Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon
(Musings on Death, Grief and Loss)
© 2019
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Everything Shines
Open and waiting.
We reach with hungry fingers
out into Infinity.
The body is a vessel.
The eyes see only shadows.
The mind must be the muscle
to create the mirror.
To conquer the fear.
To conjure the impossible.
For you to be the maker.
The Master of Destiny.From ‘Cigarettes, Whiskey and Armageddon
(Musings on Death, Grief and Loss)
© 2019
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The Earthman
The first thing I remember when I think of James is his voice, deep and gravelly with a strong hint of the South. It could range from a barely audible whisper to a booming as if from a deep pit and when he spoke in anger people would take a step back.
His was a face artists dream of, tousled windblown hair swept back from the cliff of his forehead. It was a face eons old, seamed with the experience of all men from the beginning of time. He was born too late was James. Born into a world where man's civilization has encroached on the forest choking nature almost to the brink of her demise. His visage showed this and more, and yet he was not unhandsome.
His eyes were the only kind thing about his countenance and they betrayed his true nature. You were drawn to those eyes, like twin oases on the wasteland of his face and when the mood struck him and a smile emerged from that face, like a sunrise behind a mountain, his eyes would shine with the brilliance of youth. Then his laughter would ring out like the pealing of church bells and you would be swept up and carried along the current of his good cheer.
Hard work was not unknown to James, nor pain. Calluses populated fingers better suited to a pianist, hands sinewy and strong like the rest of him. His clothes hung on his wiry frame like a ship's sail.
This is what I remember about James, and now he's dead, but not gone. I can still see him in the ancient trees struggling for existence in the city and his voice rides the wind.
,
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When I Saved the Life of a Cop
When I was in the band the Zealots in about 1994 or 1995, the drummer, Jess, lived above Manny Brown’s, a bar on South St. in Philadelphia. There was a staircase that went straight up to his apartment on the 3rd Floor.
On this day, Paul, the guitarist, and Norman the bassist and I, the frontman, went to Jess’ and he told us he had been robbed. They had taken the door from the roof off the hinges. Jess said his roommate was sleeping at the time and never woke up while they rifled through her belongings in her room. So thankfully, she was ok. The police were on the way.
When the cops got there one of them, a petite woman cop, reached out to open the door to the roof. She must not have been listening well when we told her it was taken off its hinges. The door started to fall on her. That door was at the top of the stairs which you may remember was a straight 3 story drop to the street. I caught the door with one hand before it hit the cop.
That’s it. She didn’t even say thank you. I don’t think cops are used to saying that.
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The Death of the American Intellectual
In recent decades, America has witnessed an intentional dumbing down of the population, the effects of which are unmistakable. This isn’t an accident or a natural shift in education standards but rather a calculated effort by certain political forces to reduce critical thinking. When people lack the tools to question or dissect information, they become more malleable and easier to manipulate. It’s no wonder that a former president openly declared, “I love the uneducated.” Anti-intellectualism has flourished in this climate, feeding off both a suspicion of “elitism” and a comfort in simplistic narratives. Meanwhile, credible sources are struggling to make themselves heard amid a cacophony of misinformation. Instead of promoting knowledge, public discourse increasingly rewards sensationalism and surface-level engagement.
This deterioration isn’t limited to any one political ideology. On one side, some figures seem almost proud to erode intellectual discourse, insisting that feelings are more important than facts or deriding experts as disconnected elites. On the other, we see cancel culture, where voices holding unpopular opinions are silenced or erased rather than debated. The rise of “call-out culture” may have begun with good intentions, intending to hold individuals and institutions accountable. But it has devolved into something far more concerning—a collective fear of speaking out, of exploring new ideas, or of challenging the dominant narratives within any given ideological camp. Individuals, rather than grappling with dissenting views, now often cherry-pick facts to reinforce existing beliefs, discarding inconvenient truths along the way. This trend of “cherry-picking” runs even deeper in an era of extreme polarization. People find themselves locked in echo chambers, surrounded by voices that only reinforce what they already believe. In the process, even our social media feeds have been curated by algorithms to show us opinions that mirror our own, reinforcing the divide and shielding us from alternative perspectives. Debate, once considered a healthy part of democratic engagement, is increasingly dismissed as too divisive, and as a result, we are seldom exposed to ideas that make us uncomfortable.
Yet it’s precisely this discomfort—this challenge to our preconceived notions—that spurs genuine intellectual growth. If we hope to reverse this intellectual decay, it’s essential to return to first principles, to the belief that education is not merely about gaining knowledge but about fostering an environment where ideas can be tested, where individuals are empowered to think critically and independently. Intellectual curiosity should be celebrated, not viewed with suspicion or disdain. And disagreement should not be equated with enmity. Indeed, there is value in a society where opposing views can coexist and where questions are encouraged rather than suppressed. In a functional democracy, education should ideally empower citizens to make informed choices.
However, when intellectual rigor is treated as elitism, and skepticism is replaced with cynicism, the entire democratic framework becomes fragile. The outcome? A society driven more by fear, tribalism, and reactionary thought than by reason, evidence, or constructive debate. If the American intellectual is to survive, we must recognize that intellectual growth comes from questioning, not blindly accepting, the narratives fed to us. Ultimately, intellectual growth relies on the openness to revise our own beliefs. It’s a lesson that’s as old as democracy itself. As thinkers like Socrates taught, the unexamined life is not worth living. If we allow our intellectual institutions, public discourse, and individual curiosity to atrophy, we risk creating a future where critical thought is not just devalued, but becomes a relic of the past.
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“Sticky Yggdrasil”
Mixed Media
2024
30 x 24″
“Sticky Yggdrasil” is a mixed media piece that delves into the mythological depth of Yggdrasil, the Norse World Tree. Created quickly and instinctively, the piece captures a raw, subconscious energy. Eyes scattered across the top lend a watchful quality, implying that Yggdrasil itself is observing the world. Among fragmented layers of yellow, brown, and torn textures, the Striga character—a figure with a waterspout body—emerges subtly, blending into the tree’s natural landscape.
The composition is organic and layered, with brown torn leaves drifting through the scene, adding a sense of life and movement. A central star shape symbolizes Yggdrasil’s spiritual heart, radiating energy and connecting worlds. The combination of textures, colors, and mythological symbols brings a tactile realism to the “sticky” theme, as if fragments of reality are entangled in the branches of Yggdrasil.
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“One Small Step for a Turtle…”
Mixed Media
2023
30 x 24″
With this addition to my New Mythology series, “One Small Step for a Turtle…,” I reimagine space exploration through a lens of humor and irony, asking: what if the first step into the cosmos was taken by a creature as slow and enduring as the turtle? The bold orange background creates an intense, almost apocalyptic backdrop, contrasting sharply with the black-and-white collage elements. This fragmentation hints at the chaos of history and memory, while the central turtle in an astronaut suit anchors the piece, giving viewers a point of balance amid the disorder.
The turtles, symbols of resilience and patience, juxtapose with the cold, fast-paced realm of space technology, hinting at an environmental reflection. With their shells as homes, they echo astronauts carrying life support into inhospitable territory. There’s a retro-futuristic vibe here, as if the old and the new have converged in a post-apocalyptic setting, with the debris and wreckage hinting at human ambition and its potential fallout.
Adding the slogan “General Motors is turtles making better products for turtles” underscores the piece’s playful yet critical stance. It pokes fun at corporate influence, turning a mundane slogan into a surreal commentary on industry’s absurd claims. Altogether, this piece captures a collision of nature and technology, hinting at the endurance of the natural world amidst humanity’s relentless, often reckless, progress.
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“Prometheus Trashed”
Mixed Media
2023
30″ x 24″
One of my “New Mythology” pieces, “Prometheus Trashed” is a commentary on modern life, especially on how technological and industrial advancements, once seen as saviors of humanity, can lead to destruction and waste. The piece is intended to provoke reflection on the consequences of innovation and progress, while using found objects to give it a tangible connection to the real world.
The title is meant to suggest a critique of how humanity may have squandered the gifts of knowledge and technology, leaving behind a landscape of broken pieces. The discarded, fragmented objects evoke a sense of wastefulness, suggesting that in our pursuit of technological advancement (the “fire” of Prometheus), we’ve left behind a trail of destruction.
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“Moon Maiden”
Mixed Media
2022
48″ x 36″
“Moon Maiden” is part of my New Mythology series and was created quickly, guided by the subconscious. The artwork captures a fragmented, almost lunar-like landscape with black-and-white tones and splashes of teal and orange that lend tension to the piece. The Goddess herself, adorned with a detailed, textural headdress, holds a hauntingly stoic expression. Her face merges the human and the otherworldly, as soft portraiture contrasts with sharp, geometric shapes, creating a sense of dissonance and reverence. The piece suggests a story or myth emerging from these layers, as if she is a deity reclaiming identity amid chaos. Leaving parts of the canvas open was a first for me, allowing archipelagos of space debris to form around the central figure.
This openness not only reflects the Moon’s vast surface but also gives a feeling of isolation, as if fragments of her story orbit something unseen. The decision was spontaneous yet intentional—once I named the piece Moon Maiden, I knew I wanted these spaces to stay unfilled, adding to the mystery and inviting viewers to interpret what might lie beyond. This approach—combining open space with subconscious imagery—has started influencing my other pieces. “Prometheus Trashed,” “One Small Step for a Turtle,” and “Sticky Yggdrasil” also share this theme of openness and fragmentation. Each work carries a message about technology and caution, showing the resilience in what’s left amidst the chaos. In my mythology, the gaps represent not only the myths themselves but also serve as a warning against our overreliance on technological progress, creating space for reflection on what we may be losing.
Bitter with the Swede 