Such is philosophy—Questioning ordained thought; dissecting pre-ordained theory.
A blind mind is a stagnant soul.
Christ, Mohammed, and Buddha ... brothers all, sons of God. Destined to die for the sins of those they forgave.
Sittin’ on the porch, sippin’ coffee, and smokin’ a cigar, I watched a burning yellowish-orange orb slowly rise above the horizon ... ’twas our faithful, old morning star breakin’ dawn. ’Tis a magnificient sight!
Life is a route to personal discovery and social recourse. We learn from a path taken, correcting our line of venture, in hope we improve ourselves along the way.
Come explore the Universe with me ... surfing a cosmic crest into a supernova flash, burning matter as we glide the extreme beam of infinite wonders.
The written word’s power to inspire is inept unless it provokes the reader to think.
The now-me generation is content on selling out the human race for that bigger piece of pie in the blueray sky.
I’m a cosmic soul man! Playing the immortal chords of truth found only in the music of deities.
I feel as if I’m existing in a parallel Universe. The life I’ve lived was not expected, but it was an intoxicating, amazing experience filled with some wild shit you simply would not believe. Hell, I have a hard time grasping it, myself!
I’m a blues man! My guitar speaks striking songs sung of my past journey, echoing future passion and purpose in store.
“You’re Mark the warrior ... Mars, god of war. You’re Matthew the orator ... he who speaks his mind’s just roar,” as once told to me by Madame Iris ... my seductress of the night, femme fatale of French Quarter lore. Such a difficult, torn duality it has been.
On common battlefields of mortal deed, fellow kind fight, leaving remnant dead. A crimson stream flows from our brothers’ veins that death doth bleed.
Human fallacies pulsate like a charged cosmic quasar beam, banded together to catch twilight’s last dream. The night is passing beyond.
The good earth? A habitat filled with barren wastelands; stagnant tainted water; toxic foul air; but no one in power seems to care about the newborns of tomorrow. While the thorns of life persist, the rose withers and decays.
