Traveling the universe in search of enlightenment and revelation, I am awestruck by the spectacular exhibition of swirling, glittery fireballs, gaseous torrents of color, and almost artistic quality of the dancing galaxies scattered like brilliant clusters of marbles through out the universe. Such wonders and phenomenon litter my intergalactic journey. I can feel it the further I travel; the spark of my imagination was fanned in to a blazing fury. I am so close to reaching my peak, when the inspiration would flow and consume me; the final step in my search for enlightenment and revelation. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small, bright orange square reminiscent of a construction sign. How curious. I have to investigate. As I approach the curiosity, my inquisitive eyes probe further than possible to spy what is written on the sign. Finally, I have come close enough to see what it reads. “End of the Universe: Turn Around and Leave”. And just like that, my muse abandons me and leaves my travel-wearied body and mind in the cold depths of pace to stare unbelievingly at the most terrifying thing I have ever seen.

I enjoy screaming, “Fire!” around blind people and demanding veracity from the mealy-mouthed politicians. The reaction is essentially the same as spilling a bag of big grapes. The only thing that stops the blind people is to run into an object, and, in the politicians’ case, the weight of their own avariciously formed bodies will eventually stop them, though, you hope some of them have to run into something to stop as well.

As an atheist, the church is more likely to give me a baptism by fire rather than water. I can see it now. The fire like a billowing, transparent silk of warm colors and the center so hot it feels like ice as it melts flesh. All the pious sycophants shouting “Demon spawn” “Satan’s whore” and “Godless liberal” as their obese pastor spews words of hate and claims this to be a task appointed to him by his benevolent and forgiving god, to cleanse my wicked soul. How barbaric and yet ironic to be set ablaze by these fanatical heathens, but what more can one expect from a group of people being lead by a falsified holy manuscript that preaches hatred and redemption through obedience.

Jukebox Jane. Her short locks dyed the color of midnight blue are pulled back with floral barrettes to display her eyes like autumn’s fire and framing her oval face. Scarlet fishnets complimented by a royal purple corset with laces squeezing at her hips. Torn, tattered, stained, and poor stitch attempts clutter her once whole blue jeans. A small red, tartan skirt rests at the top of her jeans to accent the fishnets. Purple and white argyle socks clash with lime green Chucks with bold orange laces. Colorful rubber bracelets, hand-made beaded bracelets, and broken watches from old cereal boxes consume her wrists while rings bought from candy machines decorate her slender fingers. Four rainbow and seashell necklaces constrict and dangle down to her breasts about her neck. Skull earrings hang from her ear lobes while jewels stud the curve of her ears’ arches. A single silver ring dares to pierce her sensuous lips. She is a second generation Russian immigrant with the scars to prove it. Tattoos cover her body like a second skin, tattoos of music, philosophy, and victories. Jukebox Jane, Goddess of Music & Rebellion, companion of Hangover Hurley, a fifth generation Irish immigrant, God of Alcohol and Revolution.

A myriad of pathological liars and Creationists. Skyscrapers stand like trophies to attest greatness while people suffer trepidation and die in their shadows. How quickly numbers and statistics claim fact but instead replace it. So troubling when a word like liberal, which one stood for “broad-mindedness” and “progressive”, is interchangeable with “coward” and “godlessness” while conservative is associated with “safety through action” and “morality through tradition”. Diplomacy has dug its talons deep with in the mind of society so that the act of speaking has become an overly polite and censored form of communication to accommodate and conform. No longer the home of the free. Keep your sick and hungry, we’ll take your allegiance or neutrality. Here lies the portrait of a waning civilization build on foundations of human rights and freedom, but it will crumble under the weight of corruption and hypocrisy.

Have you ever known the scent of dawn? The sweetness of rebirth? Have you ever held your sorrows in your hands or tasted the faded hope of the rain? Have you ever felt the iridescent goddess of the night sky caress you with the intimate touch of a lover? Do you know what it is like to hear a flower blossom? Or listened to a snowflake scream as it melts? Do you ever stop and watch the tree dance or talk with their fallen leaves? Have you ever counted the crystals in the sand or asked the ocean waves to carry you into the stars’ dreams? Now, watch as you life’s ambitions prance along a knife’s edge, waiting for the merciful gale to end the illusions of hope and happiness you forced upon them.

Where have all the great artists gone? It seems as if the artistic abilities are available to everyone, but they are hardly flowing to the brim with originality. Anything original seems too abstract with little effort or a contemporary form of an ancient art form, but none compare to the palpable brilliance of the artists, whose bones lay in ruin beneath the feet of their incompetent predecessors. It seems hopeless that we will ever find another da Vinci, Kahlo, Michelangelo, Donatello, Bernini, Rivera, Raphael, Dali, and so on, who will begin an artistic revolution. Instead, we welcome the contemporary and abstract deficiencies of today’s artists with the notion that people are no longer invested in the quality of the art, but the idea for it is the only originality left in the artists’ community.

Brand new bicycles are covered in rust like metallic Ebola victims with curtains of cobwebs hovering over them with a resonance of empty promises to ride them every Sunday afternoon to the park. A holy book sets on a child’s dresser and dares to stand out with its ancient, gold-colored font on the cover, but it is no more relevant than the fantastic stories never read aloud by a loving parent to keep the nightmares at bay. Awkward moments rooted in false pretenses to protect the progeny from the truth of lovelessness, and leads to a tension so thick you could eat it with a spoon. The sky swollen with storm clouds cannot wash away the feeling of unshed tears from unjustified pride or forgotten memories of a time of contentment now replaced by a deep-seeded hatred. You tell me that’s life, but I would hardly consider memories of faded laughter, faltering smiles, and exploited innocence a life. Just my childhood.

Grass faeries and wood pushers populated the local public park like swarms of ants gathering at a picnic. I came to take photographs, to immortalize moments and images like a visual historian of sorts. A regular practice for me within my urban community, anything to get my away from my domestic responsibilities, but this would be a day forever marked in the back of my mind. I saw a creature that must have been of unearthly origins, or at least not of human origins, and yet he moved and talked as if he were one of us. His skin had a healthy, warm glow to it in the midday sun. His hair fell in big loose ringlets about his shoulders with the rich color of burnt gold. But none of these features seemed so out of the ordinary until I saw his eyes. They were like a pair of deep turquoise flames reminiscent of the tropical waters of the Caribbean. Pools of reflection that gazed at you with an intensity, which made you feels as if he could pierce through your mind. No one on earth could have possessed such soulful eyes, let alone a teenage boy, so my mind logically concluded that he could not have come from any natural human origins. So who this creature that has the nerve to invade upon the mundane and routine of my life?

To be continued…