Friday, June 28, 2013


Manly P. Hall's conclusion on the tragedy of Oedipus from a lecture entitled Greek Philosophical Mythology - Studies in Comparitive Mythology.

"But, wisdom comes upon its own tragedy—because the very wisdom that solves riddles is the wisdom of a broken heart.  And, wisdom is the carrier of the world’s great tragedy. For that which by wisdom has destroyed illusion finds no happiness or security itself. It ends as a wanderer, blind and miserable, until finally it is brought to peace by the gracious deities of some far distant grove. There is no peace in the world for wisdom itself because wisdom partakes of the nature of Zeus, but not of the nature of Dionysus. And it is the power of Dionysus that must save or redeem all of these things."


Monday, June 24, 2013


Low Hidden Hand
- James Bychowski

When the colored flowers of my magician collapse
His low hidden finds its place on my back
Breathing and pulsing I think it’s your face
The hidden hand’s fingers curve themselves in your shape
They spin in a well that I’ve filled with the filth
Discarded white veils that I’ve soaked in an ink milk
That I’ve sucked from the fangs of a serpent whose scales
Gleam like the black blood of a king who’s been impaled
My magician transforms the bulbs on green stems
Into colors like movies when they bloom from his hand
The faces of women lined in shadow from film
They’re all that I want, I believe that I am
He’s raised up above all my dreams from below
A star swings between hands on a loop that was born
When the earth was a steam that was spurned by a sound
And the dark was a whisper through the mind of our God
There’s a being on wires whose heart dies in hell
It’s me that the loop wounds, setting sun, singing ship bell
I’ve been told to let go, so I do, I don’t have strength
All I have I believe, I just bob as the waves break
The ocean is calm, a salt pool where I can’t leave
It’s OK, they’re not sharp fists, I’m free where we all sleep
But, the loop always slips, and the beads on the flowers drop
What I thought that I was surely sinks for I am not
Because it’s you that I must face
If I am what this mind says
Not my mind, what I mean’s soul
What I mean’s what my heart’s told
That I am what my God wants
I’m not what’s been slingshot
On a loop between star forms
Laid to rest I am reborn

Friday, June 21, 2013


The Agitate -----> buy a copy here or here. It was published by Trafford, but is also available on Amazon. Previews can be found on both sites, but Trafford covers it more extensively.

Thursday, June 20, 2013


As Lazarus laughed and laughed . . . 




Saturday, June 15, 2013


Here's a panel discussing Kissinger's criminal foreign policy activity relating it to a broader view of accountability, justice, ethics and morality. It was broadcast on C-SPAN 2 on 02/22/2001 (worth noting that this was well before 9/11 and only a month after Dubya's inauguration). The panel was brought together to respond to articles Christopher Hitchens wrote for Harper's Magazine in which he made a very strong case for the indictment of Henry Kissinger as a war criminal.  

Much of what everyone says on the panel still strongly applies today. I think you'll appreciate the panel's candor and be surprised at how little of it we ever see anymore.

Thursday, June 13, 2013



Despair Is Measured
by James Bychowski

Smiles ‘n eyes . . .
I’m comin’ for ya when I die
Stop that snickerin’ an’ abuse me
Always said you was yella—see?

Out there I’m an infinite God thought
No longer distracted by earth rot
You’re scenes from a thing that was fearful
Gonna drop that chin and hell beat you

Denied of a strength that was future
For years you fed off of stupid
But, when I die I’m free to be genius
A big brain with a pummeling hamfist

I’m magic without people

I’ll beat you
You’re feeble
Pile your bones inta black steeples

Blue incense turns a robe on my soul
A curl in my pores murmurs that it’s certain
Oh, my arms have been willed beyond putrid
I must not force my will into Jesus
I will rest in a kingdom, not helpless!
Don’t you know? Haven’t you read it?

I will fight . . . all my years will end beaten
And, I do it to retreat into linen
But, is asylum that I’m made to imagine
Much worse than the cell that I stand in?

The fields that I picture aren’t perfect
They look like they’re covered in thorn brush
Nowhere near a bronze pool in a temple
But, my hope is much more than a handful

From out of the glare you’ll see Sirius
On a morning God lifts in Aquarius
I will drift from the moisture of this life
To grow from the ground under his light

My rebirth, a jewel of white hot
An outrage, the charge of a prophet
It don’t matter that ya cross us and beat flesh
Because, when it ends, I’m comin’ ta erase ya