We live at the bottom of the mountain Demons in our living rooms Dining with us They push our carts at the grocery store
They enter the soul And blindfold our eyes So we may watch television The ultimate brain wash Cleaning out all those nasty thoughts With the broom of dissatisfaction
Never enough, Of anything Including self worth A perverted truth be told That bleeds From seductive tongues
So we must prove ourselves And look to the mountain For worth and achievement It mustn’t be the mountain in our village. No We must climb the highest peak To be worthy
Embarking on our quest We make the journey alone Oxygen bottles and Sherpas Lie frozen dead on the trail And they build our camp So we can sleep on the ground And impress ourselves With our own bravery
Finally We reach the pinnacle After many days of hardship Alone, we have mastered our own destiny We view all we have conquered And feel the rush Of accomplishment
Surveying our world The wind singing its notes of approval We meet eyes with the Sherpas Their ruddy skin eating the wind for breakfast They smile and raise their hands in celebration And fill us in this singular moment
With so much more speed We find ourselves back home At the bottom of the mountain In our living rooms Changed little Save for the mountain top selfie Hanging on the wall
Alone at the top.
Accomplishment is rarely achieved without a support system. (2) multiple exposure photographs stitched for a wider view
One of my favorite photographic spots from 2012. It still is a favorite. I’m pretty sure it still is. It is now a forbidden zone. It’s a dystopian nightmare, when people with power, so utterly gripped by fear who lead through fear bear down on the masses with ridiculous decisions. I miss this place terribly, there is a hole in my heart.
The mask comes off Compliant to hide Without shame Or justice
In a world That now looks like An old western Stage coach robbery Instigated By the masses
Perhaps We should all Wear black hats
At this stagecoach stop I find fences. Like masks, They let in a little light.
There are spots Of floral beauty. And up above The moon grins wide.
Falling into a trance With camera in hand The transformative flush Rushes through my brain Like waves Crashing on the beach Cleansing out The sticky muck Of stress
Soon The garden The light The moon And I Dance
The camera allows one to dispense of reality, and create new realities. An abomination for many purists. I have never thought for one second that photography can make one pure. Neither does its practice originate from a pure place. That does not make it impure. Seemingly a contradiction, only for those with chains and closed minds. All photos are in-camera multiple exposures.