peace

Sympathy for the Rootless Vagabond

So, i’m hurtling through this cosmic cul-de-sac, a nomad on a double-nickel pilgrimage with a song on my lips and a brace of French Roast in my belly. All i ask, really, is a slice of peace, a chance to bask in the expanse of the vast cosmos without getting bogged down by the inertia of cultural bigotries. A decent night’s sleep and a well-stocked purse wouldn’t hurt either. You know, the usual human wishlist.

Love? Companionship? Not now! There’s a big difference between loneliness and solitude. At this stage of life, i cherish the latter. All i require is sustenance and the endless ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the distance. A knight-errant of the asphalt jungle, i roam the land, a double-nickel Don Quixote in a gypsy wagon christened Rosinante.

The world rushes by in a blur of faces and forgotten towns, some offering a fleeting thumbs-up, others muttering curses under their breath. But i care not for their fleeting judgments. I am a man without a home, adrift in a sea of asphalt, with all the time in the world to get nowhere. After all, if sticking to a double-nickel speed limit saves on dino-fuel (bless their scaly, prehistoric hides), then 55 it shall be (apologies to the Red Rocker).

LISTEN: Today, nature called amidst the springtime symphony of the prairie. With the road blissfully empty in both directions, i pulled over to answer nature’s insistent ache. And what a sight greeted me! A verdant valley unfolded like a freshly-minted postcard, the grass bursting with color after a life-giving rain. A lone, gnarled branch stood sentinel at the meadow’s edge, its weathered form a stark contrast to the vibrant flora around it, the rust on its barbed wire like a sprinkle of celestial pepper. And right there, in that moment, my heart overflowed with a love for this ramshackle, vagabond existence. Yes, sir, this rootless existence fills me with a love so profound it borders on the ecstatic. At least for now. Because let’s face it, there’s a whole damn nation out there waiting to be explored, and a million miles to tick off before i can even consider the possibility of… well, who am i kidding? There is no rest for the wicked, not on this side of the wormhole. So fire up the engine, baby! This road trip through the fibrillating heart of a divided nation continues!

And so… as some made-for-TV mop-tops once sang…

“Hey Hey, we’re the Monkeys…
You never know where we’ll be found…
So you better get ready…
Cos we’re comin’ to your town.”

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Kanorado Freezeframe

Kanorado Freezeframe

In a cathedral of frost… my boots, skiffs displacing virgin snow, crunch the hushed promise of beginnings. In the days between Christmas and the New Year, festive proclamations of peace and goodwill hang heavy in the air, yet this quiet reverie also thrums with the abyss of rancor and bottomless strife. The Prankster’s Acid-Test, once a rainbow promise, now shimmers with a metallic tang, a reminder of Heaven’s sublime dance with chaos.

And so… beneath this ecstatic surface, the dark melody plays. The white expanse becomes a battleground etched with the scars of faraway Abrahamic conflict, a canvas stained with generations of blood and tears. The echoes of Bethlehem and Calvary bleed into the whispers of jihad and herem, a cacophony of holy war that stretches across millennia.

My relatively carefree steps become a pilgrimage through this frozen labyrinth. Each crunch, a requiem for peace, a prayer for a future where faith isn’t a weapon, where love doesn’t wear the armor of hate. The silence of good fortune, once a haven, now amplifies the cries of fallen multitudes, urging a reckoning, a cleansing flood to wash away the bloodstain of ages.

As i walk deeper into the white embrace, the visions fade, leaving behind a stark clarity. The snow, a baptism of truth, washes away the sugarcoated sermons, the justifications for endless war. This bittersweet echo, a reminder of the fragility of peace in a world consumed by selfish animus.

And i, a pilgrim in this realm of white, carry the weight of both faith and fury. My steps, a testament to the long arc of justice, where holy fires stay home, where love’s ecstatic whirl upstages drums of war. In this winter cathedral, i dance with the ghosts of angels and demons, a testament to the omnipresent struggle for a world where peace isn’t just a Christmas platitude, but a lived reality.

Danger Town


Forever fight for peace… war at home. In silence you may speak… ’bout war at home. And air contagions breed… war at home.

And you won’t know but you’ll fight the war at home!

Everywhere you go… you hear the dogs… it’s all the rage on the Internet blogs… and no relief soon to be found… breathe the toxic fog of your Danger Town.

Punks and freaks embrace… war at home. And Mom and Dad belie… war at home. And crafty media oozes toward… war at home.

But the children shout revolution… waging war at home!

Everywhere you go… you hear the dogs… it’s all the rage on the Internet blogs… and no relief soon to be found… breathe the toxic fog of your Danger Town.

A new contempt pervades in business class… and religious militia enforce their holy will. With luck they’ll crown their pious king and crush the people’s will to flock. The tanks are in the street… the troops around the dome… a creeping coup de tat.

The sides no longer hear… war at home. And rancor can endear… war at home. And bileful hasty claims… war at home.

And angry shouts cannot douse the war at home!

Everywhere you go… you hear the dogs… it’s all the rage on the Internet blogs… and no relief soon to be found… breathe the toxic fog of your Danger Town.

Spotify link… HERE