A lot has taken place since the last post. I have golfed about 72 or more holes at various courses; the Gordy Challenge out at Maple Hills, Stonehedge on Fathers Day near Augusta, up at St. Ives near Big Rapids, and the league at Thornapple. I need a break from golf for awhile, I have been sucking lately and need a swing-mind revamping.
BUT the big news is the death of the King of Pop. All I think of is the Artist twisted and tortured inside. Jimi, Janis, J. Morrison, Elvis, Van Gogh, Rimbaud, James Dean, Dennis Wilson, Kurt Cobain, Michael and others; their genius battled the pain, drove the soul of their creative ride along the crest of an existence that was surreal and on time, in the moment and off the wall. The artist feels life experiences at a level most do not. Translates it into something we can all only try and understand. They strove to help us make sense of what value the sweetness this life possesses for us all against the darkness.
I offer my poem robot love from mid 70's:
what is it that bubbles is my brain every time the robot tries to look my way I know they see it the look in my eye I know they see it they think it's a lie
what is it that cuts through the eye of the robot when he insists on playing out his hand it's always the same oh how the man hates the sound of our wrippled band it's never the same it's robot love
robot love caring to prefer not to saying no to the status quo give a show grow your own self it's only fair sell short despair not it's worth it who says who cares who stares
stairs stirs stars stars stairs stirs stirs stars stairs still sit wait still waiting i waited waited waited for his return for his return upon hes return i lost touch again it wasn't worth it
sweet robot do stay away i feel easier this way hurt it does to see me cry me try me die me cry me try me die
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