Under the Footfalls

People stand the same,

As leaves of grass after a frost,

The past had chilled them,

While the shining future warms to them.

But even those bathed in the reanimated dew

Still look upon their brothers,

For as the hopeful sun rises,

There are shapes of darkness that drift across the land,

Holding some in the shadows for a little longer.


How dreadfully bitter it must be-

To look upon the future with a warm heart,

And look upon your brethren with a cold shudder.



No body.

There lies a child,

dead in the road,

a child to someone,

perhaps already a parent to someone else.

I see it as I drive on,

No body stops,

No body cares.

Further along there are firetrucks, and police cars, and ambulances,

But none of them notice the child,

They’re busy looking at something else.

The child still lies there, I’m sure.

Other cars have probably hit it without looking or caring,

No body has enough dignity to even drag it to the side of the road,

A place where, perhaps, it might lie in whatever peace it has left.

We are all animals, why does no one else care about this one?

Everything Burns.

Nothing matters anymore,

Not when you see the sky in flames,

Everyone stops,

Everyone gawks.

The sunset seems premature,

The sky has turned red and orange and black,

All the clouds roil in this beginning of the evening.

Looking up to see this- I smile,

“All is equal”, I say, and chuckle to myself,

“Heaven burns too.”


Sorry for my absence lately, I simply haven’t found anything in my scattered writings that have motivated me to post lately. Well, here goes getting back into the swing of things. A sincere thank you to those who have been following me still. 🙂 -JSCK

It has been my belief for years that people are animals, just like any other, no better and even often worse. Inside everyone and every living thing is the same set of internal drives- to live, to eat, to breathe, and to breed. Occasionally I will have problems with the fact that I am a carnivore, but I do it because I see myself as such- just another carnivore, just another animal who undoubtedly would eat meat in any other scenario. But I have made several conscious, philosophic determinations about this practice and how it relates to me; I see myself as an animal, but I refuse to glorify myself- I refuse to fancy myself as some grandiose lion draped in the regality and majesty of a kill. I see myself as I am in this system: a filthy vulture. I see myself as some carrion bird, pilfering and profiting of some efforts made by persons unattached to me.

People often fail to recognize what and where their food comes from, and that creates problems. This is how shock campaigns for vegetarianism work, in my opinion. They take advantage of kids who never noticed the similarities between that little feathered animal that goes ‘cluck’ and the breaded and fried medallions that show up in their happy meal. So when they see the cute chickens being killed in the black and white films, they recoil. When these kids look at some picturesquely cute photograph of a baby calf and are asked why they would kill it, they are confused. There are always two problems with this, the disillusionment that is forced on the unsuspecting children, and the illusion that is allowed to present itself in the first place.

Infuriated by Disbelief

A doubt can be flattering, but an assertion is inflammatory. I was recently requested by a family member something to the effect of “Oh, you’re a writer, come up with a good Facebook status for me.” I decided for the sake of civility to not take that as an insult. I glanced at her page, thought for a few seconds, jotted something down and spun the screen back to here. The first thing I heard was “Oh, what a pretty line! Where’s it from?” I chuckled, and told her that i just thought of it; for the rest of the day, all I heard was “No… that has to be from something, you can’t just ‘think up’ something beautiful like that, where’s that quote from?” This infuriated me to no end. Why is it that I can’t be the creator of my own words? Is there something about me that just makes this unbelievable? How could I hope to pursue the dream or idea of being a writer, when even the simplest output I could give is robbed from me? This experience was so fucking insulting…

Question to those out there, how have/do you overcome others imposing the idea of limits? Have you had similar experiences?

Another African Musing.

This will probably be a short post but it is a snippet from my notebook in Africa. This one goes out to Sylv, thanks for taking an interest and thanks for the request. 🙂

Cockatieled feathers and glistening emerald. It is amazing how abruptly differences in area cross my path. Walking down a sidewalk a bird plumed in a brilliant green lands in my way. I stop. Here is a spectacular meeting embodying the essence of cultural travel; my wonderment, his indifference. As I stand aghast at the fantastic color of this bird, it personifies nonchalance. That amazement at something that may appear so mundane is the beauty of travel and exploration. One man’s mundanity can be another’s fascination.


I was walking around a bookstore today and stumbled across a book that slightly offended me, purely by the idea of it. It was a book designed to give people ideas for graffiti . I love street art, I think it is a beautiful form of expression. But it is inherently that:  expression. I suppose I imagine the audience for this book to be those who want to make a mark but don’t yet have a statement to make. And I can’t help but feel that it should implicitly be those who have something to say that should be speaking up, so to speak.