RCAA*

A cautionary lesson on what it really takes to "make it" as an artist in this world...

O Artists
whose souls
are as delicate as baby sparrow wings,
I used to be like you once.
I used to believe all people were
kind human beings with hearts,
with souls, capable of the most
selfless acts.
Who wanted
to create beautiful things
that filled our hearts
and souls with the magic
of being alive
on planet earth.

Let me save you
several 5-gallon
buckets of tears,
100s of 1000s of dollars,
gray hairs streaking faster
through your wasted years
living in dilapidated cities
where you think
its cultural industries
are located, and
allow me
to guide you through
this reality check for aspiring artists*…

I used to believe in
-- religion
-- education
-- entertainment
-- media
-- medicine
-- science
and even
politics to a certain degree,
that even us regular folks could
have an impact in any of
those chosen fields.

Alas,
I eventually discovered
it was all 
-- fluff,
-- optics,
-- public relations,
-- enter(train)ment,
-- a training of the mind…

And as disgust for it seeped
into my soul like a flooded
basement, I watched
my beliefs frantically flail
in those poisoned waters
yelling out for a lifesaver 
(not the minty kind either!)
as one by one
they turned
out to
beLIEs.

I used to
wonder why
so many incredibly
gifted people never
got anywhere, never saw
any artistic accomplishments.
Just veering off the highway of Life 
while on their way to San Jose.

BUT NOT NOW!

Now that I’m 
in my rebellious 60s,
keeping my eyes wide open
instead of shut,
I think
I finally know the reason.

There are human actors
working behind the scenes,
pulling levers, curtains and
billowing smoke screens
like the Great and Powerful Oz
to make life as miserable as possible
for us, 
thinking we are
nothing more than animals
to be corralled into high-tech prisons,
to employ corporate gangsters
to poison our food, air and water,
to steal our hard-earned
money to give to their
nefarious causes,
to frighten us into injecting
ourselves with
black magic potions
which promised to save us
from the deadliest hoax that
hoodwinked the entire world.

Snarky 
wannabeats 
may think
I’m a deluded,
crazy, full-of-shit,
conspiracy wing-nut.
But I really don’t care
because their idea of
artistic achievement
is as profound as their 
clown-colored hair.

So,
with that being said…

Dear budding artist,
I know this is going to 
to be a hard, red pill to swallow,
and like my friend Carlos from the Dominican Republic used to say:
“I hate to be truthfully honest with you…”
but
your art
(be it film, dance, music, painting, writing, poetry or whatever)
will never see the light of day
unless you are
recruited by the alphabets,
have relatives going back to King George II,
are a scion of a wealthy family dynasty,
earned a resume of perverted pecadildos,
or
you’re inducted 
into the back-slapping, 
business-circle-jerking
friendly neighborhood 
one-eyed cult.

The cult
1000s of celebrities, politicians,
and other “professionals”
have joined since Babylon
babbled on
about how great
its golden god was
while stuffing its flaming mouth
with burnt baby offerings.

You are a thousand percent better
than those
manufactured
(h)ac(k)tors from the
(not so)
intelligent agencies
(whether theatrical or governmental)
hacked
by demons
into doing
their bidding.

If you 
or anyone 
decides to join this cult
be prepared
to cover their eye
with an OK 666 sign,
form a pyramid
with their hands,
stick out their
tongues like
little brats,
slip their hand
inside their suit jacket,
grip another’s hand
in a certain way,
or
put their index finger to their lips
so that they don’t go spilling the tea 
about this cult’s true purposes.

And
a whole host
of other horrible things
they won’t be able to write home about
otherwise they’ll have to…
you know…

Other
sextracurricular activities
may include orgies,
drinking blood
(vampires aren’t fantasy--
they’re an analogy, silly!)
or
a special ritual
where the only spirit cooking will be yours.
or
e). all of the above!

Oh,
they’ll be obscenely rewarded
with contracts, money,
fame
fortune and glory…
the biggest publicity machine
in the world.

And
in exchange
for all these lovely gifts,
all they have to do
is sign on the
dotted line
(in blood)
--would you be ok with that?—
and
make a disturbing little
music video celebrating their
incul(t)cation replete with
checkerboard floors,
demons,
kitten ears, white rabbits,
and of course, SIN-gle eyes.
Who knows?
They may even get featured in the AMAs,
the Superb Owl halftime show,
and
probably get a Grammy!

Oh,
and one more thing
in the fine print…
They’ll have to
sacrifice
one of
their
own.

That’s all!

What?
What’s wrong?
Why is your face is scrunched up like that?

I know…
I’m truly sorry
to deliver such unhappy news
when all you want is
to turn the celestial
music in your soul
into a light 
to ignite
humanity’s hearts.

I’m only trying to
dissuade you from needlessly 
spinning in those cul(t) de sacs
set up to drain your soul’s energy.

You’re here
on propaganda planet for a reason:

To say
what only
you can say,
to cast your poems to the wind
where they turn into clouds  
and rain its letters
over the earth
anointing
its bewildered inhabitants. 

To sing
the song
only you can sing
whose notes
pinball against
the other stars
resounding with
the music of the Spheres.

To film
your holy visions
opening the portals
between the silver screen
and the other dimension,
heralding the luminous flood of angels 
to vanquish the demons
starry-eyed psychophants
summoned to muck up the world.

To be what you were meant to be
when you came to this planet!

And 
to anyone who
offers you the world
in exchange for your artistic soul, 
just tell ‘em…

Your soul contains 
a giga-verse of stars
which are not to be traded on the
rigged satanic stock exchange of 
this puny prison planet.

Because
dear kindred spirit
at the end of the proverbial day,
you’ve got something
they’ll never have in a million years:
the sweet liquid gold of creation
flowing in your soul…
whose source flows 
from the Creator 
of
All
That
Is