Raspberry Jam


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There are others, whom crawl around in gutters,
There are times, where the sun showers down upon the weak.
One or another, Why? because life is where we surrender.
A black beast with thick wire hair lurks in between the sheets.
The elephant in the room.
Can one find the addiction? Can one over come the lies?
There are many of us who walk blindly,
But we’ll raise our fist to the heavens, until we discover it,
Freedom that fantastical irreplaceable adventure.

I continue to watch the opportunistic fail,
Those paths that have been covered by dirty weeds and cutthroat rock,
Only one way to continue, walk.
Stub your big toe, cut your hands, rip your jeans, embrace the rain.
Find the joy in the struggle for it is the only way to truth.
And continue inching towards the grand nothing.
put it all together, a concoction still stirring,
At the end its all just Raspberry Jam spread on a plate, waiting to be digested.
one flavor. one race.
Raspberry Jam

Still Here!


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I haven’t posted in a while, and I’ve got to get back into the swing of things. I’ve been consumed by my art and have been working on and off on a large oil painting. Here is some art I’ve created along the way. Thanks for all those still apart of this.

My Babies Gone Blues


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2 a.m.
Alarming phone call.
Its happening,
Come to the hospital.
Sitting outside,
Confusion inside.
Hand on the door,
You’re not allowed in.
A woman’s scream,
My beautiful daughter has been born.

Two people, no where and everywhere
Took her home,
A gift from love’s kiss.
The hole in my heart can’t be filled,
A pain so large, I can’t condone.
As I watch my daughter grow,
From a far away window.



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Vampyre, Vampyre,
The darkness of his bite.
What will become of those already dead?
Life would be different if he could stop seeing red.
The lust for blood, the rush for flesh,
one thing is alive, soon to be skinned
Can you feel it all going to thy head.

RageDarkness ConsumesAppearance Distorted

Sundown, Orange sky,
Sundown, red,
Sundown, dark with the moon above thy head.
Vampyre, Vampyre, awaken from your rest,
The devil inside begins to lust,
Yellow eyes raging, as the lungs brush off the dust.
Dark inside the tomb, where he rests,
Wondering what victim awaits in his sleeping slumber of snoozing ease
As the monsters underground tomb begins to creak,
The breath of life gives his heart a squeeze,
As the thunder is loudest at day break.
Like a lightning bolt from Zeus, It’s awake.

Vampyre, Vampyre, his blood lust will soon appease.
Close the windows, and lock the shutters,
In hope for protection, and of your friends and families safety,
The devil is loose and ever so hungry.
Dracula’s wings, shade the moon and take flight.
Up, Up, Up, into the sky, far from the naked eye,
the predator stalks its prey,
to turn the living and feast before the day,
the beast no longer inside,
It works all night for the hunt is timed,
the able bodies sleep in a state of sublime.

The windows shut, never stopped the crime.
The victim lays with dreams of sheep,
not aware of the wolf at the chimney sweep.
Coldness flows up their spine,
The blood sucker begins the dark climb.
Down the chimney like old saint nick,
The beast begins his descent.
While the hairs on her neck become erect,
the vampire feasts on the innocent neck.
Like a snake it coils up, its fangs clench,
the liquid life comes pouring out,
Gulping the blood as it becomes more alive.


Vampyre, Vampyre,
Spreading like a disease, the poison takes hold
the headaches come first, for the sheep in the fold.
the spinning is next, followed by the tremendous ach,
the transformation is almost complete!

Vampyre, Vampyre,
thirsting for a taste of awakenings.
The friends and family terrified of the pain,
Wondering when the sun will come out and dry the rain.
Skin cuts, as the sun begins to hurt.
Burning like a fire caught in a steady wind.
A slow steady breeze begins to blow,
at first the lungs expand and break.
the wings begin to grow,
the blood spills out like the depths of Satan’s splendor
The demon has been born inside her.

Vampyre, Vampyre,
No where to run, and no where to hide,
The devil becomes stronger one at a time.
The hatchling is left alone,
The family and friends no longer condone.
At night she spreads her wings to take flight,
Looking for her master, owner, in spite.
Only becoming what the holy say “rotten,”
In the cavernous depths her soul has been forgotten.

The devil’s work, the war for life has begun,
the dead bodies pile, while the awaken stumble.
Wondrous claims, and chauvinist’s reign.
The blind are naïve,
without the idea of fight, A tremendous plague of fright,
When will the Vampyre ever surrender,
as he becomes the master, the darkness becomes the hereafter.
Will our souls be remembered or be a wisp on god’s laughter?
Love can only cure the vampire.

Vampyre, Vampyre,
A new shadowed birth.
While the scourge of the underworld walk the earth,
unaware of the heaven that god has left them.
Large illustrious mountains that surround the basin
Rushing water flows through the streams, giving life to those who can see.
The dead can only hope to resurrect and mend.
Without the vampire’s bite, they will never see the skies above them.
Moss gathers around the old aspen tree,
one starts its desires to be a part of Eden,

The cosmos, we wander, like a lost puppy looking for its owner.
The amazing discoveries we have yet to discover.
Satan’s minions have ascended the illusion of time.
Will the vampires of the earth, become worthy of the astrological signs?
We will never know the beginning or end,
May we hold one another friends among friends.
Brother upon brother, and men among men.
Are destiny is the heavens, let us begin.

The Beginning The BiteThe End

We Were Born


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We were born,
To be or not to be,
Ripened from the rays of the sun,
and boiled from the particles in the ocean,
We are not to be diagnosed and put into a shell,
To be the rotting survivors of a dept driven country,
To silence the jazz of hundreds of feet marching towards income,
We were not born to be the pill popping, cigarette burning, yellow teethed nations, decaying in the light.
To be a softer sensitive mobile everlasting,
Bursting from the rockets of progression, and overcoming the candid fat programmed in our bodies.
Let ideas whisper through the ears like a wailing drum, and a screeching banshee.
We were to arrive without time, and without being crammed in a sock drawer never to shine,
Let the electricity flow through the inner sarcophagus,
Awaken past the dirt and worms,
To be the all seeing entity of Cronus, while the spirals of the universe continue to spin.

We were born,
without hands for gloves, and feet for shoes,
punctured through the embodiment of the gods,
and left to the moonlight, and to the day.
gobs of pollution sprayed through a hose unto the dead,
While young flood the streets looking for something to believe in.
The pharaohs of our time must smile upon us, we are their own private joke.
Children play with rubber diseases copulating one to another,
The playground never imagined to be without the stretching tall blades of grass.
To be locked in a cage, without antithetical beliefs like a copy machine with never ending ink.
we are not to be the lackadaisical demons jumping for television remotes,
The reverence of ants in a line have more relevance then us in our time.

We were born,
not to shout at those who appear weak, or demise the poor,
As an elephant never forgets, grief becomes what we are at best.
Do not stand upon the branches of trees with the fingers reached towards the clouds,
Be the branched fingers that shoot like a gun towards the red violet horizon.
We are to be happy, and let us be one,
Do not only dream, but become what we dream.
the chaos and destruction will poison our land, but we can be a different sort of man.
the man that we were born to be,
let us come out from the womb with our arms raised to the sky,
Bloodied, and pure like the lone wolf’s howl to the midnight stars.
We are, so that we can be.
fighting for us to all be free.


Concrete War

Is war the last possible creative act?
The proprietors of banks looking for gain against the weak and poor.
The building up of disagreement to the point of anger and rage,
Until feelings are no more, their importance goes up in flame.
Fire from buildings, smoke for clouds, and blood like water.
Evil? or possibly jazz music from Satan’s mouth. The night looks darkest in the light,
as the body toll raises from each day and night.
Music from the marching drones, the bombardment of homes, and the destruction of souls.
Fight, fight, fight, until the battle is won,
The destruction is creation through the mad mans tongue.
The end is nigh, the light is black, and the black is absent
Until the charred and boiled flesh of the poor crisps in the embers.

The blood boils, and the sanity unravels.
War creates the greatest of troubles.
The automobiles assemble with the tools of intuition,
Missiles and tanks, Motorbikes crank, with letters from loved ones whispering “come home.”
The cracking of bones and the fruition of stones.
The more people die, the same become born.
All apart of the assembly line entering our homes.
Wouldn’t mankind rather create then destroy?
Or is destruction apart of the creation moving in the motion of Fibonacci’s spirals?
One must understand that with life comes death, and with light comes dark,
the moon is nothing without the sun,
but one must die without being buried in a tomb.
All coming from the totalitarian creationism, for gain and wealth must start from one man’s debt.

One man, can be the cause of such great death.
The names are remembered through memorials, like a cold breeze on a November morning.
The flowers picked for respect, left at the graves of men that no longer exists.
And yet those flower’s death’s are all symbolic of the life’s that have been plucked.
Though existence is the greatest creation, War seems to be the last possible form of our extinction.
As September reigns, text books are made.
A short paragraph seems to justify the death of man.
As children study a date and time period of are forgotten lands.
Only to teach them that death is not to be feared,
As life is only a stepping stone to something larger, a beautiful unknown.
No, life is not to be forgotten, and the unknown will stay begotten.
Logically I assume that we must all live for today.

Photography is Dead


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This post, no doubtingly, will offend some people and I feel that before I begin this rambling I will mention and remind the reader that this is one man’s opinion. A man that is only a blogger, and who’s opinion should not effect your own. I might start this post with the idea of Adobe Photoshop. Lets picture this wonderful piece of software, and might I call it a murderer of an art form. I love how simple it has made editing and touching up photos. I can get the right colors and the exact exposures to bring out beautiful displays on any photo I take with almost any camera. I can do this all with a touch of a button by using the so called “lazy-man” professional photographer, PHOTOSHOP! My experience is amateur to say the least and I have never called myself a photographer, I have minimum use with a dark room going back to when I was in High school. However if my pictures from my phone can look as good as someone who labors away climbing mountains, waiting for the right exposure and also in a dark room testing their photos, I have to say that Photography is dead and no longer can be considered an art.

I recently took a beautiful woman on a date to a nice restaurant and we began to talk about our likes and dislikes about certain things. A causal get to know you type date, in a fun atmosphere with good food. To protect the woman I will call her Shelly. Shelly had dark silky hair, big hazel eyes, and a nose that was a little crooked. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman, but she had moments of angelic charm. She asked me what my hobbies were and when she found out that I enjoyed art she rushed right in and said “I am an artist.” Surprised, I looked at her and said “You are too good looking to be an artist.” She smiled to amuse me, and said “no really I am. I am a photographer.” It was then that a shiver of horrific animosity climbed up my spine. I tried to calm myself and take a deep breath and while biting my tongue to not say something ridiculous or offensive, I asked “What do you like to take pictures of?” I should have left it at “I am a photographer” and change the subject to her house cat. She took the question and rolled with it like a 16 wheeled truck on an icy road, I could tell this was going to test every pretentious bone in my body.

She said “Oh I take pictures of everything. I love going hiking and getting pictures of the scenery. The other day I was out with a few friends and we were up the canyon and I saw this beautiful black bird in the sky. I took a picture of that and I’m really excited to get the pictures developed.” I told myself, wait a minute pull back on the reigns a bit, after all she did say a magical word “develop.” Perhaps I misjudged her, and obviously I could be wrong about my assumption of this Nazi Photoshop Queen. So I asked “Developed? I’m not exactly clear on the meaning of developed now a days. Would you mind telling me what it is that you do to “develop your photos?”

“It’s nothing really. I just hook up my camera to the computer and then edit them with Photoshop. Once I do that I put them on Facebook for everyone to see.” She paused to take a bite of our chips and salsa then continued “my friend is creating me a website so that I can sell them online. He says I’m really good.” Oh god! I tried to stay pleasant but what the hell I can let the hounds off the leash, I thought. “Photoshop, yes that is a wonderful tool. However I don’t think that the ability to use Photoshop and upload pictures on to a computer no longer attests to being a photographer or even an artist.” I could tell that she did not like my statement. The king of making dates awkward was at it again, after all being an opinionated person these days is difficult for most people to stomach. I’ll admit that if I was somewhat mildly interested in this woman I would have been able to shove some type of appetizer in my mouth and allow her to go on with her artistic endeavor, but poor Shelly wasn’t all that interesting. The dogs were finally running a-muk all over the restaurant.

“You know” I went on, “I find it interesting that every man, woman, and child claim to be photographers. Especially with this day and age where we have cameras on our phones, tablets, computers, its as if everyone can call themselves a photographer or an artist. Lets look at Facebook and the social media sites, we post pictures of our cats, dogs, what we had to eat, what the sunset looks like, hell…what we look like, and then we add a hash tag duck face selfie after that. To me, a photographer as an artist, has to fall completely in love with the entire process. A photographer makes the effort to climb up mountains, wait for the exact sun to hit the exact point, the right angle has to be thought through, the right exposure to the lens has to be placed and then after all the waiting and second guessing, finally snap the photo. After that the photographer has to fall in love with the romance of the different exposures and then developing the photos themselves over time in a dark room. This is the art form of photography. It is only after all of this, that one can call themselves an artist of photos. Too much, now a days, things are too easy for us, there is no real challenge or task to creating a beautiful picture. Anyone can go out on a hike, snap a picture with their phone, bring it home and edit it to look like an Ansel Adams original.”

Shelly replied with the best answer that she could, “Well I’m not one of these people. Like I said before I go out on hikes and work for my pictures. So what if I use Photoshop to edit my pictures, its a great tool.” I had to agree with her. She did go on hikes to take pictures, and Photoshop is a great tool. Afterwards I changed the subject quickly in order to ease the tension in the air, and the date ended fine after a lot of ass kissing.

This conversation of photography being an art has sat in my brain for far to long after my date with Shelly. Shelly has no idea that her comments about her being an artist made me want to puke and luckily I was able to keep the food down that we ordered from the restaurant. Any art form to me is about the detail, pain, the meaning, the expression. Yes, photography can be a beautiful art form. Although with the recent advancement of Photoshop and other software, the romance and strife of taking a picture no longer is needed. Thus the art of photography is dying. Where there is ease, there is no great accomplishment and art is an accomplishment.

2012 Overture (The Blueprint)


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2012 Overture (Blueprint)

I had an idea back in 2012 while listening to the great Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. The idea has taken me down a wild road full of growing and bettering myself. The idea is displayed in my new painting shown here. It truly is a dedication piece to the song. I have worked on it for over a year, certain touch ups while staring at it and changes was the reason for how long it took to create. I also moved to Seattle Washington during the process, and then back again a few months later. I hope, as with all artists, that this will be received well. Especially after pouring my entire soul and heart into the painting. God bless.

Hopeless Romantic


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By: Cam

There are moments in time,
that I feel this DARK world
would rather have the appearance of love.
Then the actual SWELLING of the heart,
the mind BENDING mood,
The LOSS of breath,
the dance of courtship,

God! I hope I’m WRONG.
I can’t believe in a world that only cherishes the APPEARANCE of love,
instead of the real melodic bliss of it.
But the nights grow darker, and the wars continue to RAGE.
The hate begins to bubble like a BOILING pot over an unstoppable flame.
I might ask a QUERY?
Instead of all the dripping blood, the back stabbing pain, and window Shattering loss,
Can we not see a way to love?

In conclusion, I’m a HOPELESS romantic.



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