a sort of moment in time born of clarity amidst the storm while asking what is … ?

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coldhead fool of cure
these hands are not my own.
desert blind lie breathes through me

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© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Obligatory VD Poem

Heart on a Plate

steady rollin broad side
on that Nicos trip
ridin clean past
lifelong wait times

compulsory twain shit

sneak a sneer and
raise the devils digit
just to keep me feelin good

see this grin spread
cross my face so wide
these hands free of your food

we off that food slangin kick
motherfucker
not a holiday too soon!

Busy Kitchen


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

With Apologies To… (A Musing on a Day)

Artwork by Sam Kieth (yes, the comic book artist)

Artwork by Sam Kieth (yes, the comic book artist)

Sometimes, there’s a day — a day that could start off like any other day, calm and unassuming and the like…

But, sometimes, there’s a day — hell, it might not even be a day. Could be a lonely desert night, Coyote howling for the Moon, the dry Southern breeze stirring up some distant echo in the soul…

But, sometimes, there’s a day — and I’m talking about today, here. Right now, the present moment in which you and I come to find ourselves conversing, confabulating on the metaphysical eccentricities of an eternally mystifying cosmic machine every bit as serpentine as anything you could read in one of them Cormac McCarthy books…

But, sometimes, there’s a… Ah, hell. Lost my train of thought!  But, I guess I done talked on this nothin’ of a day enough.

But, sometimes… Yeh just gotta Beat Yer Meat.

Schenkel, Mother Fuckers... (get it?)

Schenkel, Mother Fuckers… (get it?)


This post was made possible through the influence of, made as tribute for, made in defiance to, and made with apologies from me, offered to you… The Coen Brothers.  Everyone else I may have slandered, at this time, in the past, or the future, is just going to have to deal with it.  I can only handle one apology, and this post is senseless enough as it is…


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Yeah Bitch! Horticulture!!! (Zen and Madness in Yard Work)

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Last night was a rough one, psychotically speaking. It was all I could do not to reformat my cranium as some sort of post-Post-Modern, avant-garde, recessionist-abstract deconstructionist performance piece. Not to disparage the severity of leaden suffering my mind has found fit to absorb in general, of late. Suffice it to say I am now quite certain and markedly convinced that my Crazy Pills are no longer working — something I have, for some time, suspected, but obdurately resisted accepting — which means the next 31 days until my Starving Artist Insurance Plan will cover the scheduled months in advance new patient exam that is required for my establishment on the panel of a primary care provider who can then give me a proper and necessary referral to who I hope will be an eccentrically brilliant, empathetic, slightly neurotic headshrinker slash script writer with a heart of gold are going to be, shall we ambiguously say, interesting. Run-on sentences only hint at the delightfully unpredictable mania to come! But, dem lows, doh…

Knowing that I must bide my time, maintain the Madness, and resist impulses of self-destruction for this objectively short period of time, I’ve tried to make available to my faculties certain therapeutic distractions. One such welcome intercourse has been that oft-dreaded, inexplicably despised facet of supposed “home-ownership”:

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YARD WORK.

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As in all things The Ryan must do, I despise the idea of yard work. However, likewise, once I am able to force myself into the task, I actually fucking LOVE yard work. It provides focus for a brain hell-bent on distraction. It provides activity for a mind/body meat bag prone to lethargy. It provides necessary and welcome physical, mental, and spiritual immersion in nature. It helps stave off the goddamn reliably unpredictable tide of anxious shimmering madness that I am increasingly unable to comfortably surf in flow.

And, occasionally, it results in discovery and intrigue.

CLICK ME! I'm interactive!

CLICK ME! I’m interactive!

There is a vengeful, thorn-bearing foothill paloverde which holds vile dominion over one corner of the front yard. It is a belligerent, malicious, glorified mass of shrubbery from which I removed a bulk of inbred, compacted, endlessly resilient bastardized stems and upstart branches a few days ago, an abomination which I have termed the Stump of DOOM.

CLICK ME! I'm interactive!

CLICK ME! I’m interactive! MORE interactive!

The bitter “fruit” it sprouts dries into these little unassuming pea-pods:

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— which then distribute themselves to all corners of the Earth in an attempt to propagate the ancient foothill paloverde message of scorn. Many of these have attempted to gain strongholds of their own within the isolated, concrete-locked bed which the mother paloverde calls home. Some have, during periods of neglect, found themselves bold and daring, their audacity to exist and to grow resulting in said DOOM-Stump. But, he who trowels last… >:]

Or, so I thought.

CLICK ME! I'm interactive! And a talking fruit!

CLICK ME! I’m interactive! And a talking fruit!

Apparently — and, with the aid of wind, water, chance…perhaps even some willing or unwitting co-conspirator — some of the pods managed to make their way and find root among the radicles of several tangelo trees on the other side of the yard. I discovered today that said flora had sprouted several malicious, mutant branches of thorn and broadleaf. In a moment of megalomaniacal dietiego* I considered allowing them to mature to see what kind of strange and terrible fruit this ghastly union might bear. Fortunately, Fate intervened, shoving my finger sharply into the prickly, blood-thirsty embrace of a thorn. Since the execrable deviant foliage had therefore subsumed my superlative mitochondrial blueprint (it had absorbed by precious blood stuffs!), I was forced to uproot and destroy it for fear of fathering some unwitting creation, some kind of horrific, intelligent, self-aware brand of citrus that would surely uprise and come to enslave and destroy all of mankind. I can’t have that kind of responsibility on my head, man!

BONUS: I found these fellas.

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“…in the sun she warmed her wings, and listened to cicadas sing…” Not to worry, I returned them safely to the Earth. It’s not your time yet, cicadas! Yeah bitch! SCIENCE!!!


* ‘dietego’ – a portmanteau made up of the words “deity” and “ego”; coined in use by © TR Sanders, February 2015


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

volumetric displacement

blood red sky


a sanguine tide
sudden.

flowing

a cry-

spirit of existence wet
on ashen floor

there is too much of me
in you

a shadow, consuming,
prodigious profusions.
time and life spun upon

swallowed.

and all directing towards
and directed out

the chase of this
too-rushed speck

all want just to Be.
I chase for more of you in me.


I wrote this poem with two intentions in mind.  I wanted it to be lyrical, and I wanted it to consist of flashes of images combining to create an overall mood.  I’ve always admired the abstract lyrical style of artists like King Buzzo, Cedric Bixler-Zavala, Neil Fallon, Aaron TurnerMJK (of course) — too many to mention, really — as well as poets with a more abstract style, such as William Blake, Yeats, e.e. cummings, DickensonWallace Stevens — again, too many to mention.  But We do enjoy the name-dropping.

In any case, I have always thought the sounds, the tones, the moods of things were of more vital importance than the textbook definitions, the static “meanings”.  We create our own meaning, by the very act of experiencing a piece of art.  If you allow someone or something to dictate the intent or essence of something to you, it is the same as allowing yourself to be owned, to be controlled.  When has art ever been about control?


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

“It’s Dark Now…”: A Peculiar Day

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“I hate slick and pretty things. I prefer mistakes and accidents. Which is why I like things like cuts and bruises – they’re like little flowers. I’ve always said that if you have a name for something, like ‘cut’ or ‘bruise,’ people will automatically be disturbed by it. But when you see the same thing in nature, and you don’t know what it is, it can be very beautiful.” ― David Lynch

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Such a strange day today. A very Lynchian vibe. Out on a stroll with the Pack and I felt we would surely find a severed ear in the grass, just around the next turn.

Blue Velvet Ear

An academic definition of Lynchian might be that the term ‘refers to a particular kind of irony where the very macabre and the very mundane combine in such a way as to reveal the former’s perpetual containment within the latter.’ But like postmodern or pornographic, Lynchian is one of those Porter Stewart-type words that’s ultimately definable only ostensively — i.e., we know it when we see it.” ― David Foster Wallace

Lynch Being Lynchian

Lynch Being Lynchian

The lines between things are soft, obscure on a day like this. Reverie and reality bleed together, commingle. Yet the edges of things are sharper, more keen. It’s a curious dichotomy between nebulous fluidity and purposeful immutability. For people like We, it’s easy to get lost in the connecting firmament…

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It’s too bad this bird isn’t closer. Or, more robin-like.  As in, a threateningly surreal robin feasting with malevolence upon all your hopes and presumptions.  Stark light bleeds all objects of their warmth and color, the mood of the day washes over everything, washes out…

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And, of course, because my life is all about the #Symmetry, my immersion into the vibe today was accentuated by the fact that I both fell asleep last night, and awoke this morning, to the ageless, ruminative tones of Lana del Rey.


The dissociative bliss afforded by immersion in the unearthly spectral void calls to me like fiendish opium ecstasy, the perfect blanket embrace of blithe euphoria…

In dreams, I walk with you. In dreams, I talk to you. In dreams, you’re mine, all the time. Forever. In dreams…” — Frank Booth, quoting Roy Orbison

Frank Booth

A compulsion towards self-preservation, perhaps?  An essential reaction to deep-rooted fears and insecurities?  Go to your Nirvana, go to your Bliss…  Even so, it is important to find comfort and appreciation in all facets of our Actuality.  Even those in the Dark.

“I learned that just beneath the surface there’s another world, and still different worlds as you dig deeper. I knew it as a kid, but I couldn’t find the proof. It was just a kind of feeling. There is goodness in blue skies and flowers, but another force–a wild pain and decay–also accompanies everything.” ― David Lynch

Blue Velvet White Fence Red Roses


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

a flash of crimson on the cliff face

Sonoran Desert Sunset, September 2014

a flash of crimson on the cliff-face

a warning,
take care
danger abounds among the saguaro
beneath the pulse of a brooding sun

there is little room for mistakes
in a place like this

yet life abounds here
at the roughly hewn edges of survival
instincts bred of brutality then
filed to precision
by necessity

life abounds here in the
tall, stoic namesake
of this vast desert forest and
encased within
the desiccated fibers of the
sun-baked ocotillo

life flows, too,
through the churlish disposition
of the tetchy javelina
the vaquero baquiro
whose ardor for life and tenacity
can leave an effusive impression
on the unprepared rover

life abounds here in the
stealthy midnight tours
of the prowling spotted owl
whose furtiveness of flight
and inclination towards the night
make him, for some skeptics,
an unlikely resident in this arid land
of scant provender

the vibrant abundance
and thriving vitality of life
hidden
between and the harshly drawn
sun-drenched lines
of the desert apparent
in fact become most prolific
in the night

free from the scathing circumspect glare
of that blinding burning orb,
Tawa’s fiery well-spring,
the nocturnal creatures of the desert flourish
and the pulsing vein
of this faux-barren, oft-accused “wasteland”

opens up,
spilling
the urgency of life
into the night

from the trickster chortling
and tactical scavenging
the opportunistic chaos
of that most ubiquitous of desert mascots
the artfully duplicitous coyote

to the clandestine and manic
often maniacal
invisible feasts of flight
and deranged dermatological derailments
of an untold, immeasurable horde

those ghastly miniscule menaces of the night

the blanket of cover provided
by the cloak of moonlit twilight shade
beckons all size and manner
of wisping wily wanderers
to the opaque expanse
of the dusty desert floor

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baquiro, brooding sun, coyote, javelina, no-see-ums, ocotillo, provender, saguaro, Saguaro NPspotted owl, Tawa, trickster, vaquero


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

We Are The Ryan. Who? We. On first. Bases loaded…

Beard of Doom

We Are The Ryan. We exist to destroy Ourselves. To understand Ourselves. Destruction makes way for new Life, new growth. New essence. New We.

“My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.” — Fernando PessoaThe Book of Disquiet

We Are The Ryan. We Are the All becoming One, We Are the particle from which springs All. We Are the light and the dark within, We Are grey spiral and churning and form from void.

SPiRAL O)))

SPiRAL O)))

We Are the Enigma. We Are subjective, the voice you know. We Are everything you seek to understand. We Are the obscured, and the apparent.  We Are pretense and irony and burlesque hyperbolic gravitas.

We Are paradox. We Are contradiction and absurdity. We Are as familiar as skin.

“Mike did not seem to grasp the idea of Creation itself. Well, Jubal wasn’t sure that he did, either — he had long ago made a pact with himself to postulate a Created Universe on even-numbered days, a tail-swallowing eternal-and-uncreated Universe on odd-numbered days — since each hypothesis, while equally paradoxical, neatly avoided the paradoxes of the other — with, of course, a day off each year for sheer solipsist debauchery.” — Robert A. HeinleinStranger in a Strange Land

We Are The Ryan. We Are irreverence and contempt. We Are the warm embrace of scorn. We Are the sarcastic smirk across the face of the world, We Are the blatancy of state-sponsored slaughter, We Are your voyeuristic thirst for televised lawless disregard. We Are your after-church programming.


We Are laughter at a funeral, we are a selfie in a coffin. We Are ever changing and fickle and impermanence manifest in SQUIRREL! We Are a strobe to heal your seizure and subliminal plastic advertizing. We Are on during the sporting event of the century!

We Are beer and brats and Sunday afternoon, We Are laughter drowning sorrow and a distraction from the dread. We Are hope and denial and a sunset behind a raincloud and beauty within the beast, the underlying and the disregarded and all the We as You wish to see but never remember how to find. We Are the uncomfortable Looking.

“He lived at a little distance from his body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third person and a verb in the past tense.” — James JoyceThe Dubliners

We Are The Ryan. We Are the hooligan with a heart of gold. We Are the charming and the loyal and the overbearing and the suffocation. We Are the polished shit, the sweet-tooth addict-craving, the forbidden caramel apple and the last clinging tooth. We Are hillbilly chic. We Are the final confused joke after the laughter has long left.

We Are constant self-appraisal and the doubting trailing voice. We Are awkward sidelong clingings and the echoes of passed time. We Are voice given to scar, a sound bled dried and crusty, flaked desert parched sands and halite in your self-inflicted exploratory surgery.

Photo by Walter Freeman, Dec. 16, 1960 Howard Dully receiving his "ice pick" lobotomy Dec. 16, 1960

Photo by Walter Freeman, Dec. 16, 1960
Howard Dully receiving his “ice pick” lobotomy Dec. 16, 1960

We Are the child hiding in a corner, the beaten and broken without will to escape. We Are the towering behemoth wielding pain internalized and compounded, formed and redirected. We Are an open wound, gaping, pungent. We Are what must heal from the inside, We Are the cotton-stuffed urgency of everything We never wished to see.

“The Dark Crow Man sits And stares into Oblivion… Into Cold… Into Nothingness.  It’s snowing in His mind.  He’s created Himself in His own Image.”  — Lamb of God, The Subtle Arts of Murder and Persuasion

Artwork by Four Star Tattoo, Santa Fe, NM

Artwork by Four Star Tattoo, Santa Fe, NM

We Are The Ryan. We Are the voice inside, loud. We Are the escaping breath of daring and uncertainty and doubt made whole, driven with guile and madness towards grasping, fickle fingers. We Are what must be said to make room for what comes next, for We Are the road traveled and the traveler, destination and journey and purpose and…

darkcrowmanface

We Are The Ryan.


© Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ryan Scott Sanders and Dharma and Belligerence: Mad Rants from a Free-Range Buddhist Hooligan with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.