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Coles Preaching Dead In Outer Darkness at Village Green Shopping Centre in Vernon, BC
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This is not an artistic statement; these are not formulaic opinions that I intend to posit and project into the consciousness of others in an attempt to either persuade for or dissuade from; but rather, a crude, poetic rendering of my own psychological, emotional, and spiritual self-image, as is reflected through a personal, existential dilemma, and at once, despair at mere being. I present these long-lamented trifles and blunders of my former life and self with many regrets and a very broken heart, to perhaps gain some recognition, not for achievement or any measure of celebrity, but for an intellectual contact with those who might see a bit of their own struggle through what I've created, so that I might not be alone with all that has been destroyed and all that is lost, so that I may need not die in the posthumous ruins of a societal vanity—so in denial of its own anxiety, rage and depression—that it would deny my humanity and cast me as alien, to void not only my inherent birthright but also—a last rite. These poems were each written while in some terrible throes and awful crises. I have, with each one, spoken the unspeakable, and with every other, dispensed with my soul. I now seek some level of rebirth or salvation, not at the mercy of God or mankind, but at our collective and respective recognition of doom. This is not a projection but a reflection; these are a collection but for inflection, for those in strife and mired insurrection, for those of whom life required resurrection.
This is not an artistic statement; these are not formulaic opinions that I intend to posit and project into the consciousness of others in an attempt to either persuade for or dissuade from; but rather, a crude, poetic rendering of my own psychological, emotional, and spiritual self-image, as is reflected through a personal, existential dilemma, and at once, despair at mere being. I present these long-lamented trifles and blunders of my former life and self with many regrets and a very broken heart, to perhaps gain some recognition, not for achievement or any measure of celebrity, but for an intellectual contact with those who might see a bit of their own struggle through what I've created, so that I might not be alone with all that has been destroyed and all that is lost, so that I may need not die in the posthumous ruins of a societal vanity—so in denial of its own anxiety, rage and depression—that it would deny my humanity and cast me as alien, to void not only my inherent birthright but also—a last rite. These poems were each written while in some terrible throes and awful crises. I have, with each one, spoken the unspeakable, and with every other, dispensed with my soul. I now seek some level of rebirth or salvation, not at the mercy of God or mankind, but at our collective and respective recognition of doom. This is not a projection but a reflection; these are a collection but for inflection, for those in strife and mired insurrection, for those of whom life required resurrection.
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