RANT: ARTIf I had it my way I would douse your dirty minds with a page of pure poetry but being the world as it is, it pays mud for art and dollars to the mudslinger. I could drink myself into a ready state of slander, becoming the Kerouac of Bridge Street or the Bukowski of the Shaskeen Pub. I could stand on some well-worn soapbox authoring my rendition of the Dhammapada or speak pure Freud, but instead I am dire for but a minute of compassion. I hear the church bell ring and a chorus of singing loyalists but I see not a friend to Jesus. I see a hundred Samaritans but see no good will. I see a hundred people preaching living as they stand there dying, forgetting, that whatsoever lives is busy dying. I hear the words of some corner poet breaking wind with flowers, but in his thoughts, there is not enough power to water a single seed in the ears of these blank minds that wander into the bustling of another day. No, I will not fall like the stars of our hearts, I shall not give into the nuclear-thought that I am enough to change the spaces between galaxies when my gravity has no pull. My art has no profoundness because you will not let it and so I am falling too, and together we shall crash into the black hole of our ignorance. - NIEMAND BAUTRUMMER