Henry Miller

“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.”

Henry Miller

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2011

“Praises From A Tenor Sax” by L. K. Thayer

Photo of L. K. Thayer by Sandra Carlson

like salt on a bloodsucker
recoiling, shriveling
paralyzed fits of punishing
pawnshop

reuniting
with the sell-out
the down and out
muck and mire choir
singing
praises from a tenor sax
and a song
you can’t let go of

fill the loving cup
and drink it dry
try to stay away
but you can’t fight
the pull
of the taffy

you get stuck in the
sweetness
and you wanna
die
happy

L. K. Thayer
© 2010



“The Big Apple” Photo by VC Ferry

Why do they call New York City The Big Apple??

“In the late 1920s and early 1930s, New York City’s jazz musicians began referring to New York City as the “Big Apple.” An old saying in show business was “There are many apples on the tree, but only one Big Apple.” New York City being the premier place to perform was referred to as the Big Apple.”

How do ya like them apples?!! 😛 😛 😛

VC Ferry

All Rights Reserved

© 2010

“The Choice” by Delevie/Morgan

They packed him with explosives
Which they hid beneath his clothes
They filled his heart with lust
For the destruction of his foes

They said his death was nothing
But the price that must be paid
To fan the flames of hate and strife
Maximize the loss of life
Making peace impossible
By making them afraid.

He made his date with destiny
With heaven in his eyes
The bomb he wore was gonna blow him straight To paradise

Where he would spend eternity
In opulence and style

And all at once a little girl
Walked straight into his perfect world
She caught his eye, he looked at her
And she looked back and smiled.

She smiled into his face
With all the innocence of youth
And in that moment all at once
He understood the truth
He looked his hatred in the eye
And hatred looked away.
And there’s at least one terrorist
In paradise today.

When she smiled his soul awoke
His heart said, “that’s enough”
There’s no way in this world
You can betray this baby’s love
This act of hate is over
And if God will not forgive
He’ll have to pass on paradise
And let this baby live.

He winked at her and walked away
Without a single word
And in the evening news
They said an act of grace occurred
A human bomb exploded
But the damages were slight
Newsman said he evidently wired it wrong
And consequently detonated in a field

And died alone tonight

She smiled into his face
With all the innocence of youth
And in that moment all at once
He understood the truth
He looked his hatred in the eye
And hatred looked away.
And there’s at least one terrorist
In paradise today.

Love lifts you to heaven
That’s what gets you into heaven
Nothing but love lifts you to heaven
That’s what takes you to heaven .

Delevie / Morgan

Mitchel Delevie

All Rights Reserved

© 2009

Stephen Kalinich (journal entry)

Photo by VC Ferry

Stephen Kalinich

9/7/06

I was struck

by a saxophone player

at the bridge
at Cesto Ponte
when I was going off of the island
on the river Tiber.
He was playing Autumn leaves.
It was a warm sunny day
with a slight touch of wind.
I threw a few coins in his bowl.
He was incredible
A Saxophone
beautifully flowing tones
played with much feeling
bringing tears to my eyes.
The streets are alive
the notes linger in the air
It touches the music
of the stillness within me.
It rekindles a quiet joy.
He keeps playing.
A dusty baseball cap
an old shirt short sleeved
gray sleeveless sweater
and sandles
with no socks
and filthy feet
like the one in a Caravaggio painting.
The ones that show
the humaness
of the reality we exist within.
The breeze is beautifully blowing.
It almost blows my hat into the Tiber.

What a joy to live.
He plays My Way
which I usually do not like
but today it is a wonderful sound.

Stephen Kalinich

All Rights Reserved

© 2006