Russell Salamon is arguably one of the most prolific and profound poets of the 21st century. His poetic writing bathes you in the pleasures of the senses, lifts you in the light of spiritual exaltation and crashes you into the sea of despair with his every word. His poetry is like a fine wine or a sonata by Beethoven. He is the modern Grand Master of poetry from my view. No, I cannot say enough about his creative abilities and do not apologize for my unabashed declarations of his talent. “Solid Reality” is something he wrote for artists and for mankind. It isn’t poetry but the language will cut through to the core of your being. Read it and know all of you who are artists of the soul – this is for you.
We bring our tombstones and study how real they are and how we died, and how the war was really love of mankind, and how the art of stones became the brain, and the art of science became not knowing. We bring the solid past because it is completely known in the unconscious mind. And if you say hello you can depend on a wall of silence. And if you write a poem with future meaning you get a belly laugh from the barrels of whiskey and beer minds, because no one brings senses of music to the appearance of dawn light.
And no one believes that thought is life–especially the brain-drug pretend con artists of sanity who will never find a soul, and are not souls themselves, but brain machines getting paid to annihilate the arrival of the future from children and mothers. And under their tank tracks lie the crushed dreams of Beethoven and Bach, as if their flights of freedom of creation would ever resurrect any scientist of the tombstone and serious grave of reality.
An artist slips out of his head, out of his shackles from inside belief in the reality we never confront head on. Out of the general sleep of spiritual death–the artist begins to feel the empty spaces of god and gives them emotions and meadows under stars to sleep on. You can feel a small telepathic burn coming off his paintings. You can’t believe this is happening. It reminds you of original star worlds before the beginning of light, in the first choice to be yourself, to conquer immortal life with abundances of yourself. Stretched into so many lives you are entire civilizations and floods of future worlds. And this terrifies you. You think you will lose your tombstone pillow and your well paid life of owning slaves and extinguishing hope.
The artist, the last chance for a future world, must be stoned, vilified, laughed at, and not supported. Let him eat paint, let him eat words; let him eat violins; let him join the general despair and suffer for our sins. Then maybe if he is right, two hundred years from now, we will build a large bronze horse and put him on it to ride in the past glory of our unawareness. We saw him coming and we did not like the offer of a new world. The past is all there is. We can’t let just any nut talk about responsibility for sane thought. That means awareness and we brain chemicals do not think with awareness. We react with lies and hypocrisy. We are good bodies; we take our medications, and we die under good health care.
We ignore the fact that our own basic goodness heals bodies, heals cities, brings order to chaos. We have lost the definitions of our true nature, and we shut down all efforts by artists to open communication lines to life. The artist says such things as, “The definitions of divine power are definitions of mankind. We are not bodies. We are our own souls and we have been blinded by tombstone pretend science. We are spiritual slaves unsafe in our graves. We are dust and we must enjoy our welfare crust of bread and water and poisonous drug.”
If you see an artist weeping, as I am weeping, it is for you we are weeping. You are not matter, you are built out of freedom of thought, freedom of choice, freedom of universes.
August 4, 2013