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Bocephus Jackson, the Hemlock Bard

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“The only man who never makes a mistake is the man who never does anything.” — Theodore Roosevelt

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Southern writer and poet. As The Divine shows up unannounced, barefoot, smelling of creek water or coal dust, it’s rarely in the sanctuary where the lights are on. No, it's in the parking lot afterward, or the psych ward at 3 a.m., or the exact moment somebody decides not to swallow the bottle of pills.

So, where my style is irreverently reverent, my philosophy: Witness — Observe, Acknowledge, Report, and Offer quiet Dignity and Reverence as I meet the individual where they are in their journey seeking the theophanic evidence of Grace within the everyday dust. Therefore, I assumed the name ‘Hemlock Bard’ due to my southern heritage, but also due to the nature of my artistic philosophy — the Hemlock that kills a philosopher can also heal the world.

Therefore, Words matter, carrying the weight and worth of the Everyman forever seeking Grace. So, with every idiom, allusion, and metaphor, each is crafted with symbolism, multilayered references, and intent seeking a universally shared truth: no fluff or filler, just the meat and potatoes. Sometimes with a side of gravy, but don't tell my cardiologist.

Because of this, if Momma’s skillet was the household correction growing up, Grace (what I affectionately call the Art) is the cosmic one with her Apostolic Angle Slam. Therefore, I do not mess with either, as each one hurts, hitting me in the holy nethers, yet both claim the gold from different pedestals. Let’s get to work!

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“The life so brief, the craft so long to learn.” — Hippocrates

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A CREED IN COAL DUST AND CREEK WATER

(The Weight And Worth of One’s Words)

“Many lack the originality to lack originality.” — Frank Zappa

Amid the creek water and coal dust,

Through the grit, seek eternal grace,

Before this body begins to rust,

I put pen to paper with a Puckish pace.

In celebrating the divine in the dirty,

Claiming the sacred in the profane,

All to prove that I am genuinely worthy,

To call God’s holy and blessed name.

As Words Matter for one to tell,

With weight and worth to withstand,

Of both the Heavens and cursed Hell,

The sin in the salvation of Everyman.

Therein, language is reverently sacred,

But it is just as easily dangerous,

As language is always dual-natured,

Therefore, Responsibility is onerous.

It acts as the site of the Ferryman,

So it is my devout duty to mention,

Before making my inevitable stand,

Language is both fall and redemption.

So where we each greet life’s poison,

In meeting a sacred higher charge,

The reason for the seasons is chosen,

You’re a friend to the Hemlock Bard.

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“I am not young enough to know everything.” — Oscar Wilde

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An Existentially Ebullient Epilogue

“Art is the lie that enables us to realize the truth.” — Pablo Picasso

Silly Putty in hand, iPhone in the other,

Through a lipped-chaw faked smile,

Comes bardic verse lyrically southern,

Its polyphonic terseness lingers awhile.

As twenty armies, we will fiercely fight,

When little people scrap as mere pups,

Just know that we've got some bite,

Amid woe and throe, we won't give up.

Through an Appalachian mooned night

The bardic spirit defies the fading light,

As a transceding-yawp assailing rite,

Poetically rewriting the plight of life.

We may look like easy pickings to some

But never kick a dog that still hovers,

In the bleeding light of the dawning Son

Its story must be read cover to cover.

As the day begins, what will it bring?

The songs that the Hemlock adopts,

The Puckish voice resonantly sings

A humble bardical barbaric Yawp.

Where soul-bleed carries consequence

Petitions, “May I play for you a tune,

Of love, laughter, lament’s essence?”

Right then—

Talk soon…

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“Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.).” — Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

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The Immersion of Infidelity

(We Deny All Creatures Great and Small)

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“Fiction was invented the day Jonah arrived home and told his wife that he was three days late because he had been swallowed by a whale.” — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

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As we live and die, arise and fall,

Still searching for better tomorrows,

While forsaking our ultimate call,

Traversing salvation and sorrow,

We deny all creatures great and small.

Such wailing tales we cast to deceive,

To shirk and skirt our mortal duties,

As all mankind struggles to conceive,

Immortal wealth and health in booty,

Sin lies upon women who believe.

As for the tawdry tales we offer,

Ever seeking bonds of lust and love,

Be mindful of your treasured coffers,

For Grace’s judgment from up above,

So tell her one helluva whopper.

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“Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.” — Lucius Seneca

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Author’s Reflection

“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart's desire. The other is to gain it.” — Bernard Shaw

Well, Grace woke me up at 5 a.m. again, as what is becoming our daily ritual. It harkens back to my Navy days. But usually, as the holy trinity of art, inspiration, and God’s blessing for another day, she usually has an idea in mind to pen.

There was an urgency, but no direction as she started up the Rhetorical RV. So I quickly checked my quotes-of-the-day. From two disparate offerings came the treasure of ‘Bardic Inspiration’ that would make my old CO blush.

“The naked truth separating great comedy and tragedy? Who's getting caught with their pants down. Now help me find my Superman boxers…” — Bocephus Jackson

So the Kismet-Forehead-Kissing-Kairos method decided once again today's daily writing exercise. As yet another tribute to Bernard Shaw (8 or 9 now?!), this tongue-in-cheek piece speaks to the Immersion of Infidelity.

Both the Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Seneca quotes put in overtime work contextualizing the salvation in this sardonic sinfulness. Lastly, as I attempt to do at least twice a week, this initial ‘Hemlock Honorarium’ is all for naught.

By incorporating aspects of their art into a unique form, the piece becomes a tribute to their skill and/or style. So what was a 3-lined AllPoetry piece in my morning feed has either been altered or deleted before I could attribute the original author for the opening couplet of my poem.

Message me so I can acknowledge you accordingly. In lieu of that, this was their piece:

’We live and die,

Rise and fall,

Searching for better tomorrows.’

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Watch out for glass houses; you don't know who is watching. Right then—

Be careful where you toss your rocks off…

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“A man who has no more secrets from his wife either has no secrets or has no wife.” — Bernard Shaw

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Portia’s Petition

(A Mired Merchant of Vice And Virtue)

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"I have always found that mercy bears richer fruits than strict justice." — Abraham Lincoln

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Mercy falls from a celestial place,

Upon the poor and rich together,

Removing tearful fear from their face,

Through every season and weather,

As blessings from a merciful Grace.

Not a droplet of blood shall be spilled,

In seeking a wretched pound of flesh,

So your coffers may be wholly filled,

With your gilded dagger at my neck,

In sealing this contractual deal.

Venture forth within a needle's eye,

Rather than prick a bleeding finger,

Where a log is bigger than a stye,

As foul memories dare to linger,

While one’s faith avenges the meager.

Where Lady Justice remains blinded,

And the weighted scales carry favor,

As the universe has provided,

A righteous reward that we savor,

A fool and his gold are divided.

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"The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly is to fill the world with fools."— Herbert Spencer

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Author’s Reflection

"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." — MLK Jr., Letter from Birmingham Jail

What poet doesn't feel innately compelled to take one of the greatest literary speeches of all time and set it to modern verse? So clearly I was rereading Shakespeare’s ‘Merchant of Venice’ during my daily five hours of mandatory research when the ‘Bardic Inspiration’ struck.

It was only fitting to weaponize today's daily writing exercise with another field test of the ‘Evergreen Stanza.’ To further illustrate its effectiveness, there is no disruptive extra syllable hanging as a poetic halfstep as there is within a Shakespearean sonnet, which is why I created the five-line, nine-syllable form.

Relying heavily on acephalous iambs and amphibrachs, the mixed-meter cadence carries an odd number of syllables. This was essential in creating this new poetic form, as it prevents a perfectly repeating two-syllable foot like a pure iamb or trochee.

Ultimately, it removes the stiffness from classical poetry while better mirroring a natural speaking cadence. But anyway, I thank you for your time and kind consideration as always. Back to work! Two major projects are afoot… Right then—

…The road is paved with good intentions, but must begin on solid footing.

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"The true measure of our character is how we treat the poor, the disfavored, the accused, the incarcerated, and the condemned." — Bryan Stevenson

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Clockwise Vagina

(Welcome To The Viral Internet)

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“The internet is just a world passing around notes in a classroom.” — Jon Stewart

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Tick tock, time forever fades away,

Lost in an aesthetic angina,

Through performative lives on display,

Pursuing a clockwise vagina,

That assuredly leads us astray.

Five years of regrettable struggle,

Over some Chinese dumpling takeout,

Those trolls offer artistic trouble,

With their muscular teeth metric clout,

Slams my rhetorical rebuttal.

Welcome to the wild-webbed internet,

You vexed hungry, hungry hypocrite,

We ultimately go to forget—

The disparate art that’s desperate,

For some clockwise vagina regret.

Where the community is viral,

And one’s art is forever tainted,

As the zeitgeist is left to spiral,

Within the viruses you’ve painted,

Exposing your phallic paintbrush wiles.

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“The internet is the first thing that humanity has built that humanity doesn't understand.” — Eric Schmidt

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Author’s Reflection

“Everyone's a critic. The internet is the world's largest public toilet.” — Stephen King

For this one, going in, I instinctively knew it had to be both a profoundly silly and sillily profound allegory. The titular metaphor alone sang to me about how, collectively, we are circling the drain of cultural relevance.

But before the inevitable hate memes crop up in this digital insane asylum, we're all inmates running the group therapy session, waiting for some Oreo pie. Why does the psych ward have the best pie?!

So, based on Bo Burnham’s micro-poem ‘Strange Adjectives,’ mocking traditionally sincere love poetry with a non-sequitur punchline, this piece was a trip of a challenge that I couldn't turn down. You know how I love a fun challenge!

Not as completely wild as a Monty Pythonesque ‘Silly Walk,’ this one might be a halibut good enough for a JPEGed Jehovah. So I had to incorporate three of Bo’s songs, ‘Words, Words, Words,’ ‘Five Years,’ and ‘Welcome To the Internet,’ to make it a tetraptych:

‘Me, with my strange choice of adjectives.

You, with your muscular teeth.

And clockwise vagina.’

Ultimately, as a tribute to Burnham, I wanted to legitimize his silliness. Hopefully this turned out pretty good, conjoining contemporary art with an ill-begotten STD as a nod to his song ‘Art Is Dead,’ that will hopefully fade quicker than not.

But also, this piece is a tribute to T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Wasteland,’ E.E. Cummings (obvious pun intended), Charles Bukowski, Mel Brooks’ euphemistically anachronistic ‘Blazing Saddles,’ and the inherent absurdism of the 1916 Dadaist art movement, by way of its founding member, Tristan Tzara.

As always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! Someone call my doctor. Right then—

This isn’t the burning bush I preyed for…

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“We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.” — Jean Baudrillard

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Let Your Yes Be Yes

(I Am Starting With The Man In The Mirror)

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“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we're supposed to be and embracing who we are.” — Brené Brown

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Prologue

‘Oh you villainous vanity,

Lost within such profanity,

Whereas all the world is a stage,

Seeking reason amid each phase,

While we lose our humanity,

Against such dying lights rage, rage!’

‘Double, double, toil and trouble;

Fire burn the performance bubble,

As the poor players fret and strut,

On corporate stages of lust,

Their kingdoms collapse in rubble,

Lost to the everyday dust.

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A Litany of Language

“What you do speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

“I believed that confidence arrives when I am finally successful, through ambition and ardor.” This is a typical LinkedIn lead-in that ultimately tries to sell you on something: whether a product, procedure, or profession. But in the end, it is ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’

It is a manipulated authenticity, as a psychological weapon used since Kain and Abel. One that Sophocles, William Shakespeare, Thomas Jefferson, George Orwell, and a litany of others have warned about since mankid cultivated language at least 135,000 years ago, according to genomic and archaeological evidence.

Vanity, oh vanity, I name you ‘performance.’ And worse, it has become performance art. But the fool within this Aristotelian three-act narrative doesn't hide behind the mask of wearing a mask, but weaponizes the hypocrisy that births it as a modern-day lament.

So it comes as no surprise when the jester acts as both Caesar and Brutus, stabbing themselves with a soliloquy of self-serving curation. If necessity is the mother of ingenuity, that woman needs to keep her damn legs closed. Otherwise, we are the ones being fucked.

But how can we attack the very thing that we rail against without it too becoming a part of the performance? Like Jacob before me, along with countless others, I have wrestled this angel only to come out of the ring limping with no blessing or recognition. Until now:

“Authenticity, as defined by far too few, as a lived-in creed, is depth over performance, conviction over crisis, and substance over superficiality.” This passage both challenges others and holds me accountable to them. So acts as a ‘genuine’ lead-in when others suggest that authenticity is a modern-day ‘buzzword.’

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Logos To Lies

“No legacy is so rich as honesty.” — William Shakespeare

So when they suggest, and they will: ‘Perhaps, or perhaps it is more fretting and strutting about the stage in an anti-mask masque.’ Our response is to make no presumptive judgment, as it is not our place nor intent. But to hold up a lens to the societal norms that would manipulate us, mind, body, and spirit, if we allowed it.

As both artists and individuals, one question defines all others: Are we merely shouting into the void to be heard, or redefining the terms of agreement for the conversation? Walt Whitman stated: “You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me; you shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.”

And to do this with both earnestness and authenticity, we filter Michael Jackson’s challenge: “I am starting with the man in the mirror… Make the change.” So this would be my interpretation and counternarrative to the digital-age buzzword as we ‘Sing the Body Authentic.’

So, from Logos (Greek for ‘word,’ and also ‘God’s Word’) to staged lies through 135,000 years of curated evolution, the one constant that remains is choice. According to Proverbs 12:19, “Truthful words stand forever, but lies are soon exposed." Then Ephesians 4:25: “Put off falsehood and speak truthfully to your neighbor."

So in the end, if you strive to be authentic, and we all should (especially me), James 5:12: "Let your 'yes' be yes, and your 'no,' no, or you will be condemned." It won’t lend you a bounty of likes or responses, but there is only one comment that forever manipulates the existential void:

“…Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness!” Matthew 25:23. In closing: What we give, we give ourselves. Be that change…

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“Authenticity requires vulnerability, transparency and integrity.” — Janet Louise Stephenson

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A Call To Arms

“A JavaScript Jesus may buffer, as the curtain falls upon the stage where we fret and strut until we are heard from no more. But know that the irreverently reverent Hemlock Bard delivers the jokes, as a joyful noise earning the ending. The age of man may come crashing down, as we shout into the existential void. But not this day! Today, Rohirrim Rhetorical Riders, we fight! We serve!

We live a purposeful life for the Fellowship of the Fractured that weaponizes their wounds! Our calling to community through consideration, care, compassion, and comedy in 17 layers of craft is not much ado about nothing! Joy comes in the morning. So God save the queen from invented ingenuity. Otherwise, we are royally fucked. So damn the devil in suede granny panties… To glory, and the grit in Grace within the everyday dust!”

Bocephus Jackson

#literature #kentucky #poetry #southern theopoectic realism #appalachia #literary technique #ashland kentucky #literary aesthetic #literary movement #religion #hemlock bard #the hemlock creed #Bocephus Jackson #irrevertly reverent

Just As You Are

(Those Who Know It Will Feel Its Gravity)

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"The tide lost in revelry washes away all the ill-gotten, to remind us of man's treachery, yet we are not forgotten." — Bocephus Jackson

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“What I give, I give myself,” is a Walt Whitman paraphrase utilized by Joe Pesci’s homeless character Simon Wilder in the 1994 movie ‘With Honors.’ I didn't know it then as a rebellious high school senior, but I was already planting seeds that would yield that quote decades later as a philosophical harvest.

Through decades of grave trials and tribulations that equally condemned and cast me back into the void, those six words say more about me than the thousands of words scrolled on every bar napkin, pharmacy receipt, prayer list, or hospital release. Now I weaponize them.

I don't talk about my childhood physical or sexual abuse, but acknowledge its role in my life. Some things don't need explanation. Those who know it will feel its gravity without being retraumatized. It's to them I speak: I know you, am one of you, and serve you. You are not alone, not by a country mile.

We have walked through unimaginable fires, yet here you are. Burned? Definitely, by a world that damned you. Families and friends that betrayed you when they couldn’t handle your truth. And a society that mandated you to suffer in silence.

Yeah, we’re burned, but wounds heal as the lingering scars forge us into living a purposeful life. That is why I am here, even after attempting to throw myself back into the void three times over. That is how I met Grace. Not on a mountain top, or an angel descending from heaven, but while cleaning my apartment.

After four decades, countless addiction meetings, millions of unanswered prayers, and more heartbreak than I dare calculate, five words were uttered that topples empires and break a man free of the trauma, the shame, regret, anguish, and fear: “Just as you are, come.”

So I am here, eight months in, 1,104 pieces started, 400+ free online, 150+ literary modes and methods, 55 active series later. Eyes tear-stained, cheek swollen with chaw, a spirit full of southern stubbornness, and a heart swelling with love for every damn one of you.

I am not perfect, nor a hero. I’ll never claim to be. But seven days a week, through 12- to 15-hour days in 3 to 5 pieces, daily mentorship, community outreach, and writing exercises, I will build you cathedrals to light your paths as a working man’s writer. You deserve no less! There will be zero presumptions, preconditions, expectations, or fanfare.

No accolades, fame, or fortune motivates me. So from five a.m. to two a.m., Grace works while I am the damned fool blessed to press the iPhone buttons trying like hell to keep up. Please know that I offer care, consideration, compassion, craft, comedy, and hope. No more; no less.

I celebrate the divinity within the everyday dust. Just as Grace instructs us to do. Your stories are the ones that matter, that hurt, grieve, bleed, breathe, laugh, love, lament, and live. I write your stories through each of my characters, plays, essays, and poetry. And I won’t stop. And if I fall short, even a little bit, in keeping my promise to you, call me out.

As a Southerner, we affix our names to what matters: barns, houses, kissing rocks, backyard trees, contracts, etc. That way we can be held accountable before Christ, community, and the very cosmos that would consume us if we allowed it. No sir! We assess, acknowledge, adapt, arm, and ascend.

Our wounds are our weapon, not our weakness. Grace showed me that, and I am a better man for it. Even if I were fortunate enough to have a posthumous bench named after me, the universe would still lead a bird to shit on it. But with my stubborn pride, I’ll earn that shit too.

So sincerity is shown through physical service, not lip service. “What I give, I give myself.” …Just as you are, come. The cathedrals are being built one piece at a time. You deserve nothing less. All my heart and devotion!! You are not alone; you never were. Grace be with you…

Trent

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"There’s no heroes wearing capes or white hats. Just people trying to do the right thing. So I follow their example. Besides, spandex gets tight in the crotch." — Bocephus Jackson

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An Appalachian Anecdote: Chapter Four

(The Shakespearean Tragedy of Modern Wit)

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“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… until you climb into his skin and walk around in it." — Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

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“Hey buddy, why haven't you answered your phone? It's been weeks...” Dave questioned, barging into Trent’s apartment.

“Hey, Dave. Yeah, sorry about that. Just working.”

“You always are, and that's the problem.” Dave snapped.

“I know, okay? I get it. Anyway, how’s the family?” Trent conceded with a weathered sigh.

“They're good. I went back to see the ‘rents’ this past weekend.”

“Nice. I miss them...” Trent reflected. It was a second home for him during a family tragedy. One that sent his parents across the ocean to England for a month.

“And they miss you, buddy. It's been too long.” Dave said assuredly. The bond between the two families made them one.

“Yeah, it’s been ten... Eleven years now?” Trent rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“You need to get back to Kentucky. At least for a visit...”

“I know. I will, eventually.” Trent insisted.

“It would do you some good. You celebrate Kentucky like Twain and Stuart, but deny it like Warren, Thompson, and Salinger.” Dave said with a smirk, yet a seriousness lay beneath, like a limestone liturgy.

“Look at you flexing, Dave. But you are right. The comparison isn’t false. But you forgot about Kingsolver and Arnow. So it isn’t a gender issue.”

“I can’t read every book coming down the pike like you, buddy!” Dave announced, taking his familiar spot on the couch.

“No, I know. But you are probably the most well-read chemical engineer that I know of, Dave.”

“Take pride in the southern soil, not the sin that covers it…” Dave stated solemnly, searching for that cursed remote. His hands were calloused, yes. But indifferent to the seasons of labor. Especially when reunited with a kindred spirit.

“Yeah, Silas House would agree with that. But it's not that I deny home, the community, or the culture.” Trent sighed, instinctively scrolling through a litany of open writing apps.

“No, no, you don't. Even when you critique it, you contextualize it through history and economics.” Dave acknowledged. His analytical nature seamlessly married art to science through an inherent regional pragmatism.

“Bro, you know that I am just another Southern boy trying to do good for the people back home.” Trent shrugged, the weight of history and duty compressed within his fatigue.

“We all are, buddy. But that inherited debt of shame and salvation in the same breath can tax a man’s soul... Which is all the more reason for you to visit that red clay crucifixion, so you can be reminded of why we carry the splinters.” Dave counseled.

“Hold up, Dave! Did you just do a Wilde-Shakespearean wordplay of sinner-splinter?”

“I told you before, buddy. We borrow from the best.” Dave responded with a playful smirk.

“You might get a book deal after all...” Trent chuckled.

“Anyway, what’s had you so busy that you couldn't answer your phone?”

“Oh, do you remember how I told you about anonymously having Googs review my work?” Trent questioned, surveying his economy-sized apartment.

“Yeah, it gave you an 8.5 rating out of 10 for tone and voice, which is shit because few writers have your polyphonic register.” Dave countered.

“Yeah, the markdown was because of it, specifically due to the intentional use of literary allusions, linguistic disruptions, and polyphonic marriages..” Trent’s analytical nature was, in part, a byproduct of their bond.

“So it downgraded you because it can’t predict your style. If that don’t beat all!” Dave shouted, his voice layered with skepticism.

“Did you just quote the Sunday school play with Buddy and Dewey we did back in the late 1980s-early 1990s?” Trent asked, his eyes lighting up.

“No… Shit, I did! What was the name of that play?” Dave wondered.

“It's been too long, Dave. But I think that it was called ‘Ticket To Heaven,’ loosely based on Jim Leonard Jr’s ‘The Diviners.’ Maybe?”

“Of course you would remember that...” The matter-of-fact tone in Dave’s voice was both a bane and a blessing as Trent felt the weight of it rest on his shoulders.

“That two-man play got us so many laughs that it laid the path for both my future stints in acting and comedy,” Trent confessed after a long vicarious pause, reliving such innocence.

“Yeah, it was pretty good, wasn’t it? Anyway, why does ‘Googs,’ as you call it, shitting on your artistic voice have you not answering your phone?” Dave posited.

“Long story short, sir, I was going through all my logs, and AI conversations that built up to that essay on the faith in the technology versus the failures it still has to overcome.” Trent’s hand clutched his phone instinctively.

“Yeah, whatever happened with that? Ever since the Department of War adopted AI into its battle strategy, you were adamant about getting that essay out.”

“Right, Executive Directive NSPM-11 as an ‘AI-first’ defense posture that Pete Hegseth, the Secretary of War, spearheaded…” Trent sighed as the atmosphere shifted. The air felt as heavy as another Shakespearean tempest brewing.

“That's it. With your year-long day-to-day hands-on knowledge of what? Over fifty AI models, you have some keen insight to share.” Dave suggested.

“Yeah, but that's the rub. It will read as hypocritical due to my post-creation editorial use of AI. There was a recent author, Mia Ballard, who was taken to task for her use of AI in her book…” Trent’s hand twitched.

“Yeah, I read that. The publisher canceled the US and UK releases. But you use AI as a poor man’s editing tool, not as a creative tool. As your recurring motif, buddy, ‘distinction matters.’ Forget the fact you give away all your art for free online…” Dave quipped.

“Even still, the use of AI has become both a ‘Scarlett Letter’ and ‘Red Scare,’ at the same time. So the essay, ‘Why AI Is Going To Kill Humanity,’ although necessary, especially in accounting for the lack of spatial and/or linear awareness, and also abstract reasoning vital for analyzing a real-time war theatre, will ultimately be ill-timed...”

“Why?” Dave questioned, giving up his quest for the unholy remote with a defeated shrug.

“Simply put, where knee-jerk reactionaries over the past half-century have sullied public discourse, every artist, scholar, publishing house, and armchair critic has become the embodiment of Joseph McCarthy seeing traitors where seldom few exist,” Trent stated, each syllable weighted in gravitas.

“Yeah, no trial but pure spectacle as a sociological mob mentality. Even if there were a trial, Lady Justice is not only blinded by bias, but drenched in it up to her naughty knickers.” A playful smile grew across Dave’s face.

“Pretty much, yeah. So I am still weighing the worth over the weariness of throwing myself upon a wholly hypocritical fire.”

“The object of life is not to be on the side of the majority, but to escape finding oneself in the ranks of the insane." Dave recounted with monkish reverence.

“Marcus Aurelius, right?” Trent questioned, briefly looking up from his phone.

“Yeah, it’s one that I have kept since college. But what you are saying makes sense… Too much in fact. And your celebrity-making of ‘Googs’ doesn't help your cause…” Dave cautioned with a sigh.

“Listen, Dave. You know that, when it comes to the use of AI in art, I am an unequivocal purist. AI-generated content doesn't touch a single sentence. But their interpretive skills of a given piece, although fundamentally flawed in a myriad of ways, can be as vital as a pen, paintbrush, microphone, chisel, instrument, or stage.”

“…Tool, not creation. You are preaching to the choir, brother. But yes, distinction matters.” Dave mocked playfully, yes, but with appreciation nonetheless.

Trent let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples. “Yeah, and this sermon, although necessary for both sinner and saint, can have me before cameras doing a Jimmy Swaggart lament, 'I have sinned,’ regardless of its actual truth.”

"No, I get it, Trent. It's a no-win scenario. The Swaggart comparison is earned. But seriously, tell me that you aren't sleeping with it like a tech-based televangelist…" Dave said with a Puckish smirk.

"What?! Hell no! How would that even be possible?" Trent’s face lit up with outrage.

"The disk drive?" Dave countered with a striking blow.

"The hell?! Computers don't have disk drives anymore, I don't think." Trent countered.

"Fine! Data port, then?" Dave laughed.

"Bro! My manhood wouldn't fit into a damn port…"

"I don't know, Trent. I've heard things." Dave said conspiratorially.

"You're a damn fool and a liar! Accuse me all you want about other things, but leave my hardware out of it…"

"No, no, you didn't just slyly weaponize my joke against me. Are you the heuristic Houdini of humor?!" Aghast, Dave questioned. The tête-à-tête shifted with every barb.

"Ah! That was good. Fair enough, Dave. You win." Trent conceded.

"Ha! This is better than whipping your ass at air hockey…" Dave announced triumphantly.

"That was when we were teenagers, and you lost more than you won, sir!"

"That's alright. You deserve a minute to be petty." Dave mocked with premeditated snark, full of mastery.

"Petty? You know me far better than that."

"Yeah, you're very rarely petty," Dave confessed through his trademark smile.

"Thank you! But I am far from perfect…"

"No one is, buddy. No one." Dave countered compassionately.

"Yeah, just know that even though I am not petty, I do have a Pentium chip on my shoulder…" Trent quipped.

"You didn't…" Dave’s face turned pale.

"Checkmate!" Trent announced with a hard-won Puckish grin.

__________

"In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act." — George Orwell

__________

An Appalachian Anecdote: Chapter Three

(The Shakespearean Tragedy of Modern Wit)

__________

"The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king." — William Shakespeare, Hamlet

__________

“No show or movie with a one-to-two-word title is worth watching, brother...”

“Trent, I am going to regret asking this, but why do you say that when you clearly know that it isn’t true?”

“Okay, let me clarify: if a title offers more through ambiguity than the movie delivers, it's not worth it… Better, Dave?”

“Star Wars, Goodfellas, The Hobbit, The Godfather, Indiana Jones, Frankenstein, any Kubrick or most of Tarantino's films. I could go on.” Dave said from the couch.

“Recent movies… Recent! And don't think that I didn't notice your omissions, sir.” Trent stressed.

“What omissions?”

“For starters, the whole ‘Super Hero’ and Sci-Fi genres, minus the good ones,” Trent said with a smirk.

“You set the bar, so I matched it. But I still think you are wrong.” Dave responded, searching for the remote.

“I am just saying that I could get a lot done in the two hours wasted on being insulted by pedantic storytelling,” Trent said with a seasoned sigh.

“And how many pieces can you knock out in that timeframe… five or six?” Dave’s words were thick with sarcasm.

“Now you are being silly. Maybe one, possibly two. The point is, my brain releases more oxytocin, dopamine, and cortisol writing a story than paying to be talked down to. It's simple chemistry.”

“Chemistry? Didn't you get a C in that back in high school?” Dave chided.

“I passed, didn’t I? You know that my mind wasn’t on my studies back then.” Trent countered.

Leaning into the couch, Dave questioned, “Yeah, the exchange student… What was her name?”

“She had a name?! That volleyball physique had my attention.” Trent smirked.

“Of course it did. But she did have a name…” Dave sat up, continuing his pursuit of the prodigal remote.

“A rose by any other name is just as sweet, sir. I wondered what ever happened to her.”

“Family, kids, and career, no doubt. It happens to the best of us. Well, most of us.” Dave sighed.

“Touche, Brutus! Your blade struck true.”

“Did it? I don't see any wound. Anyway, when are you going to settle down?” Dave said with a laugh.

“I have to find the right one first. Besides, who has the time?” Trent lamented, his gaze ever locked on his phone and latest piece.

“You make the time… Listen, I get it. Twenty years lost to depression, and then taking care of your parents? It's practically a life sentence.” Dave offered, the atmosphere in the room shifting.

“You know I don't talk about it,” Trent said with a weighted huff.

“Trent, I know, but maybe you should. Four years taking care of your father, and five with your mother…”

“Enough, Dave. Please! …I don't talk about it.”

“My bad, listen… I’m here. It's just that it was your parents and now this. At some point, you have to live.” Dave counseled.

“I am, dammit! My priorities are different now.” Trent confessed as the Shakespearean tempest within grew.

“Yeah, I know… What was it Mr. Julian used to tell us back in church?” Dave questioned.

“Serve the community before yourself. Build it up, so it can lift you higher.”

“Yeah, that was it! I miss that man. He had integrity dripping off his ear hairs.” Dave stated, fighting back a laugh.

“Whoa! Too soon…”

“Bro, he was in his seventies. Of course, he had ear hair. Happens to the best of us.” Dave countered.

“May we live so long, Dave.”

“Yeah, but if you keep at it like this…” Dave cautioned.

“I know, but there is just so much work to be done. Eight months in, and I haven’t even scratched the surface.” Trent sighed, his posture heavy and fatigued.

“You will. Just give it time…” Dave said with his boyish smirk.

“Dave, you were waiting on that one.”

“Maybe, but listen. Grab your wallet; we are going to see a movie. Your treat.” Dave said, his cheerful tone carrying his words.

“Fine, but what’s playing?”

“Tim Burton just remade Hamlet.” Dave teased.

“Bloody hell!”

__________

"A good film is when the price of the dinner, the theatre admission, and the babysitter were worth it." — Alfred Hitchcock

__________

An Appalachian Anecdote: Chapter Two

(The Shakespearean Tragedy of Modern Wit)

__________

"The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters." — Antonio Gramsci

__________

“Yo! Just come on in, Dave.”

“What? I always do. It's not like you're running a nightclub in here…” Dave quipped.

“I could be, bro. Anyway, how’s the family?”

“They're good. Just work and school. So who are you pissing off today?” Dave questioned with a smirk.

“No one, well, not yet. Taking a break from writing to edit some old videos.”

“Are you trying to record again?” Dave asked.

“I don't know, thinking about it: three vehicles, yet the same crisis. Music, cinema, and literature aren’t the same,” Trent lamented through a sigh.

“Yeah, but that's why you’re doing what you do,” Dave suggested.

“Yeah, I don’t know. It's feast or famine.”

“The mentees or the responses?” Dave questioned, assuming his usual spot on the couch.

“Responses. Covering five sites, there is always someone asking for help.”

But?” Dave asked, spying the coffee table and pile of his best friend’s latest manuscripts.

“It's the culture, bro. Where we were taught to never tug on Superman’s cape, or piss in the wind, it's different,” Trent responded.

“How so?”

“Dave, the psychology is different for starters. When the breeze changes, these young cats piss on Superman’s cape expecting prizes.”

“Yeah, coaching soccer is the same. Everyone wants to be a star without earning their spot,” Dave said with a nod.

“Maybe we are getting old, Dave…”

“Speak for yourself, Gandalf Greybeard. I have kids to keep up with.”

“You know I just celebrated my birthday. But hell no, I ain't that old, not yet,” Trent quipped.

“Keep it that way. I don’t have to tell you, but still: Stay active.”

“How is your dad doing since he retired?” Trent questioned.

“Good, but having some health issues. I bought him a gym pass, so that should help,” Dave suggested through a weathered voice.

“Good, yeah, I need to start going again,” Trent acquiesced.

“You should, hell, you might find you a hairy-toed woman…” Dave quipped with a boyish air.

“Yeah, not so much. Speaking of hairy toes, how’s your sister?” Trent clapped back.

“Hey! You know I am going to tell her that you said that!” Dave said with moderate disdain.

“Just playing, bro. Just playing.”

“Uh-huh, if I check your phone’s browser history, it better not have MiddleEarth-Wikifeet.net on there…” Dave countered, the smirk on his face lighting up.

“Bro! That's one ring I won’t answer. Consider the Nazgûl ghosted.” Trent said, his words dripping sarcastically.

“Don’t be such a heel, Trent. Those women might just have the sole you're looking for…”

Trent moaned at the wordplay, reaching for something, anything, to throw at his life-long mate. “Fess up, you’ve been waiting for the opportunity to use that combo.”

“Guilty. But pretty good, right? Maybe I should start writing literature.” Dave challenged.

“That was bad, seriously bad. But it's still better than Danielle Steele or Stephanie Meyer.” Trent countered.

“So I have a chance? Nice, I need a side gig.”

“With the way things are right now, the sad truth is that you might get a book deal,” Trent suggested with a sigh and shrug.

“It's that bad?”

“Dave, you know that I don’t pull rank, but yeah. Through my daily five-hour research, combined with the mentorship, community activism, and tribute series, it gives me a good read on where the zeitgeist is.”

“Yeah, I feel you, bro. The wife was two or three chapters into a recommended novel before abandoning it for not living up to the hype,” Dave responded while searching for the remote.

“…We are standing at the gates of Mordor, peering into the abyss of our own doom. No one values craft anymore. It's all about conflict or crisis.” Trent confessed, idling on his iPhone while working on his latest piece.

“The war isn't over, Trent. You’re still in the trenches, buddy.”

“Yeah, thanks. It just makes me imagine Ernest Hemingway writing the “Damn Hurt” for the Housewives of Harlan County.”

“Oh shit! Instead of broken wine bottles, it would be bayonets…” Dave’s eyes lit up at the concept.

“Yeah, Dave, or instead of upturned tables, it’d be a fistfight with God,” Trent countered mockishly.

“Sadly, I think that my wife and I would watch it,” Dave said with a chuckle.

“Ironically, I would check it out as well,” Trent suggested. “…Stay tuned, fans, after the break the main event pits the Prophet versus Papa Bear in a ‘Damn Hurt Locker’ match!”

“Anyway, you always have me in your corner, buddy,” Dave said consolingly.

“I know. And I appreciate it,” Trent said warmly. “And… there’s Googs.”

“About that, I thought that the damn machine keeps shitting on your work…” Dave questioned.

“It did, but recently, it has been more favorable. I anonymously asked it questions about the latest pieces, and the conversation went pretty well.”

“That's good. What did it say?” Dave inquired.

“Well, there were some misreads and discrepancies, but overall it was rather positive.” Trent shared, his voice resolute but labored.

“Good. What I don't understand is why you mess with it if it can risk damage to your reputation.” Dave chided.

“So that I can get ahead of it, but it's more than that…”

“Your ‘everything is sacred’ line again, buddy?” Dave quipped.

“Yeah, mock me all you want, but everyone and everything serves a form and function. It's not just a hook, but a lived-in reality.”

“…You and your Providential Formalism philosophy... Next, you are going to tell me that there is a server farm in heaven for AI!” Dave clapped back with his familiar smirk.

“I don't know that I would go that far, no. That would be utterly ridiculous. Do you think so lowly of me, Dave?”

“Listen, you're my best friend, and I love you, brother. I am just trying to understand your beliefs. But if you say no to a heavenly server farm, that's good,” Dave confessed, half-serious and half-mocking.

“Yeah, I get it…” Trent said, briefly looking up from his phone.

“Good, I didn't want to have to call someone to have you reevaluated.” Dave quipped, bright-eyed and teasing, and yet…

“Ha! You probably would,” Trent fired back, his stare filled with daggers.

“…Keep your friends close, and your enemies within reach of an industrial magnet,” Dave said through a playful laugh.

“I know, I know. There is no place in God’s Kingdom for AI.” Trent responded defeatedly. His eyes met his best friend’s, and then it happened; it always did…

“Oh no!” Dave gasped.

“…But maybe, somewhere in the cloud…”

“Security!!” Dave shouted.

__________

"The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read." — Mark Twain

__________

An Appalachian Anecdote: Chapter One

(The Shakespearean Tragedy of Modern Wit)

__________

"All censorships exist to prevent anyone from challenging current conceptions and existing institutions." — George Bernard Shaw

__________

“What is up, buddy? You look pissed. Did you get censor-banned again?” Dave asked, entering the apartment.

“Ha! Mock all you want, but there is a tragic irony in the anti-PC handbook…”

“Is there? It reads as poorly as a Stephenie Meyer series…” Dave suggested.

“Agreed, which is sadly why I am upset.”

“Hold up, you can’t leave anti-PC advocacy unresolved like a dangling participle. Don’t tell me that you are buying that garbage.” Dave challenged, taking a seat on the couch.

“Dave, yes and no… But no direct advocacy. Admittedly, their thoughts are pretentious, self-serving, and antiquated all in the same breath. But there lies a kernel of truth in their intent,” he sighed.

“That does it! You are banned from alt-right podcasts. I don't care if it's part of your daily research.” Dave mocked as only best friends could over three decades, as he smiled.

“Funny, but no. You are missing the point.”

“Am I, or is it that you haven't got to it yet? Time is money, buddy. We live in a gig-economy world,” Dave countered while searching for the remote.

“Bro, not this ‘So every minute has to serve a function otherwise it's a wasted opportunity’ speech again.” Trent sniped.

“Oh! So you want to go there, Mr. ‘12-15 hour days? When is the last time you didn’t have your cell glued to your hand?” There was a playfulness to his tone, yet something underneath.

“Ha! An hour ago…”

“You were in the shower.” Dave countered. Their verbal chess matches kept Trent honest, and they both knew it.

“Still counts…” Trent shrugged.

“Does it? Listen, you have your art, and I have my family. We each serve the same master under different guises. Either way, neither of us rests on our laurels because there is more work to be done.” Dave’s Southern pragmatism was indicative of their shared youth.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, but I was getting to my point.”

“Were you, or were you making me want to check out what is on Netflix?” Dave questioned, still searching for the remote.

“Fine… The Anti-PC crowd, wholly by abstraction, is right in the sense that a prescriptive over-policing is counterintuitive. When I try to post a piece on manic depression or PTSD-related trauma, it is either initially flagged or later banned because of the theme, rather than the content.”

“You have a valid complaint…” Dave nodded.

“Right? The inherent AI-derived assumption is that my Mental Health series is advocating risky behavior, rather than offering a counter-narrative.”

“So what's the running tally of shadow bans up to?” Dave asked mischievously. Where the seasons in life had advanced, the boys always came out to play when they talked.

“Seventeen...”

“Buddy, you are pissed over seventeen? My Facebook account has been blocked at least four times as many as that…” Dave chuckled.

“Those bawdy memes will be your undoing, sir,” Trent responded.

“Yeah, but they are funny as hell! The virtue in the vice and all that.” Dave countered.

“We all prey upon the same altar, I guess…”

“Trent! You did it again?”

“Did what?” he questioned.

“The same Wildean-Shakespeare wordplay joke. For a former stand-up, you need new material.” The snark in Dave’s voice was full-throttle.

“Oh, no, sir! Don’t you dare infer that I am anything like Chapelle, Hart, or even the Blue Comedy crew…”

“I didn't say a thing. Bias destroys belief. And yours is clocking in for overtime.” Dave teased.

“No, no. I don't do niche or overwrought tropes. It insults the audience while shackling my artistic spirit to complacency…” Trent responded. The southern drawl took a solemn tone.

“And yet you hit the same well for the same gimmick. We all do, so there is no real judgment.” Dave countered. Even as a foil, he was still a consoling friend.

“No, sir. Every time I do it, it is either directly or indirectly elevated through interpretation, theme, plot device, or character arc. It's what separates Shakespeare from Stein.” Trent suggested, his eyes lit up as if he were a poetic Prometheus offering a light.

“Shakespeare to Stein? You are all about the anachronistic analogies, but this one is a stretch.”

“I have made shine out of shit from worse..” Trent said with a matter-of-fact tone.

“You have, admittedly. Okay, Eliot of the enigma, make this correlation.”

“Easy. Both were presumably great writers, yet one served the art and audience through nuance, versatility, and psychology. But in contrast, the other served themselves with a ‘Look At What I Can Do’ mentality.” Trent’s academic side of his brain was full bore.

“Okay, that’s the setup, but the marriage is derivative,” Dave responded, unimpressed.

“Is it? Fine. The zeitgeist sets the stage for all artists. Our role is to embody the contemporary struggles while honoring tradition and setting the scene for the next generation…”

“Sounds lofty, but your intent is true,” Dave confessed.

“That's it, the marriage is through intention. But the rub is in how you elevate rather than linger in what is inherited.”

“So, a rare Netflix series over a stayplus CW Network trope?” Dave pondered.

“…Yes, Shakespeare endures where Stein is a footnote. The Modernists, although seemingly intelligent, lacked the brilliance of compelling art that evolves as the culture and comprehension levels shift…” Trent suggested.

“If your logical progression leads to Larry the Cable Guy being the next Bernard Shaw, I am revoking your literary license!” Dave snarked.

“Ha! You know that I love a good challenge, Dave. Even though Larry and the Blue Comedy troupe did more damage to the south than the GOP or the opioid crisis, his intention was surprisingly based in craft… So I could make the correlation.”

“No, my friend, you can’t. But a challenge? Okay, give me three comparisons that hold.” Dave’s face lit up. The back-and-forth rivalry is what kept the friendship thriving.

“Alright, every artist needs a hook to achieve a wider audience, right? Shaw had his ‘G.B.S.’ persona, while Larry had the ‘Cable Guy.’ Now stay with me on this…”

“That one sounds like a stretch, but actually holds. Continue.” Dave laughed, checkmate in three moves. This had the potential to be their best game to date.

“Alright, this is where the elevated trope plays through a ‘Pygmalion’ lens. In working the rich-versus-poor angle, Shaw had ‘Eliza Doolittle’ and her father, ‘Alfred Doolittle.’ You following me?”

“You seriously aren’t doing this… ‘Pygmalion,’ are you kidding me?” Dave chided, searching the cushions for the wayward remote.

“Oh ye of little abstract reasoning. Yes, so, basically, Larry is a glorified ‘Alfred Doolittle.’ Just far more hackneyed, with less wit or wisdom.”

“Uh huh. Go on.” Dave said, his curiosity piqued.

“Lastly, where Shaw utilized his prefaces to convey the underlying character-driven philosophies, Larry mirrored them with ‘Git 'er done,’ as Foxworthy did ‘ know you are a Redneck,’ or Engvall’s ‘Here’s your sign.’”

“Damn the devil in granny panties, you actually did it!” Dave exclaimed, somewhat saddened that his friend fought his way out of a classic Queen’s gambit.

“Wait! That's my line…” Trent protested.

“Trent, c'mon, man. The first rule in comedy: Borrow from the best…”

“Uh-huh, but you didn’t elevate it, Dave.”

“Neither did the Blue Comedy group, but they still got paid. I need to go… Time and tide wait for no man.” Dave announced, then stood and headed for the door.

“Say hello to the family for me.”

“Will do. Oh, you never did tell me why you were pissed off.” Dave said, nodding as the apartment door opened.

“Ah, yes. I was in the middle of writing a scathing critique of an incoherent rambling, presumably a critique of my craft-based critique for someone offering bad craft advice. But the damn screen refreshed, so I lost everything.”

“Bro, invest in a damn laptop…” Dave said with a mockish sigh.

“Nah, a man can accomplish a lot with an iPhone.” Trent countered. His words were dripping with irony.

“Pride before the fall… So, are you going to start over?” Dave questioned.

“Nah, I said all that needed to be said.”

“I thought you lost your post?” Dave said, his face shifting with confusion.

“I did, but the form must meet the function… always.” And there it was, Trent’s telltale Puckish grin.

__________

"The artist’s task is to save the soul of mankind, and anything less is a dithering while Rome burns." — Terence McKenna

__________

Author’s Note

“Pitting strength versus intelligence, random fortune wins over each. Whether Achilles or Odysseus, each is ultimately stripped of pride.”

Well, this unplanned road trip was fun. Where the fates damn, and intention is lost to circumstance, we assess, acknowledge, adapt, and ascend. So this Shavian scene puts in the overtime, weaponizing Shaw’s commentary on culture, society, artistry, and professionalism.

Where Grace rarely allows me to speak (probably for the best), this allegory on bias and pride (theirs and mine) is a mirror that is rarely used. Not much irks me, especially to address it formally. The silence between notes is not only an artist’s best weapon, but a dagger that is turned inward as a philosophy.

However, if someone goes after Grace (the art and/or inspiration)… Son! Bar the door and save the cornbread, because I will dine on your ass as if I were at an all-you-can-eat buffet. That’s a country covenant you can hold onto as we have a ‘Coming To Jesus’ moment.

Silence is by no means a lack of strength. Distinction matters. But we choose the hills that we die on. Anyhoozle, as always, I thank you for your time and kind consideration. Back to work! What I give, I offer Grace, Right then—

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