Attn: Art Institute Audio & Video Students

music samples can be found

here

my only child...

If I could understand
all of the wisdom of
God's plan
when we can't reason why
but we still must try
can I

my baby's day
on the 14th of May
all I do is think of me
but now it's come to we
he & me

tears may fall
in winter time
cuz in every newborn face
I can see the lonely trace
of my only child


the proof of grace
captured in his newborn face
and the heartache still remains
because I did not stay
that day

an only child
the only child I call my own
but he's still alone
since that day
that I turned
and walked away

tears may fall
in winter time
cuz in every newborn face
I can see the lonely trace
of my only child

tears may fall
in winter time
(but I'll never know)
I'll never know true peace of mind
cause I can't explain
all the love remains
why I walked away
on that special
from my only child


I'm back now...

HANG ON TO YOUR DREAMS...

hang on to your dreams
trust God
and you'll make it
you gotta hang on to your dreams

hello my name is Severus!!!!

and how...

the news came
down into my gut
and fluttered
sour as sticky moths
wanting to fly
but consumed and
drowning inescapably in
acidic lather
afraid of life
and the daily decisions
I retreated to the one place
that is familiar
for assurance
but I found none there
pain is lonely
no matter what they say
it can not be shared
as a bitter taste
or an embrace
with another

in happy times
I knew a happy God
and yet, strangely
these times make the God of wonder
an indifferent omnipotent
of doubt and mirrored translucence
for to trust Him
as a blind man trust
that with the next step
he will not step off the edge
of the world and fall into
the abyss of darkness that is his fear
is to surrender to His will
and sometimes the will
can be tragic
and how can faith be justified
in tragedy
unless my faith goes beyond
the world that I know
and how can this
notion of beyond beyond
be of help
to a single man
living a single life
within himself
and not beyond

as much as I want to
be spiritual at this moment
any force or being is
friend to this fear
and how...as
the balance of a life hangs
as a question
followed by an ellipsis
written on a sheet of anxiety
not knowing
this 48 hours
is not knowing
what will happen
and how...

skyvictoria007 chat transcript...

wayofthewizard: hi baby
skyvictoria007: hello
wayofthewizard: what city r u in?
skyvictoria007: london now
skyvictoria007: u?
wayofthewizard: Seattle
wayofthewizard: y london now
wayofthewizard: where will you be tommorow?
skyvictoria007: i work there
skyvictoria007: london
wayofthewizard: that's exciting
wayofthewizard: what do you do?
wayofthewizard: I'm a musician
skyvictoria007: i work for a company
wayofthewizard: that's a very non descriptive reply
skyvictoria007: we extract the raw materials need for the manufacturing of fabrics,
wayofthewizard: oic
skyvictoria007: cool
wayofthewizard: r u african american?
wayofthewizard: or african?
skyvictoria007: europe
wayofthewizard: u're european?
skyvictoria007: are you interested in what can make us more close?
skyvictoria007: yeah
wayofthewizard: what is that?
wayofthewizard: I'm interested in knowing who you are
wayofthewizard: that's why I'm typing to you
skyvictoria007: we are looking for a representative in the states, someone who would help us recieve payments from our customers in the states
wayofthewizard: r u one of those nigerian internet scam people?
wayofthewizard: how can I get in on the hustle?
wayofthewizard: what race are you?
skyvictoria007: what?
wayofthewizard: are you black .....white?
wayofthewizard: red?
wayofthewizard: purple?
wayofthewizard: what country were you born in?
wayofthewizard: what does your mama and daddy look like?
wayofthewizard: what ethnicity are you?
wayofthewizard: hello?

"you keep the ticket"

today I went to my Vietnamese Dry Cleaner
and they couldn't find my clothes
you see I never get a ticket
I'm so important
they can just remember me
I don't like scraps of paper
cluttering up my life
or my desk
or my car
so "you keep the ticket"
that's what I tell them
every time
but today
they lost the ticket
and they couldn't find my clothes
so I went to Columbia Plaza
I bought some baggy hip hop pants
and a jean jacket with frayed patches
I went back to the dry cleaners to show them
"I spent $100 because you can't find my clothes"
and she said
"you can push the button"
so I did, I went behind the counter
I pushed the button and turned the powered rack
and looked for my clothes
because she didn't have time
because I had no ticket
because I am so important
so well known
everyone knows me
how could you forget
I make myself known
I'm a presence
but I didn't have the ticket
so I pushed the button
and looked at all the black clothes
a long oval shaped revolving rack
that dipped down to the counter
like an escalator
I searched
and I found nothing
except the black clothing of other
customers, I thought
"why am I doing this
she needs to find my clothes"
but she was busy
and I didn't have a ticket
and then, suddenly
I found my clothes
the Dickie shorts, the shirt, the pants,
the sweater, the black slacks, and I yelled
"I told you, I told you,
I told you they were here!"
and she smiled, and said
"next time...you keep ticket"

opus 77

he can't make music
but he knows what music is
he doesn't know what music is
but he can make music
this is logic
and this
is why
my passion
my voice
my being
is mystical

opus 77

rp: instrumental programming

To the bourgeois academics

if no one understand me
I'm all alone in my knowledge
and nothing I say or write or think
is for anyone but myself
and all those that knew what I was saying
before I even said it
do you feel me?
If you can feel me
you may not understand
but you will know
what I feel
and the package
I have encased
my emotions in
will carry more than a meaning
because to know my emotions
is to know me
and like music
a colorful language
my emotions speak
in a universal tougue
if my motives
are sincere
if my art
is the truth
a tear never
a scream never
a fear never
a joy never
never lies
I can go anywhere
to China
or Peru
or Ghana
on any street corner
and they will hear me
and they will listen

I wanted him to be white

and when I heard the news that morning
I asked if he was white
I wanted him to be white
and my white friend wanted him to be an Arab
but he was Korean
the son of an immigrant dry cleaner
and for whatever reason he shot and killed 33 people that day
and it really doesn't matter
whether he was white or black
brown or yellow
naturalized or immigrant
to the families
or to the dead
he was death
and death has no color
so he was white
and he was black
and he was brown
and he was me
and he was you

synchronicity

rp: instrumental programming

Severus

severus

rp: instrumental programming

the nexus

the nexus

rp: instrumental programming

the office

We called it the 'office'. It was a corner of three story brick school building outside a door at Garfield that is enclosed and shaded by a large pine tree. We smoked and talked there every morning. The three of us George, Matthew and I. All someone need say is meet me in the office and we knew that meant it was time to smoke. Even in the rain and wind the office was dry and secluded. George always had cigarettes. There's something about smoking, with the mouth, sucking in smoke that's killing you, Talking, eating, having sex... with the mouth. And we called it male bonding. Smoking in the office and talking every morning of every school day for four years. We called ourselves friends and after graduation we each went our separate ways and never returned to the office.

George had always liked guns. He was a student of history, a student of philosophy, a student of war. A pondering, gregarious, talkative friendly man. A beautiful man with curly brown hair and olive skin who looked just like his mother, his fathers first wife, a Jew, whose picture was in an oval frame in George's bedroom and her eyes starred serenely at you every time you went into his room. She had died long ago when George was a very young child. And she was only a memory. Only a beautiful face, in black and white, in an oval frame. And just like her he was a beautiful Man. That is until he had too much to drink. Like the night on Madrona when the 3 black wannabe gangbanger negroes were harassing him and he reached into his volkswagen van pulled out his 45 automatic and fired up into the midnight air three times, bam, bam, bam and the negroes scattered. Or like the time we drove to Everett to pick up a friends car and he and I got into an argument and he grabbed my car keys and tried to throw them onto the freeway and we got into a wrestling match and I drove away and he walked 35 miles home. Without a drink George was a pacifist. Series high shooter of his Marine Corp graduating class. This told him he could blow a mans head off from a football field away. After the Marines he purchased his first gun. He kept it loaded in his van. This calm, peaceable, loving father of two, married a petit Japanese woman and bought a house in Factoria to live happily ever after.

Until the ghost in the bottle came back to haunt him every time he took a drink. George couldn't take a drink and relax. He drank like a Pioneer Square wino Indian. He would drink one after the other after the other. Until it took over. And he became aggressive, and petty and wanted to fight everyone. He would even drink and go back to a place in his child hood where the priest at St. Marks would molest him playing let's take turns with the penis in our mouth and he found that he liked it but he couldn't explain why so he would drink and run in out of bars on Broadway and find homosexual liaisons and late at night return home smelling of shitty ass and scotch; he would crawl into bed with his wife and her honor was lost. She asked for a divorce.

And that afternoon in St. Marks Cathedral we all watched together as the casket rolled down the center aisle on processional towards the holy altar and his wife, wearing a black ankle length skirt and a black veil, flanked by their two boys in their Sunday school suits walked slowly behind. And all of our friends from Garfield where there seated on either side of the aisle like a high school reunion. And George was there, closed casket, because I don't imagine there was too much left of his head after the bullet had ripped through the roof of his mouth and shattered his skull into so many pieces. He had returned to St. Marks and the priests that tormented him.

hope

hope

rp: instrumental programming

groove 3

groove 3

rp: instrumental programming



famous quotes:

"I can't wait to get Reason so I can show you how it's done" ~Brian Hartman


until then
peace & reason

r

art is...

groove 2

rp: instrumental programming



"Art is a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist's metaphysical value-judgments. An artist recreates those aspects of reality which represent his fundamental view of man's nature." (Marcel Proust)

"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. ... The artist is a receptacle for the emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider's web. ... The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls. ... We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth. ... From the moment that art ceases to be food that feeds the best minds, the artist can use his talents to perform all the tricks of the intellectual charlatan. Most people can today no longer expect to receive consolation and exaltation from art. The 'refined,' the rich, the professional 'do-nothings', the distillers of quintessence desire only the peculiar, the sensational, the eccentric, the scandalous in today's art. I myself, since the advent of Cubism, have fed these fellows what they wanted and satisfied these critics with all the ridiculous ideas that have passed through my mind. The less they understood them, the more they admired me. Through amusing myself with all these absurd farces, I became celebrated, and very rapidly. For a painter, celebrity means sales and consequent affluence. Today, as you know, I am celebrated, I am rich. But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the word: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters. I am only a public clown - a mountebank. I have understood my time and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries. It is a bitter confession, this confession of mine, more painful than it may seem. But at least and at last it does have the merit of being honest." (Pablo Picasso)

"every media of human expression that conveys spiritual truth" (Rodger Pegues)

moonlight sonata

Moonlight Sonata

rp: instrumental programming

eternal love

silent prayer

rp: instrumental programming


© 2007 peguesmusic




I ask for humility, Oh God
God of everything
vanity and self love consumes
the seed of your love that is within me
because I see the world through
the sight of my own eyes
in mono sight it looks forward
and cannot see backward into my own head
a cavernous shell of self-doubt and illusion
this is why I seek to know myself
through me, through words,
images and sounds

am I imagining you
only to wake up
one day
somewhere else
dreaming you
reading this
so I pray
to the unseen God
and I have given all my hopes
up to Him/Her

even in my vanity I imagine my death
the friends and those that even imagined my love
the words of these mourners
will the words of flattery
measure up to a life time
will the mourning tears show a love for the longing
of my company
how can they
as I sit alone in my house
and the phone is still
and the door is closed
no one has called
in life
why will they cry in
death

will they cry because my departure
quickens the pace of their own demise
death as an endless line to a door to a place
where people go in
but no one comes out
this is the fear I take to a funeral service
whether I knew or really knew the dearly departed or not
I know that my time is coming and the
ceremonial dumping of my earthly remains will follow
and everyone will go home and watch tv
and wake up the next morning and go to work
and my life, my work , my accomplishments,
all that I am
will be forgotten
if I really want to make a difference
I need to touch the world
so that the imprint of my sacraficial devotion
is more than a memory
let it be
an eternal touch
an eternal prayer
an eternal voice
an eternal love

the legacy

the legacy
that is my journey
from child to man
from man to spirit
from spirit to master
is marked with death
along the road
the sign posts
and limitless speeds
in all directions
and dimensions
screaming horn talk
beating snares
sighing blue
crying ivory tears
breathing
the heart of the purest truth
bleeding
this blood soaked mantle
dripping pain
swung on trees
and hung from lamp post
these Jim Crow darlings
sipping the Massahs brandy
in bow ties
with shiny faces
oiled with fatback greased
limp curls fried with iron hot combs
singing white teeth
hearing Mr Charlie
yearning for self love
the respect of a Man
and the freedom of a soul
if I could have been there
and now
if I could have been now
skinny ties and labels
v-shaped blackness
in black and white
naive europeans in facistnation
of negrophilia
these layers
mounting up like eagles
flying as the wind
falling like white hooded sheets on
xylophonic melodic minors
and whole tone absolutisms
this Coltrane vector
in perfect geometric
silence
born as life from
modal Indian ragas
and holy occidental meditations
in worship
and rapture
as negro spirits
these sounds
are now
my own

this promise

the pregnant womb
holds the future
that is my second life
my purpose
she is my eternity
and with God I celebrate
the love of the happenstance
indifference which is her birth right
this child
in this time
the time of now
that is held in the cradle
of my eternal voice
as a candle shinning in the darkness of evil
this hope
in raptured innocence
speaking with new thoughts
and convictions
this promise
vowed when the earth began
as the spirit moved across the waters
curls numbered and counted
predestined, shaped and moved
this gift of life
as propitiated sacrafice
this love
feeling with the treasure that is our new vision
of honesty, truth
integrity and wisdom
this family
uncleaved from the maternal
grace that patiently
nursed a man-child for so
long consumed with lust
ego and self
my child is God's child
and I love her
with every breath
and waning heartbeat
until the end of my life
and beyond beyond

hopscotch

the morning tear of God
rest on a blade of indifference
kneeling in the wind
defiant and omniscient
in hopeful singularity
the day has risen
the promise of life that She holds
in that ocean of tear
which is Her reason
calls the children to the playground of life
that is fate
four square
kickball
and rainy hopscotch
a child's most important thought
is greater than every world concern
crisis,politic or discovery
for a child is of life
and we are of death