Kweisi Mfume the president of the NAACP had this to say to the Democratic candidates that missed the annual NAACP conference: "You have become persona non grata, and your political capital is now the equivalent of confederate dollars." Well spoken Mr. Mfume. Now, if only you and your constinuency would admit that just like the Republicans--the Democrats aren't accomplishing anything for you or anyone else. We live under a government that ceased to function long ago and is now only a debating society for big lobby interests. Don't believe me? Ask the man that lost his job 2 years ago after 9-11...who is representing him? Who is standing up for him? No one. He has two problems: he's not a trial lawyer and no oil company executives as relatives. He does not even register on the national government's radar. Our tax and spend Democarts and cut tax/bloat deficit Republicans are too busy financing their next campaign to worry about him or to solve any real problems. The differences have disappeared between the two major political parties and no one cares. Americans are too busy getting fat watching "Blind Date" reruns and downloading Internet porn. I'll give you political capital--vote. I'll make you rich--vote well. The government will only change if you use the power so many have died for--the freedom to elect your representation. Vote with your heart and not for the favorite candidate of your branded cable news channel. Only then will these Confederate Dollars of broken lies and promises--bankrupt our politicians.

Have you ever noticed in every zombie movie, the undead must eat the brains of someone living? That's no exageration: every one. It is a necessary plot device. I believe brain eating is the number one requirement to make a movie about corpses that walk around. Doesn't matter if the movie has a plot, just some nice innard eating. You remember the song: 'Brains, brains, the magical fruit...the more you eat the more you toot.' The thing is...no matter how many brains they eat, the zombies don't get any smarter. Not even a little bit. Osmosis must not work this way. I keep thinking if I watch "Night of the Living Dead" just one more time, those zombies will figure out to eat the black guy first since he's the star and the alpha male. But, they don't. However, those damn creatures live on to be in such wonderful flicks as "Evil Dead 2" and "House of a 1000 Corpses." If I wrote a zombie flick, I'd make a monster lose an eye...it would land on someone's shoulder. I hear the background music now: "I've got my eye on you." Ha ha. Now that makes me laugh. Note to horror writers: take yourselves less seriously, just like this post.

I have just a few words for you Mr. Bush: Right now, this moment in time, is America's page in history. Be careful how you write it. Life is forever changed in the post 9-11 world but Iraq has become the lie commonly agreed upon. The Bush doctorine has been used as a weapon against a regime that your family had a personal vendetta against. Or was it--someone else had to pay for that tragic day in September? Though Sadam got what he deserved, the pretenses of this war have become volatile and dangerous. Where are the weapons of mass destruction George? You told us they were there. It was a poweful state of the union address that made me cry. America believed you, and you have betrayed us. Find the weapons, restore the faith. Otherwise we can't help but ask ourselves, what happens when other nations apply the Bush doctorine? And they will. What would happen if China invaded Taiwan in the interests of national security...India invaded Pakistan to stop terrorism...or North Korea invaded South Korea? The ingredients for another world war are cooking on the stove George. You better check the pot, it's boiling over.

I created this BLOG soley for the purpose of practicing and sharing my writing with others. My brother Michael encourged me to start BLOGGING (when his web site is up and running I'll add his link to this post). It was a good idea. BLOGGING forces me to write and think about writing every day. I am not sure at this point if my writing is truly any good at all, but I love the art of writing. Practice makes perfect, right? If the writing is good, I hope this will lead to something bigger, if not-- the joy of doing it is enough for me. Certainly, the creative process is expanding my mind. A GOOGLE search for 'Nobius Black' tells me that I take 6 of the top 10 spots for 'Nobius Black' (lol). It is on that search that I found this beautiful website BLOGGED me: fudgeit. Eventually, I'd like to create a web site like that one, but right now I wouldn't even know where to start.

I thought that I was just killing time, wasting it, bored off my stinking gourd. Now I know that I'm not killing time, time is killing me. Time is killing us all. Minutes and seconds are passing us by, minutes and seconds are making us die. With the crash of hour glass broken--our moments fall away--grains of time-sand pass through my fingers scattering to the wind. As I stand before the mirror, I realize I've passed my prime. There was no hoopla, no party, no celebration of my age and my accomplishments...just a small wimper like a forgetten dog (kicked and left to starve), mixed with a tear from my eye. Though I could not catch the sand, I find myself still asking, "Where did all the time go?"

Warren Ellis has done it again! Planetary/Batman: Night on Earth takes an old concept and revives it into something fresh and exciting. Superhero comics are more stale than the loaf of bread/door stop on my counter, these days. Though the book is an introduction to Ellis's creator owned Planetary, it's Batman that steals this show. No plot give aways but I will tell you that Batman is warping through the dimensions unaware that he is constantly changing into Batmans from various eras. Who ever thought the Frank Miller Batman from The Dark Knight Returns and Adam West Batman from the 60's TV show could coexist in the same book in a story that works? Unlike some of Warren's other comics -- the dialogue doesn't seem squeezed and the story moves at a pace that is both logical and fun while not being rushed. The artwork is top notch. John Cassaday's renditions of the different Batmans are perfectly drawn...simply beautiful. Read it, and then read it again...it may be 20 years until you read Nobius's Batman: Heaven Upon Us.

The middle of July, during a long, cold summer, the sky a blanket of gray...I haven't seen the sun in 3 days. The willow tree outside our window will never be the same...the tears shed under it when we buried the past. His knife will never cut another. The tree's branches bend down and look at the spot. New grass won't take. Things like these can never be covered over. Someone always remembers, someone never forgets. At night, I hear Mary's sobbing from behind the bedroom door. She still cries, but I don't. Jason deserved it, he had no heart. I told him he'd never touch Mary again. And he didn't. We've had a long, cold summer but if I think about it, it will be an even longer, blue winter.

BLOGGER is too easy to use. If I read another BLOG entitled, "I have a high class ghetto booty" or "I ain't got shit to do!" then Nobius will not be responsible for his actions. The proliferation of junk postings has increased faster than SARS. Two ideas high class ghetto booty girl: get an English tutor and get a life. The language you write in does not resemble anything currently spoken by mankind. Your ass may be great but you clearly have nothing worth saying. BLOGGER -- 60 million people with modems and free time. Thanks a lot Pyra Labs. Log on, read shit, waste time--call it BLOGGER hell.

I have a confession to make, I am a Word Prostitute. A skank on a street corner, pimping myself out for one more fix. Calliope is the heroin needle shooting up my veins. Inside the blood flows, the rush of ink suddenly onto paper, or letters pounded out on the keyboard--sentence by sentence until some kind of coherence is created. Getting high off the writing that's what makes me feel good, that's when I get my score. This is the writing of a great American novel. The rest of the time, I'm selling my body until I can write the next piece. I'm just a Word Horror.

I came accross this interesting article on CNN.com: Making it in comics from home. Writing comics has always been one of my dreams. I'm telling you: Batman has my name written all over it. Need to pick up some of Jay Nitz'c comics...the idea of Mr. Fantistic talking to his son about God sounds very original. Originiality is what it's about it, isn't it?

Today, the Idea Machine is on. The power is flowing through, the juice is on and Nobius is getting stoned. I'm addicted--so many concepts and ideas floating around my head space. If work wasn't beckoning, I could spend all day writing. The mind's eye is playing--no static, reception is good. Ideas screaming out to be written down--Sherlock Holmes as a vampire, visits to Barber Town, an undead poem "Crying Blood". The digital camera is calling my name. It is commanding me to take pictures of the rusty, lonely water tower accross the street, and to walk the Ohio-Erie Canal trail and snap shots of the lovely junk yard next to it. Got the pen, got the paper, now just need some time before the Idea Machine switches off. Life is seriously interupting my creative endeavors.

The bell hop says to her in his ever helpful voice, "Mam, I can't take your bags for you if you don't let go of the handles." He doesn't understand, it's not so easy for Sarah "to just let go." These bags are all that is left of her once promising life. The death grip on the handles began last night at the Kansas City train station in the pouring rain, where he left her crying. Dan cast her off like the excess baggage that Sarah believes she is. She bought a one way ticket to Barber Town and tonight she will sleep in this hotel alone with the wedding ring still on. Tomorrow, she will visit Mom and Dad and ask to stay awhile. Please, someone tell her before it is too late--every ticket to Barber Town is one way.

I am looking for the secret of everlasting creativity. It is not under a rock in Barber Town or with the needle in Farmer Joe's haystack. It was not there when I smoked Peyote with the Indians or during my Opium addiction. I have been looking for it, all of my life. Is there anyone out there that can pass it along?

Why is that some days, from rise to set, I have a flurry of ideas and expressions that can not be contained? "Do you mind if I borrow your cocktail napkin and that felt tip pen? I need to write the great American novel?" And yet other days, creativity is a brick wall that reaches skyward. Up against the insurmountable, I can not write a sentence much less a poem, essay, or post on this BLOG.

Sometimes, just picking up the pen is painful and I hate to hurt.

An idea can be a bomb. It can be very bad. It can kill you. Just one thought can be dangerous, deadly, like a handgun pointed at you. The hollow-tipped bullet of the mind will leave behind a bloody hole in the back of your head the size of a grapefruit. Pull the trigger, I'm thinking again.

Over the past several days, a number of major storms have hit our area here in Ohio. I had no power for about 18 hours. I know it's been said a million times before, it is amazing how much we depend on electricity. No power means--no TV (which I can live without), no radio, no computer, no BLOG (lol), no clock, no refrigerator, no lights...you get the picture. How did people live 150 years ago? Abe Lincoln read by the light of the fire place. He must of been blind by the time he was 20. It's been a bad day. To top it off, when I got to work today I found out we've been bought out by our number one rival...but "Don't worry," they said, "There won't be any major layoffs." If I worked for Honest Abe, I wouldn't worry but I don't and I have mouths to feed.

The Dapper Vampire, no longer waiting for night to fall.
Every suit freshly pressed, every victim freshly picked.
Run as you might, run as you will,
His taste for blood is the only thing more insatiable
Than his taste for style.
The Dapper Vampire is dressed for the party--
are you?

Word's Worth seems small--
If I can not tell you,
If I can not say how I feel inside.

The price to open my heart
Is one not easy to pay.
The hight cost of feeling,
Stealing all of me again.
Why pour it all out--so it can suck me dry?
I am not...am I?
The many faces of me.
Set the sun, I want to sleep now.

Word's worth seems small,
Doesn't matter at all.
If I can not tell you,
If I can not say,
How I feel inside.

A craft of words.
A molding of sentences.
My clay is this page;
The ink that flows the potter's wheel.
I touch it, I shape it,
I make it live and thus ensure
My Immortatlity.

Little boy,
Grown Man.

Red wagon,
Red Porsche.

Basketball,
$50,000 a game.

Happy,
Hole in his head.

Momma always said,
"You'll never amount to anything!"

I sorta kind of love you. No. Even when your hate is green. Even when you're screaming mean--cutting wrists and slashing tires. I want purple tire ice cream with the pink moss topping. There's no such thing? I don't exist either, at least not anymore. And If I'm wasting all of your precious, precious time -- then shove off. Leave. Go. I sorta kind of love you. No. Even though you're an ass, even in your expansion of mass. I walked a mile today and went a centimeter. I love you from the bottom of my heart, and the bottom of the toilet bowl as I try to purge myself--of you. It floats to the top always. I sorta kind of love you. No. Even when your hate is seen--throwing quarters and throwing me. No matter what you do, I'll let you in, let you in because I think I love you. Now hit me.

I do not wish,
I aspire to be.
The burning image within me.
Desire will not lead me blind.
Pull the future's horse by it's reigns
Until my whole being gains
The burning image within me.

If I had the skin of a lion--
I think I'd "roar" at you--
instead I'm like a kitten sliding away-running
across the floor--
after being hit by Grandma's broom-SHOO!

My want, my desire--
You are Vampire -- Blood Lust.
It trickles down your neck,
Running from your mouth.
The undead kiss shared.

Who knew our last kiss--
Would be this good?
Exsquisite, sexual, beautiful pain...
The sinking of teeth under a pale moon.
Surely, I am insane.

As I die, my only,
I realize--
This is not our last kiss,
It is our first.

Piece by piece, I can not make it all fit.
I can not figure your puzzle out.
Jigsaw man, jigsaw man.
The cracks between the pieces--showing through.
The cracks in your world--showing through.
Jigsaw man, jigsaw man,
What holds you together?
No glue can hold, what is falling apart.
Jigsaw man, jigsaw man,
I can not figure your puzzle out--
Put you away, piece by piece, and start something new.

My lover says to me again, matter-of-factly, "Nothing makes you happy. Nothing." The fight is on and I have my usual reaction to one of her quips. You know the one: the deer-in-the-head-lights-stare and the choice come back of, "Umm...mmm...You don't know what you're talking about." Good come back there, must of taken a lifetime for me to think that one up.

I decide that this time I will show her she's wrong. I start with my CD collection. Music makes me happy, it makes everyone happy, damn it. And mine is peppered with happy go lucky song titles like - Use Your Fist, Not Your Mouth, Dead Skin Mask, Dirt, and who could forget that beautiful, little diddy--the Stench of Piss. I quickly come to the realization that my music collection needs more prozak, less steroids, and maybe some lovely flowers....something less angry.

God will dry my face when
deep runs this well of emotion.
The tear that falls is sadness,
Rolling down it's wet trail.
Sadness is not knowing why I feel this way.

Sadness is the crying of a child.
Who comforts the boy that can not get
himself out of harm's way?
Sadness is being where someone put you,
not knowing which way to go--
where to turn, how to get out.

Sadness is your crying--
Fifty years after he touched you--
Innapropriate, evil, sick.
Father's dying made me sad,
Mother's heart break made me even sadder.

Sadness is the tears of a man,
Even worse to macho to show.
Hidden behind the coverings, the deceptions,
the alcohol, the football games.
I hate being sad.

Though the sunset may be beautiful--
Sadness covers the mourners,
Swaying at the gravestone,
Weak in the knees, tears falling, sad.

God will dry my face when
deep runs this well of emotion.
Some things only He can heal.
I won't stand at the wishing well,
I'll put my faith in You.

The cities we will never see,
The places we will never be.
You and me,
You and me,
Anymore.

On this Earth,
What is my purpose-my passion-
my mission-my goal?
I ask the question-
No one answers, no one knows.
Not even me.

Mountain--
We are sorry we never lived
up to expectations high.
Valley--
Only down to expectations low.

I dread the day when my kids realize...Daddy's not so cool.

I've been hiding under my skin,
My mask worn to be brave
Eventhough I am so very afraid.
Mama...don't let our children know.
I don't want them to know.
I didn't want you to know.

She said, "Our life is without."
My lover wants a glimpse into another life...
Tortured beautiful--
Robin lays her head on the pillow, to dream about it again.
Wanting to be somewhere else.
And though she tries to hide it, I know:
I can't give her what she wants.
Our life is always without.

I'm looking for a new 'skin' for my BLOG. This might take a while since I don't know HTML (yet). I've been cruising BlogSkins.com until my mouse hand is numb. I don't think tonight will be the night.

The best thing about having a pen name: I can refer to myself in third person, and not get funny looks.

My love, I can not quench,
The sticky, sweet, memory of you.
This Crimson Bite belongs to me.