All my heroes are dead

Making love with you
Is like drinking sea water.
The more I drink
The thirstier I become,
Until nothing can slake my thirst
But to drink the entire sea. 

– Kenneth Rexroth from the Love Poems of Marichiko

William S. Burroughs. Robert Duncan. Phil Ochs. Hunter S. Thomspon. John Lennon. Ken Kesey. Peter Orlovsky. Jack Keroauc. Allan Ginsburg. Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Gary Snyder.

The world stirred when they put pen to paper.
Their words, effortless. Organic. Inevitable.
Without seam.

Cadence.

They provided an aesthetic to social realism.
A biting conduit to political commentary.
A celebration of eroticism.

They opened doors of perception.
Moved readers to ponder.
To feel.
To connect.

These are some of my heroes.
They were the first Bloggers I ever read.
Documenting their thoughts.
Feelings.
Emotions.
In a manner that made sense.

Their words had value.
A currency more influential than gold. 

Once upon a time, being published was an award gifted to the few of merit.
Talent prevailed.
Substance mattered.
It had soul.

Today, everything is published.
And everyone.
A megaphone is connected to our collective conscious.
Broadcasting.
Pontificating.
Commenting. 

Blogging can devalue words.
Turn them into pennies.
Take one. Leave one.
The dirty container on the service station counter.
Innocuous.
Invisible.
Hurtful.

Mark Twain once said “If you have nothing to say, say nothing.”
There’s great value to silence.
For some. 

– Davison