Daylight wash among
Sky, cloud, sun left unfettered
Land beneath sits right
Consolation Hour is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Daylight wash among
Sky, cloud, sun left unfettered
Land beneath sits right
Consolation Hour is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Distillation of the history
in perceptions collided, scoped
for legion, collective and hive,
regardless of opinion,
deception sets sail beyond the rising sun.
Vast orchids blossom, blood red and orange,
daffodils fuchsia, peach blossom fire,
fiercely pinken darkening sky,
the lunar dream solidifying in the minds,
the abundant illumination crowning insights
to selected witnesses set to testify,
to bare the judgment of the enemy,
to call its shadows to attention,
to see the recognition in its eyes.
It wants to share something,
it wants to slyly strike a deal,
but it needs permission,
and the ability to be seen by eyes
once restricted to the access of
the other side. Some must look
deep inside. Some don’t have to
because they just know. Some
bow heads in shame. Those
who know restrict the spirit,
those indulgent regard
its will, those unknowing
and those apathetic
are lost and found
to chance’s fate
with this worldly spirit.
To fall into the infinite eye
of insights, to collapse into
opening doors, the depths
far deeper than comprehension.
The blackness of limbo
darker than space,
far colder than the coldest
memory, the adjourning meeting
would take place. In a land of silhouette
and disorder, the judgment set by the
black mirror before them, peer
into the chasm: now
you are nothing.
“The Fall of September” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
A question of propriety regarding its remembrance, I thought about a retrospective type review. To revisit pivotal inspirations from my youth, nothing was more appropriate than the album, No Need to Argue by the Cranberries. It was one of the first five albums I owned independently as a youth. It was one of those special albums whose relationship no one else understood. The album begins, the first three tracks, a mature and familiar continuation of the album’s predecessor, Everybody Else is Doing it so Why Can’t We? Dreamy music ushered by sweeping guitars and the angelic crooning of the despondent and affirmed, fans of The Cranberries could rest assured the alternative rock act maintained a signature style albeit for consistency’s sake. “Ode to My Family,” a heartfelt track soft with acoustics, hypnotic synths and O’Riordan’s heart-pitch vocals, followed by the upbeat if not lyrically sorrowful “Be With You” and capped off by the nostalgia tinged, acoustic reverie “Twenty-One,” reprises the pensive yet verdant fields of the bands freshman creation before rising its fan base with the austere strumming of the guitar that opens the smash single “Zombie,” the track not only made the Cranberries household in the United States, it added a new dimension to the nature and artistry the band presented. It is a feral gift, a sonic missile the band uses conservatively, more reliant on the melodic crisp ambiance of natural sounds versus distorted. “Zombie” was as effective a rock song, as a metal song, a power pop song, and a female powerhouse Rockstar anthem all in one. It was heavy, it was catchy, it was raw. It was sexy. I recall being captured by its force and aggression, its nigh grunge aesthetic, its awareness of the world around it. I was captured by its art. And as the song closed in a sting of sharp resonance, we return to the ease of pianos and violins as the song “Empty” takes us away, pulling us deep on its strings and weeping vocals, a deep resonance showering from O’Riordan’s soul. The album continues on this way, a complex mix of dreamy guitars and wispy percussion. Dolores O’Riordan moves from song a gossamer of emotional nostalgia. There is a definite sadness to her lyrics:
“Cause if I die tonight,
would you hold my hand?
Oh, would you understand?
“And if I lived in spite,
would you still be here,
No? Would you disappear?”
~~ “Everything I Said”
Perhaps there is something to it. Why in this period were popular, and even underground artists and musicians so responsive to the deep? As the music of tracks like “Dissapointment” and “Ridiculous Thoughts” are indeed inspirations reminiscent of elmements utilizied by the Cure and the dark and driven tracks talented by acts like Echo and the Bunny Men or Morrissey, and the ancestral twang of the Cocteau Twins. O’Riordan’s voice an entity all it’s own, she tells a story via the emotion she imparts aurally rising from siren calls to demure retrospective. Coupled with the music, they create a dimension of realness, something you can hold to. As a fan from my youth, of course I was saddened at her loss. Stunned to know at 46, with such shining prospect, Dolores O’Riodin would depart. To date, I had believed she removed herself as had been reported she attempted before. Instead, she parted much the same way another renowned singer did, accidentally in the bathtub of her hotel room. Not to diminish the talents or the memory of Dolores O’Riordan, passing in the same manner as music icon Whitney Houston, leaves footnotes to a story yet to be told, but perhaps to be told soon.
As one of the largest things to come out Ireland, creatively speaking anyway, the nature of this band is important to a global story unfolding slowly. One whose roots extend deep into art and culture. It is the shadow of a ghost seen by these troubled artists and their auric record. The heaviness and emotion represented by the four members of a now iconic 1990s rock act, stand present to represent the forgotten talents, and the reverence to the artistry music still wielded to this point in the industry. But specters aside, the mastery of song and presence presented in No Need to Argue by the Cranberries is worthy of another listen, and of appreciation for talents shared and talents sacrificed.
The Cranberries – No Need To Argue
1994, Island Records
This review of No Need to Argue by the Cranberries is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Hidden on far curve
Midnight dissipates gradual
The sun gifting light
“Tribute Sun” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
The shadows of summers
passed fall like leaves
turn to dust, indifferent
to nature’s flow, caring not
for synchronicities or coincidences,
a demarcation of written history
and history being written.
The waning bagpipes stutter
to a halt and rattle away like
the pipedreams cooked up
nightly by sleepwalkers,
a daylight reverie, a trance
induced by the advancement
of processes and technicalities.
A sex born poison fumigates
the landscape wretchedly. Putrid
stench of filth and sewage, a
hemorrhage of the bowels
places red scars, scarlet marks
on the faces of the many batteries
that power this co-opted reality.
Gridlocked, swaying toward
a sun bright future, the chains
of empathy and desire wear
off. The weight eases off
with the flesh, delicate,
timed precisely to flake
away with the snow
and sleigh bells, the
wan harps and
The crown descends,
the sacred breath of life
is given and taken,
and the first
a wail to the world,
a burst of recognition
“Severance Rebirth” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
When it comes to Hollywood people like Dave Chappelle, I learned about him just like many teens were introduced to him in the mid 90’s, by way of a jeering comedy all about the one taboo that mattered at that time: weed. Half-Baked, an instant cult-classic about cannabis culture lambasted joke after recklessly high joke. It’s all the guys seemed to care or talk about at school, so naturally it would become part of my library of reach when referring to Chappelle’s work. Fast forward nigh on twenty years, and the showman’s landscape has changed. Of course there is the “Cancel Culture,” which is relevant to many stars, but there is so much more. The #metoo culture, the racist culture, the PC police, and the phantoms of white supremacy, global warming, conspiring Russians, and Nazi Hitler. Regardless of all these sexy, racy (no pun intended) topics, there is no way an audience member does not feel even slightly awkward and uneasy as Chappelle traipses through the topic of pedophilia and Epstein. In fact the opening salvo just vomits Epstein all over the audience, forcing them to refamiliarize themselves with that faint memory of a name spoken once or twice on the cable news networks. And what now? This name is falling out of Dave’s mouth? What comedian starts a show talking about a serial child rapist that “committed suicide” while gleefully hopeful for a sentencing deal when finally faced with real justice. It makes no sense. Either way, Chappelle does not side with or incite anything by talking about Epstein. The punch line, a thought-full and particular narrative, rounds out to the stoic topic of convo in a quip so sardonic it had me loudly laughing!
Anyway, pedophilia, top of mind. He talks about Michael Jackson, Epstein, R. Kelly. Some of these jokes are quite controversial, and, yet, somehow it seems that there could be nothing more so controversial than talking about the “alphabet people.” The LGBTQ…. I’ve oft heard that there is some sort of Gay Mafia, you know that some one like Kevin Spacey may have been associated with. But, in the end, there seems to be a mafia for everyone. So whatever or whomever these individuals supposedly are, one has to wonder why the myth prevails. So much so Dave must retaliate. Some of the jokes he told about the dynamics and personalities of the “alphabet people” were nigh spot on from my personal experience, but the ones that didn’t land, I could understand where he’d get the idea. As a member of the “Alphabet People,” I didn’t find anything offensive or hurtful in his show. Perhaps the most controversial, though, was the way he laid into the “T”s, as we know: transexuals. Nevertheless, the most important thing that stands out about this comedy act, to me, is the way Chappelle takes his listless audience from topic-to-controversial-topic, in the most lewd, politically incorrect, rampage, ushering them from genuine laughter, to edge the of discomfort, through thought-provoking and fleeting enlightenment, to fits of applause.
I appreciate that Chappelle is able to take on such major topics in a way not many comedians can or do (a la George Carlin or Bill Hicks). Dave is, obviously, no stranger to controversary, and has stayed away from Hollywood for many years, most recently from what I understand, the second time he’d been away in as many years. Still, I can’t help but feel that Chappelle doesn’t just get in trouble with minority groups and descent people, he probably gets in trouble with producers, politicians and the likes. He ambles in and out of topics like racism, abortion, and even Trump all while jarring the subconscious. Speaking of haranguing the people in power, in one of the epilogues to the show, where Dave lets audience members ask questions, he goes into this story about how Chris Tucker visited with him and brought his ‘friends’ over, namely: Kamala Harris, the then governor of California, and some important news anchor. Barrack Obama was a focal character of this yarn, and again appeared later in the show to round out the punchlines. Albeit many of these individuals are now mixed up in some stuff in Washington, the Epstein case being among one of the primary leads. But even addressing a topic like gun control can go either way at the dinner table, and ultimately, leave a bad taste in ones mouth. And let’s face it, as funny as his solution to gun control is, it’s still controversial to the virtuously sensitive. Anyway, this is masterful art. I think one of the most brilliant comedic pieces ever written that addresses present societal conditions in a remarkable commentary the audience can’t believe it agrees.
Sticks and Stones by Dave Chappelle, an Netflix Comedy Event, is available for viewing now.
“Comedy As Much As Art: A Review of ‘Sticks and Stones’ by Dave Chappelle,” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.
Sepsis of the heart,
the antiquated death in digits
once forgotten, brought to
mind by the searing black
that agitates the blood
and quivers in the heart,
it bargains for influence
in the stream of consciousness
deemed material by man
and ephemeral by god.
The waves came then.
The ones passionate about the cause
the first to go and the first to die. Those
whom could not remember, lost in a desert
pronounced of shards and glass. Those
crashed along the beaches of suicide.
They entered into a world they did not
bargain for, many unable to handle
the strength of riptide gravity
and the coerced magic wielded
by the programmers; those whom
designed the energetic matrix,
like a vortex, an aperture in
the air before you, mock their
own achievements by sharing
with the world a hoax bigger
than racism. It is an energy
ring meant to disrupt the first
The second wave brought the intelligible
and the tempered. Those trained in deep
magic and linked in twelve dimensions
fabricated by the will of man. Those whom
would remember, and would cross the
brazen sea, ride deep the current of its
sustenance, and curve its gravities,
change the shape and the temperature
internalized by its creator, a joker
that skewed the illusion of evil
into validation of good. It presented
itself as a creature of dual nature,
declared its life absolute, declared
its influence through deception,
it is a spirit conscience that
traverses through the frequencies
to hunt the inequities and use them
as tools to destroy the children
of the sun. And when remembered,
the spirit cannot overcome the
second; it can only speak its
intentions, and tell its truths
like lies; confuse, confound,
depress, distract. It has many
names and many personalities,
but is a legion negative and
purposed, transmuted and
transposed to the light
by the vigilant workers
whom sacrifice experience
to complete the mission,
rejoicing as she raises,
lifts, ensconced in the ether
of the galactic core, and the
heart of man, verdant in
the tones of love, gratitude
The unthinking prowess
of the third wave; those existing
simply to be, a generation of angels
writing and creating without inspiration,
the energy shifting in their presence.
Their presence an assistance to strike
at the unseen pockets hidden in our
world. Succeeded in shredding the
existence of duality. There can be light
without dark. There can be good without
evil. There can be a god without a devil.
The trick of words and reasoning,
the wardens of the heart, strip away
discernment no more. The veins
buzz frenetic, light receptors of the
galactic core. The DNA dances,
thankful. The third eye opens
and suddenly we see what
things are made of, and
see the spirit of the people.
And we discern those
touched, and discern their
hunger for rage, and the
accolades given when
power tricks the people
into blind animals,
and the symbolism was
enough to divide; and the
skin tone was enough to divide;
and opposing philosophies were
easy enough to divide.
Galactic warriors bring this party
to an end. An orgy of forgotten and
neglected love calloused into the
most sour resentment, depression
and wanton revenge. The word of
man intoned by magic, influenced
when spoken, believed when
received hindered by words of
four letter, is the archetype
of the devil’s motivation,
tethered to the emotion
lost in the vast cold and
empty sepulcher he
The former things have passed away,
brother. A new system has risen with
the planet, has graduated a class
energetic and weightless; has centered
and revitalized; has centered itself
into the new world where the discerning
eyes of the masses, the billions around
the globe deep shining their intentions
of love, though met by resistence, merges
with the spirit of the world, and expels
the final demons, expunges the history
those demons made, and rectifies the
truth unknown, to the newly opened
hearts of the once undignified, and
reconciles with the detached violence
of the spirit when in possession,
when owning, when attacking
the waves that came, and tasked
to alter their experience so
their transmission be lost in
space, and the magnetic
waves that will carry
them deep into our
“Parties End” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.