The Human Core - Poem by Philip Charles Williams

The Photographer- I

Wed, 17 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Focusing on a giant green pepper,

Feeling the muscular folds

Rumple into deep green and black channels,

Like the gyrification of an exhausted

And diseased brain.

Texture is the skin of the world and

Our birthright is to feel the history of the earth,

Tactilely reading plutonic rock

With our bare hands.

Touching a soft carpet of moss

Growing next to a summer stream,

We remember there is tenderness.

Laying down

In an open field of grass,

In a primal nest,

We are returned to our mother,

Returned to the mind of the cosmos,

Returned to the feeling of being alive.

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The Gallerist

Wed, 10 Jun 2026 11:00:00 +0000

About selling

They were never wrong;

The old cognoscenti in sports coats,

Spinning stories, sensuously salacious,

Selling art to suckers

Through their ears.

About people

They were never wrong;

The old guards

Shuffling past the Brueghel,

Listen for hours,

Pained by monologues

Of what people do not say

As they cock their heads and slant

Their bodies to the art.

Listen, listen

To the air conditioning in long-vacant silences

When people forget about art.

Listen, listen

As the docent speaks

About the value of art.

The value of art

Speaks

Many tongues.

The value of art is

The hope we keep inside

Like a pilot light.

The value of art is

Recognizing oneself

In the world.

The value of art is

Drawing a box around

What is worthy of civilization.

The value of art is

Infused with the hallucinations

Of wealth.

The value of art is

Discovering the beauty

Of other people’s minds.

The value of art is

The hunt

Of the deal.

The value of art is

Spending time with your parents

In the glow of creativity.

The value of art is

In the pause of wonder, when a house guest

Realizes what you have on your wall.

The value of art is

Seeing The Joy of Life

Through your daughter's eyes.

The value of art is

Realizing the sovereignty

Of your creative sense.

The value of art is

Proximity to the godhead

That is beauty.

The value of art is

Feeling the vitality and mystery

Of intentionality.

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The Publisher- I

Wed, 20 May 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Nobody knows

Everyone wears the same clothes,

Except for a trendy scarf.

Nobody knows

There are lines of coke beneath the keyboards

And trash cans full of barf.

Nobody knows

This is a dying industry, dying like an old Hollywood starlet,

Dying for decades.

Nobody knows

The art of histrionics

Like media executive tirades.

Nobody knows

What

To want.

Nobody knows

How

To flaunt.

Nobody knows

How

To love.

Nobody knows

Who Leonard Cohen

Really was.

Nobody knows

How

Fate works.

Nobody knows

If pain

Hurts.

Nobody knows

What the message

Means.

Nobody knows

The power

Of screens.

Nobody knows

When fast is better

Then right.

Nobody knows

The end is better

At night.

Nobody knows

Justice

Is theater.

Nobody knows

An honest

Realtor.

Nobody knows

A good story is more true

Than a true story.

Nobody knows

The end of war

Is the end of glory.

Nobody knows

The villain behind the veil

Of kindness.

Nobody knows

Focus on the future

Is a form of blindness.

Nobody knows

Language is the child

Of fire.

Nobody knows

Truth begins

In the mind of a liar.

Nobody knows

Love begins

Now.

Nobody knows

Beauty

Is a vow.

Nobody knows

Dignity

Is expensive.

Nobody knows

Truth

Is offensive.

Nobody knows

Love is never

Simple.

Nobody knows

Holiness

Is outside the Temple.

Nobody knows

The heart

Of the human condition.

Nobody knows

Sometimes showing up

Is contrition.

Nobody knows

Status makes equality

Impossible.

Nobody knows

The gap between appearance and reality

Is uncrossable.

Nobody knows

Why God

Helps an athlete.

Nobody knows

The secret of success

Is self-deceit.

Nobody knows

Comedy

Is about love.

Nobody knows

When to look down

And when to look above.

Nobody knows

The moral dimension of music

Is good.

Nobody knows

There was only one road

In the yellow wood.

Nobody knows

What the hell

They are talking about.

Nobody knows

Who is insincere

And who is devout.

Nobody knows

The end of every career

Is silence.

Nobody knows

The deep human longing

For violence.

Nobody knows

How long love

Will last.

Nobody knows

That childhood

Is vast.

Nobody knows

Evolution is a string

Of mistakes.

Nobody knows

We are who we are

Through our heartbreaks.

Nobody knows

Secrets

Are passports.

Nobody knows

Language

Are imports.

Nobody knows

If self-knowledge

Makes any difference.

Nobody knows

The only true knowledge

Is ignorance.

Nobody knows

The future is backward

And upside down.

Nobody knows

The worst float

While the best drown.

Nobody knows

If the surgeon’s hands

Are steady.

Nobody knows

If they will ever

Be ready.

Nobody knows

What day of the week

They were born.

Nobody knows

How long is the journey

To mourn.

Nobody knows

That sickness

Is a separate country.

Nobody knows

Enlightenment comes

When you are hungry.

Nobody knows

Nothing used

Has ever been obsolete.

Nobody knows

Living in your hometown

Is bittersweet.

Nobody knows

The days

Are gods.

Nobody knows

How long

The odds.

Nobody knows

That talk with your father

Will be your last.

Nobody knows

The beauty of regret

Is in the past.

Nobody knows

Vermillion is a city

In South Dakota.

Nobody knows

How much is

An iota.

Nobody knows

Indigo is not

A color.

Nobody knows

Politics

Keeps getting duller.

Nobody knows

We live in a world

Of status.

Nobody knows

Kindness

Is gratis.

Nobody knows

Why they want

To be rich.

Nobody knows

The end of all sentiment

Is kitsch.

Nobody knows

Quiet

Is the ultimate antidote.

Nobody knows

Sex began

With the eukaryote.

Nobody knows

A friend

Is like a sparrow.

Nobody knows

Why order

Is an arrow.

Nobody knows

Peace

Is a miracle.

Nobody knows

History

Is lyrical.

Nobody knows

Australia is larger

Than the moon.

Nobody knows

The theme from the melody

From the tune.

Nobody knows

Which came first

The universe, consciousness, or mathematics.

Nobody knows

Marriage resembles

Aerobatics.

Nobody knows

If we get to say

Goodbye.

Nobody knows

The real reason

We cry.

Nobody knows

The true soul

Of a nation.

Nobody knows

When their train

Will leave the station.

Nobody knows

The future

Is not one but many.

Nobody knows

What is enough

In the land of plenty.

Nobody knows

Why prayer

Works.

Nobody knows

Where honesty

Lurks.

Nobody knows

When life

Will shatter.

Nobody knows

Loneliness

Doesn’t matter.

Nobody knows

A country exists

Only in the mind.

Nobody knows

The purpose of life

Is to be kind.

Nobody knows

The real value

Of money.

Nobody knows

What is really

Funny.

Nobody knows

Deep conversations

Are a waste of time.

Nobody knows

When they are in

Their prime.

Nobody knows

Friendship fades

Fast and slow.

Nobody knows

The secret of happiness

Is flow.

Nobody knows

Every library

Is a universe.

Nobody knows

The pleasure of a well-written

Non-sense verse.

Nobody knows

Every universe

Is a library.

Nobody knows

That all committed love

Is primary.

Nobody knows

Who

Will win.

Nobody knows

Why

They sin.

Nobody knows

There is only

One day.

Nobody knows

If they are

Straight or gay.

Nobody knows

It is better to be

Lucky than smart.

Nobody knows

The only true salvation

Comes through art.

Nobody knows

Beauty is a kind

Of Justice.

Nobody knows

What to trust

When they hear Trust Us.

Nobody knows

There is only

One moment.

Nobody knows

What the revolution

Will foment.

Nobody knows

Wisdom

Is a tuned string.

Nobody knows

What the day

Will bring.

Nobody knows

The truth of any

Marriage.

Nobody knows

If Death was in

The carriage.

Nobody knows

If they will die

Alone.

Nobody knows

What it takes

To atone.

Nobody knows

What they

Want.

Nobody knows

Food is

Detente.

Nobody knows

Who is

A friend.

Nobody knows

When this

Will end.

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Nothing is Easy, Everything is Hard

Mon, 18 May 2026 02:04:30 +0000

Nothing is created.

Not the small beat of first love, not the big bang of your wedding day,

Not the first hour your first daughter was born.

Nothing is destroyed.

Not ideas, not technology,

Not real love that bloomed before your eyes.

Everything is struggle.

Uphill careers, backward relationships,

Rusted-out and broken-down families.

Everything is ineffable.

Divinity, a child’s love, the inscrutable stare

Of your wife’s deep brown eyes.

Nothing is quiet.

Not a remote wilderness, not the tranquility of a desert sunrise,

Not the vacuum of ancient memories.

Nothing is deserved.

Not your pain, not your ecstasy,

Not your deepest love.

Everything is unknowable.

The soul of any relationship,

The mind of a country, a true friend.

Everything is blurred.

Truth in the media, the story of how you got here,

The mysterious notion of time in the present moment.

Nothing lasts.

Not your memory, not your money,

Not your magnificent childhood.

Nothing fits.

Not furniture, not families,

Not your future squeezed into the common light of a day.

Everything decays.

Empires, cities, walls, homes, the last vestige

Of who you thought you were.

Everything hurts.

Muscles you didn’t know you had, relationships you knew you had

But that linger on like phantom limbs, limbs that seem to have a mind of their own.

Nothing works under a thousand dollars.

Not the gas-powered weed wacker you got last summer,

Not your first engagement ring with a pearl instead of a diamond.

Nothing works out the way you thought it would.

Not the love staring from your beloved’s eyes on your wedding day,

Not who you thought you were going to be.

Everything is expensive.

Dignity, respect, love,

A career you sacrificed everything for.

Everything is disappointing.

The promise of friendship,

Older siblings, the human being who was your father.

Nothing is certain.

Not today, not tomorrow,

Not the heaven painted in frescos above you.

Nothing is final.

Not death, not failure,

Not a summer day when you were seven.

Everything is suffering.

The crucible of education, the changes of growing up,

The commitments of love.

Everything is clear.

Love is a season, death is a moment,

And life never gives up its secrets without a fight.

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Third of May

Mon, 18 May 2026 02:01:32 +0000

Why reject the reverence

That makes this day,

This day,

More holy than yesterday or

Tomorrow?

If your birthday is just a number,

Aren’t birthdays mystical as well?

When Pythagoras sat cross-legged

Looking out at the Ionian Sea,

Listening to the inaudible symphony

Of a mathematical universe,

When Cardano encountered

The square root of negative numbers,

When Euler’s Identity theorem

Showed the elegance

Of the unit circle in the complex plane,

They touched the other world;

Where the horseness of horses

Trot in outline form

Across golden fields,

Where ratios roll around

Like lopsided toys

Played with by children of the gods,

Where transcendental numbers

Gush from the ground

In an infinite stream

Of non-repeating figures

Like the genetic code of the universe,

Where on the day of their birth

They dance,

Hand in hand,

Before they were born

In the green fields of eternity.

When you say every birthday

Is like Goya’s Third of May,

Before you think of being executed by a firing squad,

Don’t you remember feeling beknighted

When you were five, birthday crown

On your head, plastic sword in hand,

Aglow with magical powers?

Do you remember turning ten?

Inhabiting the power of double digits,

How all nine-year-olds suddenly looked

So young and puny?

Thirteen felt odd,

Like a shipwreck survivor

In a prime double-breasted suit,

Landing on an island

After drifting for months at sea.

A welcome party wrapped you in prayer shawls,

As you chanted from their sacred scrolls,

And after, became a man.

Nineteen, expanding with possibilities

In all directions,

You stood on Commonwealth Avenue,

Your eyes gleaming jade,

Seeing the world

Architected in verse.

At twenty-two, you realized

You are way too young

To be working until ten at night,

Staring out across an empty trading floor

In Salomon Brothers,

Seven World Trade Center,

The City, dazzling in the background

And your future somewhere,

Out there.

At twenty-seven, you stood in the courtyard

Of the Cat & Fiddle,

Lighting a cigarette, wearing your first sports coat,

Discussing Tarantino with a chatty redhead,

Living through the myth

Of Hollywood.

At thirty-three, you decided to get serious about love.

No more fantasies of harams,

No more drunken pontifications over

The nature of time at the Coach & Horses,

With your arms slung around two brunettes.

No more dead-end dating,

Waking up far from home

In the back seat of your Honda CRV,

Turned inside out.

At thirty-five, you were seared into eternity,

Walking into the light of the aisle,

Turning seven times around your beloved,

Passing through the transoms

Of marriage, family, and home,

Exhausted and scared out of your mind,

Putting all your trust

In that light.

Turning forty felt like hovering

Over a watershed,

Experience, like mountains

Squeezed into the folds of a brain,

Where you could feel time flow

Down one side

Fracturing into images,

Down another side, experience branching off

Like forked lightning.

When you were fifty-three,

After being winded helping your son move into his apartment,

A doctor told you your mind thinks you’re young

But your body is old,

And it was the first time someone called you old

And you believed it.

Turning fifty-seven,

You worked all night,

Peering out from the glass office on the thirty-eighth floor,

Staring into the lights of the City,

Until both your life and the City

Blurred into one.

The morning you turned sixty

You sat in your running car

In the driveway,

Staring through the windshield,

Falling through fear,

Pulled down into the chasm

Of dark shadows, reminding you

Of your father’s grave before

His casket was lowered into the

The cool dark earth.

Sixty-five felt momentous

But you can’t remember why.

Napping became your religion,

As the decades started to pass

Like uneventful afternoons,

When you woke up at seventy-seven

Unsure if it was morning or evening,

Unsure if you had plans for brunch or dinner,

Unsure which state your children live in

Or how old their children are.

When you turned eighty, everyone came.

Your sons gave speeches,

And sitting in your wheelchair

You grabbed a fried calamari

From the tray of a waiter passing out hors d’oeuvres,

Even though you knew you couldn’t eat it

With your stomach recently sealed

With a feeding tube, as you swallowed

The calamari, like an Abyssinian gulping down a canary,

Looking up innocently with a yellow tail

Hanging from your mouth,

Swallowing the calamari because it was your birthday,

And it was your party, swallowing the calamari

To reclaim your power over your body,

To thumb your nose at the plague,

To revel in the freedom of a free act,

Consequences be damned.

At eighty-three, you fell in love,

Giddy as you were at nineteen,

Staring off, enraptured by the thought

Of being in love, amazed to be

This happy, this late.

Reflecting on your ninety years,

Sipping a glass of Maker’s Mark,

Trimming a cigar on the front porch

In Southern Virginia;

The Applichians shimmering

Like a multi-colored copperhead

Coiled into ancient ranges,

Humming in low murmurs,

The October mist and quiet

Extending blessings, blessings,

Blessings.

Ninety-five felt like being one year younger than dirt.

Your body, just a sack of skin and bones

Like a bag of Lincoln Logs,

Exposed clavicle and brain stem,

Eyes as fragile as a pug,

Sitting on a stool waiting, waiting,

Waiting.

And then came the reverence

Of turning ninety-nine,

As the world turns to look at you

Peering into your inscrutable eyes, peering

Into an inscrutable past,

Where they can touch a century

By holding your thin, fragile hand,

When all the abstractions of a number

Come down to earth

Like starlings roosting

In a laurel tree,

When all the pain and stories

Are written across your palms,

When all the bells begin to ring in celebration

And the opportunity to allow joy

Into the world opens

Like an outstretched hand,

We hold hands and dance

In the green fields of eternity.

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Sunday Mornings with Vlad

Mon, 18 May 2026 01:49:57 +0000

In his mid-sixties,

Sometimes Art-Dealer,

Sometimes Importer,

World-weary eyes hovered

Over a three-day

Graying growth beard.

He glided up the path

Around the ruins

Of Erol Flynn’s old tennis court,

With Pritzi, his ever-vigilant

German Shepherd

By his side.

Sitting on a bench

In Runyon Canyon,

Overlooking a hazy

Blue-violet marine layer

Gently covering

West Hollywood,

Sitting on the bench

In the lotus position,

Floating above the city,

Looking at Pritzi,

“Friends are like characters in the novel of your life.

Some are there for only a chapter or two, others are there until the end.”

Leaning back on the bench, sighing,

“Hollywood can play the part

Of the abusive boyfriend,

Beating you to a bloody pulp, then

Charming its way back into your heart because

You love the idea of it.”

Los Angeles spread out before them

Like a stretched canvas,

“Everyone in this town

Has been doing the same thing for over a hundred years.

Everyone is trying to find one well, just one well to come in,

That will turn their desert dreams into an oasis.”

Vlad got up with Pritzi

And the two of them walked

Up around a little-known trail,

As they came upon a series of rusted steel structures,

The back supports of the old Hollywoodland sign,

Covered in hill growth.

Both of them stared

At the steel structures,

“There is something sacred about ruins,

There is something significant about failure,

About decay and death, in the same way

Getting old is significant; getting old is sacred.

We do not honor ruins in this town.

We cover them up,

We shun them, we shun them

And shunning them

We shun the deepest

Part of ourselves.”

They walked back down to their bench

As Vlad looked at Pritzi,

“Anyone not trying to make Art is

Making a commodity.

And there’s nothing wrong with commodities,

It’s just you cannot be a whole human being without Art.

The question is,

Is anyone still interested in making Art

Rather than making commodities?

The question is,

Is anyone still interested in being

A whole human being?”

The sun was getting hot.

Vlad stood up, holding Pritzi’s leash,

Looking far off to West LA and the beach,

“The blessedness and the curse of this town is that there is no time.

Blessed because without time, we live in eternity.

Cursed because without time, we have no idea who we are.”

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The Schmo

Fri, 15 May 2026 22:18:58 +0000

He said it aloud,

Matter of fact;

“I’m just a schmo”.

And with that,

The axis of the city turned

Away from his creative self,

Away from his power,

Away from his youthful visions

Like the winter axis turning away from the sun,

Like a beggar knocking on a church door that never opens,

Like a wife who has fallen out of love with her husband.

He’s just a schmo,

Biting into a half-wet pastrami on rye.

He’s just a schmo,

Being pushed out of the subway

By the rush of commuters.

He’s just a schmo,

Looking up at his office building.

He’s just a schmo,

Breathing, waiting in line.

He’s just a schmo,

Arguing with the retail saleswoman

About returning a work shirt he bought six months ago.

He’s just a schmo,

Overwhelmed by the enormity

Of the city.

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You & Them

Wed, 13 May 2026 23:12:00 +0000

You can almost hear the snickering

Behind their quizzical stares,

And feel their question behind

The long, awkward silence that asks

What is art

Compared to wealth?

You might wonder

If they care about the past,

Shrugging before yet another cemetery,

Another memorial,

Questioning the origin story of your people,

Questioning the value of history,

Questioning if memory really even exists.

As you feel their question,

Behind perfectly manicured lawns

And freshly cut grass,

Behind happy, well-educated couples

Walking confidently by

In sports visors and polo shirts,

Behind salad bars, pasta bars

And dessert bars,

Behind rows and rows

Of custom golf carts,

Behind rows and rows

Of luxury cars,

Behind secret rules and more secret expectations

Asking in a whisper;

What exactly is wrong

With country club living?

You also worry they might be right:

That beauty is a dead end,

That talk of God is embarrassing,

That all art making is a hobby,

That any venture that doesn’t make money

Is a boondoggle.

You might wonder

If they care about the present,

More than the feeling of swallowing

Salty lobster and hot butter,

More than watching the sunrise

Ignite glassy waters aflame

From their private docks,

More than experiencing

The curvature of the Earth

Above a blanket of clouds

From soft Italian leather seats

In their Gulfstream G650.

As you feel their question

Behind power games of success theater,

A flurry of social media texts,

Can't do lunch, too busy,

Having lunch with the President,

Both talking from both sides of their mouths

When they ask

What is truth

Compared to appearance?

You also worry they might be right:

We are not all in this together,

There is no family, no community,

No society,

There is only selves

Like atoms jostling in a jar,

We are nothing but genes replicating genes,

We are only our behavior

And our behavior is programmable.

You might wonder

If they care about the future,

More than attending a gala

To save a rainforest somewhere,

More than next quarter’s financial statements,

More than booking a first-class seat for a trip in six months.

As you feel their question

Behind a utopia of entrepreneurs,

A culture of takers and hustlers,

Of predators and murderers

Taking what they want, when they want,

In an orgy of desire that asks

What is justice

Compared to power?

You also worry they might be right:

There is only power.

The past is a figment of your imagination,

A story masquerading as identity.

The present is only what the economy

Tells you to pay attention to,

The future is a dream flowing

Not forward but backward,

Not inward but outward,

Not earthward but starward,

Until you feel their question

Behind their beautiful face asking

How different do you think you are?

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Choosing

Mon, 11 May 2026 23:49:24 +0000

We keep choosing

And this is what we get;

Vacant offices and ghost exchanges,

Avatars of buyer personas

Walking through malls like vast catacombs

Waiting to be resurrected by a flash sale.

The same joke is told everywhere we go,

Like personalized license plates,

The same meme copied like fractals

Down the digital abyss, spilling

Into the real, making copies

Of people like fractals down the human abyss.

The same warmed-up banana bread

In every city, the same vague notions

Of fame blurring into trust.

The same hotel lobbies, the same

Smile for the same family photo

On the same vacation we all take.

And yet, we’ve never had it so good,

Never has it been easier

To find your people, nevermind

Your people are disembodied like air bubbles at the bottom of the sea,

Never has there been so much knowledge readily available,

Nevermind the lies, the ignorance, and the preference for the banal.

Never have we been able to purchase more

Cheaper, faster, better stuff

Filling our houses with everything we want, nevermind

We have no idea what we really want.

Never have our lives been

Easier, simpler, bigger, safer,

Nevermind the darkest part of ourselves

Elected like our shadow self

Exposed in the stage lights of the public theater,

Suddenly, everything we secretly desired

Becomes government policy as the darkened audience

Of our democratic psyche laughs and applauds,

As workers are kidnapped off the streets,

Thrown into the back of black minivans,

Masked police execute citizens

Because they didn’t say please,

And we keep telling ourselves

We've never had it so good.

We keep telling ourselves

There will always be more money,

We keep telling ourselves

To keep choosing,

We keep telling ourselves

This is what we get.

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This is the real city- I

Mon, 11 May 2026 23:39:07 +0000

This is the real city

Of walking from Queens to downtown

For an interview, in mid-August, because

You don’t have enough money for subway fare.

Walking in a cheap suit

Rotting off your sweating frame,

Going to put on a show

For the chance of money.

The air is as thick as cheesecake,

That stings your eyes

With the smell of garbage and street meat,

With gray dust floating everywhere like a dirty aquarium.

And on the way back,

After the obligatory handshake

And the dispiriting “we’ll be in touch”,

Walking back to the land of the plastic bag stuck in a tree,

The darkest apartment in Queens,

The half-empty streets and the Polish market,

Walking back,

You see your shadowy reflection

In black marble

In front of Chase Manhattan Bank

Looking back at you like your half-dead self

Checking you out from the murky beyond.

Walking uptown

Past open retail stores

Where a blast of air conditioning

Comes down your neck as kindness.

Walking through Times Square,

You loosen your tie,

You come upon a huckster’s paradise;

The kind of life you should be living,

Refreshing, in control, bold.

A hurricane of images and video

Flying around the vortex, and

In the middle, you approach a glass booth,

A wind tunnel with money flying around

Like the images circulating above.

A spokesmodel stands next to the glass booth

In a short red dress, her white legs

As remote and inviting as a mannequin’s,

Her lips, so red and full of lipstick,

Like two strawberries

Pressed together.

On the other side of the booth

A salesman wearing a headset microphone,

Telling jokes to the crowd, inviting you

To parktake, just sign your name,

Walk into the cool air-conditioned booth,

As beads of sweat pour off your bald head,

Just walk in and grab as much cash as you can,

Sign your name, walk in,

When the money starts flying,

Jump around, reaching, ever reaching

For all that cheddar,

That loot, that scratch.

Your eyes, large as golfballs

Staring at the booth,

Sweat pouring down your face,

The salesman smiles, gestures to the model,

She claps and cheers you on

To go in, sign your name,

Save yourself, save yourself,

Save yourself;

All you need to do

Is sign your name,

Walk in

And save your Self.

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The Human Core - Poem by Philip Charles Williams

The Photographer- I

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The Gallerist

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The Publisher- I

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Nothing is Easy, Everything is Hard

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Third of May

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Sunday Mornings with Vlad

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The Schmo

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You & Them

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Choosing

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This is the real city- I

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