The High Priest of Hallelujah

His life destroyed by a bolt of lightning, he spent a decade haphazardly wandering the land hiding from God. But his young bride was actually killed by a radio evangelist/messianic fiend called Brother Earl. Upon the stark rock Mountain of Three Days he and his mentor, a desert sage of a sand-sung Indian mystic named Glory Hallelujah, confront the Legions of Death with rage and metaphor. Speaking of which, while defending a lady against assault by a barroom motorcycle gang, with nose bloodied and fists at his side, he scattered the ruffians with poetry, “… a tear, a child-song memory, bird-call truths singing through the meadowland… “ He is Jackson Blake, factory guy, widower, vagabond, banjo player and—the High Priest of Hallelujah.

His life destroyed by a bolt of lightning, he spent a decade haphazardly wandering the land hiding from God. But his young bride was actually killed by a radio evangelist/messianic fiend called Brother Earl. Upon the stark rock Mountain of Three Days he and his mentor, a desert sage of a sand-sung Indian mystic named Glory Hallelujah, confront the Legions of Death with rage and metaphor. Speaking of which, while defending a lady against assault by a barroom motorcycle gang, with nose bloodied and fists at his side, he scattered the ruffians with poetry, “… a tear, a child-song memory, bird-call truths singing through the meadowland… “ He is Jackson Blake, factory guy, widower, vagabond, banjo player and—the High Priest of Hallelujah.

Robert Nichols is a poet. He writes novels, essays, songs, and sometime even a poem or two or five hundred. He knows more about art than most of those who claim to speak for culture in this and the last century. He knows that if nobody understands what you are trying to express with your words or music or form or touch, then you have not created art. Art is communication. Robert doesn't believe in sitting in a cave talking to himself. As he puts it, "Art does not keep secrets; Art tells them." He also knows that one of the greatest flaws in creative endeavor is a tendency to take it all too seriously. "Art, life, yourself--forget it, my friends. If we're not having some good laughs along the way, our art, our love, our prayer is a big waste of the precious gift of sentient life.