Every man has his own battle to wage, every women her own fires to burn.

For the Bohemian, the battle wages on in his mind, the fire at the end of her cigarette. Be it on the battle fields of city streets or upon the bar stool creaking below the keys of a piano, there is only one victor: the experimentor.

As the world mocks his insights, lays scorn upon her words, the experimentalist, the avant-garde, the bohemian, the progressive, the beat, the dada, surrealist, pop artist, et al, knows no boundaries-- perceives no limits.

And while we hide them from our children, keep them from our schools, bury them below text books and log entries to deny their sense of the future, we forget that it is radical science that progresses our technology, experimental medicine that cures our disease.

Isn't it true then that progressive literature expands our cognative abilities by challenging our understanding of life? Or that experimental poetry taps deeper into the metaphor surrounding our lives?

Applaud your Stephen Kings and admire your Harlequin novels-- for they are great entertainment indeed.

But when then century challenges your mundane routines, turn to the first page of the Bohemian Ink.