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Grandpa's Buried in the Rocks

Apr 222010

Grandpa died last week and now he’s buried in the rocks
But everybody still talks about how badly they were shocked
But me, I expected it to happen, I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on Main Street and shot it full of holes

Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again – Bob Dylan

Listening to Blonde on Blonde on Peaked Mountain Road the other day, I could almost feel the American utopia of some better yesteryear resonate deep within a core I didn’t even know I had. Leaves are growing. The green canopy of the forest is reemerging. Growth is abundant.

Yet still, crazy ways are evident in the world-at-large. The things we hate about ourselves seem to time and time again manifest themselves in corporate misconduct, elected liars yelling “FIRE!” in a bellicose political puppet theater, needy Facebook messages pleading with strangers to attend events far away. You can make your own list.

An electronic manifestation of the Void

Albert Einstein has that famous quote about insane people doing the same things over again and again and expecting different results. Humanity needs to begin exploring new avenues to the future. Boulevards. 12-lane expressways of creativity and community rather than the congestion leading to nowhere.

Grandpa’s buried in the rocks. The old man lived in a different day, using different ways. The old ways won’t work anymore. Intentional living is what some call it. Deliberate living. It’s OK to realize that you were wasting time, breathing from your mouth, pronouncing banal improperly. That’s growth. Despite Earth’s overabundance, too many live in misery. Until creative solutions are put into practice, nothing will change. The first change starts with yourself. Are you contributing to a better world? I hope so. We only have one Mother. Happy Earth Day.

The Brake Lights Revisit the Fire - March 1st, 2010

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Apr 082010

I used to play The Fire every Monday night with all kinds of great musicians. Here’s a video of me performing two of my old songs when I revisited my friends recently – A Declaration of Truth and All My Letters.

The guitar is a little out of tune and so’s my voice, but I seldom perform live these days. Thanks to Physical Illusion for posting this!

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The Tan Satchel

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Feb 172010

There's a little bit of poetry in it, and lots of blood.

No science in politics and no art to war. No instructions for life or time for truth in the countdown to extinction. Not enough whiskey to shoulder the coldness of humanity. Nor enough coldness to freeze the indifferent toxins of exploitation. What began as the emperor’s new clothes has morphed into the world’s biggest nudist colony.

Because the world is aflame and everyone is lying for money, I take to my Walkman and a handle of bourbon. We’re all pushing each other around until it comes time to ask for a helping hand. The lucky should be thankful to find loyalty. Amos says, if the market is guided by an invisible hand, that hand is surely attached to an invisible douchebag.

Mountainside bromides. Background of total black night. Drinking without thinking about the amount of cans filling these construction bags. Truth is, I need more than 5 minutes between jobs to write; I need a patron, some coin, some advantage. Something. And yet something in a David Bowie melody could come forth and grip me; alcohol could warm me, Aladdin Sane would try to warn me, but I’d ignore the narrative for just a few minutes of feeling.

I once had a tan satchel and within it, the means to nourish myself: water, granola, journal, camera, bandanna. A plain tin flask filled with whiskey or brandy. Chug chug chug, pick up my stuff, keep moving. Northern Liberties. There were homeless people everywhere and I knew all of their names. I had invented them myself on the bus headed into New Jersey.

You can hear the consanguinity of life through a seashell or the heartbeat of an alpaca, but you can’t ignore the ongoing history of competition among all things fighting merely to exist. There’s a little bit of poetry in it, and lots of blood. Somewhere in the combustion we impose our love and hate onto unassuming things. We impose morality where we discern cruelty, seeking an otherwise unattainable divinity through what we call ‘compassion’. But in the end, the War rages forward, silently minding the eyes of the dreaming saints, our drunken eventides, these sleepy eyes, weeping towards eternity, ever-aglow for tomorrow with glorious visions of love and epiphany.