Brighten Your Day

With a natural shot.

a toast to time.

Stop staring at the clock.
Tick, Tick. Tock, Tock.
Tick Tock, Tick Tock.
A litany of deafening drumbeats
To match the sound of your slowly dying heart.
No matter which way you look at it, it's always the same:
Life passes by in fast-forward all around
And you're left alone, as frozen as the vacant look in your eyes.

L'chaim, you say. To life.
You drink to life, basking in the delight
Of every raised glass and every glorious sip.
Inebriated debauchery animating each stumble, each misstep.
And escaping your lips, utterances of poetic disaster.
Senseless drawings fill the ever blank pages of the Steno pad of your imagination
The glass falls, scattering broken shards as hard as your luck,
In a salute of farewell to the last vestiges of your consciousness.

False confidence, destroyed in your raging torment:
False as the flimsy idols built to protect your fractured ego.
You count off each broken bead on the rosary of your identity,
Algebraic nonsense never to depart from the jumbled architecture of your mind.
Succumb to the misguided voices that call to you.
The blinding light of reality descends upon your disembodied soul,
Lost forever to the nameless and faceless ambiguity of the world.

You pulled the trigger.

You

stood up and turned

But you looked back

Over your shoulder

Contacted my eyes

Saw through to my soul

Yet continued to walk on.

Then finally

The bang from the fired

Blaring through the silence

And a warm gush of emotions:

My spilled heart, my sweat and blood

The exit of a tear

My wound, my shattered windows

And I.

"Where have all the flowers gone?"

She plucked.
One, five, twenty,
a-b-c-f-z-x.
flowers, withering
lonely within the street cracks;
and she picked them.
Impressionable things,
though limp on the sidewalk,
with elastic backs that hunched
over infertile soil-
unsatiated, dry, and famished.

Black Box Recording Sessions.

Over the course of eight years (damn), I've managed to meet a plethora of musicians, but the ones closest and dearest to my heart and I came together this past week and recorded [in one gigantic, unscripted/improve-take] an album of sorts that we're dubbing the Black Box Recording Sessions. If you like avant garde, indie-experimental instrumental music (Explosions in the Sky meets Fugazi), then you'll like what we got. Free download: here.

Album Cover:

Musicians:

David R. - guitar, bells, drums
Mark S. - guitar, bells, bass
Damon M. - bass, bells, drums
Kurt M. - drums, bass
JD W. - video game (he was playing GameCube in the same room); he also took the photo above

Unknown places

She closed the blinds;
couldn't see. Thought about it,
heard stuff like walk talk
sauntering down the loose-leaved aisles.

Read about it, could sense the
brisk lips floating, spitting
kaleidoscopes on the window pane.
Loud, unbearable rainbows.

Twirled around like little girls
weaving yarn on wood
with soft feet, kissing. She
Dreamt about it, long ago.

The park

Captivating shingles
interlaced homogeneously over
the-splattered-paint-dome,
which eyed me intrinsically,
knew what to do.

My feet billowed,
with an urgent chill,
toward the rustic palette shade
sweeping buttery sounds,
incessant tip-toeing

awarded me drip by drip,
as the sun licked my feet first
and quietly meowed at my entrance.

Grounds needed replacing;
budding arboreals locked in spirals
were knocking beneath me
for a taste of the nectar.

But they were too young.

---

This may be revised later but this is the working draft I have right now.