Tag Archives: writer

Something Simple

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SOMETHING SIMPLE

Not trying to be a follower.
I know I could fall lower if I follow her.
In any weather, whether it’s fall or spring.
A certain season and seasoning, mixed in with reason and reasoning.

I’m a carpet dweller with my eyes on the screen.
You’re a fast food truck, racing far from serene.

This medium of mediocrity.
This hyper hypocrisy.
Each company’s compendium, comatose complicity.

Hold up. Wait a minute. Let me put some thought back in it.

Maybe it’s a Mirage, and I don’t mean whores in casinos.
These deserted visions showcase lies and libidos.
I’ll keep the wool near my eyes; see, I’ve got allergies to synthetics.
And I’ll break out in hives near peripatetics; that’s pathetic.

Holy mother and father who art in heaven, aren’t in heaven.

It’s all just guessing.
And blessing’s nothing more than wishful thinking
And hoping that this whole world stops sinking.

Under green lights, but the traffic’s slow.
The power’s running out and the candle’s low.
Found the land with the sand to escape the snow.
Curtain calls fall in the final show.

But I don’t like funerals; I’m not a mourning person.
I battle for the better, but waiting on the worse and…

This life is theoretically, hermetically sealed
Until the ribs are broken open and the heart is revealed.

Surprise! It’s eyes shooting truth through lies.
And clouds are shrouds hiding sun from skies.

This central nervous pervis system got caught red-handed, but I found the victim.
It’s me, Killer B, with the stinger in hand,
Using ink when I think to establish a plan.

Map a course, of course, whether smooth or coarse.
Saddle up the steed, but don’t force the horse.

Leave a trail of crazy Craisins to backtrack home.
Take a seat and slide down into the comfort zone.

She stands waiting by the door, all pretty and pale.
After years of bated breath, I can finally exhale.

Adolescence Interrupted

…and stop killing animals.

Stream

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Starting this month, I’ll be digging through my songwriting/poetry archive to share some thoughts and feelings from days gone by. It’s been an interesting journey, to say the least, and these entries serve as sentimental snapshots, frozen in time, of where I was and where I hoped to venture.

I’ve spent many years putting pen to page in an attempt to make sense of the world around me and my place in it, to varying degrees of success. But I’m supremely grateful for the experiences logged and the memories made.

We have such a finite window when life feels like perpetual possibility. I’d like to think that in the midst of all that mental, physical, and emotional chaos, I was able to carve out a memorable piece of my own path…and maybe help impact a few others along the way.

So here’s to looking back!

STREAM

I’m sick of headaches and heartbreaks,
chances of earthquakes,
dreams that I can’t shake,
like sleeping wide awake.
But inside the hating is still contemplating
how a life spent in waiting
can carry the crown.

See my glasses are masses of these blurry lines,
where I’ve conceded defeat and found shelter to hide.
But the answers, like Rubik’s, seem spun out of web.
While the pinballs and flippers rip tilts through my head.

Keeping track of the stack of the jobs left to do,
is like staring at stained-glass I can’t quite see through.
But clearly, my eyes are the last ones to blame.
It’s the passion and hope breaking rules of the game.

I find solace and comfort in a time without sound.
Feet are firmly and rightly set deep in the ground.
Still, the lure to take flight is a constant concern.
Resolution, the tool, to extinguish the burn.

Hungry hearts satiated by the chance of one prize.
Lows will drop and get lower, only rescued by highs.
There’s no theory or law that maps out this course.
Just a strap and a saddle and getting back on that horse.

Layers and layers are left to explore.
Molds are broken, notes taken,
but less open doors.
Question motives and practice,
yet drop every clue.
More eyes open and, this time,
they’re looking at you…

Adolescence Interrupted

…and stop killing animals.

The Necessity of Art

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art1Without creative expression, we are nothing more than automatons, robotically plodding through each day under the command and watchful eye of moneymakers dropping us on hamster wheels to sprint for our supper.

It is the liberation born from artistic endeavors that enables human beings to break the chains of conformity to stand as wholly unique individuals. Whether it’s a song, film, painting, or book, the idea that something can occupy space in the world where there was previously only a lone notion is a beautiful and mysterious thing.

Inspiration born from the deep recesses of the mind is an inexplicable phenomenon. Lightning strikes come without warning, and suddenly the picture begins to find focus. Since my primary arena is words, I can only speak from that perspective. But there have been countless situations when my fingers were writing something without assistance from any earthly grounded force. I stop typing after 15 minutes and wonder who filled the page with these phrases and metaphors. I liken it to composers who listen back to a piece of music as if they’re hearing it for the first time.

We are simply conduits for creativity, and the results are generally more succinct and better developed than the head-spinning process of trying to generate poetry by pounding two pieces of clay together, struggling to form a shape.

Everyone has a place and a purpose. Scientific minds are here to answer the world’s most complex questions. Educators instill the next generation with the necessary building blocks of knowledge. The woodworkers and craftsmen are indispensable pieces of the equation. Farmers literally keep us alive. But without art, the very core of what makes us human would be lost.

So the next time you hear a perfectly-constructed melody or read words that seem to dance off the page, remember that it takes a very specific energy and talent to generate something that stirs the soul.

Adolescence Interrupted

A Writer’s World

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AI2“The more closely the author thinks of why he wrote, the more he comes to regard his imagination as a kind of self-generating cement which glued his facts together, and his emotions as a kind of dark and obscure designer of those facts. Reluctantly, he comes to the conclusion that to account for his book is to account for his life.”           -Richard Wright

I am beyond happy to report that my book, Adolescence Interrupted, is officially available. To be able to write those words after a seemingly endless publishing period is still surreal, but I’m doing my best to allow the significance of the moment to register. I’m aware this is an event that will only happen once, so I better savor a few smiles before I leap to the next undertaking.

Anyone who was even remotely aware of the mysterious endeavor that took years of secluded labor and emotional excavation understands the weight behind this statement.

A writer’s world is plagued with worry, wonder, and self-doubt. We pound away on these keys in isolation, with little knowledge of road maps or finish lines, and hope for some modicum of coherence or readability. Then, with blurry eyes and bruised fingertips, we swipe the sweat from the screen to inspect our creation. There are sentences or sections that often feel otherworldly, authored by some apparition to help push us down the path. Other times, phrases are buried beneath the marble, and no amount of persuasion or coaxing can bring them to the surface.

It is inside this push-and-pull exercise that we find flashes of clarity and bursts of inspiration. We learn to ride that seesaw up and down until a notion or objective stands, fully formed.

There is no satisfaction in the result without some frustration in the practice. Work worth its salt takes bumps and bruises as it’s built. The writer’s job is to embrace the bout, duck the critical jabs, and stand to fight another day.

Adolescence Interrupted