A Song for the Doubter

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You got people telling you

You don’t know what your doing

You got people telling you

You got no place pursuing

                                                  But they don’t know

              But they don’t know

Just cause something’s never been done

Don’t mean it can’t be done

Illogical (E-Lodge-Ick-Uhl)

Is

Phenomenal (Fee-Nom-N-Uhl)

When the

Impossible (Imp-Pah-Sip-Uhl)

Becomes

Probable (Prah-Bib-Uhl)

Then real (Re-Uhl), then real (Re-Uhl)

You got people telling you

There’s no point in dreaming

You got people telling you

There’s no reason for believing

You got people telling you

There’s no chance at succeeding

     But they don’t know

              But they don’t know

Just cause something’s never been done

Don’t mean it can’t be done

Illogical (E-Lodge-Ick-All)

Is

Phenomenal (Fee-Nom-N-All)

When the

Impossible (Imp-Pah-Sip-Uhl)

Becomes

Probable (Prah-Bib-Uhl)

Then real (Re-Uhl), then real (Re-Uhl)

Always going to be people saying

There’ll always be someone talking

But they’re isn’t ever going to be

Someone like you/Someone like me (Repeat while fading out)

The Pleasantries Conjured By Lute

Somedays we unwind
by wandering aimlessly
Stuttering in calm
collections of blank dream state
Freely floating cloudiness

Sometimes
I like to do
nothing
other than
turn on some
music, grab a glass
of water
and sing along

someone once told me
the value of multitasking
to which I just wind
up distorting the seams
blending the lines
and creating visions askew

And then
there are points
where all I want
to do
is listen to the
sounds of medieval fairs
where the inspiration
of the lute
never fail to illustrate
the potential in us all.

Just a quick piece, something to wind down from a long day.  Kind of stream of consciousness, well it was to begin with anyhow.

First Time I Heard Cowboys From Hell

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listen to ‘First Time Listening to Cowboys From Hell (part II)’ on Audioboo

Pardon, my voice on this particular reading. Been under the weather the past few days and a bit hoarse.

I was already well on my way…

         Had been banging my head

For some time by then,

         But, as does occur in

Many avenues, an affecting moment

Would spring forth—

It was something so intense—a

Reaction that was so severe, it made

Not the lick of common sense—and yet

Its very existence revolutionized the inner

Songs playing—the screaming stung—

and from it—realities never dreamed of,

suddenly appeared—proving to some kid, how

beautiful a violent voice can be

in that moment, on that fourth, of July, 1990,

on an otherwise abandoned midnight beach, the

skies exploded—in this place I never should have been—ever

the reminder of the lie two friends shared—each telling their parents, over at the others that night they’d be—yet finding chance encounters with an older crowd—beyond anything that would have been approved—and it was here, on that eve, two teens, would find their everything to alter, shift and rearrange—way past any disruption they could have ever dared to learn—reaching far beyond anything ever

Felt before

My friend, by some burnt out log near the waves, lost his innocence, to some Canadian girl only stopping by after spotting us while on a midnight beachside stroll…

Mine had been removed much earlier…however, what innocence was left, would be sucked clean there that night, after hearing what would be, a shift in possibility—a parallel version, previously hidden, now received—where NEVER, never before, had I listened to such a thing—

again and again it would be played, by the beach, near the waves—

Sung, spoken, screamed, with a unity that grabbed hold of someone not knowing they needed something more, something unique, a treasured artistry, ever promising to keep offering unknown necessity

And like a sledgehammer to the basin of the skull, word would enmesh with the grey matter, instantaneously releasing that which normally takes years to subtly intimate—

It wasn’t just the words, no, it couldn’t be just the poetry of the lyrics prayed upon by the voice itself—but it was an unearthly combination of the grated tonality of shredding steel, laid bare before the presence of a melodic scream—where each rasping air collects all the emotion left exposed within, infecting the resonating space of the combinatory experience, shared between that voice in the machine, and the faction of our most repressed and desiring side of personality—

Never more, in any place, could a transformation’s definition be described so poignantly in such unrefined manners of confused deliberation—for here, in this case, the speaker is the singer, the singer is investigating—searching for the same answers that shadow the path of the listener’s arc of internalized questioning—

Never again could a verse appear, as it had done before the lake’s warm yet cooling air—

It would from that moment onwards, covet the comparisons I’d eventually have to make, exiling the classically beloved, to a place that is now, nowhere near what’s good enough, exposed for the flaws it demonstrates when placed adjacent to such a revelation as this —

Raw emotion purges out—spraying the canvas clutched upon—etching vignettes and pointed scenes, each, riddled with questions that simultaneously tear and unite the fraying sides and seams of the mortally withered fabric of being

And finally, in summation, I reflect back fondly, to that sandy space, where the names of the others occupying that short tract of beach there on that particular evening have become impossible to recall as the years move further away from this point of origin—no, I can’t recall their faces, let alone the names and I just don’t care, for all of them were no more than insignificant fillers of scene—they bore no consequence to the memories gathered there that night—

I certainly have refined my tastes over the years, yet still, this realization created alongside those formative shores, still remains, still flashes forth as it did that night, as an epiphany not quite as loud and shattering as it once stood, but still holding steady as a significant point of reference for what musicality has transpired within, these past twenty-two summers since

And still, to this day, I find it difficult to remind myself that this was all but a collection of songs—mere lyrics enhanced by creatively timed rhythms and beats…and then, I smile slantingly, as I drift back to that space, hearing the cascades caress the sandy shore, reflect upon all the available sensations still available for recall…all the while knowing, that such songs…were not simply heard…but were understood on levels indescribably so meaningful, that the music became engrained into my very fiber, therein becoming ever so firmly rooted deep.

This was the first time, music truly touched my life.

*On July 3^rd, 1990 Pantera released Cowboys From Hell, which, in my opinion, is one of the most influential records ever made, both for me as a listener of music, and to the myriad of musicians who have quoted it’s influence upon both their lives and unto their own compositions and musical endeavors.

Head on over to D'Verse, where I'll be hosting Poetics tonight, where we'll be talking about First Times.  I look forward to seeing you all there. 

My Super Weakness

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So, I thought I'd give rap a try. In which I've learned a few things: 


A.) It's so much harder than I ever gave rappers credit for. Really, it is.     I had to record it at least ten times, to get it to how it sounds here.  And trying to get the allusions right, and to use the right rhymes that fit to the pace you want.  Very difficult.


B.) It's kind of a rush though, trying to keep pace with the rhyme in the piece and the natural rhyme created by the voice, that you hadn't counted on being there, if that makes any sense  


C.) And finally, by posting this, I now know, that I'm truly unconcerned with embarrassment lol..


And here I was earlier today, thinking how easy it would be, hoping that I sounded somewhat like the Streets, without the accent of course haha.  Which, as a side note, I had the inspiration for this when somehow The Streets "The Hardest Way To Make An Easy Living," happened to sneak past the thousand or so metal songs and get a chance to play their song for me. 


Just wanted to do this, so I thought I'd post it now, but still planning on checking out what the Saturday prompt over at D'Verse has in store.  So, I hope, when all's said and done, I hope I haven't set rap music back 20 years by doing this piece, lol.


                From the sands

To the stars

                  Mind tricking teens in grown-up bars

In this land

         You might be blind

But where I’m sitting you’ll do just fine

         You might not know

Yet I’m sure you do

          I’ll always be a son to you

I’m Indiana

         In a pit of snakes

I’m a cold breeze

         Atop an arctic lake

I’m the hand that’s always stretched out

         I’m that feeling of creeping doubt

The first foot forward out the door

         I’m that which you must explore

I’m Clark Kent; yes, this is real

         I’m not just super, I’m surreal

I’ve got a heart that’s filled with blame

      Beat, beat, beating out all the shame

I’m the man of steel, but this I’m sure you think you know

         Yet I lied, I’m really Bizarro

There’s no chance

to heal this pain

it’s sealed tight up into my veins

But when all is said, it will be done,

It’ll come to pass, like a Calvin Johnson TD catch

And what it is, is only what you learned

What you gave, not what you earned 

Like Bryan Adams one-time said,

Everything I do (I do it for you),

I stop, stare, and shake my head,

and see you standing strong

but unlike that song

 you’re not real

yet in my heart you’re all I’ll ever feel

but it’s just a line

So I ask you now, as to which is worse?

Loving the rhythm but hating the rhyme,

Or loving the chorus and hating the verse

Either way

It’s probably moot

Comes down to the venue….comes down to it’s root

And as for refrain, I here now disclaim

It’s better to love than it is to hate

It’s better to love with the pain, than to die in vain

It’s better to love with the blame, than to die in shame

(Sequentially formatted tiers) of Thematic Voiceovers

It's Tuesday, and in a little over an hour, Claudia will open the doors to the D'Verse pub, manning the taps all night long, listening to the tunes, err. poems that are linked for Open Link Night tonight.  So head on over, take in the poetry and share one of your own.  

Fallen from utopian pools of aquamarine

into the outstretched arms of hazel green

A society of drones,

cut in symmetrical frames,

out of identically chosen casts and molds

The skies bleed the Heavens of ethereality,

songs matriculate from summits to cirrus bands,

fortifying the oxygen with inorganically formed bass and treble led compositions of unidentifiable sounds

We then find ourselves unable

to deny, the automaton within

bones no longer our own.

These actions lay the groundwork

for what the soundtracks here

provide.

A Transitional tale

I thought I'd give the Triplet form that Roger's made famous over at his blog, Chasing Tao, a go of it today.  Please visit Roger's site for a much more profound use of the form and see all the wonderful examples he has on display.  This piece is intended to be looked at three-fold, photograph, Verse, Video.  Thanks.

I wanted to try

I wanted to make

This world a better place

         Yes, I understood, to do that, I would have to travel dark and terrible tunnels

         Of course, I knew, that to succeed, others must fail, others would surely fall.

“Life changing,” is what the recruiter spelled in that initial meeting...

         and I bought the bait…excited to do so at that, to be a hero, to change the world, to let freedom ring, through the valleys of atrocity, to the shores of oppression…we cheered when each flag fell, when power was returned

but, no one ever said how life changing this all would be

Pulsing

Throbs of

Stabbing

Distraught

         Each and every morning—when loud sounds stir-

Unsure of surroundings—of mission—of faces of family and friends-

Unaware—the war’s been won—finding fist formed, trembling, in a half-sleeping hand, staring down at a woman that loves you unrequited…

Snapping, at pin-tinged words—that provoke a bouquet of chastising gleams, from those who always told others how well they knew who you are and what kind of man rests inside—yet that was a different lifetime entirely—and now, all you want, is

For someone to save you

From those seeds planted

Deep within…seeds that continue to green, despite all the psychological weedkillers stirred about...

                  All you need is to see the flag, unfurled and proudly traveling it’s fabric’s length—spanning much, much further distances than a mere cloth could possibly transmit- and you salute, every time, regardless of where or when...

Honor and duty, you plod along, until you get your next directive, hoped for, under the guise of a civilian blanket, one that cannot keep your turning body warm at night—

you pray that a new assignment will take you far from this strangest land of all—

you’ve always done what’s been told—

As all good soldiers do—

         But at ease, is something you fear you no longer can do

Obviously not a celebratory piece, just not how my minds wired lately, but still wanted to take part in the Memorial Day celebration over at D’Verse, and thought an artistically, I hope, filtered informational piece about the tragedies of our nation’s heroes suffer upon their return home, how they leave their family as Person A but if they are so lucky to come back at all, they almost always return as Person Z, whether they speak of the differences or not, they see it, and in some way or another, they know things are not how they vaguely remember things, that something has changed. 

I know several people, that have served and they’ve all been very candid about their re-acclamation.  Each of them speaks as to how the world does seem reshaped, yet they just don’t know how or why.   They all seem to be transitioning adequately, yet do speak of having to seek counseling, wake up in cold sweats, unknowing where they are, and yes, nightmares always seem to part of the conversation. 

The one that has the hardest time is one that’s just returned home this past year after 10 years of deployment, and he’s told me that while the beer tastes much better being back home, he does feel like he’s still having to look over his shoulder at all times, amongst many other tragic aftertastes.  The worst though, has to be his 12 year old son, treating him as if he’s just another stranger, polite, yet distanced.  He says how he would look forward to getting new photos, and how he’d use them to help stay grounded while away, but when he first reached out to hug him, the child merely said hello and went to shake his hand.  His doctor says it might take some time, for all parties to readjust. And they all are fine with that, or so they say.  But I believe them, yet I wonder, should transitioning adequately be okay at all. 

My personal feeling is that the Governments of this world truly need to get their priorities in shape.  They need to come up with better solutions than simply sending their youth out into combat, where whether a single shot is ever fired or not, they become altered. 

Protecting one’s greatest assets, life and freedom, should always be the main priority, and obviously military operations will be a part in this defense, yet it would be nice if the system at hand is altered somewhat more than it already is, to help our brave heroes transition as seamlessly as possible, without fear of what may be next. 

Obviously you tread into neuroscience, and the mind is a funny beast, very difficult to pin down in entirety, but more science, more research, as I’ve heard it is, should continuously to be, done. 

The families of those who do not return, as well as of those of wounded veterans, which I use the term wounded in it’s broadest scope, need to be taken care of better than perhaps they already are.  The heroes should be remembered and praised for their courage and their unselfish acts of sacrifice, for it all is a sacrifice, is it not? 

Obviously I didn’t do this conversation justice, as there’s just so much more territory to go down. Yet I feel I got down the gist of the message I wanted to get out, and only hope it has been adequately displayed.  So, this is just something a bit heavier to mull over as we all eat our fruit salads and barbeque this afternoon.  As Decoration Day, as this holiday was originally named, is supposed to be for remembering those servicemen and women that have died.  But death, is that not such a subjective term, and in such, I think our definitions should be expanded somewhat.  

                              Mama by Godsmack