Spoken Word
SEARCHING (spoken word)
W.I.P. – super rough draft – just writing now
Sometimes you find what you are looking for in the most unexpected of places.
I spent most of my life searching, trying desperately to find something that felt true, something I could believe in, something I could sink my teeth into - that didn’t taste like rotten fruit, or leave me hungry again in an hour or two. Something that didn’t fill me in a way that I’d end up regretting my choice or feeling like I swallowed one of society’s sweet poisons.
I just wanted an experience that felt real, beginning, middle and end. I traveled far in search of that. God knows I traveled far.
First, I headed over to the college campus. Beautiful place, old buildings. The temples of our time. With high hopes, I knelt before the higher minds. I was more than willing to confess my ignorance, get their blessing. I couldn't wait.
Before long I settled right in & I was loving it. Had my quiet little room and my stack of books on the table. Staying up late at night devouring the words of the wise. But these weren’t the prophets of old, nothing profit-able about those guys. These were the modern messiah’s, the kings of commerce, sorcerers of science, wizards of Wall Street. The worldly wise, & finally, their words were mine - and I was eating them up - for a time, at least, I was eating them up.
But along the way something changed, a year went by, then two, and I had this growing feeling that the answers I was looking for, really looking for, weren’t in those books. The words were filling but they just didn’t satisfy. Like I was feeding my mind with undigestible food, or fattening myself up for a life of passionless pursuit. Either way, they’d lost their taste, for me. Like, whatever truth was coming down from the ivory tower, it seemed it was anemic by the time it got to me. I knew it was time for me to go.
By this time, I'd developed quite a thirst, so I sought relief on the seedy side of town. I wasn't planning to stay (long). I thought I’d just refresh myself and move on.
I watched the wayward wander the back alleys and cold dark streets. Trying to scrape up the currency to feed their raw desires, or be warmed by the flames of forbidden fires. I watched them chasing rushes & sporadic highs, trying desperately to escape from their pain, or to draw near to something that felt real, for a time. Temporarily true at least.
But the problem with that life, and those highs, is that nothing ever really changes. They might reach staggering heights, a cloud or two below where the angels fly, but they always came crashing down, landing on the same unsteady ground. Back to themselves, unchanged, apart from being a little worse off from the fall.
I have to admit, though, that their existence seemed more real than what I’d witnessed in other parts of town. Less pretense. They weren't in denial of their darkness, they knew that was real too. They were feeling for the pulse at least, getting closer to the heartbeat of life, albeit on the shadow side.
The reason I could watch them so closely, is that, for a time, I joined them. (I lived that life too.) I had stayed much longer than intended. Whatever money I had, I spent it, chasing highs, taking those trips. But they just just led me lower, ‘til the vices had me in their grips. Sad to say, even when those rushes seemed to work, they never really satisfied, not for long, at least. I knew it was time to move on, while I still could.
I had to make a living & God knows I was hungrier then ever. So, I took my college skills to the plastic part of town - hung with the Park Avenue crowd - the jet set, we had no regrets about living loud. But I was weeping silently at night when no one else was around. When the emptiness of my life caught up to me. I had money, but I still wasn't free. Facing the harsh reality that possessions are prisons if you pile them too high.
And I was hanging with the glamor gals, as we walked the crowded streets like they were aisles in a department store. Always reaching for more. Or at least something shinier than what we had before. And those ladies, they never left home without their high heels, elevating themselves just a bit, keep things a little less real, those couple inches just enough to keep them safely off the ground, undisturbed by the heart beating just beneath the city streets. And me, I was looking my best, dressed for success. but really just insulated I guess. Seemed we were all separating ourselves, one way or another. Just another type of escape, in reality - this time I was out of touch, too. For many years, I lived like that. Had to find out that you can’t buy truth.
God knows I wandered into my share of chapels around that time. I sat silently on Sundays, listening to the priests as they preached to the flock from their little perches. I could tell that they cared, as they offered comforting words about the far side of death. Or whatever was coming next. But I had to wonder if they’d ever really lived. Had they died, inside, as many times as some of the folks they were talking to, or some of the souls down on skid row that I knew.
& These priests seemed to be speaking about the divine as if it was all light and love, all up above - separate and mostly silent these days.. Like He reaches down to guide us with his staff and his rod. (But) I don’t believe that. I’ve seen the dark light of God. I think he’s part of it all. Through and through. Down in the mud, in the middle of the laughter and blood, and stirring inside of me too.
As much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, it seemed like truth had left these chapels years ago. So, I moved on as well.
I started to think that maybe I wouldn’t find what I was looking for. That maybe it was nowhere to be found these days. I was losing hope, and faith in the promises that life had whispered to me in my youth.
But still, I kept on going. Held my head up and just kept walking. Then one day I met some artists. Talking to them I felt renewed. They seemed alive, curious, engaged, in a way I hadn’t been in years. & there was something different about them. You could see it in their eyes. I didn’t know for sure, but I sensed that they had suffered too, like I me, & had wrestled with the truth, been transformed by it. I knew I had to stick around and find out. And I did. I followed them wherever they went.
But these weren’t the kind of artists that you find painting pretty pictures in gardens or on a peaceful mountainside. I guess they might spend time there, but usually they’re closer to the busy intersections of life, or more likely still, camped out along the fault lines, the place where worlds collide. They’re hanging out, just waiting for the moment when all hell breaks loose, knowing full well that heaven is in there too. As the violent collisions are throwing off sparks, made all the more brilliant by the surrounding darkness, they're capturing this on canvass, blank page, or just strumming along. _______ But they're not just witnesses, they're also participants. Being torn and twisted by these same forces. Feeling the upheaval and extremes, the torture and ecstasy in their own souls. Being transformed in the process.
It was such a sight to see & after that, it was the only place I wanted to be. I became a part of that world. Found a home there.
It’s funny, all those years I wandered, looking for the answers, searching the places where I thought they’d be, But, it was these artists who finally showed me the way. Helped me find my way.
They’re the ones who taught me to stay close to the ground, and that it’s OK if there is some chaos around; that's part of creation. If you push that away, you deprive yourself of something vital too.
It’s the artists who taught me about the mysteries of life. And taught me about death. They showed me that it was possible to die before dying, so at the end you can step lightly across, nothing really lost - while being fully alive on both sides.
But they didn’t teach me all this, by trying to teach me, they just lived that reality, they radiated truth, beauty. and life, and it reached me. It touched me - deeply.
And I live like them now. Feet firmly on the ground, feeling my way through this world. & I can honestly say that I’ve never felt so full, and so alive….. So alive.
Spark of Infinity
(Work in progress)
Adolescence was a confusing time for me. World wide open, instincts roaring, so many choices. So much changing. High school coming to an end, college on the horizon. I had my eyes on freedom, girls, and success. You know, normal guy stuff. I had to go out & prove myself, conquer the world, lose my virginity too. Not in that order, necessarily. But I wish I would have been half as concerned about losing my little spark of Infinity, along the way - the light Inside of me. (But) losing it, I was. I don't think it was just the sin in me. I had a little help. It’s like the world was grabbing me by the collar and spinning me around; whispering in my ear, saying “it’s all out here. Everything you’re looking for. It’s all out here.”
And it seems like I heard that a lot in those days. I remember sitting in church on Sunday mornings, listening to the sermon. The preacher talking about heaven like it was some distant place, God's up on his throne, miles away, and the forbidden fruit was hanging on a tree. It seemed everything interesting was outside of me. So, what did I do? Naturally, I shuttered the windows, put out the light, closed up shop inside, climbed the spiral stairs, up into my head and out into the world. Never looking back.
And the world, man, it was something. All glitz and glamour. The place was shinier than a silver spoon at high noon. Amazing. And I was eating it up. Couldn’t get enough. Once I started on that broad highway, I was gone. & I remember seeing a sign that said ‘Consumer Nation’, population? Just an estimation ‘cause folks are flocking here all the time. Keep on moving, there’s someone right behind you. And keep moving I did. There was so much to get. The world was like one giant shopping mall, with carnival rides. & not the kind where you got to be this high (holding hand up). Everyone was welcome.
So, I wandered from store to store, arms outstretched, always reaching for more. Had my eyes wide open, enjoying the sights. But what I didn’t see is that just as I was filling my shopping cart, at the same time, I was emptying my heart. Like that little bit of (soul) symmetry was somehow lost on me. I was too distracted. Too busy.
I was busy grabbing at things, whatever I could get my hands on; big, small, short, tall, it didn't matter. If it was new I had to have it. I'd grab anything. There was never enough, never enough. And then gradually, those ‘things’ (well) (they) got hold of me.____________________ & we held on to each other tight. It was like some twisted, desperate embrace. We were circling round, like a dance. ____________ Sad to say, we went on that way for years, And I learned that you can dance long after the music fades, and everyone else has gone away. Deep into the darkness.
And in that darkness I stayed. I had no idea how dark it could get; how dark I could get.
And one night,I remember looking up at the starless sky, the place where my hopes had once hung so high, and there was nothing. It was empty. Just like the emptiness I felt inside. And I knew that the world had lied. It had looked me straight in the eye and lied.
But I had to keep moving. Emptiness: it really isn't empty.
[ As we danced on, I swore I felt something beneath my feet. & I heard a muffled scream. I knew what it was. Cause there’s nothing quite as sad as the sound of tender trampled dreams. My hopelessness was complete.]
Months passed, years passed, and nothing changed - Just more of the same. Disappointment, depression, unimaginable despair. Wanting to die, so many times but something kept me there, hanging on. I stayed stuck in that place. I became resigned to the certainty that it would always be that way.
Then something odd happened one day. I don’t know if my partner fell asleep. If I loosened my grip, or if it let go of on me. But suddenly I was free. Amazingly. After all those years, all that pain, I was finally free.
As I stood there, the fog gradually lifting, (I had no idea where I was, [I didn’t know [had no idea] what to do. __________]) I looked around, staring at the strangeness of the scene, and it just seemed so bizarre to me. So foreign. I don’t know why but for some reason I had this memory of that time, at the carnival, just after the crowd has gone home for the night, sad, heavy, silence hanging in the air. And those folks are showing up with their shovels and brooms - to collect the discarded debris; popcorn tubs, plastic cups, ticket stubs, mountains of useless stuff. & it’s crunching beneath their feet like fall leaves - as they come to gather it up. Remnants of the ravenous hunger of society. It felt like that, somehow. My whole scene, the world I'd been living in, it looked so damn unnatural to me.
There, in that silence, not knowing what happened or what was next. I heard myself ask, “what do I do now? What the hell do I do now?” & I didn’t know exactly what the answer was. I just knew that the dance was done for us. I knew that part of my life was over. And just as I felt that, with certainty, I had a vision. I saw it, so clearly. It was that place, at the bottom of those spiral stairs. The place I had walked away from. It was still there. And the light, that I thought had gone out. It still burned. It had dimmed, but it still burned.
And I turned – and headed home.
Come On Down, We'll talk About It
Sitting in my old recliner, got a full glass in my hand. Whiskey's about the only thing that’s honest these days. Never breaks its promise. At least not to me anyways. Not like most of the people I’ve known.
Looking out my window. Winter will be coming before too long. I can't stand the cold. But the leaves are turning now, from green, to yellow, to that hopeless shade of brown. Hanging on, knowing full well their going down. I know that feeling. The leaves are about the only thing that does change in this stagnant little town.
& I’m wondering why I haven't moved from this place. In this neighborhood seems everyone’s either a beggar or a thief. Got their hands out either way. That’s why I keep mine in my pockets, or just stay home, like tonight, with the doors all locked.
Then I hear a voice, rising up from the cellar below. It say’s "come on down we’ll talk about it. Come on down we’ll talk."
These crazy times we're living in. People say that the world’s going to hell, To me it looks like hell met it halfway, & just kept coming, It’s got the run of the place now.
& it seems like the whole country has gone mad. No one gets along anymore. Folks are at each others throats, or standing back & casting stones. Make the Hatfields & McCoys, look like a bunch of altar boys. It's all disgusting to me.
Like I said, don’t know why I’m still here. Sometimes it feels like I’m just playing a waiting game with death. I guess it’s running late & I’m getting tired of holding my breath. I’m just sick of this place.
I hear that voice again, rising up from the cellar below. It says "come on down & we’ll talk about it - come on down we’ll talk." It’s a voice I’d know long ago
Still, the world just keeps on spinning though, Another round, (of) this twisted (little) game
Suns comes up, tempts us again, with new beginnings. Seems like the story always ends (about) the same
Not sure why I keep playing.
"Come on down, we’ll talk about it."
I hear that voice again, rising up from the cellar below
"Come on down and we’ll talk," it says.
"I feel your pain, & hear your latest complaints
But you & I, we both know
That the wound - the wound is old."
It's Complicated
I have an amazing girlfriend
Crazy in love
Still, it’s complicated
But not in the usual ways
Not the kind going around today
She’s a mysterious gal, dark and exotic
& me, well, I’m just gray and neurotic
But things are moving fast, too fast
It's scary sometimes
I know you can’t go head over heels
& keep your feet on the ground
You have to fall in love
You don’t inch your way down
Love is messy, I get it
The whole situation, just needs some punctuation
We just come from such different worlds, though
She lives in the moment, likes to be free
& Me. I like a little more certainty
‘Cause I’m wound up pretty tight
I don't know how I ended up
With a wild-eyed Capricorn
& I tried giving her a ring
She just said something.
Some line about a saddle and a unicorn
Drives me crazy sometimes
I know you can’t go head over heels
& keep your feet on the ground
You gotta to fall in love
You don’t inch your way down
Works better if you let go, I get it
I just wish there were some guardrails
On the corners I didn’t see coming
But I guess it wouldn’t be love then
Finding My Voice
They say time will tell
But it don't know me well
So, I’m not sure about that
Besides, talk is cheap
It can't afford me
& Probably don't want what I have
I heard a lot of stuff growing up, but I had to find my own truth, my own way. Not listen too much to what others say. They’ll tell you things like -
Good comes to those who wait
& then they say I procrastinate
I wish they'd make up their minds
& Only fools rush in
That's why I'm late again
But I am never behind
Yeah, I had to walk my own path, & knock down some walls along the way. Cause the world wants to put you in a box, tell you to stay inside the lines. Or they say -
It's black or it's white
It's either day or its night
But I like it right around dawn
That's when I make my way
Through fields of grey
You won’t see the path that I’m on
It’s hard not to lose yourself in this world, or even know who that is sometimes. There are so many pressures and distractions. But eventually -
I had to cut through the noise
Find my own voice
Still wasn't that easy for me
Had two of ‘em inside
One of them lied
& The other was too afraid to speak
Really Prayed?
(Work in progress)
I don’t know if I’ve ever really prayed
I mean really prayed
Willing, honest, & open
It’s not that I don’t believe
Not at all
The truth is I’m just really afraid
Afraid of what it would mean if he's really there
It’s not a dread of his judgment and wrath
For all my faults and sins
I don’t think he works like that
I’m not afraid of what he’d do to me
But what I’d have to do for him
As long as I’m not sure that he’s there
Or if he’s just the man upstairs
Then, I have the rest of the house to myself
[I might have a few holy pictures on the wall
Some statues on the shelf] [Optional]
But I still have the run of the place, do as I please
But if let him in, open the door all the way
Some things may have to change
Furniture might get rearranged
And I’m kinda used to how it is now
So truth is, I like him distant and small
And I hang on to some of my doubt
Just another way of keeping him out
Exploration In Three Parts.
(Work in progress. very raw yet, Just writing now)
PART I
Do I really know why I do most of the things I do -
When it comes right down to it?
Am I even conscious of the deeper forces that move me -
The energy that animates as it flows through me?
I think I’m choosing my actions, but if I'm honest with myself how much of the time am I just reacting to life, to whatever's in front of me, crosses my path, or sneaks up from behind in the present or past. How often am I captivated by the chaos inside. Caught up in all the conflicting desires and drives. Feeling the pull of pleasure, but at the same time I'm just trying to stay alive, Life moves fast. Split second decisions are made - Blood flows, muscles move, synapses fire, and I end up doing it again as I settle into predictable patterns. It’s the oldest story around
But wasn't most of that there from the start? Wired in? and just trained over time?
And beneath the surface, far beneath the surface, in darkened chambers, there are secret agents, hidden agendas, costumes & camouflage, schemes and self-sabotage. All that playing out behind a curtain that never goes up, inside of me.
[ (I don’t know that it’s any different)
Is it any different on the higher shelves. In the upper rooms of my multi-tiered self.
In the realm of the soul, where creativity flows.
At all levels,
(the flow of creativity.) ]
So much complexity.
Still, I have this mind that tries to convince me, that I’ve got everything under control, it makes perfect sense, I can explain it all, my decisions, & actions. “No, really, the reason was, I did it because, I decided I must”, Or maybe the flip side of that, No way I’ll do that, at least not again, Where there’s a will there’s a way if there wasn’t why would they say that, right. I’m calling the shots here.
& Looking back at events, I’ll create a narrative around it all. A tall tale that I tell myself. Fiction to treat the affliction of reality. Just a bedtime story, really. & If it doesn’t help me fall asleep, at least it’ll keep me out of reach, out of the grip, of uncertainty. I can drift off in my little world feeling safe, & secure
But, still, deep down, a part of me knows, that’s an illusion. Thinking I control everything.
The delusion - of a puppet pulling its own strings.
Do I really know why I do most of the things I do?
How much do I need to -(pause)- know
PART II
Billions of years ago, there’s a little planet, hanging in space, No one around, yet. It’s barren but beautiful, in a haunting, lonely way. Sleepy as a Sunday morning, & quiet as a tomb. Hardly anything moving, except the shifting ground & the restless wind roaming around looking for something to blow on. But there’s nothing – no one. It'll be a long time before eyes will see the light of day here. Millions of years before a rose will bloom.
But then clouds roll in one night, suddenly there’s a flash in the sky, lightning strikes form above. Strikes & stirs up the mud, stirs it up just enough, that something is finally happening. A chemical reaction that could change everything - if it can last.
Then gradually, over time, life emerges, it’s fragile, barely hanging on. But it does - somehow. & That life, well it struggles, survives mutates & multiplies. It keeps evolving into higher and higher forms in this amazing, beautiful, treacherous existence.
Is it all unplanned or is there an unseen hand giving the marching orders? Either way, life moves forward. From chaos to complexity, It’s novelty by necessity. & it keeps spreading out - spreads out across the globe. As far as the eye can see.
These forces play out for millions of years, they act, react, separate, come back, tension, release, opposites attract. (it’s) The wondrous dance of duality. You do that long enough, and you arrive at humanity. Then you get the dance within the dance. You know the one, she finds him, he finds her, come together, their union creating a third. It’s beautiful, magical, practical.
Then one day all these forces, these vast, magnificent forces, at work for eons, they’ve conspired, and converged, and now they come together again at the moment of my birth.
& it’s little me, in the big mystery.
PART III
My birth -
There’s pain, confusion, struggle, as I emerge - moving from one world into another. I don’t know where it begins, and I end. There’s body and breath, welcoming hands, mothers’ breast, & It’s all there, working together – it’s perfect. I have everything I need. It was waiting for me. I hadn’t done a thing to make it happen. I’m fragile, eyes barely open, no words yet even if I could have spoke(n) them. All I could do is cry out. But that was enough. That was enough. Amazing, advancing life.
Fast forward a number of years. Curious kid, I take a step, deep breath, walk a little farther out into the world. I retreat a bit when I need to, but I keep venturing out into the wonderful, wide-open world. Full of Magic and possibility, I can’t wait to see what’s coming next. I’m exploring, & expressing myself too, discovering who I am, who I really am - little creator within creation, full of ideas and imagination, driven by dreams and inspiration. It's pure and simple fun, cause I’m not thinking so much yet, I'm largely just carried forward, moved by those same forces that have been working in me, working for me, since I arrived on this planet. It’s wonderful, at least for a time.
But, sad to say, that state - that state, didn't last. Along the way things changed. With each passing year, it became harder for me to stay open to life, inside and out.
It didn’t happen overnight – or all at once. But it seems the farther I got out into the world, seeing the immensity of it all, the mystery, the uncertainty, it was too much. As wonder came face to face with the harsh reality of pain, disappointment, death, suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see what was coming next. Too much terror, too much beauty sometimes, I guess.
I just couldn’t wrap my head around it all. So, I gradually stepped back, started to close down. Mentally, I reduced it to manageable proportions, built a shelter in the storm, hid out in the confines of my own mind, and the more I thought, the less I felt. Safer but separated as well.
Eventually, I fell into a state of forgetfulness, (falling under a spell I cast on myself.) I forgot those magnificent forces that had been working in me – the magic and mystery, I ignored them. I became my own person. I had to, I thought. The world demanded it. So, I took over, & grabbed the reins. I grabbed them & I held on for dear life. Damn, did I hold on tight - hands clenched in desperation, covered in perspiration, controlling every situation. I just couldn't let go. Even if I wanted to, I just couldn't let go. & That’s how I lived. I existed like that for many years.
But that grip, that desperate grip, it choked the life out of life - drained it of its vitality and it took a helluva toll on me. After a while, I just wandered around with my head (hanging) down. I didn't even bother to look up at the stars or the sky anymore. Even the horizon was too much for me. All I wanted to see was the lock on the door. Safety and security, limited visibility, that was enough for me.
And the wonder and curiosity that I’d known, they were replaced by habit and routine. Daily rituals to keep the mystery at bay. But I was cut off from the flow of life.
If you asked me then, I’d probably tell you that the way I was living, that was the only sensible way to live, really. (Reasonable, responsible, practical.) That’s what a rational person does, right. That’s what I would have told you anyway. But the truth is, it’s not a choice I made consciously. I was just trying to survive.
Even as I was busy denying the mystery of life, (in those days), saying it was all a random dance, blind chance, no real meaning beyond that - & life, it was just a lucky roll of the dice. That it’s bound to happen if you throw them enough times. That’s what I’d tell you. But at the same time, I had this undercurrent, this sense of longing, a feeling that there must be something more. It’d come rising up from the depths, from somewhere unseen. But it wasn’t something I could (quite) put my finger on, so, when it would come up, I’d use my whole hand, or both hands to push it back down – get rid of it as quick as it came. I’d think of how unreasonable it is, to have a longing for something that doesn’t exist. But I was fooling myself.
Those forces, they had always been around, whispering, pulling at the strings, influencing me. (Still working inside actually, I just couldn’t sense them.) I could try to hide from them, but that doesn’t mean I was isolated from them. The more I tried to deny them, or push them away, the less independence I had, really. My hands were tied up in resistance. (I was busy stacking stones, reinforcing the walls in my safe little prison.) Eventually I just got tired of the struggle. My will gave out & I gave in. The walls came tumbling down.
& There we were face to face again. Little me & the big mystery. Mysteries is more like it. & they were big too. But they weren’t menacing, not mythical monsters or anything like that. No, they didn’t come carrying torches and clubs. They weren’t out to get me, not in a negative way. They just needed to let me know they were still around. And they arrived with an invitation, an invitation for me to come out - out into the world again. Nothing drastic. I don’t have to leave town. Maybe just take a few steps out & look around, try opening up again, a little more each day. Step back a bit when I need to but keep venturing out into the wonderful, terrible, wide-open world. See what’s out there. That’s the message they had for me. That’s how I heard it anyways.
& They didn’t lie to me & tell me it would be easy. They didn’t sugarcoat it. They said there’s bound to be pain, that’s life. Your heart will get broken, there’s no way around that. But if you don’t turn back, if you can stay open, then through that wound will flow the fullest expression of you, and you’ll remember who you are again. Who you really are. That was the invitation, the promise they had for me. & I heard it.
And then there was silence. & It was eerie, too quiet. I wondered if they were still around. But I just stood there taking it all in. My head was spinning but in the eye of that storm, it was calm, and clear, & I knew in a way that I’d never known before what I had to do. What I wanted to do. I didn’t know how far out I’d go, or how much I’d open my heart, but I would take a step or two, that much I knew. I figured, at least it was a start.
Wrtr’s Blck
Occasionally I'll get a vowel obstruction, but I always have constant consonants.
(Work in Progress)
Seriously though,
For me, there’s nothing that compares to being in the creative flow. To be a part of that magic and mystery is what I live for. The inspiration that arises softly from its sacred source. The promise of those first words, often arriving unannounced. & Me, I’m welcoming them in with reverence, but at the same time cautiously looking over their shoulders, holding the door open, hoping that they haven’t come alone.
Then to watch as the words find their footing, shake off their sea legs & steady themselves with the help of those who’ve come before, & head down the page. Maybe nod with an appreciative metaphor. (Or a (just) tip of the hat & (just) leave it at that)
& To see it all come together, as the story takes shape, & unfolds, like it has a life of its own, like it already knows where it’s going, (And its) Letting me in on its secret, bit by bless-ed bit.
It’s so beautiful –
and I feel so honored when I can be a part of that.
Sometimes though, the creative stream, it just stops. It comes to a screeching halt or slows to a trickle at best. And I panic of course, & paw at the moist ground, scrambling around on my knees praying desperately to the muses. Maybe even offer up a sacrifice or try to prime the pump by throwing down some lifeless words, so lifeless it ain’t gonna hurt when they hit the page. But still, there’s nothing. The magic is gone…. Or so it seems.
Writer’s block. That dreaded disease - stifled creativity. There’s nothing more frustrating for me. I’ve learned it takes many forms. Has many causes too. But I’ve also learned that it’ll usually work itself out if I let it - If I listen to it and hear what it’s trying to tell me. I’ve found that it’s rarely as it seems.
Sometimes, for instance, I think the flow has dried up, but it turns out that’s not really the case at all. The truth is, the words had been there waiting, inviting me, but on some level at least, I turned away. I wasn’t willing to follow them. I didn’t know where they may take me, emotionally. Pen in my hand but lead in my feet, so to speak. I hesitated, and the words went off without me. That’s happened more than a few times.
Sometimes, when things have stagnated, it’s not so much a block as it is a paralysis. I’m seized with a silent terror, feeling something stirring inside and sensing how beautiful it might be if it all came together, found its way out, and settled down onto the empty page. But I also know that it may never happen and that terrifies me. I can’t bear to face the horror of that scene - of possibility perched precariously close to the edge of the abyss. Realizing that, at any moment, it could go over, never to be seen or heard from again. Opportunity forever missed. ____________________
At other times, the words have stopped flowing because I’ve stopped growing. It’s as simple as that. Maybe I’m not as open to life as I had been, I’ve stopped taking risks, or there’s something inside I’m resisting, fighting with it instead of listening. Or else I’m stuck in my safe (little) routines, gotten comfortable in complacency. If I’m not changing, continually, then the words have nothing new to say to me - to say through me.
Usually though, if the words have stopped flowing it’s because they’re trapped behind an identity. It is writer’s block, but the block is me, literally. & my intentions, my ambitions, my attachments, even my desire to be a writer, it’s all getting in the way, choking the flow. & in my case, that happens a lot.
Don’t get me wrong though. The story does needs me, definitely. The creativity has to be anchored in duality. It needs somebody on this side of the fence, feet firmly on the ground, a little dirt on their hands from being down in the trenches, emotionally. It needs my humanity. The story would fall on deaf ears if the readers didn’t recognize characters like themselves looking up from the page, staring back from the mirror. There’d be no relatability.
So yes, the story does need me. A little me.
But if I get bigger than that. If I’ve grown beyond my role, forgetting that I’m just another character in the cosmic cast, then the flow is blocked, and the words can’t get past. Believe me, that happens a lot in my case, with my tendency towards inflation, & self-veneration. It’s not pretty.
But I’ve learned that it’s ok. It’s not the end of the world, creatively. It’s bound to happen sometimes.
I’ve also learned that it’s self-correcting in a sense. That the frustrating block that results, is just the universe’s way of letting me know I’ve gotten too big - of reminding me that just because I’m the one holding the pen, that doesn’t mean the story is mine. ______But If I get that message, and step back a bit, things will usually start flowing again, line by glorious line.
Monster Under My Bed
What if the monster under my bed is me; and those voices & (strange) noises that I hear at night, what if they’re just echoes of screams from all the hopes and dreams that I killed, strangling them before they could turn on me?
What if the demon that I dread, demon with a capital D, what if I finally meet him & it turns out he’s not who I thought he’d be. If I find out he hadn’t been stalking me all these years, sneaking around like a thief, or lying in wait. What if he was always right here & I didn’t see him because I never bothered to look in the mirror.
What if most of the stories I tell myself, about life, are just words I’ve woven together, a web to catch the inconvenient truth that sneaks into my den of delusion.
What if I don’t really know myself at all, & it turns out there’s much more than meets the eye, that even my darker side has a dark side - which borders on black if it’s denied.
Could I face all of that honestly, admit the possibility at least that I’m not who I think I am, and never was.
Could I stare into the depths of my own darkness without turning away?
And if I did, what else would I see
End of Times – Dark humor - Work in progress
(Tom Waits Nighthawks style)
(whistling intro & outro?)
About an half hour after sunset this morning
A comet went streaking across the sky with a warning
It was pulling a banner or maybe it was a sign
Said something about the end of times
But I was catching season two of ‘I got shit to do’
& I wasn’t gonna pause that, I’m already an episode behind
& Now, I’m stuck in traffic, late for work, but I’m not worried
I hate my job, & I got some cigarettes, and a half-gallon slurpee
An ad just came on about a personal life raft, or something like that
Sounds like the one the guy has strapped to his roof a couple of cars back
Good idea, it’s been raining heavy for about 3 or 4 months now
Sloppy scene, but I figure, at least it’s (been) putting the fires out
And I have an umbrella anyhow
News guy said a tsunami hit the coast of Alaska, or was it Nebraska?
I’d turn the station but it's just disaster after unnatural disaster
I wonder how long this is all gonna last
The writing’s on the wall, the preachers say, graves already been dug
And all this chaos is just Gods way of, pulling the plug
Might be, too, things are breaking down all over the place, can't deny that
But my body’s already shot, and I got bills to pay
I guess I’m too broke to break
So, I’ll just keep whistling away
Maybe it'll be OK
30-Second Charlie
The most dangerous dealer in these parts of town
Is 30-second Charlie, you might have seen him around
He might sell you a drug, might sell you a dream
But he does his dealing on the TV screen
Need more, need more, Charlie’s always got more
Feeling down, he’s gonna lift you up
For a limited time, he’s got just the right stuff
Here’s your lucky number, you’re a lucky guy
It’s 1-800, folks are standing by
Need more, need more, always need more.
Three easy payments, and there’s nothing down
But they’re not so easy, with no money around
Looked so tempting on the TV screen
Just leaves me empty, I aint buying his dreams
No more, no more, aint buying no more
The promise land?
Let’s get honest man
Selling your worthless junk
Like putting perfume on a skunk
And your cheap thrills are just roadkill
On the way to the garbage dump
No more, no more, aint buying no more
Shadowlands
WIP - maybe lyrics instead
When your shadow is twice as tall as you, it might be late
When you don’t recognize it anymore, that's safe to say
Guess, I should have dealt with it a few minutes after noon
When it was still short and harmless, barely past my shoes
But I don’t always do the things I’m supposed to do,
Then again, maybe it's not really my fault after all
Isn't the sun the reason the shadows get so (damn) tall
At least I should get to spread some of the blame around
Maybe it (got) so disfigured because of the shape of the ground
Might have to do with the places I’ve been hanging out though
Here, I (always) thought I was an upstanding guy, but now
I got this big ol' shadow that keeps following me around
I have to wonder sometimes, which one of them is really me
The image I have of myself, or the shadow (that ) I see
These days I don't really know what to believe
Maybe I'll just wait & ask the moon, It's got an unobstructed view
It'll probably say that the answer is somewhere between the two
Might just tell me that I'm fallible but decent, & well-meaning guy
& that It's gonna be OK as long as I don't give up, & I just keep trying
Alternate 2nd section Pt 2. -
I have rhyme endings of now/around in 3rd section so use blame/takes here?]
I mean, Is the the fault all mine, do I have to take all the blame
What about the ground doesn't that affect the shape the shadows takes
(or shadow's shape)
[Alternate 3rd section]
But who am I really, I mean I’m just a little hunk of flesh
Doing my best, & I’m caught up in this whole earthly mess
Or heck, I could even be a bit of a shadow myself
In a little game between the sun & the earth, heaven & hell
I probably wouldn’t be asking the questions though, if I wasn’t complicit as well
If I Could Do It Over Again
((work in progress.)
If I could do it over again
I’d try to live each day like it was my first one
A blank canvass, possibilities, under a rising sun
& I’d feel into life, and try to pick up the beat
Then just dance along, put a little more trust in my feet
If I could do it over again
In younger years, I’d spend a lot more time outside
Join the neighborhood games, but I’d seek more than I would hide
I’d wear shoes less, & colors that don’t match at all
& I’d paint from my own palette, on broken down walls
If I could do it over again
I’d still have dreams, but I wouldn’t look too far ahead
I’d find the magic in the moment and just follow that instead
I'd know it was real, the feeling the I've always had inside
There's something great in each of us, more than meets the eye
If I could do it over again
I’d stop more often, but not just to smell the roses
I’d see beauty in it all, wouldn’t be so quick to turn my nose up
I’d judge a lot less, & allow myself to fail a little more
& I’d welcome life in, no matter what’s at the door
If I could do it over again
I’d look at my fears, and the advice that they’re giving
Is it to keep me alive, or does it keep me from living
When I prayed, I ask God to give me only what I need
So I could find riches in rags, & find happiness in me
If I could do it over again
I’d read more books from my grandma’s shelf
& remember that we all have a story to tell
& I’d make a circle, I’d make a big circle in my mind
& put everyone in it, stop drawing so many lines
If I could do it over again
I’d thank my mother more, & tell my father I understand
That some people just aren't comfortable showing their hand
& I’d accept my own mistakes, for the lessons they bring
So, in the end, I guess, I might not change a thing........
If I could do it over again
Punctuation Mark, or Joe, or Larry
If I could be a punctuation mark, any one at all, it wouldn’t be a difficult choice. First of all, let me make it clear. I definitely wouldn’t be a period. I don’t like cutting people off and I don’t always have to have the final say.
I have no interest in being an exclamation point either, and I’m not that dramatic anyway.
I’m certainly not mysterious enough to be a question mark, you’ll probably figure that out. And I just don’t like leaving people in the dark like that anyhow.
There’s no way I’d be a comma, that’s like the cranky grandmother of punctuation, telling everyone to slow down. Or the mean kid at school who sticks his foot out, tripping you up as you go along. Either way it's just not cool.
And parenthesis? That job ain’t meant for me. I’m a solitary sort, I don’t work in pairs. Besides, two of us for an afterthought? That’d be ridiculous.
Colon, semicolon, who the heck knows when to use those things. Pauses, clauses, conjunctions, I wouldn’t want to be in the middle of all that chaos and confusion. Would you? No thanks.
And last on my list would be an asterisk. That’s as annoying as it gets. That’s like the detour sign of punctuation. It makes you go out of your way, to the bottom of the damn page just for some feeble footnote or to read something somebody else wrote. I couldn’t do that either.
No, if it was up to me, I’d be an apostrophe. It would be an easy choice too. I know, I wouldn’t have much myself and I’d be scrawny as hell, but I’d get to hang out where the action is. I’d be the prince of possessions. That’s the most powerful position around. I’d get to determine who gets what, and I’d make sure everyone has enough. What more could you ask for? Of course that’s not all I would do; I’d also let them know when they were carrying too much, and they could drop some stuff. But that’s just a side gig.
So yes, if it was up to me
I’d definitely be
an apostrophe ‘
Wonder & Awe
Awful:
Originally it referred to people and meant “filled with awe”; later it referred to things and meant “inspiring people with awe.” Its meaning then degenerated to “horrible, terrible”
- Oxfordreference.com
Science says they’ll get to the bottom of this whole celestial situation before too long. Just a matter of time & they’ll have it figured out, get things under control. They’ll force the mystery to give itself up, confess its secrets as part of some plea deal, shady back-office arrangement, records forever sealed. At least as far as the motives, if not the methods.
The mathematicians will probably work their wizardry & end up replacing God with an equation, as well. I’m guessing that’s the goal. No longer some old bearded dude (behind it all) - it’ll be as simple as 2+2 someday. It’ll be wonderful. A nirvana of knowledge, nine numbers and a null.- absolutely wonderful.
& When science has the cosmos all mapped out, the whole shebang, traced the morse code (they were hearing), all the way back, look under the hood at the source code. Then they’ll finally be able to confirm, once and for all, that it wasn’t the Word that was there in the beginning. It was more like a period, really. A singularity of sorts. Something where there was nothing before, I don’t know how it all works. It’s complicated. But basically, they’ll say that when you collapse the dimensions down, & follow the bread crumbs back, in place of God, you’ll find a dot. Go figure.
Seems like science keeps carving things up, slicing and dicing until there’s nothing (left) but nice little nuggets of nature. They poke & prod it, get to the bottom of it all. ‘til understandable, & more important still, manageable - controlled, priced, packaged, and sold, (naturally).
& the mystery, once they get their hands on the mystery, they don’t stop there. They keep squeezing it, shrinking it down until they can finally put their finger on it, once and for all. & When they do that, they’ll use all their strength to squash it out, permanently.
But if it gets to that point, mystery about to be squashed out, I hope that a little bit of it gets lodged under the nail, of that (big) scientific finger. & later, when no one is looking, that it wiggles its way free, drops to the ground, makes it past security, gets lose, and starts spreading itself out again. Like a lab leak, spiritually – gets lose & releases a bit of awe and wonder into the world again.
Cause I can’t imagine living in a world without wonder. & It’d be awful if there was no awe left in life. Wouldn’t it.
Hidden One
What if every poem that flowed out
Was like a note from a secret lover.
And as soon as it was done, I had to tear it up.
Couldn't show it anyone.
Would it be enough
The love of the hidden one?
Current Events
(work in progress)
A lot of people say that if they could be any animal, it would be a bird. That’s the first choice for a lot of folks. I can see why that would be appealing. You could fly around all day, checking things out. High above the crowds, just you and a cloud. You could enjoy the amazing views, watch the crazy stuff that people do & crap on whoever you want to. How many of us can say that. Plus, you could get out of town at any time. Head south for the winter. Come back in the Spring. Lots of freedom. I get it. It would be nice. But still. If I had to choose, I’d rather have gills. I’d be a fish and live in the ocean.
As much as I like crashing on the couch. That would be perfect for me. Fish spend their whole life laying down. They never have to stand up, just think about that. & to eat or drink they just open their mouth, and wiggle around. How tough could that life be. Seems like horizontal heaven to me.
& Think of the peace & quiet in the ocean. No babies crying, dog’s barking, or neighbors yelling, Nobody ever screams, not even when they’re being eaten. Sure, you might have some whale sounds, dolphin’s humming, or waves lapping at the shore off in the distance but I could handle that.
It seems like it’d be safer too, as far as accidents and natural disasters. Not as many ways to die as there are surface side. You do have to be worried about getting eaten by another fish but that’s about it. Don’t have to be concerned about lightning strikes, landslides, earthquakes or tornadoes. You definitely don’t have to worry about flooding, brush fires or getting crushed by a truck tire.
I guess you could get poisoned by oil spilled from a tanker or you might get hit by an anchor, but I’ll take my chances.
You definitely have to be worried about getting caught. I’ll give you that. That’d be the cruelest fate of all. To end up on a plate at Denny’s, or mounted on some wall, or, worse yet, stuck in a fish bowl, until you get flushed down the shit hole.
But other than that, you’d probably live a relatively long life & you’d look almost ageless too.
You don’t have to worry about wrinkles from the sun or losing your hair. You’re bald but so is everyone. & Nothing sags, cause you’re basically weightless. No knee or hip replacements. Really, how much wear and tear is there when you’re just floating around. Seems like you’d have it made in the shade.
People think a fish’s life would be boring. Maybe if you’re used to seeing them in an aquarium but they might act different when people aren’t staring at em. In the wild there’s probably a lot to do that we don’t even consider.
Maybe they hang out with friends & catch up on current events, or go to a school social. Then get drunk & mess with a snail. [Or go over to the abandoned sub. Duck in to Huck Fin's or Guppy Love's - whatever they call the local night club.] & I guess if they’re really adventurous they could head to the Mariana trench, or any of those deep sea vents. Some people say that’s where life began.
It’d be all Mysterious & stuff, you never know what might come next.
Could hang around & get all philosophical, get to the bottom of it all. Share deep thoughts, with deep friends & no chance of getting caught down there.
Who can say what goes on in those depths late at night. Who knows how fish get their kicks when no one else is around. Maybe they get together & bet on sea horse races, or an Illegal frog fight. They might even have their own little carnival of some sort. With clown fish, an octopus juggling a bunch of something. & games of chance - beat the odds win a stuffed clam. Or maybe get their fortune told by a clairbuoyant
It seems like there’s a lot of mystery left in the sea. Damn near as much as outer space.
I think that would be a good place for me.
Yes, if I had my wish. I’d be a fish.
Untitled
Random thought
In the night
Match strike
Sparks fly
Explosion
Pent up emotion
Fire burns
For hours
Or days
The Spirit is Willing
(Probably going to use as lyrics.
Some alternate lines as (Or - )
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak
Sure is a shame that the two don’t speak
They used to talk (though) a few years back
But I’d heard enough, I put an end to that
At least they tried to work things out
They spoke in whispers no I pray in shouts
Hope He can hear me this far south
[Chorus / (L-o-s-t is stretched out)
Lost my way
I lost my way
I'm gonna make it back someday
Opt - Hope it’s not too late]
Had my good intentions and grand ideals
No way that I’d lie cheat or steal
But I killed them all along the way
Good intentions, you know what they say
Choice by choice, is how I went south
I had my chances to turn it around
I pray that He can hear me now
[On my knees anyhow]
Beyond Me
Why doesn’t truth taste like ice cream? Why isn’t prayer an instant fix like gambling is, with a quick rush to hook us, and keep us coming back for more. & When we’re in church, taking communion, how come we don’t lose ourselves and scream out in ecstasy the way we do when we’re kneeling before the troughs at some of the lesser feasts?
If God made the things that lead us to Him more enjoyable, early on, it would be such an easy choice. People would be packing the churches like the bars at happy hour.
& There’s just so much mystery surrounding His existence? It’s like He’s always veiled in secrecy, purposely keeping His distance. A cosmic game of hide and seek. Meanwhile, temptation is shamelessly standing right in front of us, confronting us, offering us our pick from its bulging sack of sins.
I know that God wants us to come closer to Him. I don’t doubt that. It’s just confusing as to why He doesn’t shine a brighter light on the path once we begin, or at least leave some tastier breadcrumbs along the way. That’s all I’m saying. Knowing that at any moment, he could flood us with his presence, and we’d lose out taste for lesser things, it’s just surprising that he doesn’t do that more often. I’m sure there’s a method to His shyness but it’s beyond me - or maybe that’s the point.
3 Poems in Process
Poetry
High poetry border on nonsense
Any higher and it would be silence
Funeral Pyre
The funeral pyre burns brightly
Slowly releasing me from my self
Reducing to ashes the knots of delusion
That have kept me helplessly bound
I always assumed it was the flame alone
That worked the magic
Melted away the unholy desires
But I realize now
It’s the light as much as the fire
ME
Logic says
That a year before my birth
There was nothing of me
And there will be nothing again
When my body returns to the earth
Is there something in between
For All The Misfits Out There
I have a vague recollection of being out on a midnight stroll one evening, making my way across the universe. I was minding my own business, going south on Celestial Street, about to hang a right on Milky Way, when I stepped into a hole of some kind. I fell face first into the fricking thing. It might’ve been black or grey, maybe even a wormhole, hell, I don’t know, but it swallowed me up, that’s for sure. I was dropping through the darkness like a leaf, falling slowly, and doing somersaults along the way. I think I might have blacked out at some point too, lost consciousness completely.
Who knows if I did, or how long I was gone, but eventually it must have spit me out, because the next thing I knew, I came to, in the middle of the strangest scene. I was in a sterile room, bare as the moon, with white walls and bright lights. It was eerily quiet too but then the silence was shattered by these confused cries, and I was shocked when I realized they were mine. (&) Some guy in a white coat had a hold of me and he was slapping my back side. No wonder I was crying. I thought about swinging back but my arms were barely there, just stubby little things. Plus, it’s tough to go toe to toe with someone when you’re only a foot tall & hanging in midair.
To make matters worse, I looked down and noticed, with horror, that I was naked as noon, dangling like that, in front of a bunch of people I didn’t even know. I really had no idea who they were, but I gotta say they sure seemed happy to see me for some reason. Truly a gleeful group, I’ll give them that. One of them was handing out cigars, others were coming in with banners and balloons and I was thinking – seriously, man, too much too soon.
It didn’t get much better from there, either. The whole morning was like that. Shits & giggles, literally. For the life of me, I just couldn’t figure those people out. They all had these goofy smiles on their faces, and they kept cooing at me for Christ’s sake. Crazy. But since I was the shortest one in the room by about 4 ½ feet I figured I should keep that to myself and just play along. So that’s what I did. I smiled and coo’d right back at them - tried to make the best of a strange situation. And you know, that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.
Empty Hours
(Rough, just writing..)
On these late November evenings, with somber skies and the lifeless leaves swirling on the ground, having dropped to their fateful death, but not yet covered by the coming snows.
On these frigid autumn nights, with the bold north wind arriving in force, sinking low as it makes its way across the land, leaving not a single speck of dust untouched, and sneaking through cracks and crevices of unsuspecting home and heart.
In these final days of fall, with mind and mood both in need of rest. Kept awake by the rattling windows and rustling leaves.
In these empty hours, I can’t help thumbing back through the weathered pages of my own story. I know them well of course, but I’ve returned again, searching for answers, willing to settle for clues. There’s a lot to sort through of course, plenty of drama and debris, that’s for sure. But I keep coming back to two individuals in particular - very different but inseparable. The two defining people in my life. The one I couldn’t be, and the person I became because of that.
Scream Weaver
I’m a dream weaver
Actually, more of a scream weaver, really
Working in dark corners of the mind,
I spin a circle of thoughts in the air
My little web of worries, hanging there
Then I breathe life into them
I make ‘em dance, those words,
& The whole scene comes to alive
Vivid colors, cast of characters, set and stage, I create it all
From start to frenzied finish
& I’m damn good at what I do
In my hands, possibilities become near-certainties
Impending disasters, calamities, terror, and tragedies
As good as reality
I don’t have a specialty either, I’m an equal opportunity destroyer
I work my magic, make them all believable, scary as hell
And it’s a heck of a show, too
So good, that once I set it in motion,
I slip into the audience
To watch from the other side
The dramas of my life
The swirling spectacle of self
The ups, the down, the merry-go-round
I get to see it all
And, gradually, I become captivated
Captivated by the dance of dread
Watching the frantic little feet
Has a way of entrancing me
It’s Mesmerizing, really
& As it takes hold
I forget that I’ve created it all
I’m hooked,
Hooked on the rushes and risk
The suspense, the drama that never ends,
It keeps me on the edge of my seat
& I’m terrified of what might happen next
But I can’t look away
There’s so much at stake
I’m watching as my whole world hangs by a thread…
Forgetting, that it’s a thread held in my own hand
It’s crazy, I know,
Masochistic at best, insane at worst, certainly
So, why do I do it?
Why do I keep spinning these tales?
The truth is I need it,
The drama, the scary scenes,
The cliffhangers, the suspense
I can’t live without them
I mean, who would I be?
If the music stopped
If the curtain went down
And the lights came up
I’d be left sitting in silence, alone,
And that’s as terrifying as it gets
That stillness would be the end of me
And anything is better than that
Anything