Date Night

Sitting in suits of pluralism, unable to steal a view,
With polished glass between them,
They will talk themselves up on cue,

To welcome the unknown, they will deal with consequence,
To break the selfsameness of time, they will play in the dark,

They close their eyes to feel the escape,
And replay their dreams in silence,

With searching hands and countered shifts,
They will split what has been given,
We take and give, push and shove to devise a way to haven.

a heartless night in January

In the heat of a night, now long past away, Peter remembered she could have loved him once. With the now frigged air of January chocking his lungs and forcing him into his coat every time he went to the street corner for smokes; the quick thought of her gave him warmth. Peter found no pleasure in route to JJ's, keeping his head down, he clinched the cuffs of his sleeves tightly, as his curses fogged the air. The Winter Wind has no charity, He thought, it is the angry remnants of a peaceful Summers wind. Now anemic from a lack of Sun, its is hungry. Hungry for flesh.

Entering the drug store-coffee shop combo, Peter gave off an audible shiver, shacking the cold from his bones. Mixed messages of indifference and empathy where given in return. With a calming stride, Peter glanced around the room for friends and strangers alike; as if to administer the silent greeting one gives to a room full of somber patrons. Once the air in the room had settled from the disturbance, and apologies given in time, Peter ordered a triple mocha. He thought the extra shots allowed him his proclivity towards chocolate milk, while saving his manly semblances he worked so hard to achieve just moments before.

While his coffee brewed, Peter walked over to the drug store side to buy a pack of cigarettes. Peter exchanged greetings with the cashier, Jenny. He often thought about taking Jenny out for coffee to give them another try. But, hiding cowardice eyes, Peter could find nothing acceptable to say. He should have gone some place else. Unwilling to test the waters with Jenny, and lacking the energy to think of a different place he'd rather drink coffee in, the moment passes. With fresh smokes, a warm coffee, and outflanked by fear-Peter found a seat next to a window.

JJ's was the perfect place Peter thought, at this time in his life. He found it convenient, for it was only a few blocks away from his shitty apartment. He often brought his own records to listen to, and play on the old style turn table-Jenny liked this. And, it was also the only place where a single male can not only buy cigarettes, coffee and condoms; but could potentially enjoy all three at once. While he typically smoked and drank his coffee. Peter had often fantasized about using all three. Pulling out that first smoke, Peter thought about his recently conceived Hat Trick. As the warming bittersweet aftertaste of his coffee mixed with the fruity, calming puff of the first drag; His mind went silent. And moments lived and died, in the fading blue gray light of a heartless night in January.

Review on "Strict Joy" masterfully routine

I came across, The Swell Season's new album, Strict Joy the other day and instantly pre-ordered the lp from their website-http://www.theswellseason.com/. During the first on many, listenings my favorite quote from Whalt Whittman came to mind, "Arouse! for you must justify me."

The follow up release to their unblemished Once album/movie, to me, Strict Joy seems masterfully routine. If I could ask them a question it would be, "How does it feel to be in complete control of the song, and therefore be able to-in every way-manipulate it into its own prefection?" One possible answer could be left to Neitzsche, he says, "In muisc the passions enjoy themselves."

If you liked Once and then forgot about it, shame on you. Luckiley for all of us, they did it again. Hope you check out Strict Joy, and enjoy while it kicks you butt. I did.

Between the idle talk and angled precepts I sip a clever wine,

Between the idle talk and angled precepts I sip a clever wine,
Getting close to strangers becomes easy with wine and sooty air,

Passing plates to hungry guests, I see the server's shirt tail,
They work on their toes for cash, and they live for smoke breaks,

Hatching ties and drawing lines of conversation is hard when I see pain,
In the tentative eyes of a server-showing mileage on their backs and shoes,

If they wear their hearts anywhere its on a hanger in the back,
Valeting their dreams they check their shirt sleeves at the door,

But dusk dawns a whole new night to gain back their verve and spirit,
To let them claim the dark air for their own justifications, I tip well.

To the peerless set of stars I see,

To the peerless set of stars I see,
I do not pray a mystic plea,
Believing that my tones will give,
An altered view of the way we live

Instead I view you cosmic two
In ways you've shown us to do
Silently giving a calming stare
An aging light I too will bare

unplug

Verb; to stop from operating. the act of doing and/or inventing ways of seeing life that has existed in others realities in new ways. branching out of your usual self and selfishness to the openness and abundant beauty of this wold, without extensions. what does it mean to truly unplug? to un-case the castes cultured in our minds eye. to live without the pressure of an attached life. so there you are unplugged and happy with no responsibility. but that is it. to unplug is easy with no responsibilty. with no other ties except those we choose to link, leaving liberated strings for the wind to play with. where it falls down of corse, is we choose to tie knots of life all over ourselves until we are just a bunch of knots. then instead of spending the day unplugged we spend it mending the knots around are skin and clothes. our vision focuses on conformity or abrations, until we can no longer find excatly were our plugs are. our hands are to busy mending to reach for anything real much less to unplug from our daily waltz on the metropolitan dance floor...

Split Perceptives

A sharpened knife splits our vision in two,
Sending trying times on the perceptive view,
What we can do and what we can dream,
What we can whisper and what we can scream,

The tailored suited man speaks through his eyes,
But he can see only what his money can buy,
The dreamer is spent with his fetters of poverty,
Living by his back and feet, and chances of the lottery,

With acute vigor the stars and strips sway,
The dream as it were has been given away,
It has been taken by cheats, in a more accurate truth,
And money is wasted on the old instead of youth.

In clouded air of manic justice, a dim sun rises in the east,
Casting questions in shadow on the grass cracked concrete.

Looking past the shadows end I see the colors of the world,
Organic blends of hue and glow are blurred by the wind.

An armored wind blown by the exhaust towers of industry,
Sneak into our lungs and we believe their lies in time.

With chemicals they cast a spell and drain our minds of artistry,
What will our kids say to the the mess they have made, or will they even notice.

Lost in Ribbon like Opening of Light

The natural sounds of trees and bees affected our mood of change
Quietly laying and catching our breath, on Spanish quilts of gray
The teary eyes of Sunday love drowned out the trains of thought
We were baited and lost in ribbon like openings of light through trees

Though pull strings of province had stretch used apart-
-flipping our notes of life,
The die casts of Fate-commissioned by Love-had stamped their intentions
-in time-
Our detail logs and work reviews warmed us as they burned
We were baited and lost in ribbon like openings of light through trees

If the Sun sent his light to redress and ease the hidden burdens we keep
We mended and bathed in ribbons of light, on Spanish quilts of gray
The need to speak in scattered tones evaded us this time
We were baited and lost in ribbon like openings of light though trees

Crossing Tones with Conscious Rhythms

Crossing tones with conscious rhythms,
Letting hide the selfish pride,
I see the eyes of widened truth,
But feel the shackles of deceit,

A calming scene I paint as-well,
Engaging and indulging you,
Catching tails-you play your game,
Fulfill your pride, I'll gain defeat,

Wearing inane jewels of valor,
Flaunting wins before the Sun,
Could we not let go these games,
And joined, feel the spinning Universe,

Time will tell what life this is

Time will tell what life this is,
Juggling these on the precipice,
What taunts and gains will shape our face,
Will fill our souls, or rot the space.

Life is a bloc of failures and haircuts,
Of laughing and crying, learning and dieing,
Of apartments or houses, of cats or of spouses,
Life is singing alone.

We are defined by duties and dates,
Priced by contacts or self laxed,
Given scenes and poses, but pulling drapes exposes,
The tangles of hair in sink.

Nashville city limits

In an attempt to tap into the vibe of Nashville for the first time, to find its distinctive current, you will find yourself reassured, and perfectly content. Boasting in your elated high you continue strolling, confidently, onto the next street wear you suddenly find yourself lost. Not lost, for the streets are simply drawn, but ill-tuned. Your legs flex to a stop, your head turns at that curious angle-slightly up and cocked to the left or right, depending on your quirk. Surprisingly, you have now found a completely different air to resonate to; a different scent, a different feeling and a different tune to dance to.

After a moment, when you have tapped 'that' distinct current and settled back into a harmonious calm; you may choose to continue walking into your impending path, gay and alert, until the next novelty shift in schemes. If you find yourself unsteady, I suggest abandoning your petty and square comfort zones and explore the living breathing city in-front of you, with unkempt senses.

If in fact, you are unable to fair Nashville's resonate dilation for a long period of time; you simply go back into the place you found yourself before, so content, and have another drink. Because the tune of Nashville will inevitably leave you time and time again. For that is the way it is hear. It is as divergent as the line drawn by the Cumberland, constantly mobile, uncertain and growing

seeing lies

Blood in flesh, and radiating heat,
That is my prison,
Breathing with chancy strides, i claim my stair,

Cuffs in tones, and canny deceit,
The smell of fiction,
Designing dew on your lips, fetid vapor in the air,

Truce of truths, and deft cartoons,
That is your way
Bartering eyes calling, your gallant tools

Lies of purchase, and inflated prunes
The tails of fray
What comes will come soon, me without fools

I was reading Walt Whitman and came across his, AS I PONDER'D IN SILENCE, poem. as it cleaved itself from the pages and into space i recognized his truth. i would like to share it:

As i ponder'd in silence
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,
Know'st thou not there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers.
Be it so, then i answer'd,
I too haughty Shake also sing war, and a longer and greater one
than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance and
retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet life methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the field
the world,
For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul,
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers.

From, LEAVES OF GRASS, 2004 edition; pg. 165

patriotism

what is patriotism? there are so many views of government from socialism to the green party. and, with so few people who are courageous enough to send their persuasions onto the public-making their voice, if its still theirs to speak, heard-how can we fully understand whats behind the agendas of the powerful. to be able to agree with what is being said, and not be lead into a socialistic backroom of deceit. there can be worse things but confused and mislead patriots are destructive, and worsened to the fact that they are convicted of their duties as such.

is patriotism the dying man on a distant and foreign battle field? the ultimate sacrifice, all be it noble and dutiful for a solder, but does this man or woman see the ironic twist of defending territory so far away. in an earlier time, the invader was called an oppressor, and his deeds called malefactions. now its preventative care for the country. the only universal health care for lady liberty- and it costs so much. and who is more patriotic? republicans with their view of, little government. there is another sect of belief that says there should be little to no government-anarchist, and their only patriotism is to themselves. and democrats, with their close socialistic views on leadership that causes the words of Orwell to skip off the pages and frisk my senses with caution.

i do not wish to be negative only inquisitive; they say only the fool thinks he is right all of the time. so, where do we go from here? to the only place that is safe from extreme precepts and biased oppressions-the middle. but, never in the history of this country has a moderate became a leader of any stature. they are mocked when they flip flop on issues and their asses undoubtedly get sour from sitting on the fence day and night.

i think of how this country is realized by the rest of the world and future generations, and if we were to start from the middle where would that take us. if all minds are in sync with one another, group think begins to saturate creative energy- deprives and impairs the group and allows them to head, unknowingly, onto destructive paths. so we need opposing beliefs to debate issues and introduce separate postures on the debate floor of the world-as we do now. but to taunt and satire the apposing views with lavished hate, is an infringement on the deal made when elected to represent the people.

my point is not that we are doing it wrong. even though the real idea of government is, "for the people, by the people," we must be sensitive to the cunning grip of power for it makes fools out of the best of us. our minds eye can be fickle, in-spite of our cables ground to reality. for the idea is not power, even though it is currently, it is becoming a enlightened and civil species together; with utopian accord where no one goes hungry and blaw...blaw... is it ironic that everyone would like to live in utopia, however synonyms for utopia are: impractical, lofty and otherworldly.
so if the right is fogyish, the left is imperious and the middle leaves one addled and sore; where on the senate does the patriot sit. perhaps they are all patriots for it is only a frame of mind, but we should not blanket the idea and say, ''its all relative," then sip our wine and switch subjects-indifference is not a wealthy virtue.

i call to the floor a new generation of moderated rights and lefts. able to change views when the argument and the right thing to do allows them too- like a genuine patriot would do that draws from induction rather than exasperation. do we not, as a people, change our mind about brands, and colors as the seasons change. or we say we will never love again with convicted smirks, and yet fall once more into hopeless distresses of life. why then must one have to stand on issues that the party has decided on, and focus on tilted agendas instead of prudent matters in the spirit of changing for the better. i call to release the bonds that parties beget and let free the liberty that real patriotism gives birth to.

winter vision

in the summer months of our lives, it seems, we are willing to look past the stout, or varying demeanor's of others personalities and enjoy the vast bequeaths of the sun together. maybe its the higher then normal levels of vitamin d that gives us the ability to concord with strangers in the sand or a field at the park; or perhaps it just simply being able to go outside without a wealthy amount of shacking from the cold. but in the winter, with its naked blue drubbings and sarcastic misgivings of light makes it impossible to enjoy a strangers presents outside.

my hypothesis is the body is defending itself against eminent death, exposed to the elements, and therefor scouts every possible excuse to leave the current state of absolute cold and head to a warmer state of being. and in the near death experience, i have found that i only see someones repelling and unkind expressions of themselves. even in the tiniest cracks of moments when one passes another at a glance, i'm unable to achieve anything pleasant. no one is to be blamed for any miss-connections of love or lust, right? in winter, the cold makes me think only in absolutes and with tunnel vision. i call it winter vision.

the dilemma and embarrassment of being increasingly bulky, depending on how cold it is, is unnerving in itself. personally its the burden of coats and gloves, the constant removing of and bundling on that agitates my other wise zen like ego. also, the disconnection from another person caused by wearing layers and layers of clothing stifles the aura, and i feel cut off-unable and unwilling to see who the individual walking in front of me really is. o' the undeserving cold curse of winter, what a bitch.