Wednesday, May 25, 2011

New Song on Podcast

Hey Guys,

Thats right I am posting a song on this blog. Please be nice and listen/download from my little growing podcast.

Just Click on "New Song on Podcast" to listen

Thanks

Saturday, May 21, 2011

Scott

Alas! Old man, you are but a caveman. Shivering cold in a misunderstanding. Fleeting footsteps and a blank piece of paper. Where is the answer? You could watch your vanity. But you ignore the opinions. Eat well! Swallow your pride. The shell of your resolve is transparent. Living or dead you exist as nothing. What a waste of cosmic energy.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Meaning in Solitude

In the infancy of a blessing,
Water washes over your eyes
As you creep towards epiphany
Breath is held until it passes
As the window opens
A breeze shoots through your clothes
Cascading a symphony of emotion

Waiting for a word to speak,
For an anecdote to change the present
Realizing you are alive
As you take a breath, and
Feel the sunshine on your face
Feeling the regret of the past
Usurping your ability to hope

A shy moment lapses your judgment
And the fear of tomorrow is availed
The engine of your car starts
And the music begins to play
Drowning out the thoughts of failure
And a full collapse of power is here
Waiting for a word of support

If anyone could listen
Could the voices and conscious erase
And with a hint of resentment
You accept your passions
Not a single minded opinion
Not a touch of a lovers tips
And in the dark you can rationalize

Leading yourself down a path
A trek you never thought to take
Life is a reaction to your whim
Not a whim of your reaction
Only actions can open the box
A life of acceptance and misery
As misery accepts your sacrifice

Give in! Screams the echoes
You are not built for this
Your transgressions impact your steps
And the filth impedes your gait
Be what you want! You scream
But the epiphany and hope fades
Like the breeze through a window.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Dismay


Dismay was her name. And she had been the most popular person in the world from the beginning. Every day when Dismay rose, the world would know her name. Parents would pray for her to never show up their children’s lives. Governments would rise and fall at her command. Empires and dynasties fell at her whim. Thousands would die by her mighty stroke every dawn and every dusk.
During her life, there were times when her popularity grew too much for the world to stand. When millions died, or when the beloved fell, the world would cry out for her to never show her face. But at times of peace, leaders would call out for her as a guiding light towards the future. They would set her on a pedestal and drive her into the hearts of those they wished to suffer. Even when the tragedies were too much for Dismay, the world would scratch and claw for her to show the enemies her wrath.
When an individual was feeling resentment or envy towards a foe, Dismay would be there. Or when a killer was set on trial for his crimes, Dismay was there. And even when a small child was walking home from school alone, Dismay would show her ugly face and ruin the lives of many. Not a single day passed that Dismay was not hard at work, and she grew tired.
One day upon waking, Dismay decided that she would not longer do her job. Even her vanity could not overcome the sickness that she felt from her existence. And on that day Dismay turned over a new leaf.
The world was then a peaceful place, where countries did not quarrel over small acts. And people let the world be, as it should. Hands were grasped together in harmony and the earth turned to a new tune.
Meanwhile, Dismay was hard at work in order to change what she had done. She would travel from place to place, saving lives and ending wars. Her handy work had been so invasive throughout the world that it took decades to clean up the mess she had made. And when she was done, she looked out across the world and heaved a sigh of relief. No longer would she be popular, and no longer would the world curse her name.
But dismay was confused, and Dismay was wrong in her assumption. Even as the world grew more peaceful, did her name become even more popular. She could not be two people, she thought. Death and misfortune were still occurring if not on a grand scale. The people now expected peace, and even a small dose of Dismay drove the people into frenzy. Now, more than ever, did people scream the name of Dismay; wondering why she still existed and why she still tortured their lives.
With this, Dismay grew angry and vengeful towards the people she tried to help. With a swift hand and even quicker action she responded in all aspects of life. Dismay crowded the world with her black hair, and surrounded life with her fury. All she ever wanted was to be accepted, to be understood. Why could the world not see that she will always exist and that even efforts to minimize her destruction were futile? But the people would not listen.
Not even the greatest minds in the world could rationalize the need for Dismay. And with each day her hatred of their ignorance grew stronger. Finally one day Dismay decided they all needed see her fury. Not a single person in the world was open enough to accept that she exists. They would pray and plead with each other for Dismay to disappear. So Dismay made them all disappear.
Acting on a leader’s order, Dismay made sure that not a single person was left to complain. And with that, the world was gone.
As dismay now sat looking over the world with a smile, she saw a single man clinging to life. She expected to hear his cursing her existence and was poised to stop his speech. But the man saw Dismay and looked her in the eyes. With his last gasping breath he whispered to her. “Even though the world is filled with Dismay, there is always tomorrow to look forward too.” And with that the man died.
Dismay now sat alone realizing that there was no tomorrow, and that without the people she could not exist; And that without her, people could not look forward to tomorrow.

And with that Dismay vanished quietly into nothing. The world no longer had a tomorrow to look forward too, with or without her.

Friday, April 22, 2011

Calamity Jane and Hurricane Hank (Written in 5-7-5 Haiku)

Born into despair

A life without luck or mirth

An unlucky soul

Calamity Jane

Mother left when she was three

Abusive father

Each day a struggle

With no people to call friends

Crying in her bed

On her tenth birthday

Locked in a closet alone

Not a single gift

And six years later

She lost her keys to the car

No places to go

Or lover to see

Only a leg in a cast

From falling down stairs

At twenty one years

She was hit by a trucker

And left in the streets

Then there came a man

All splattered with blood and muck

Trip to the ER

He was on his way

They knew them both by their names

Jane and Hank you see

Realized the call

When they both fell unconscious

Staring at the clock

Woke up in a daze

One bed from one another

Sitting and staring

Into their blue eyes

Wondering why it was so

Why they were in love

The truth was the worst

A life of calamity

They were bound to live

Rained on their wedding

On their anniversary

Dogs ate all the food

And on the drive home

A flat tire in the rain

Could not stop their love

At sixty years old

On a flight from Mexico

They died in a crash

Not a soul noticed

When both their flights didn’t land

In los angeles

Hank loved calamity Jane

Even though she’s cursed

He still worshiped her footsteps

As they stumbled past

Didn’t mind the rain

As it ruined their wedding

Didn’t mind the dogs

As they ate all of their food

Not a care you see

His life was a wreck

Before he met his dear Jane

The love of his life

Meaningless and droll

Quietly writing his name

In a black notebook

Just wondering when

Something would come in his life

And change his fortune

Acne on his face

During his seniors year shot

Ridicule came

Mother who was dead

Father who was a drinker

Stinking of whiskey

Beating his brother

Crying out for some guidance

But nothing did come

Crying in sadness

Listening to the anguish

Of a poor sibling

Born alone a cold

Crying for someone to hold

Just someone to love

A life misfortune

That had no chance from the start

A hurricane Hank

Monday, April 18, 2011

Smoking at Dawn

If the wind smells of the past,
Its because were looking for the scent
Breaking down the walls,
of the things we choose to forget
Waking and taking your time,
to retire again and beg the question
Was it you that I hear?

If the wind smells wrath,
and of future content
Its because were waiting,
waiting for something different
Or maybe not different,
just a change from the past
a little tug from existence

The smoke fills the lungs,
like hope fills the heart
In the morning it comes,
the buzz of the drag,
or the desire for a change
both alter our senses
and make the day seem okay

Smoking at dawn we must,
act on our urges
The flame is small,
like the hope of the day
but the fire still burns
and the ash floats,
like dreams of tomorrow.

Unicorns and Dave

A unicorn without a horn is a horse.

A Band without a Horn cannot be Ska.

A car without a Horn you cannot hear coming.

A shoe without a horn can be a loafer.

A loafer without a car, or a horse may be in a band.

(Forge)getful


There once were two brothers, who were identical at birth. They sprung from their mother with identical eyes, lips, noses and hair. Each was born into the world to accomplish great things; their mother had thought. But these boys were no more similar than a diamond to spade. Although they were the same in every way; there could be no more differences between the two. As children they would play, sing loud into the night. As teenagers they would love and hate just the same. But their feelings for each other never, ever, changed.

Raymond was the older, by a minute or two. And Ronald the younger, who acted as such. Raymond had friends, more than anyone can count. While Ronald on the other hand was content being alone. The older of the two played football and smoked. Being younger of course Ronald stayed closer to home. There was no doubt though that they were brothers. Every picture, in every yearbook, looked exactly the same. Except for the year Raymond got braces. In every other shot, you could not spot the difference. But on the inside the changes were monumental.

These brothers hated one another like mortal enemies. They took out their frustrations on each other by playing practical jokes and pranks on one another. When Ronald was ten, and stuck in a tree, Raymond told their mother he had run away to the country. After being beaten for lying, Raymond of course blamed his brother. And hated him even more when Ronald told his friends he was from another planet. These pranks went on for their entire lives; through college even. It was the only thing that ever connected the two.

Years later, both growing old with age, Ronald was told a brain tumor would threaten his life. The doctors told Raymond that there as a slight possibility that he would lose all the memories of his tenure of life. The surgery was to be done within the month. Being the much more diligent son, Ronald created a scrap book of his life. He fashioned a book with pictures and stories, in hopes that he would recall something if the surgery went wrong. His life had not been much. He had lived most of his life alone, and had made no money to speak of. While working as a teacher, Ronald was able to save enough money to pay the surgery that would save his life. He had never planned anything with his savings, so he figured that living a little while longer was worth the investment. “You don’t die with a penny.” he kept telling himself over and over again.

Over the next three weeks, Ronald created a living memory of his entire life. The scrapbook was complete with pictures and captions that explained the moments he was a part of. All of his proudest achievements were in the little brown book. Graduating from college, seeing his nephew being born, and of course the trip he took to San Francisco when he was thirty. Needless to say, Ronald had never done anything exciting in his life; nothing of exclamation to speak of. He had tried at multiple points in his life to achieve something, anything, but all his failed endeavors left him more devastated than before. The little book that now sat on his dresser was the reminder of a life that he would more soon forget. But starting over at the age of eighty seemed too daunting to imagine.

Hearing of his brother’s misfortune made Raymond smile. “I’ll out live you, you little shit” he would always say to his minute younger brother. It was almost a life passion of his to outlive the brother that he hated so much. Passion is what defined Raymond’s life. He was as powerful and important as anyone in history. He had served in the military for numerous years, and a few investments early in his life made him rich beyond belief. He found it necessary to remind his younger brother of his success as many times as he could. When Ronald graduated from college, Raymond was graduating from an ever greater university. When his only son was born, he made sure that Ronald was there to feel alone. And when Ronald went to San Francisco for his one and only trip, Raymond was returning home from a tour of service in France. Raymond despised his brother and saw this surgery as a great opportunity for himself.

Promising his brother that he would keep the scrapbook safe during his surgery was the first step in his devious plan. Step two was to change every picture in the book and every word in the book to stories about his own life. He wanted his brother to wake up in a daze and think that he was a millionaire with nothing to lose. So his brother could be humiliated in front of everyone when Raymond exposed his masterful charade. This hoax would be is finest ever, and the cherry on top to a life of humiliation of his brother. He would go out as he came in, first and on top. He would never ever be topped by his brother, he thought. And if the plan failed and his memories remained; no harm, no foul again he thought.

On the day of the surgery Ronald was sitting alone in his room scared and nervous about the outcome of his procedure. He asked his older brother “Why are you here?” In response Raymond said, “Because I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.” He was smiling as he spoke. When Ronald was under, Raymond sat in the waiting room and quietly laughed to himself. Hoping and praying that his plan would go off without a hitch.

Early the next morning, Ronald awoke from the surgery to find the scrapbook he thought he had made. After reading it once, twice, over he exclaimed to the world “This is great news!” Raymond stood smiling and started to laugh. The look on his brother’s face was burned into his mind. This would be his crowning achievement and the slap in the face his brother deserved, he thought.

The next day Raymond received a call from his brother. He told him that he wanted to spend some of his millions and go on a trip around the world. Raymond held back his laughter as he spoke. “It’s your money little brother.” So then Ronald was off and gone for a month. No one knew where he went or how he got there. No postcards came, or even a call. It was as if Ronald had disappeared from the world. This angered Raymond as he felt betrayed by his own prank. He needed his brother to return home so he could fully and who heartedly humiliate him. But Ronald never came home.

A month later Raymond received notice that his brother had died while on holiday in the Islands of Hawaii. Raymond was sad. Not that his brother had died, but that his final prank would never be revealed. No description of the plan would ever suffice. So Raymond hung his head and went on with his life.

Not a week later did Raymond receive two parcels in his mailbox. The first was a postcard from his brother from Hawaii. The letter had been sent the day before he had passed away. There was no script on the letter, simply a small crudely draw smiley face. The second letter from the credit card companies, asking for a mister Raymond Coleman to pay his dues on a twenty thousand dollar expense made within the last month. His eyes grew with water as he looked at the letters. He quickly realized that his brother had played such an amazing prank on him. Understanding that even on his death bed, his younger brother was sharper and more cunning than he could ever be. He laughed and shed a tear. He thought to himself “I must have taught him well.”

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Connor

The streets are all black, but it doesn’t set in. Everything that he does, he does with a grin. The empathy the pity, the stares and the fear. A smile shoots back and the guilt disappears. With the lights turned out, and the shutter on low. He sits and he waits for the trade winds to blow. The scent, the scent, the hum of the song. Feeling each day as if he belongs. The touch, the touch, the taste of a mint. Each step he takes, each step he laments.

Connor is his name, and he wakes in the morning. Startled by his neighbor, the snoring, his snoring! Feet slide off the bed, and onto the floor. He yells out with plea, keep it down next door! Sun shines through the window, and birds start to sing. Connor sits and wonders what this new day may bring. Cold floors remind him off the season at hand; the bitter frost that his knees cannot stand. But stand he does, with his face in the mirror. Disgusted with the truth that seems so much clearer. His teeth he must clean, and his hair he must brush. Slow down, he thinks, there is no need to rush. To start a new day, with everything the same. To him life’s a struggle, not a children’s board game. Why rush, why rush to a life without meaning, to something he hates, a life so demeaning. A life all alone in a crowded bazaar, praying to god to be hit by a car. To end the sorrow, and forget the truth, stop faking the smiles and acting aloof. But connor has not the guts, nor the fortitude to act. So he puts on his smile, and the people smile back.

The smell of the kitchen is heavy with smoke. From the evening before, from the lonesome last toke. The bottle all shattered, the brown scotch stains the rim. One lonely glass, for one, for him. No friends to share laughter, or stories about love. Just a single burnt out light bulb that hangs from above. No female to kiss, no woman to hold. Only white bread growing green with mold. Cabinets half empty, falling free from the hinge. Little orange bottles, evidence of the binge. Standing alone, staring off into space, wondering how he got here, got here to this place. What choice could he make, what decision was right? A path with no guide, a trail with no light. But life must go on, the day must proceed. A meaningless life, connor must lead.

The sun shining bright as he walks through the door. The streets are still black, blacker than before. His glasses are on, the glare from the snow. The time of the day, doesn’t care, doesn’t know. Hand raised in the air as he waits for a ride, he wishes, he pleads, to go back inside. The strain connor feels with no relent, ten dollars for the cab he thinks he has spent. He justs wants some help to get through today, charity, guidance any price he would pay. For a friend, or an ally, a partner in crime. Someone to touch, to feel would be just fine. But he knows that its futile, he knows it’s a waste. To dream of an existence outside of his fate. The hand he was dealt could not beat a pair, he stands at his work, he sits and he stares.

He sits at his desk, walls circle his life. One cubicle over from a woman, a wife; the lady of a banker, the mother of a son; the aunt to a nephew, a family as one. Down the hall there’s a friend, a friend to a dad, a dad to a daughter, seventeen acting bad. The daughter has a lover, a boyfriend, a mate, and he has a friend who never is late. Never tardy to a party, to a social event, to a trip to go camping ,with a group, in a tent. They stare at the stars and contemplate life, while connor is home clutching a knife. And the parents go out to the movies and shows, where connor is, nobody knows. Not a person in the world cares of his heart, not even his mother, who was there at the start. They all share a laugh, an anecdote to connect, while connor is home with a rope on his neck. They dream of vacations, to somewhere down south, and connor is alone with a gun in his mouth. They talk of vacations, and where they will fly. Poor connor is home with the gas turned on high. Fighting and struggling to keep the gas on, knowing his chances in life are gone.

It was gone from the start, he speaks to himself. No women, no fame, not glory, no wealth. The things he desires he can never possess, just a friend that he wants, no more, no less. But he sits at his desk with the wife and the dad, laughing in the office about the life he never had. Stories and memories of the things they have seen, about mountains so tall and grass so green. Tales of wonders and tales of woe, stories of places they surely will go. Connors has stories and tid bits too, about pains of life, and things he can’t do. Of laughter and smiles, he can hear but not see. Of visions of beauty he can only dream. Of waking each morning alone and depressed, and falling asleep alone completely dressed. Each day is a struggle and he hears them complain, of their pitiful problems and their all around shame. They cheat on their spouses and beat on their spawn, they spend all their money, until it is gone. Then they show up to work and bitch about their wife, connor wishes for an instant they could live his life. A life without meaning a life all alone, maybe then they’d be thankful, for friends and a home.

But these are all thoughts, locked in his head. He keeps from speaking not a word he does shed. He sits with a smile, a grin and a smirk, typing away, just doing his work. The sound of the chatter does drive him insane, but the life he must live hurts just the same. At least when he’s working he passes the time, alone in his desk like a practical mime. A man of few words and a million thoughts, connor longs for home, he longs for some shots. Of whiskey or rum, anything is fine, an ice cold beer or a warm glass of wine. A hit from his pipe, a line of cocaine; a mental adjustment to keep connor sane. The drugs the alcohol, the substance he desires, keeps his mind from burning like fire. He waits for the day to come to a close, what he does when he leaves, nobody knows. Connor walks home instead of a car, to him five miles doesn’t seem very far. When the lights are all out, and the streets feel the same, he is alone with his thoughts, with his shame. He doesn’t want help when he trips on the stairs, no need for a cane to avoid the glares. The glasses he wears are for fashion that’s all, doesn’t feel embarrassed when he collides with a wall. He still has a smile, a grin, that smirk, even though he was born with eyes that don’t work. His name is connor and he hates everything, but in his own house he’s the ruler, the king. The lord of the lonely, the god of the cursed; Connor’s life could not get any worse.