Museic

Waves of sound fill this space intentionally
I want this sound around me
I need focus
I need some time
The Tempo brings an almost panic to my insides
I love hate it

Neurasthenia

wondering
a distant place unknown
but familiar
a painfully peaceful place
distant now my mind leaves my body
the body functioning sporadically
a choppy remote signal from the mind
static
gray and white bits convulsing on top of each other
the crumpled hiss
the only thing connecting the two

my mind gliding through the air of the unknown
thoughts like bombs fall and hit the ground
patternless impacts
vibrations shatter the landscape
desolate as the moon
craters haunted by a nothingness

deep in the distance I can hear the chewing of something
the fingers tapping on something
the words of another something
the real and unreal coexisting abnormally
churning over each other
tumultuous waves unsatisfied with position
the two worlds fighting
interrupting each others existence
all differentiating lines phased out
chaos
surreal chaos
an ocean of imagination and the tangible
a place longed for and from which there is no escape
distant and unknown
but familiar

Tranquilopoli

Tree covered hills like clouds
lay low on the horizons
drawing my eye from the road
winding and pulling me
my destination
an easy breath hidden away
nestled between earth and sky

Memories of time spent
of the inhabitants awaiting me

A fire burns
surrounded by voices
nestled between earth and sky

Soon my presence
of voices waiting
libations a gesture so subtle
out of sight blanketed by moon and stars

A place to breath
where eyes can smile
reflective light triggering an ancient feeling
a man no longer seen
but buried deep within
swirling around nucleotides
we become one as scent hits the brain
thick morning air
a stew of pollen
nourishing a hunger no protein could ever

A place out of sight
nestled between earth and sky

Institutionaleyes

I haven't a dollar yet I'm not sad.
I'm losing my drive for money altogether.
I want
I need
I don't care.
The more I seek happiness the more I seek unemployment.
Laziness may be a downfall, but what's down there?
I can and I will create
Ideas and the tangible
For now I will take some of my time and give it away for wages.
I am beaten by the structures
I am trapped
for now.
I must become strong
I must not be drawn to the voices of reason
they too are trapped
and the reason they sling is lined with shit
they will be freed
soon enough but not too soon.
I am only beginning to see my path and the exit it leads to
out of this place of mirrors
familiar faces like landmines
criss-cross my path relentless
smiles like bullets slow me down and bleed me
weeping pin hole death
All the hands lended turned to knives in my back
the bodies like anchors sink me.

Don't Know Why. *

walking the streets alone
no one to talk to now
one hand full of memories and the other a fifth
you say your name is bob
a genius
a painter
ill sit and talk with you for a while
you say you're sick
need to get better but the doctor hooked you up
regret the things you forgot but rock and roll won't
who am I to decide if you're alright?
don't ask again
feel their stare
they've seen you around
you know their counterfeit smiles you're no dummy
I'm not a bullshit artist!
you're not doing so bad
you say you don't do dope
had a good time but its time to go
you said your name is bob
you're a junkie

*Originally Posted on May 21st, 2006.
At the time I was working with 102.3 WBAB in the promotions department. On our event that day a homeless guy/junkie came over to our tent and stayed with us the entire 3-hour event. He talked with us and told us his life story. He was getting up the courage to ask for a ride or some money. I think he enjoyed talking with us but being a junkie what he really needed was a lift somewhere and some dollars. I went home and I wrote this poem about him.

This past weekend in Atlantic City, 7 years later on the boardwalk that same homeless guy Bob comes up to us asking for some money. I gave him what change I had which wasn't much, he was still telling his painting story. He said he was an artist and/or a great house painter. Lost it all because of drugs and alcohol.

April Showers

Where were we when you died all alone?
All alone on the cold basement floor.
Cold and blue like an old dish rag.
Those unknown final moments haunt me now and forever.
Did you regret your stubbornness or accept your infinite finality?
Did you have time?
To think of such things or cry for help?
Was there a warm welcoming light or the monstrous eternal black nothingness?
Now you wait without want in a cold sterilized darkness without having heard your goodbyes.
So, we attempt a fairwell with antiquated rituals.
For this will never suffice all our woulda coulda shoulda's.
Though unspoken all we are left with are images left running wild
Of the cold and lonely basement floor.

Hypnopompic

The hands of animals are reaching out for me.
Grabbing claws attached to ice cold grins
They keep their distance though ever reaching
Trapped
My tiny circle leaves me spinning
Bloodied hands remind of what happens if I leave the circle
So I spin
Making blurry that which is right in front of me
The background blends into a bright mix of today and tomorrow
Spinning dizzy
I don't leave the circle
I can't
My blurred view becomes my reality
The voices that touch me come and go
I choose the words I hear and create their definitions
Everything else is sent spinning above and around me
Even my own hands seem distant and alien
Fade the light in my eyes
The sounds in my ear
Fade thoughts