Ahhh…

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Now sitting on the smooth slope overlooking the tide, back legs of the wooden chair dug into the sand, I watched as a blood orange moon burned up from the horizon, stretching a dancing spotlight hundreds of miles over the satiny swells, blessing my eyes; I found myself on my knees accepting physics’ immeasurable power, the lust of ultimate mass, crying out again and again over the surf, the amber goddess boring her way through time and my childish heart.

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Wash me clean, clean, can’t get clean enough.

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"To the boldest comes the greatest reward."

There’s beauty wherever you need it.
Or so we’ve seen as each niche now gets due representation and the appearance of happiness in whatever direction is enough to drive us all into a berserk envy. No one’s really happy for someone else when he isn’t happy. Come on.

Beauty is a stubborn and often a lie.
We use it to cope and we find confidence in our invention. Perhaps, logically, those who have the strongest grip on reality also have the most wonderful imaginations.
Takes a joker to tell the truth.
Identity broken by reality.

Beauty is always pretty,
tidy, and fresh. Beauty can’t be questioned—shame on you! Don’t
let your
n e g a t i v i t y
……………………yeah…
But, beauty is as ugly as anything else
and effort is perhaps second to focus.
Genius second to passion.
Purpose lacking focus and the illusion of control fades
like the night
into the next -rise and act-;
so many performances no one saw
but me.

Here, a woman tells a man he’s handsome. Delicate beyond words, when early morning touch says “home” unlike any picture or song.
Into the trembling eyes of that which
you’ve become with your love
the adoption of another’s purpose and a hand to hold
when death comes without a knock;
and, with that off the table and a space and some cold nights you make yourself over
and god, what a feeling….
But does everyone really feel
or are we all •cable guys• ?
acting out;
how much volition is too much
volition?

But what of the modern hero?
What of he who drags again to the tide
with those who understand that concept, but don’t see the harder they
struggle the faster the quicksand swallows them.
But in a panic, who can muster the
confidence to stand still;
laughing into the dark.
The hero no longer hacks and slashes—the modern hero simply attempts to decide; oh it’s been done, but that’s kinda the point of 8 billion similar things.
Few people realize that the artist’s quest for individuality is evolution’s •cri de couer• ; begging. Begging us to hold steady in the
face of fate
and do what’s right
but no one wants to suffer
and without second thought, suffer we all must.

Hot dreams of paralysis strike at times
hallmarking age.
A little awareness and a lot is a dangerous thing.
Blur to the middle
and wait until we self-destruct
swearing we all knew something the other didn’t.

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And now, and unsolicited review of the highlights of the Old Settlers Music Festival 2014:

First, to speak of my love:

Lake Street Dive is one of the most refined, professional, charismatic, and creative bands I have ever seen. Their show was exactly as I expected. Nearly pitch-perfect from start to finish. They perform their originals with exceptional skill and panache, jazzing things up and experimenting. They are not one-trick-ponies, they have a variety of sounds from country, rock, pop, soul, and blues. They are unpretentious about playing covers and beautiful in their orchestration—a quality that could save “pop” music from the over-produced and boring mainstream. The drummer, Mike, and bassist, Bridget, brought the whammy, but its clear that Rachel Price makes this band so special (as with any great voice) and she is perhaps the finest thing on two legs.

But…

Although having heard of this band and Kevin Russell ’s connection with The Gourds, I had no idea that a band might (and I mean “might”) challenge LSD for the band of the night. But Shinyribs did just that. While LSD is very young (even though they’ve been playing together for a decade), they suffer VERY slightly (I still love them all to death) from the tedious hipster “too-cool-for -school” vibe that makes me hate “indie” music (it affects the sound and life is too short not to dance). I’m sure being in Brooklyn didn’t help. Shinyribs, however, have none of that. LSD fits nicely in it’s own shoes, don’t get me wrong, but it’s hard to not love a man like Russell for live shows (the only shows I want to see). From start to finish they brought solid, classic, diverse jams that built like a tidal wave of good music. And taking one look at these relaxed guys you knew right away they had no love of the veneer of the month. And Russell? Well, to put it simply: Russell is like a freight train of hillbilly funk that refuses yield, singing, yodeling, mandolin-ing, and grinning like a horny teenager with just as much pure Texas energy, accomplishing artistic and athletic feats unthinkable to a man his size and age. Literally, the guy must have a heart as big as Secretariat’s to play, sing, dance, celebrate, and thrust like a oversexed Rick James who at the flip of a switch can go from tender classic ballads to smokin’ covers of 90’s r&b. The Ribs rock, funk, soul, bluegrass, country, and jam their way through a huge set that just wasn’t long enough, followed by four encores, two of which were amazing ballads sung right after Russell charged through the audience, leading a conga line of hugs, rhythm, and ecstatic fans. The man can DANCE. I pride myself on my moves, but this beast has fast feet and the animal lust of James Brown. But all that wouldn’t matter one lick if he didn’t have literally one of the best voices I have ever heard. The range, the dynamics, the precision—he is the rarest and best combination: amazing artist, FUN loving person, and dedicated entertainer. If you need some pure joy, boogie, and sweet bluegrass jams in your life, offset with some Ginuwine, then go see them. Seriously. Go.

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I’m dreaming so loud you might get a sunburn

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and the laughter never lingered

and soon the smiles grew infrequent
fire turned to glow
words became patient
the stillness
of deepest night robbing the evening’s 
honesty
and freedom

to a 
still, still
dark, but
a rich dark still

it is in the blackest of nights
that animals first dreamed of greatness
and since i was never quite born
so shall i never quite die

but alas, to sleep, to my day and my length
of chain i lose those lips
and hair spread on my stomach, my
hands warm with the touch of love’s sticky
blossom

i lose the thrill of the night
and the spirit of the hunt
the celebration of life each day
millions of years of passion
screaming to the sky in triumph

process to tomorrow…

oh, eventually
i will agree with my body to die
—that is the part they never tell you
nor could they—
and that is the terror. the moment of drowning
giving up

it doesn’t happen to you
you happen to it
but i am askew in this whole process
having started late, i will end early
and become whatever it is we become past the wall of
conception
leaving behind

my notes

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orage:

She parted her lips and the shape of her first black-hearted word began to take form, and before she could even get through the first syllable, I had forgiven her.  I’d forgiven her for everything.  For all the lies.  For all the abuse.  For all the tricks and manipulation.  For all the pain.  Months and months of brutal pain.  For all the betrayal.  For all the wasted time and effort.  How much had I given?  I can’t even rightly say at this point.  But before she could finish adding to that barbarous damnation, beset by dismissive excuses, followed by another retreat into denial, I’d forgiven her.  I’d forgiven the words of horror that were entering my ears, tearing apart my shoddily-stitched heart, adding sickness to an already weakened frame.  I’d forgiven her for ignoring my cries as she stared blank as an statue…watching…just watching me drown in the much she spumed.  I’d forgiven the pureness of her evil.  The desperate flails to find stability in her darkness—the cohesion with those others with jealous, savage hearts.  A hideous conglomerate of rotted souls, bonding over any attempt to strengthen the web of lies.  I’d forgiven the attacks on my loved ones—and those were the hardest to forgive, but I knew no matter my condition, I would protect them.  I’d forgiven her for I knew that is all I could do.  All I could do was love her, as I loved all the rest who would stab at me for the rest of my life.  I’d forgiven because at one time I too needed forgiveness.  Because I too had wronged.  I’d forgiven because I cannot hate.  I haven’t the right structures to keep it.  I can only love…and be hurt for it…again and again…as deeply as that person is cruel.  I’d forgiven because I’d already worked through the explanations.  Worked through the reasons for the abuse, be they simple or sociopathic.  I’d forgiven because it was right to do so.  It was the right thing to do.  I wanted to be right.  Moreover, I wanted to be good.  I’d forgiven because late at night it felt good to think that finally, finally, finally, the truth has touched her core and the guilt will bring her into the light.  Bring her to me to give real atonement.  To make it right.  It’s not too late, just yet…A glimpse of purity—it’s all I’d need—and I’d do the rest.  It would scream like an atom bomb, ripping apart her world of malignant darkness.  Just a moment of good to make the months and years of pain disappear.  Just a single moment is all I’d need because I have already forgiven.  Let the redemption come.  Let the truth set you free.  You are forgiven.

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Those who do great things respect, value, seek, and organize solitude.

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It’s hard to hold things precious in this world.

The core is always there, still as fragile and trusting as the wonderful moments of joy only possible in childhood.

But over time many have grown callous; or, through fear, have rubbed out the precision of their feelings—the emotional equivalent of banging one’s head against the wall.

One should never fully grow up,
says a wise man, and the people murmur and echo the sentiment, missing the point entirely. For the plebeians, it is reminiscent of simplicity, frivolity, and innocence—and, often, it is an idyllic mirage cast by the heat of their own decepted lies.

For the wise man, it represents the only time he could love everything, fully, without fear or ghost or the cringe of mistake. The wise man doesn’t want innocence, frivolity, or simplicity, he simply wants the energy and flexible heart of the child so he can focus anew, suffer the sneaky hatred of the human animal, and rediscover the world of wonder.

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