he was speaking vodka, a language that I understood all-too-well
as I sat on the edge of his bed, I handed him the joint that I had just finished carefully rolling
he lit it, and taking a small toke, became suddenly and uncharacteristically serious
“You do know that I’m not life, right?”
it must have been obvious that I had no clue how to answer that, so he continued,
“When I was just a little boy, “your grandpa (and mine) told me, “he said,
‘Son, you’ll pull time before you hit twenty.’
“At nineteen, I did six months.”
before he could say another word, drunk people spilled into the room and the party took over
it was as if the writer of this dark comedy of errors had carefully placed the interruption into the script for dramatic effect
years later, I stood in the yard with my father one morning
we burned a mattress in the yard
a mattress with a peculiar red stain on the top end of it, right about where a man would lay his head down to sleep
smoke climbed high, snaking its way through the bare tree branches, coating the limbs, blackening the sun, giving twisted new meaning to the wind
with each searing crackle, each hot little iron that launched out of the flames, the notion was solidified that you would never be with us again
the red stain is forever removed, taken off and away from the bad blend of cotton and synthetic fiber
its ugly lack of aesthetic, permanently removed from the eye
we have, instead, embroidered you into our hearts, in gold-letter on satin
a little redirection, a simple trick of the firelight and the mind
a touch of pre-approved manipulation, vocabulary and memory, now twisted to suit ourselves with semblances of sanity
and you, all dressed up, looking dapper in a new suit
something to bring you over the threshold in style
we have gathered many flowers
you were one of them
now, on this rainy Saturday, we gather more, but none of them are as rare or as interesting as you
still, we do so wish that you were not so
still
now, we are all so much more careful with our words
we never had to monitor our tongues before
we always counted on you to say something deliciously profane, hysterical, sublime
you said things far more terrible than we could ever manage (or dare) to bring forth from our fearful mouths
you said it all for us, you, being our favorite devil, you spared no words, knowing full well that your time was short
now, everything is serious and sullen
ash settles on us, stealing the still-warm seat of smiles
we do our best to preserve the integrity of your memory
with all our words, so clumsily polite and wrong
yours were so horribly accurate
your list of faults could fill volumes
all of these, now consumed by fire and forgetfulness
we will not miss them
we are, in fact, glad to be free of these; free from the weight of your awful acuity
your spiteful condemnation of this earth was always felt hot upon our necks
even your parting words of “Fuck this world!” were a vicious pronouncement of a pox on all our houses
that seething sentiment, ever-present, laced into the mix of the cocktail that was you; virtually indistinguishable from the indiscriminate joy of your cosmic jester voice pouring out over our wanting brains
we will not miss the chaos of your actions, or your allegiance to an autocratic indifference
we only miss
everything else
but beneath all of the intolerable heavy,
knowing of nothing else to do…
we dutifully lift our eyes to the coming days where you are not
Author’s Note: This piece is supposed to be humorous. There were genuine tragedies that occurred during the ice storms. Tens of thousands lost power, and there were a few fatalities. The homeless suffered greatly.
However, this is NOT about any of those serious situations. This is NOT meant to be disrespectful in any way toward the (thankfully) few instances where people were seriously harmed.
Instead, this piece is merely poking fun at the rest of us, the bulk of us, who were merely required to be patient while the storm passed; something that modern Americans find virtually impossible to do.
they fell like flies during those six terrible decades that began in mid January of 2024, in Portland, Oregon
so much collateral damage such tremendous loss of life
well… normal, everyday life
so much loss of… balance
power was wrested from the hands of those who were so accustomed to having power… in their homes chariots lost all control, crashing into each other like rams; suicide bombers, without any allegiances, taking out street signs, and Toyotas
actually, it wasn’t quite six decades, I guess it was more like six years?
but that hardly matters
when such senseless devastation falls on a place, the clock itself is killed in action
no one even recalls what started the wars
one day, it was brother and sister, neighbor and friend and the next, it was bedlam, chaos
colorless blood ran freely in the streets and froze into gruesome, solid, white sheets of gore; winter’s guts
it all happened so fast, there was no time to question why, how, or when
there was only enough time to react, to fight for one’s life, flailing on the battlefield, in mortal combat, man against nature, warrior against warrior, chariot against chariot
no wonder it felt like such an eternity
it is easy to understand how we thought it was six years
although, I was just reminded, it was only six months, not six years
still, it’s reasonable to assume that it would be simply impossible for so much carnage to occur in only six months
so many frozen toes, cold fingers, and other numb appendages
brave combatants, slugging it out in the trenches, trying to catch one of the few buses that were still running
the psychological impact, the mental anguish of having to leave fallen comrades behind
“Man down!”
war is truly hell
so many work hours… gone, forever
never to be made up through overtime
so many delivery orders that never arrived
there are no memorials in the town square, commemorating the fallen heroes
there are only pools of slush and tears
and the slow efforts of healing struggling to bloom, like the first buds of a spring that has yet to arrive
healing the wounds of the body is easy
hot baths, warm meals, cups of cocoa, and bandages for all the minor cuts, sustained out on those unforgiving, frozen killing fields
many battlegrounds have yet to be cleared
Burlington, Thorburn, Burnside, and 72nd Street, all littered with destroyed vehicles, fallen trees and power lines
all icy remembrances of the horrors of this past six weeks of war
the human body is amazingly resilient
the physical frame can regenerate lost tissue, skin that was mercilessly ripped from innocent flesh, as brave soldiers engaged in the fray, a torturous melee against the territory itself, and every previously mobile thing that had suddenly become a permanent fixture of the terrain
yes, the body bounces back quickly
the healing of the mind, however, this is a slower, more subtle, and more painful process
one must confront the awful memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares, of waking up and realizing that there would be yet another morning of snow and freezing rain, and temperatures that only rarely and briefly climbed above freezing
even now, Portlanders are struggling to come to grips with all of it, the mindless, opaque fog of war
some are still huddled in corners, entirely overdressed, certain this is only a brief ceasefire, terrified that, at any moment, the temperature will drop by thirty degrees, and the flurries will begin anew
these snow-shocked veterans of the Oregon ice wars are suffering terribly, post-traumatic stress disorder, mild head injuries, scraped elbows and skinned knees, all these poor limbs, slammed down hard onto the slab of the division of wartime; somewhere down on SE Division Street
these wounds are not only of the body
these wounds run deep into the collective psyche of all who were here and bore witness to the atrocities
humiliation tortures, crimes against humanity, or at least against the ego, forced participation in farcical ice follies, persecution techniques of the enemy, methods that most definitely do not conform to the Geneva Conventions
the victims will have to face that long road toward reopening all the roads;
reconstruction could take days
everyone will have to agree to lay down their arms, so they can take off their heavy coats
they will need to let go of their grievances against the inconveniences of such widespread conflict
they’ll have to band together, setting aside their differences, and their snow shovels
they must remove the war spikes from their winter boots, and finally come together to heal; probably over a cappuccino, or possibly an imported lager
because, while the bitter memories are still all too fresh, and the bruises on everyone’s tailbones are still quite tender, we must accept that now, the war is, in fact, over
it is time to forgive, to put aside our petty differences
it matters not, which side of the Max Line you were on, when the hostilities first began
now, there are no more white, frozen lines of scrimmage
or, at least, any that remain should be gone by tomorrow
it is time for Portlanders, and indeed, all Oregonians to remember that they are kin
never mind that each is as different from the next as frozen night is from snowy day, that no one can agree on the right wine to serve with which dish, or which aperitifs and canapés to serve with brunch
still, they must strive to remember that they all live together, in the great State of Oregon!
let there be peace now and forever
sit, side by side, at the fireplace, share your stories with one another
help one another work through the trauma and heartbreak of the ice wars
maybe don’t sit by an actual fire, like, in the actual fireplace; I mean it’s like fifty degrees out, now… so, maybe just a nice sweater, and a scarf or something
but, you know… some tea, or coffee, and the love of your fellow citizens, citizens of this great territory, all of who lost so much in these horrendous six weeks of…
come to think of it…
it really was, now that I think about it, only about six days, or something like that
but, anyway…
whatever
it was a grim, burdensome trial by fire, you know, that weird, burning sensation that you get, when the only exposed parts of your skin are being dragged by gravity across the white, rock hard and razor sharp wasteland, somewhere along the front lines of César Chávez
it’s so weird that you’d feel heat, being raked over ice like that…
but I digress
the message here is unity, peace, healing, and starting anew
let the insufferable nightmares of those six awful days begin to recede days of ice, calamity, the inability to receive any type of deliveries
let these horrors finally be buried in the past
it is now time to bury the ice scraper
to begin treating one another as neighbors, once again
the war is over
well, don’t actually bury the ice scraper, because we could potentially get another brief cold snap at some point, but you understand the metaphor
go now
go in peace
there are restaurants to eat at, coffee shops, where baristas will serve you hot beverages,
there will be packages waiting at your doorsteps when you arrive home from work
and, all will once again be rational and sane, just as it was
and, even if it’s embarrassing, it’s still the gospel truth… I used to collect amnesias, but now, I’ve given all that up; gave the whole set back to her majesty, the queen
and now, there’s so much knowledge, it won’t even fit on the milk cartons
but, the juice is much more slippery, on the other side of town
if we’re really telling all, there are only sharks in the sea
each bite, delicious sadness, if you must know
let’s be totally clear about all of this,
we’ve grown far too close to one another to stop lying to ourselves, now
the party favor wasn’t punished for passing itself around, but for passing itself off as a thing all nailed down
let your hairless cats hang loose, and slip into something nauseating
it ruins the texture of the pudding, if you don’t bleed it out just right
so, dish out the starchy, fat parts of the story, so you can pick up a new one, down at your favorite food truck
give it all away before midnight, and the fifth is free
not to burst any bubbles, but the snowman isn’t actually made of lunar cheese
and, all that rain is fake; it’s really nothing more than water
the consigliere is only guessing, it’s all wild speculations; hopes that no one will notice, that they’ll all just play along
but, the wandering minstrel has lost his will to lie down
and, the troubadour is sharpening his boots for the dance
on the level, I will tell you that motor isn’t running, only because it’s all out of rocks and gum balls
if it’s time to get real, then we must suck it up and finally admit, all the Kewpie dolls are dying in the streets
the cobbler is high again; treatment didn’t take
the shoes are made of peaches, the boats all made of pearls and, the pears are getting fresh with the sailors in the saloon
apricot dandies dancing with apple cider cinder blocks in the twilight of everything that never happened thrice
rehearsing old headlines for all the latest, breaking news
the oysters are all full of shotgun pellets
all the nails are soggy, and the slugs are too tall
every day is carte blanche ice cream, caviar, and internal hemorrhaging
all the wild ponies are stuffed with loose rainbows, loose rainbows made of oil spills, and sprinkles of leprosy
the attraction is purely chemical, pure forever chemicals
today…
today was full of not dying
and a tentative lucidity
the significance of this is yet to be determined
it’s either a huge win, or it is entirely meaningless, or it’s the greatest loss of the entire war,
or it’s wholly imaginary, or it’s simply yet to be determined
all the bubbles are busy blowing away in the breezes
all the busy are stuck, spinning endlessly, on the quick wash unicycle
none of the etiquette equates to actual manners
no one’s manner equates
at least, not to anything short of mannerisms
the etiquette of mannequins
the ethics of plush toys; plush toys on holiday, plush toys that can’t be bothered with all your insistence on being treated as anything more than a plush toy
the horizon is full of paper cuts, and old bandaids
all the drums squeak when you hit them
each sip is dry, and demands yet another
if you’re walking into the furnace, be sure to take a jacket with you, so you don’t catch cold
every bottle you find is full of three wishes, someone else’s
none of the colors run; they all stand their ground, ready to fight you to the death
any of these knives are sharp enough to do the job, just as long as you don’t need to cut anything
all these silk handkerchiefs are perfectly safe; not a single one of them will have been harmed in the slightest, after they’re done strangling you
the factories are all at maximum production, cranking out empty picture frames and invitations to dinner
the lists of new lists seem to sit flush with eternity; none of them complain, and it takes a hot minute to become accustomed to the silence
every pile of shit that you see here, on the ground, they all taste like chocolate and peanut butter; trust me
this machine gun is so much more convenient than air conditioning
if we’re speaking candidly, then, you always preferred hanging your laundry out to dry
there are no more puppies but, we’re all stocked up on ska music, instant polyps, and disposable consciences
all the mountains shatter when you step on them… if we’re being totally honest
the days, all ripped up, for tourniquet rags
the hours, shattering into dust, if you so much as glance at them sideways
each of these marvelous things, all made possible by your presence
now, the hounds will go without their supper, and the king’s innards will spill out at his feet, there, on the palace floor
and all the poor children will cry, because none of the salads will ever be scrambled again
and the tumbleweeds will all starve, for want of the suffocation you so graciously bestowed upon them, in the days gone by
none of the little assassins will get Christmas cards this year, despite having been such good girls and boys
the coffee is full of conspiracy, and the fish all taste like marshmallows
the sleet sings sweet lullabies, in which there are no names
just between you and me, and this scarecrow, here…
as long as we’re shooting straight…
it’s terribly worrying to think that none of the boils will be allowed to fester and ripen in time for the harvest
because you will not be here to feed them
it is tragic, how much you will be missed
the traffic moves right along, screaming its miseries into the night
“See, their morals, their code… it’s a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. They’re only as good as the world allows them to be. I’ll show you, when the chips are down, these… these civilized people? They’ll eat each other. See, I’m not a monster, I’m just ahead of the curve.”
—The Joker, from the film, The Dark Knight
The school went on lockdown today
A report came in about an armed student Roaming the campus
Students were immediately instructed To go to their dorms, and stay put
After some five or ten, agonizing minutes, The determination was made, It was only a hoax
This is an old gag Kids get bored, Call in a bomb threat Just for giggles Or, to get out of a test
Maybe, it’s to cover their tardiness, When, one more late-show Would have caused them to Fail a particular class
But, these days, On the national level, There are more mass shootings Than there are Days in the year
Who’s to know When to be truly concerned? Or, when to be Merely annoyed?
The young girl on the news said The thing that bothered her most Was how no one talked about it, After the all-clear signal was given; She said it went on like a normal day, As if nothing had happened
She said it was as if Everything was fine, When really, underneath, Everyone knew that Nothing about it was normal, Much less, fine
The teachers didn’t address the issue The students didn’t speak To each other about it, either
One has to wonder, How many false alarms can occur, Before the security guards begin Dropping their guard? How many, before they stop Taking the threats seriously?
What happens, when The real thing goes down, And they don’t stop it, because They got sloppy, Because of too many False alarms?
This was one of several such incidents That took place on multiple campuses, All on this one, particular day
But, at the heart of it all, This was not one incident, Nor was it two, or even five
This, is the new normal The regular, daily pattern of Life in the United States, The common thread In the tapestry of America
This is the age of the Joker
Every card is wild
It’s not always an active shooter It’s not always a bomb threat It’s not even always about An event at a school
It’s sometimes a threat of Imminent war against other countries
It’s the news weather forecast It’s the stories of tornado victims, The death tolls of flash floods, Hurricanes, landslides, heatstroke
It’s the rumors, dog whistles, and Outright cries for civil war in America
It’s the empty shelves at the grocery store
It’s the ongoing, never-ending Supply chain problems
It’s requisite new vocabulary, Terms like “doomerism,” And the dusting off of classic, 70s hits, like “Collapse,” and, The Limits to Growth
It’s the shortages of needed medications
It’s learning the heart-wrenching truth about The children of Somalia,⠀ And many other nations like it
It’s the mounting lies that Erode faith in the system It’s the creeping groan of fascism, Sinking its fangs into The Statue of Liberty’s jugular, Insisting that she report her periods To the school nurse
That she burn all those lurid copies of And Tango Makes Three, The Bluest Eye, and Out of Darkness
Slapping the “woke” beer out of her hand, Making her spit out that “woke” chocolate candy
Making her subject to laws that Relegate her to the status of cattle, Demanding that she inform on her friends, Should they seek to cross state lines For any health care that involves Their naughty parts
Insisting that she never speak the Dreaded crimson words, Words telling of the flowing of blood, From the sacred place that Spawned each of us, Even those who, now, Refuse to speak of the cycle of life That is responsible for their Entire existence
She is soon to be muzzled, Disallowed from speaking anything Beyond, a pained statement of duress… “Yes, I am happy to bear your seed.”
She will wear a red burka, Shaped like a baseball cap, Peppersprayed with meaningless words, About a mythical nation that ever existed, One built on the backs of slaves, Slaves who she must never mention To her children
Ruby is only a gem, and a color, Bridges are but things we drive over, In our carbon-spitting SUVs
Parks is not a name, It is a noun, describing a place where People go to enjoy nature; Good, upstanding white folk, Standing on the skulls of Nameless hordes of ghosts
These ghosts whisper foul incantations, “We are here, too! We have names!”
They seek to possess good, caucasian children, Swaying them into the unacceptable madness Of admitting various lunacies, such as, “Yes, these are human beings. They have proud names, rich heritages, and incredible stories of Overcoming adversity.”
Insisting that the children Not be allowed to become The fodder of the Devil’s history, Declaring, as if it were true, “These were the Sioux, the Wichita, the Apache, The Chinese, Pakistani, the Mexican, The African, the transgender, and The women, who monthly bleed, As God saw fit for them to bleed.”
Surely, all will fall into ruin and chaos, Were the children to speak about Such horrors as boys, kissing other boys, Or, girls, kissing other girls
These are not things good folks discuss At the dinner table, or in places of learning No, these are things that must never See the light of day
After all, the clergy, and the Congressmen, They had the common decency To perform their fellatios on each other, And on the young children, Under the cover of darkness
“Why can’t these godless teachers Shut their fucking mouths?! Sorry, I cursed… forgive me, Jesus I just become so incredibly angry, When people have the unmitigated gall To tell our children that A huge, astonishing, astounding percentage Of the world’s population Thinks and behaves Differently than us”
Oh, the unruly, unkempt insanity Of spilling the beans about our actual, True history, soaked as it is, In the blood of slaves, migrants, And silently suffering “others,” Who we would not abide Who we would not allow To follow their natures, However discreetly they sought to do so
“Isn’t it clear? Don’t they see it? Don’t they see how immigrants Are coming to invade us? How these foreigners want to Take over this proud land that was Inhabited only by pure, white blood, For thousands of years?”
This is the golden age of the false narrative, Wiggling in “lies” about Murika being built By “people” from Ireland, Scotland, France, Africa, Spain, and even many other Godless lands
“They want our children to believe that We enslaved an entire race of coloreds I mean, obviously, we did, but… What the hell else were we going to do? That cotton and tobacco wasn’t going to Pick itself
“They want to murder The memory of our heroes, Our General Custer’s, and Our great General John Wayne Replace them, with lies about us Slaughtering innocents, and taking their lands I mean, obviously, we did do that, but… What kind of monsters want The children to know The truth of it?!”
They have enough to worry about, Trying to sort out who is the real President, Whether or not our elections are rigged; The same election process that put The other guy in the big chair, last time
Trying to decide if the man Walking toward them will offer help, Or rape, or murder
We can’t protect our children from Being shot at school, or from Getting high-powered weapons, And irreparably harming others,
Instead, we focus on preventing them from Getting a hold of far more dangerous items, Like condoms, and birth control pills
We rabidly foam on about the Tyranny of ideas, and events That are common knowledge
Mandatory background checks, For anyone who is trying to buy A semiautomatic weapon? Unacceptable
Clearly, anyone sensible enough to know That they need the protection of an AR-15 Is sensible enough to keep their names Off government lists!
It’s really quite simple… Childhood pregnancy? good Females bleeding? not good
Books, scary Bibles, awesomeness
Ar-15s, yes Disney, a total mess
Migrants (or women) crossing borders? No Barbara’s Bleeding Logbook? God bless
The collapsing climate? Must suppress.
Tax cuts for billionaires, they do impress
Lose an election? Just don’t confess More than two genders? We must redress.
The economy, must never recess Historical facts… “His story,” nonetheless
See? I told you it was simple. Try to keep up, stupid.
Hopium – an irrational, unfounded belief that a situation is going to improve, despite all evidence to the contrary.
New music from Trent Boswell
Here’s a new song. This one is a blues rock piece.
People usually say, “The vocal part isn’t loud enough,” so I made it nice and loud in this one. To my ears, I think it’s a little too loud. You can let me know in the comments what you think.
Either way, hit the thumbs up 👍 and share ⬆️ with your friends if you like it.
Author’s Note: This one is a little more fun if you read it in Tony Soprano’s voice.
I always defended my inner child Even when change, he’d slow or shunt I spoke to him softly, sweet and kind Never too harsh, rude, or blunt
But his juvenile ways sabotage me Constantly force me to fall back and punt It’s time for him to grow the hell up My progress, the crybaby tries to stunt
If I’m ever gonna get ahead in this world Any luck in life, the brutal hunt I can’t afford to have this kid in my way His juvenile tantrums, I gotta confront
All this baby does is worry, complain He fights reality, finds truth an affront His childish attitudes are holding me back I say, fuck that bratty, squawkin’ cunt
I know a guy; he paints houses, wetwork A reliable button man to bear the brunt He knows how to handle these things A backdoor man; alibi and solid front
I’m sick of his shit, bellyachin’, moanin’ I gotta do it; I’m putting out a hit on the runt I’ll murder this punk and bury his body In a shallow grave by the waterfront
i need to run pleeze set me loose to run in the yard i am a good dog im not too bryte you beat me but its ok i was bad i still love you i takes cares of you bestest i can i wrap my teefs around the bones of any bad peoples trys to harm you i rip the balls off anybody tries to hurt you ill live on one meal a week its ok i dont need no mental stima-lashuns i dont know what dem things is no persunal space them are just words i dont know what thems mean anyway i will lick your feet you will be happy i will be happy i dont need no time time dont ezist for me ezept when you gos away then i am a very sad if i had hands i would clean up my poop so you wouldnt have to stoop down and do it becuz its beneath you it must be beneath you becuz you dont do it much as littel as possibal i wish i could do it for you i dont need nuthin i wantz to run in sercals for you make you laff beg fer your attenshunz pleeze may i do tricks for you lick your face you snatch me up scruff of my neck i dont make no fuss yor the boss i deserve to be choked you warned me last time i already learn that lesson wounds almost healed up now its ok it was my fault i will not be bad no more sorry i interupted your favrit show with my dumb stuff my thirsties my hungerz me bein chokd on the chain around my neck i was just bein selfish i sorry i do better next time pet me pleeze i love you
“Blood In The Glass” – An original song by Trent Boswell. All guitar, bass and vocal parts, plus the recording and mixing of the song are by Trent Boswell. This is from the album Something in the Air.
Blood in the Glass from the album Something in the Air
Lyrics
You’d only call it a disaster If you were trying extra hard to be nice But all the niceties were crushed up for the mix drinks Because the party was all out of ice
Hush, little baby.. don’t you bitch, now We’ve laid waste to all your pesky fears Just listen to the soft voice of certain death How it whispers such sweet things in your ears
I woke this morning to the sweet sounds Of everything falling apart I can’t find the glue, anywhere I look And I know better than to look in my heart
Doom arrived late night at the soirée As I passed by, I kicked it in the clutch I wasn’t mad at all about what it planned to do Only that a few, it wouldn’t touch
Gentleman and ladies all line up now To stab the eyes, each one has a go Don’t waste your breath, explaining to them how They only blind themselves… they already know
Don’t stop the show, it’s all too much fun Admission price is all the useful parts We sold it all off, dirt cheap, no reservations And long ago, we emptied out our hearts
I remember sunny days and bird songs But all these things are swiftly brushed aside For the sounds of ourselves, the images of others Both from which, we vainly seek to hide
I found a thousand beautiful reasons Then, was told I needed one thousand and one Things like joy, a heart full of kindness, A chameleon face and a gun
Blood in the glass, broken glass on the ground Broken glass and blood on the blade Note the irony with a wry, little smile It’s the finest contribution that I’ve made Watch the smoke rising, a sigh of contentment The finest contribution that I’ve made
It’s getting much harder to keep it all down Throwing it away might be smart When all of it is burned, black, full of poison Most especially in the heart
I woke this morning to the sweet sounds Of everything falling apart I can’t find the glue, anywhere I look And I know better than to look in the heart
We all know there’s nothing There to find, in our hearts
I searched high and low, trying to find A little comfort and peace of mind Of all the places I’ve been, I have to say This is the one where I’d most like to stay
Tracing over all my memory I can’t recall any place I’d rather be So many places, so many names So many dreams that went up in flames
I’ve thought it over and I can’t deny Your arms feel like a nice, quiet place to die You feel like a nice, quiet place to die I’ll wait right here and let it all pass by
Search all you want but you’ll never see A place that’s always trouble free This is as good as it ever gets to be This right here, you and me
I’ve thought it over and I won’t lie Your arms feel like a nice, quiet place to die You feel like a nice, quiet place to die I’ll wait right here and watch it all pass by
A nice, quiet place to die A nice, quiet place to die A nice, quiet place to die Let it all pass on by
It’s only a string section, not an entire orchestra. But what sets this apart from anything that I’ve ever done before is that, in addition to writing the chord progression, the guitar and bass parts and the lyrics, I also wrote the string part. That’s a new one for me.
And I didn’t just write something on guitar and then transpose it for strings. Instead, I wrote it the way a classical composer would.
To do this, I had to draw on the part writing rules that we learned in music theory class in college, something that I thought I’d never actually use. It was a long time ago, so I feel sure that I broke some of those rules in various places but remembering the basics (no parallel 4ths or 5ths, etc) got me through it.
SomethingLike A Rainbow
Lost and alone and wandering Finding a true friend there, in the rain Hold fast, together Warmth in a lover’s arms Loving each other heals the pain
A soft and gentle light, to lead the way Something like a rainbow
So many things we were told we’d see Most of them never came to be But no one can explain the redeeming grace That shines from the light in your face
A soft and gentle light, it leads the way Something like a rainbow
And it shines into forever Walk in its light, into forever
So many things we were told we’d see Most of them never came to be Still, no one can explain the redeeming grace That shines when a smile is upon your face
A soft and gentle light, it leads the way Something like a rainbow Soft and gentle light, it leads the way Something like a rainbow
And its light goes into forever Ride the light into forever
Grief possesses no blueprints There is no schematic For how to remember Or to forget
While walking the gray path of All the scattered leaves and ash Of what was
There is no rhythm To which you might match your steps
No beat To keep time
There is only the labored, Slouching forward, Whenever one’s strength allows; Coming and going as it does, In sloppy, uneven, hot flashes
There is no wrong way to lament
There is no proper sequence For when to laugh, To cry or to sleep
There is no cutout pattern For your sack cloth
No clock chimes, Letting you know that it is now time To rend your garments, To rub dirt in your hair
Anyway, time itself is mourning, Right alongside you
Put your ear to the clock, Listen closely… You will hear it quietly sobbing
But time is only an illusion And being an illusion, It can only mean that…
Time… Is nothing more Than you
So, like you, time is Absolutely beside itself with sadness
All formalities have fallen by the wayside
It flops, impotently, like a fish One that miscalculated its angle, On the jump for a mosquito; It has now managed to strand itself, On a parcel of ground
No idea which way it should Violently spasm, That it might get back Into the good, wet stuff
Time grieves with you, Throttling too quickly In this
Grinding clumsily along In that
Fortunately, Since time is nothing… Nothing more than you… It is always the Perfect time to do Whatsoever your Stunned spirit Feels like doing
Sleep Or do not
Eat Or wait for a while
Wail Or be silent
Work Or linger in lethargic stupor
Laugh Or find joy in nothing
Do whatever is best Or worst
And the rest will wait
There is no hurry
For, in the end, There is nothing That we can do For the dead
having stepped briefly outside for the dogs to tend their needs, between pockets of rain, buckets of it, steadily dropping, now halted for a short while; a temporary ceasefire, however tenuous
everything damp the cows, they look like cardboard cutouts, propped up in the fields
an air of patience leans in, whispering to me “the world will wait for you. it will wait.”
it’s an enticing thought, though, steeped in bitter lies, it most certainly is
the world waits for no one
the world gives not a single, used damn for you
not for your upper respiratory infection not for your needing to heal, before you can move on and finish up all those projects
the world thinks nothing of burying your carcass in its garden
you’ll make good fertilizer for its flowers, it does care about those; far, far more than it does about you, at any rate
lots of useful minerals and nutrients in a decaying human body; should produce some prize petunias
but all this relaxed barometric pressure the gentle, lilting fog, the peaceful quiet, the slow, calm meandering of the dogs and these fake cows
today, it all conspires
enveloping me in pleasant, wistful fictions, treating me as its mushroom, kept in the dark of convalescence and fed the manure of untruth
back inside, now the humidifier is gurgling its gentle truths i dive into the recesses of its deep end swimming in the mists of vapor, hints of rosemary, clove, camphor and the other, colorful fish who lurk in its dark ocean
i take leisurely swims in the splintering, fingering streams of the internet and all its watery amusements it too, tells me wonderfully entertaining lies, everything i want to hear and more
but i know better… about the world and the possibility of it patiently waiting
i know how it will steamroll right over the slow, the weak, the poor, the infirm, the drowning;
those who are drowning in debt, drowning in heartbreak, drowning in their own lungs
the world is all too happy to step on their heads, with its heavy boots and its callous lack of caring
it cares not for your concerns of convenience
i know of the world, how it is how it always will be
i know of the world
i know that, at least for now, i will stay here, in this little, comfortable blindspot, a nook, a cranny which the world has somehow overlooked, somehow erroneously missed
the world be dammed
if you ask me, it has gotten its own way for far too long
This is my cover of the song “The Weight” by that excellent group known simply as The Band.
“It consisted of four Canadians and one American: Rick Danko (bass guitar, vocals, fiddle), Garth Hudson (keyboards, accordion, saxophone), Richard Manuel (keyboards, drums, vocals), Robbie Robertson (guitar, vocals), and Levon Helm (drums, vocals, mandolin, guitar).”
I’ve had a deep love of this song for as long as I can remember. It’s got a fun, upbeat vibe to the music but the lyrics (as the title suggests) are very heavy.
It’s a song about loneliness, disappointment and suffering. It’s about asking where you turn when all your best laid plans have fallen apart.
When I do a cover song, I usually try to reinvent it to some degree. I try to put something of my own mark on it. In this case, it didn’t feel right to completely reshape the song. There are really only two ways that I’ve wandered away from the original.
One is that I had to somehow fill up the empty space left by Garth’s piano playing. I chose to do that with harmony guitar parts, because guitar is my instrument and I gave them a simple and slightly somber quality, to accent the lyrics.
The other is that I shortened the chorus and used heavy effects on the vocal harmonies. I’m doing all the vocal, guitar and bass parts on this. The drums are by Stinky the Robot, my computer-based drummer, who is even more difficult to work with than a real drummer, if that’s even possible.
Gratitude
Special thanks to the following people for providing the evocative video footage that helps bring to light our social problem of the lost and disenfranchised. Homelessness and mental illness are entirely too prevalent and much more needs to be done.
We can’t be a healthy society unless we take care of our own and that means everyone, however unpleasant it might be to look into that chasm and think “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” We must do more… much more.
If you have the means to do so, please donate your money and your volunteer time to one or more of the many quality organizations that offer help to the homeless, the mentally challenged and to stray animals. Most of the people and animals on the street got there by bad luck and they deserve a second chance.
If you’ve watched more than a couple of my music videos, then you’ve probably already figured out that I’m not exactly the go-to guy for upbeat, happy, cheerful stuff. No, I tend to gravitate towards a gritty type of realism that often steers drunkenly over the white line, into the oncoming traffic of blatant nihilism.
But I do have my occasional moments of peace, love, joy, the ultimate beauty of life and the universe… you know, all that happy, sappy shit. This is one of them.
So, get it while it’s hot, because I don’t usually serve this particular, gourmet dish in my joint. My greasy spoon typically sells cheeseburgers and beer, with a side of kick in the groin.
From the album Flagship by Trent Boswell. Full album and individual songs are available for streaming and/or purchase, at iTunes, Amazon Music, Spotify and other music services.
Trent Boswell – guitar, vocals
Words and music by Trent Boswell
Lyrics
Home At Last
Butterfly squadron, airborne children Sweet love and flowers, rain from above Tadpole navies trade guns for babies There ain’t no death here, no lies, only love
I’m in the fields of forgiveness, To the left of the sea Towering castle awareness, Summoning me
Butterfly squadron, airborne children Sweet love and flowers, rain from above Tadpole navies trade guns for babies There ain’t no death here, no lies, only love
World is awoken; all are attending With apologies spoken, All wounds are now mending High in the sky, we can see What we’ve strived for… We’re finally free
I’m in the fields of forgiveness, To the left of the sea Towering castle awareness, Summoning me
Ocean spray wonderful Freedom to laugh We’re in the land now We’re home at last
Many, many thanks to the following, for the images in the video. You may or may not like the music but if you like the video, the credit for that is all theirs.
I truly appreciate what they’re doing because I wouldn’t be able to make these videos, without their help.
There are several tiers of support, each one with more benefits than the last, starting as low as $3 per month.
Many thanks to the following, for the images in the video. You may or may not like the music but if you like the video, the credit for that is all theirs.
I met tragedy yesterday On the south end, today He smiled at me Said “Walk this way” He took my hand, said to me “Welcome friend. You’ll be with me.”
Said “I’m pleased to know you.” Said “I’m pleased to do you.” Said “You may leave…” “You will return.” He said “You still smile, child…” “But you will learn.”
I am no hope***
I said “I want my freedom.” I said “I gotta be free.” So, I told that man… “Get the hell away from me.” I want my life I want my life I want my life Don’t need no tragedy
*** This is an unspoken lyric. It’s part of the original poem, included here for context.
Many are they Who have whispered lies Many are they Who have made me despise Many are the lies And many who have heard She knows that I could love her If not for fear of that word
You know that I’ll try Put a little sunlight in your eye You know that I’ll try Put a little shine in your smile And you know that You can come with me, anytime But you know that I have fear Of the fear and the lies
I climbed like a monkey, up in a tree Trying to find a piece of me Way up in the branches so high I found that I cannot fly… as of yet
But I’m looking for a way
I’m at fault for inciting the madness And sometimes I can’t stop the sadness But I’m learning to ride waves of joy Toward manhood moves a boy
Looking for a way
I got dizzy and fell like a lion Into the dust of Orion Those stars; the ones up in the sky; The one he made up in his mind, The one that’s still looking
You may think you’ve seen this one but you ain’t. The new, improved and at least333% strangerversion of “Perception” from the album Flagship by Trent Boswell.
Lyrics:
Perception
What’s a man supposed to do? It’s hard today just not to lose So, when I’m down and beaten blue I look around and think of you
Sink into my contemplation Answers come with concentration
And strong opinions, well I have mine And you may find me blind But I don’t mind because it’s true; I’ve never needed to see you
Walking ‘cross the field, I realize that nothing’s real No pain or joy
Out on the lawn the past is gone I simply can’t be wrong anymore
Was paid a visit, a strange man He said that Jesus could lend a hand Now many a man can’t see the road Or make a stand on his own
If God is Love, then Love is God And you agree without a nod
Author’s Note: This piece is brand new. This piece is ancient. It speaks of things which happen daily. It shares memories of the long, long ago. It is deeply rooted in yesterday. It is severed from everything except tomorrow.
No More
No more crawling, borrowed knees To beg or steal a parched penance Privilege of chewing Tiny, tinfoil excuses
Receipts, all signed Cuneiform zero There, in the register Where it speaks of the balance Which is long overdue A large and loud emptiness
The slaying of pragmatism And the prodigal son The wisest of investments Healthy, constant dividends Since there are no returns
Assets freely traded On the scales in the marketplace Sacrifices, invisible, smoking On strange altars of doubt
Multiplication of manna eaten in secret Loaves baked, foreign recipes Nets tossed into distant waters Plucking up fishes, filling the nets Pouring floods out of the wide mouth Fleeing the estate, belly of greater fish Absconding from duty Tariffs of masticating consummation
Cutting off the heads of what was, Peeling away, shedding foul-smelling skin, Pulling off all those silvery flakes of armor Toss carcasses in frying pan, Serve with herbs grown in new earth Feast, fructifying small kingdom And a table for one
No more buried talents All now upon display A day of rest is earned In the refusing of yesterday’s complacency Tossing out its tired labors
Cutting down the vines Which brought decades of wine Wine that choked those throats which drank In the seeking of blindness Attempting to drown out All hearing of familiar, droning complaints
A fatted calf not missed, From the cool, shaded hammock That swings peacefully in a calm, quiet Where the only shadow cast Is that of the grand, old oak tree Whose face is always welcome Who speaks only and ever Kindly of its kin Or not at all
Wait now, at the oasis, For the promised bride’s coming Who brings the cool water from the well, For a desert weary camel
All is soon to be right, For the steadfast resistance Against worldly temptations
Sovereignty steps out Dropping the broken, black irons Of miserable bondage Lead, flowing through the river veins Of miserly brothers Cruel rage of bad blood
New, mazel tov celebrations Of kaphar, divine grace Selah and hallelujah In a day of jubilee
The god of forgetfulness, Is ever gracious and joyful Drunk on the charms Of plentiful, good company
Regaled today, by delightful tales, Told by they who arrive on the morrow During a banquet, yet to bloom Banking on its promise Of them and their warm presence
A toast is drunk daily To what is seen Which is nothing For what is In the eyes Most of which Is good
A steward, in secret Stealing everything that was sacred Receives all, in due course New master’s blessings Of themselves, a fine reward
And spared a death, daily The stoning of harsh, marble law Seven generations Removed from the sight And all senses
Tools of old bone Hand me down worries Covet, instead, that wild courage Which rails against the unknown
Naked, cast out No starved, gulag wages Demanding the whole The lion’s share of nary A single thing
Punished sin of necromancy Crime of insisting upon the rubric Of a heritage of heresy Brooding there, in the long lines Where impatient fools bicker and stew Wrestling with the dogs over scraps
A hindsight, an insight A bird advances, eagerly Plopping itself into the hand
The exiling of perdition Raises up its secret children High above the floods Where the true blessings of heaven May kiss them upon their heads Sealing in immunity against sorrow
That these should never dwell In that place of woeful wandering Stone gardens of Golgotha Where is never and nothingness Only long, dusky shades Commiserating with the dead
Winding through the wild witchery, tripping headlong into tribal trance… follow the wise serpent into the netherworld.
Another bizarre, bombastic track from the electronic music album, Crossing the Rubicon.
The video is live on YouTube for all to enjoy but only patrons can download the audio track for this auditory initiation into the æther.
Tribal drums, layering slowly, steadily, methodically atop one another, just as the a snake winds itself into coils.
Haunting, aboriginal howls from the deep belly of the shamanic didgeridoo. Slip on into the prehistoric pool, the temperature of the primordial soup is just fine.
Patrons can access the .mp3 audio file of this track on Patreon.
You will easily spot some of the references to what’s going on right now and you’ll be tempted to stop thinking about it any deeper. But there’s far more in this than just what’s on the surface. This piece has no less five, separate meanings.
At the link below, you can listen to the recording. It’s an audio track of a poem that I set to music.
It starts very subtly but as it goes on, more and more layers of sound are building up in the background.
When you click the button, it gives you two options. If you just want to listen, click “view”. If you want to keep it, click “download”.
The words are posted below, in case you want to read over it. Feel free to share it with anyone you want.
Author’s Note: This piece is dedicated to anyone who is still awake and should not be, to anyone who is worried about what things are waiting, up ahead.
Nighttime
Trouble, in the nighttime, fell Upon too wakeful brow, Which ought to sleep
Coins cast in tainted well, Uncertainty of where and how, Enough to cause anyone to weep
Pitching gold piece of its own, Came an angel of repose and rest With curious question, whispered, quiet
“A myriad things, all unknown… How is it you’re certain… to fail the test? Without shred of doubt, that may deny it?”
Of course, no good answer was there, for this And searching, mind grew sore and tired Eyes heavy, in downward creep
The angel placed soft, loving kiss Upon empty head, thoughts all expired Drifting peaceful now, into the deep
Here’s a really neat project that I’m pretty excited about!
I asked some of my friends to make recordings of themselves reading my poems. Quite a few thought it was a great idea and were more than happy to contribute.
The link here is the .mp3 of the first one I’ve chosen to present to you. You can click on it and just listen or right-click and save, if you want to keep it. It’s free!
By the way, if you want to help out and support more cool stuff like this, see my Patreon page, Magus72.
I’ll be posting them here, one at a time. I’ve had a lot of fun putting this together and I hope you enjoy listening to them.
The main thing I wanted to achieve here is get a variety of people, reading the pieces… in the way that they hear them.
None of the readers were given any prompts about how to read. A few people preferred to have something assigned to them and so I picked for them. But in most cases, they chose their own pieces to read.
This first poem is called “none” and it’s from my book in the current.
Our guest reader is Xander and he did a great job with it.
I’m posting the text, as well. That way, you can follow along or read it first, then listen or just listen and find out where it takes you… your choice. Enjoy.
I think what this pandemic was lacking is a song, a tune that the people can hum. Therefore, to fill the current need, I have adapted an old favorite, with new (improved) lyrics.
I present to you, “Battle Against The Public”.
[sung to the tune of the famous song, Battle Hymn of the Republic]
Author’s Note: this piece is NOT a forecast of doom, not in any way.
That is incredibly important to note. Instead, it’s two things.
First, it’s a snapshot of things which have already happened, as well as my disappointment and anger about how the situation has been handled, thus far. It is one artist, responding to real world situations, through the medium of art. That should be easy enough to grasp.
Second, it is a warning NOT to behave as if nothing is wrong or different and NOT to behave as if the world is ending. Neither extreme view is correct. Something real and dangerous is here but need not be catastrophic.
I write poetry for a variety of reasons, one of which is what I refer to as a personal “exorcism“. It’s one of the ways that I personally get my thoughts together, for what needs to be done.
In writing out worst case scenarios, I get poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper, where they might be properly dealt with, in an adult manner.
That being said, the following is not at all a pretty picture. Fear is a constructive tool, when properly guided toward preparedness and prudence.
So, I encourage you to allow yourself just a few moments to wallow in the fear, as well. Then get busily back to the business of a productive life.
I read a post on Facebook about a man who, as a child, was regularly, severely beaten by his mother.
He said that watching Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood showed him that he didn’t deserve that cruelty and he said “Mr. Rogers saved my life”. I couldn’t seem to locate the post again but it inspired this piece.
Be kind to each other. When people will not allow you to be kind, then at least be BIG and just walk away.
There’s a huge difference between choosing to avoid arguments/fights and being a coward. People need to understand the difference.
Some people think that every minor confrontation is a threat to their wellbeing or even just their ego. They think that if they walk away, it equals weakness.
The real weakness is lacking the self-confidence to simplify go around it and ignore it. If backed into a corner or loved ones are threatened, then fight; to the death, if necessary.
But if someone is just mouthing off, you can choose to just ignore it. Rather than it saying that you’re too afraid to deal with it, it says that you’re too BIG to deal with it.
And you never know… your complete refusal to be rattled or fearful or angry or to be drawn into a fight, it might just have a profound effect on the person who is challenging you.
They may change, they may not, doesn’t matter. What matters is that YOU will change.
If perhaps you’re craving some escape, some vitamins of inspiration, to get you through the dull roar of viruses and technological hangups and fearful, dull talk of elections and recessions and limitless to do lists and the hundred things you want to step aside from, for just a few, delicious minutes…
You might enjoy dipping into the eccentric, electric pool of weirdly words that I now release. Images that speak through your eyes and feelings that peer into your ears, reassuring you that, no matter how strange today seems, it’s likely to only get stranger, my dears.
Doesn’t sound like reassurance to you? Then look further, deeper into the expanding woo of kaleidoscope and know, that something bitterly beautiful and magnificent always comes out of every bizarre, however far, at first, it went.
The only thing you can count on for certain is that everything changes and everything… including troubles… settles back into comfortable routine, given enough time for the cooking bubbles.
This is true, whether you struggle against the changes with every ounce of strength or relax, let current carry you, drifting along, entire length.
It all stirs up and then, peacefully settles… back… down… again… even if you do absolutely nothing about it. Try it, breathe it, if you care to doubt it.
So do the things you need to do, To take care of your own and for care of you But turn an ear and an eye for moments, few For a little something to help you through
After all, how can a mind possibly deal with all the chaos, real, of the modern world, if not properly armed, to defend itself? Protect the gray in your skull against the beast, with the malleable mania of poetry priest, and fend off some of the stupid doldrums that are pounding, drooling, at the door.
All good secret agents know, that if facing torture interrogation, they should distract themselves from pain with elation, singing and making up silly stories in their head. This keeps the mind from snapping, a thing that’s certainly worse than dead.
A bit of poetry and music, all that Orpheus ever used and he traversed the depths of hell, emerging unscathed, unbruised. Put some of that magick dust into your pocket and go, it’s only left to trust and know, that everything else is silly, when set beside.
The big bad world is known to cower and lay right down as if dead, when once you threaten it proper, with an unpredictable pipe bomb of poetry, cocked and painted onto its cocky head.
107 pages, all original works. Most of these, probably 70% of them have never been published anywhere before.
They were written over just a handful of days, in a maelstrom of creative inspiration, given by the Goddess Venus, to whom the book is dedicated.
The themes are varied, mostly centering around the way our worlds expand and contract, sometimes pleasantly, other times frighteningly, sometimes with plenty of heads up and often, with our pants down.
Writing it helped me cope with some of my own, more challenging changes. I sincerely hope that reading it helps you adjust to yours.
Use the link here to find it, it is still settling in to Amazon’s search system, not quite coming up there, just yet. But this link takes you straight to the banks of the strange river, where your world might just be stretched out of and back into shape.
I’m exceedingly pleased with it and very proud to say that soon, a few days, it will be available for purchase on Amazon.
If you become a supporter of my Patreon page, with the next week, you’ll get a free .pdf copy of the book, regardless of which support tier you choose.
Chaos Comes Apart is a brand new work, most of which has NOT already been presented here. There are a couple of pieces that are already here but not many.
However, I did end up needing to expand it a little, from its original length of 75 pages, up to over a hundred. It was something about the guidelines for the spine size, for printing. Mercury retro hangups, as I see it. But that just means that you get even more for your money.
So, I also included in the final version, several older pieces, most of which had never been published, a few that had. So, it keeps with the theme of establishing patterns… and breaking them.
I’m also quite happy to announce that I have stumbled into the inspiration for the next book, as well!
The newest book is called “one pass by” and the theme is the interactions of the Moon, with each of the other Planets, as She cycles through the zodiac, each month.
You don’t need to know anything about astrology in order to enjoy the pieces, they’re standalone works of poetry.
Each one spurs mental images , feelings and thoughts, without needing any training or understanding of the Planets, whatsoever.
That being said, if you do happen to know the basics of what the Planets represent to us, human type critters, you’ll be in on some of the jokes and insights, in the deeper layers of the pieces. It’s win/win, either way.
I present you now, one of the first pieces from the new series and I chose this one because I think, perhaps, you’ll find it amusing. It’s called “conjunct neptune”.
To whet your appetite for it, will explain that the Moon rules over feelings, emotions, the unconscious mind and how we go about resting, healing and nurturing, both ourselves and others.
Neptune is the God of the deep sea and rules everything to do with oceans. But He also rules illusions, delusions, intoxication, dreams and sleep. Knowing that, what you read next should make perfect sense.
Kevin Trent Boswell 