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
emptiness strode in and took the place of fullness
redirection and symbolism flailed like untrained children, beating each other with soft, half-balled-up fists; fists that were incapable of accurate aim
there was little violence, many tears
still, it was less comical and more sad
the end result of all of this is nothing more than emptiness
I am not there, nor are you, nor is anything, nor is anyone else
it is all full of nothingness now
and anyone who can look at this mess and say that there’s anything good about it
that’s someone who needs to have all their teeth knocked out of their mouth
the ice is on fire bumper car gridlock in the house of eternal glaring mirrors
roller derby queens in the mosh pit
dire, splintered rose of morning, flush from the recent triathlon, scoops tainted blood into the shoes of passersby, snagging their throats with treble hooks of laughter, inappropriate sympathies, and an unreasonable sense of doubtful kinship
chuffed to be chaffed, lampooned, stranded, laid bare, out on the hard, white, diamond beach
all fat and blubbering; every bit as distressed as a snow covered bear trap, whistling a lullaby
the panting team of dogs, recovering from their labors at the front end of the long sled, lined with the tusks of sea lions, the hides of wolves and polar bears, full of provision pouches, stuffed with the fat of seals, the jerked meat of horses and sheep, the oil of whale fat, lamps with tinder, flint and steel, maps and spyglass
come what may, take all comers, oh come, all ye entirely too faithful in thy selves and thy surety
when the steps to the kingdom are many, and fraught with the myriad challenges of the pale rider
footfalls in the tundra are rarely heard farther than a few links
panicked and labored breaths go not much more than a perch
hysterical screams, pleas for help, these fall under the brutal gales of blustery winter, after not more than a chain’s length
and, hope, that frail desert flower, it seizes up in the fierce cold, after but one or two barleycorns
the unhinged advice of prairie-mad soothsayers, tolling on, cracked bells, silly, cocky and cockeyed songs of ignoring advisory cautions
repentance, penance, cold forgiveness,
touched in the head, white-bearded archons, flat on their backs and somehow flush with the skyline
gossamer wisdoms, stitched singly, haphazardly, threaded with baby’s breath and prideful schemes of humanity, pining after such translucent and diaphanous tales as freedom and solidarity
thimbleful of knowledge, bottomless well of thirst
finding servitude at the feet of the hard, white, glass god
coarse altars of lead, chalcedony, hematite, heliotrope, and smoky quartz
the spilled inner workings of snow dusted pigeons, drizzled over wreaths of holly, mistletoe, and amaranth
peculiar characters, etched into collar bones
sequences of numerals, names, and pictographic metaphors of violent inundation
it is sometimes possible to pilot oneself spritely through the tiny cracks in the walls of elemental fortresses
although, it is necessary to be infinitesimally small
slight enough to seep in through the inconspicuous spaces between nucleus, proton, and electron
the guards there demand steep tributes of outlandish bribery
otherwise, they will allow a foreigner to pass, unabated
most would-be breakers of the firm law of covalent bonds fail to remember the signs, and passwords,
they perish in surprise, taking the slow slide down the fireman’s icicle pole, expiring on tempered lengths of bastard steel
tumbling down, all Raggedy Ann, on the intolerant, vengeful Nordic coastline of Hagalaz and Isa, Hail and Ice, the penalties of cruel Thuriaz
blisters are cells of memory, connective synapses of recollection, the mysteries of how horses and fresh lambs drop, all nimble and precocious, right from their mothers wombs
this, while the purview of warriors, kings and commoners, despots and derelicts is a nearly hobbled state of tardy incapacitation
hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons, little more than strips of bark and thick switches and kindling
captured, helpless, in thatched barracks of straw, bundles of linen, and distracted into oblivion by sparkling colors
lower beasts, nearly ready for the long journey at the first hour and breath
the armies of men, stumbling along immense assembly lines of careful speculation, as with the construction of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms
dashing to and fro, for a few handfuls of fitful days, and then, flopping down, all useless and dead, onto the ivory floor of cathedral, lapsing into comatose stupidity, before the misty-eyed gentry, all aghast and agape in their cemetery processions
garlands and banners, horns, and other things, all about as useful and as sensible as fistfuls of frozen rain, hurled at bloodshot eyes, in a farcical effort to turn back the sun
casualties of winter casual business, and other synonyms for meshuggeneh
there is nothing here, except razor and concussion
there was little else, before
there will be so very much more, after all the pages in this calendar finish collapsing, and the scorpion chicks hatch in the spring
Medusa’s brood, arising from pockets beneath the deep sea
haloed gypsy birds dance ridiculous jigs of rain summoning
the rain, overzealous, violently stabs the messenger, plucks out the beans of its collaborators and benefactors
every catapult needs a good story to tell at parties
it breaks the stalemate, gets strangers to drop their cards below line of sight; defenses, all poesy fall down in the fireplace ready for the singeing, jousting steer of the brutal, searing poker, and throttled by the iron callousness of the black bands of weighty tongs
each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat flutters briskly through the epistemic landscape, with great and needless fanfare; cones of pine, juniper, and spruce, arriving, on schedule, in crisp, popcorn condition, and announcing their candidacy to throngs of disinterested piles of wanton ash and charred corpses
even if the pellucid cloak of the frigid undertaker was not already draped unceremoniously over the frozen casket,
the bleached fangs of a ravenous, predatory spirit of long forgotten murder is already snapped halfway through the femur
rigor makes it silent house call and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready, or prepared just right
and it just so happens that… all the tea fell into the fishing hole, beside that steep ravine, about three furlongs back
no one is going back to retrieve it
in point of fact, no one is going back
the infamous baby blues of the orthodox reaper’s gaze are nothing but fishwife tales, windblown, fanciful stories for the antsy sprats
no, only the empty chasms of endless black sockets are what comes to collect
it is pittance of a sacrifice of time a brief stop off, the breadth of a wink and a nod
the somber, noiseless driver barely slows the funereal sleigh, little more than a knot or two
just long enough to drop off a carcass to the butcher at central weigh station at the junction of nowhere and anywhere
a nameless parcel drop point in a never ending whiteout of dusty white sepulchers of bleached curtain stillness naught, added, heaped upon still more naught
waiting endlessly at the barred gateway above Davy Jones’s Locker, that impenetrable doorway, never to open, frozen fast by an ancient curse, cast by a race of creatures who no longer dwell in these parts, and hence, it cannot be undone or broken
there is only stillness
there is only the prone slumber of waiting for the cessation of that which ceaseth not
beneath the pallor of this unsympathizing row of colorless manacles, fastened to illusory, two-dimensional jailhouse walls, wandering, listless, between the vibrant universes of the living and the stale, crumbling patterns of the unknown dead
there is the sled captain, who stands high, at the whip, and then, there are the dogs
there is the eternal fisherman, and there is a lifeless stringer of salmon flavored icicle pops, trailing in the terminal waters, behind Charon’s skiff
in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland
and, any trace of once beautiful mystery, now stripped away
Late last year, I moved to Portland, Oregon. It’s a wonderfully weird place. The locals actually say, “Keep Portland weird.” There’s a large mural of that saying, somewhere in the city. Everything about this place is quirky, eccentric, and hence, I should fit in here, just fine.
I also started a new job. I’m working in the mental health field. No, I’m not a doctor, therapist, and definitely not a psychiatrist. I just work for a company that trains us to assist people who have one or more mental health diagnoses, addiction problems, or who have lived on the streets, but are now in reliable housing, provided by the state. It’s a good gig. I get paid well, to help the people who really need help the most.
On Friday night, it started snowing, the temperatures were bottoming out as low as 18°F. That’s well below freezing, and it doesn’t even account for the windchill factor.
The other, less positive side of Portland, is that the homelessness crisis here is really bad. It’s almost impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least one car, RV, tent, or lean-to type shelter that someone is using to live in.
I first discovered this song from the band Junip. When I realized that it’s a cover of Bruce Springsteen, I found the original, and loved it, too.
This morning, it’s so cold outside, that neither my dog nor myself want to go outside any longer than is absolutely necessary. But, there are people out there, living in tents and sleeping bags.
I woke up to this song playing, I had left my phone on shuffle all night to help me sleep. I listened to it, looked at the weather, then became obsessed.
I’d never played this song before, but I learned it, then I recorded all the guitar and bass parts, and sang the vocal, and recorded it, and mixed it. Basically my whole Sunday went into this.
I plan to make a video for it, but I wanted to get this out, because I worked on it nonstop all day.
The Ghost of Tom Joad
Men walkin’ ‘long the railroad tracks Goin’ someplace there’s no goin’ back Highway patrol choppers Comin’ up over the ridge Hot soup on a campfire under the bridge
Shelter line stretchin’ ’round the corner Welcome to the new world order Families sleepin’ in their cars in the Southwest, No home no job no peace no rest
The highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Searchin’ for the ghost of Tom Joad
He pulls a prayer book out of his sleeping bag Preacher lights up a butt and takes a drag Waitin’ for when the last shall be first, and The first shall be last In a cardboard box ‘neath the underpass
Got a oneway ticket to the promised land You got a hole in your belly and gun in your hand Sleeping on a pillow of solid rock Bathin’ in the city aqueduct
The highway is alive tonight Where it’s headed everybody knows I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light Waitin’ on the ghost of Tom Joad
Now Tom said, “Mom, wherever there’s a cop beatin’ a guy “The Ghost Of Tom Joad” lyrics Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries Where there’s a fight ‘gainst the blood and Hatred in the air Look for me Mom I’ll be there
“Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ For a place to stand Or decent job or a helpin’ hand Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free Look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me.”
Well the highway is alive tonight But nobody’s kiddin’ nobody About where it goes I’m sittin’ down here in the campfire light With the ghost of old Tom Joad
discount buggers, sitting too short in the saddle to catch any light
but, far too tall to be dead things, since dead things don’t sit tall in saddles
not quite full-fledged maniacs, lacking in the forthright candor of more honest lunatics
mockeries of invisible garbage
pieces you can’t quite sort from all the other forgeries
ii.
the easiest lie to tell is always the one that was undisputed, when you told it to yourself
iii.
broken pieces of education, peppered liberally over a plate of wishful thinking
half-truths, fractions of wisdom
chicken scratch cheat sheets in secret breast pockets
decency spent far too many wasted evenings trying to shape a pile of vomit into a snow angel
but, the toothpaste is already out of the inner tube
besides, the inner tubes are all useless now;
the tires were all stolen months ago
there is no sculpting dour secular emptiness into glorious, golden cathedrals
one does not simply turn recidivistic destroyers into genius inventor candy makers, acrobatic violinist movie stars, or unicorn blacksmith ballerinas
thespians of the eternal grift, they have no thirst or pallet for love stories, only tragedy and horror
it is exceedingly difficult to shape small piles of deformed turd nuggets into the colossus
the thing is… if you put a hat over a turd… no one sees a turd; they just see a hat
and, god help the poor bastard who tries to put it on
sprinkle a big pile of rose petals right over top of the whole thing, and you won’t even smell it
but it’s still there
iv.
it’s really not important, what I’m going on about
probably better if you just take a nap through the rest of this
v.
if the impressive would stop trying to elevate the unimpressive then, they’d be more impressive
if they’d stop trying to raise the dead, it would be very impressed, indeed
if the unimpressive would stop trying to decimate the impressive, they’d already be half the way towards making a positive impression
but, none of this is due to change
vi.
seven in the side pocket? my ass
there are four in this room who can make that shot, and you ain’t one of ’em
like I said, it really doesn’t matter what I am babbling about
go back to sleep
or better yet…
there’s a small slip of paper, rolled up around a dull pencil; it’s not a number two pencil, but rather, one of those no-name brands
it’s in the top right drawer of that bureau over there
it’s held in place on the pencil by a rubber band
it’s underneath a pile of old letters and yellowing catalogs
go open the desk drawer, remove the stacks of papers, and pick up the pencil
remove the rubber band, unroll the little slip of paper from off of the pencil, and unfold it
what’s it say?
that’s right, it says,
“Fuck you.”
no, that’s okay, you can keep it; it’s yours
take it with you, and share it with the rest of your kin,
all the other black holes
the liars, fakers, pretenders, predators, thieves, naggers, reality-twisters, dream-stealers, complainers and haters, would-be conquerers of insignificant kingdoms
fighting razor tooth fang nail claw over the right to wear a crown made out of rusty wire coat hangers
or, a tiara crafted from zip ties, and tinsel from last year’s Christmas tree
two-legged, toothless dogs,
gumming each other to death
over rotten meat
the unintelligent, masquerading as geniuses
half-geniuses and quarter-geniuses, unintelligently masquerading as… well, who really cares?
the impolite, leaning on the good manners of those who are too kind to tell you the hot, vibrant, fundamental truth
which is, that you are fundamentally without truth, or heat, or vibrance
I, on the other hand, have misplaced all of my politesse, and have no qualms about sharing these things with you
I don’t recall which drawer I left my good manners in, or what I wrapped around them
but, I can tell you, with great certainty, that I’ve had more than my fill of the full measure of you
I can tell you what you can go get wrapped around
vii.
the steely, red-hot poker of murder in your eyes is only a compliment to me
I would be perturbed, ashamed, if you approved of me
I have no love for your kind
the secret whisperers, rumor starters, terminally restless luddites who shun such newfangled, diabolical technologies as empathy and dedication to things other than self
nonconsensual emotional sadists, pullers of wings from houseflies, slayers of fierce dragons, or rather harmless dragonflies
you are all that is ugly in a world that was already teeming with ugliness
busybody breakers of other people’s toys, ensnarers of time, ambuscaders, ambushers of vitality
there isn’t a pencil on the whole planet that’s dull enough to write your little shit story
there aren’t enough rubber bands, twist ties, handcuffs, thumb cuffs, shoestrings, or nets on Earth to bind you
there aren’t enough iron chains, piano strings, or Mardi Gras beads made out of concertina razor wire to wrap around your neck and throttle you with
nor is there a steamer trunk heavy enough and sturdy enough to fit you into, weight it down with all the barbells in the gym, wrap the whole thing in chains, and toss it off the backside of the ferry, just like Houdini, except, hopefully less skilled at the art of escape
you, who have such a knack for finding beautiful things, and shattering them or, at least, doing your damndest to try
you will find no welcome here
as if you thought any more of yourself, honestly
which of course, you would never be
viii.
news anchor spin games
rewriting history playing both the victim and the hero
convince us, once again, explain to us, what a paragon of virtue you are
I’ll wait.
you are the weeds, choking out beautiful flowers, because you envy them
but, you wouldn’t be happy being a rose
not even if all the work of being a rose was done for you
the moment you actually became a rose, you would instantly become jealous of the orchids
you’d swear that you were being cheated by all those selfish petunias
you’d be stabbing marigolds in the back, shanking them with a bundle of thorns you made in your unlocked prison cell
stealing their soil and their sunlight, telling all the dandelions, honeysuckles, and carnations what terrible, awful creatures the petunias and orchids are
and, all the joy of being a rose would perish
somewhere in the dark, shaded corner of a dry bed of dust where nothing ever grows
once, the roads all lay wide open before us, turning in hundreds of different directions, taking people on magical journeys to numberless destinations, along magnificent trails of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always a few dead ends, here and there, but one could always turn around
you could backtrack, without experiencing too much anxiety over lost time
you’d happen upon interesting choices, unmarked intersections, where there was no signage to help you navigate your way
it was all up to you
choose your own adventure, twist-a-plot, flip a coin, “eeny, meanie, miney, moe; my mother told me this way… and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path, with guesses, hopes, and fears, but no real way of knowing what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death but, you might find treasure, fame, or perhaps, unravel a mystery
“once there was a way to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now, the roads have all narrowed
many of them, if not most, are blocked off ||||| completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees, barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without wrecking your vehicle
all the roads, even the dirt ones, are littered with toll booths, every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money” extortions of gangsters looks like chump change in comparison; third-graders, threatening to beat you up for your milk money
half the available highways have fallen too far into disrepair; you can’t walk down them, for fear of stepping in a hole, breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads, those still open and drivable, the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare congested with vehicles, all belching exhaust, and piloted by madmen, caught up in the throes of full blown road rage
too many cars, even though the travelers on all of these roads already know…
there’s nothing at the end of any of these highways; nothing they’d actually want, anyway
the obsession is no longer “where are we going?”
it’s now “how long can we keep driving, before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about how long it will take us to get there, because we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves in the experience of the drive, desperately trying to forget why we ever got into the vehicle in the first place
we no longer ask ourselves why we even have a vehicle
such questions would only cause us to think about what is at the end of these endless roundabouts, and dirt paths, running through fruitless orchards, as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete conveyor belts, mindlessly herding us through the turnstiles and metal guide-rails of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important? that we had to build these heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these crazy people, rudely plowing ahead in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly, if whatever it was…
isn’t even there, anymore…
then, why the hell are we still out here?
why are we still on these
tacky footpaths, made of gauche steppingstones, leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds where five out of every ten tankers are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over, by the police
only one out of every ten vessels on our peculiar, asphalt rivers is in good working condition, and sailing on nicely
and, even that one still lacks any sense of where it’s headed
what fever is this, that overtakes us, compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken freeways of the damned
infinite trails of tamed wilderness that lead to absolutely nowhere
a crisp vertigo has bitch-slapped me right out of my seat, and taken my place at the table
how is it that one can be gun-shy and trigger-happy, at the same time?
these lesser mysteries fall pale and sickly, into the dim, sour heat of winter’s chamberpot
fasten a few severed limbs to your Christmas wreath, and sing that classic advertising jingle once more; it does so warm the hearts of the masses
put a few coppers into the wooden collection box to help the neighborhood children raise enough funds to burn down the old cathedral, and replace it with a house of mirrors
it’s a good cause
or, at least, it’s one that they’ll never write songs about, and hence, we’ll never have to listen to them singing
you scrunch up your brow and wonder, with a new brand of vexation, what is this peculiar dip you’ve been invited to plunge your nacho poker chips into?
it is gray with fear, it cringes and recoils when you move towards it
and, what’s more, it reeks of both vinegar and victory
a blind man sidles up next to you and tugs at your coat sleeve, saying “I’ve seen this movie. Trust me, you won’t like it, either.”
the cat has dragged home, and ceremonially draped, a hippopotamus across your threshold
it is more than a little incensed that you show no appreciation for its generosity
fickle creatures, all of us
more inscrutable nightmares, injected straight into the jugular
night wipes the sweat from its brow, takes another shot of whiskey, and motions disapprovingly toward the calendar on the wall
the constable slurs an order to the lieutenant on duty, who promptly douses the wall with gasoline, and sets the calendar ablaze
before exiting, he salutes, and cheerfully says, “No worries, sir. We’ll have a new one nailed up in time for the New Year’s festivities.”
all the stops have been ripped out from the church organ
now, it will do little more than blow bubbles, and coo sinister, atonal choruses of “Hail to the Chief,” “Ring Around the Rosie,” and “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”
“Ashes, ashes…”
we are always falling down
it has been said that there are worse things than you
still, it is truly impossible to know, and difficult to imagine, where such monsters could possibly exist
outside the building where i work, the wind whips and wails
it raises holy hell in a way that you just wouldn’t believe, not unless you heard it for yourself
it moans and cries, bawls, screeches, and shrieks, as if this was the set of an old, black and white movie
i shit you not, it got even louder, louder than it’s been in hours, just as i typed those last few lines
it’s as if the bad director of this old, 1940s horror film (or maybe it’s film noir) was really hamming it up, failing to understand the intrinsic value of restraint and moderation; not realizing that less is often more
if you’re caught out in it, in all that wind, it slices straight through you, like a gangster’s switchblade
aside from the wind, it’s so oddly quiet, here, on the inside
that’s why the wind is so obvious, there’s nothing to compete with it
there’s only the sound of the heater, and occasional fragments of conversation
but, that wind is so strong and so ridiculously loud because it’s coming right in off the train tracks, up a smooth hill with nothing on it, and then, it smashes up against the corner of this building
and that’s where i sit, right near that corner
this wind, it produces the caterwauling music of lonely banshees, raging quietly o’er the moors, weeping for lost loves, ready to punish anyone for their unconquerable sadness
i sit here and read my book of dark, lonely poetry
i know the frustration of this poet, i understand why he settled for booze and prostitutes, why he gave up on the idea of love, altogether
i understand it, but i don’t drink, and the women i chased, they didn’t charge for their madness
they just scooped it out from five-gallon buckets, the way shark fishermen deal out chum
they served their love on platters made of quicksilver, adorned with rubies, emeralds, bits of gravel, and chunks of broken glass
the whole soupy mess just floated through their veins, and dripped out from between their legs, with that cosmic wine of ether and arsenic on their breath
it slapped you in the face, like that cold, december wind, coming in off the train tracks
i hear that mournful banshee wind and i know, that i too will always be alone
not because i wasn’t good enough
but, because everyone these days is just too broken to know how to love anyone
or to love themselves
instead, it’s an unending parade of impossible tasks
herculean shit-tests, and promethean tortures for imagined wrongdoings
it’s always, “if you really loved me…
then, you’d endure this bit of bullshit
and this one
and, a thousand more just like them.
and, you’d thank me for the privilege.”
it never stops, the goddamned shit-testing
it just never stops coming
it’s just like that goddamn wind outside
always wailing
only, more full of tragedy
more imbued with a primal rage
and, full of an over-the-top loneliness
the type of effluvial, melodramatic sadness that pumps straight out of old black and white movies, dripping bombastic sentimentality all over the celluloid
i would step outside, shake my fists at the sky, and yell, “stella!”
but, nobody’d hear it
and, they wouldn’t get the joke, even if they did
people these days, they don’t know shit about streetcars, or any kind of desire that isn’t a fleeting whim
their desires are all easily forgotten beneath the next, pointless distraction
they wouldn’t know a maltese falcon, if it fell on their heads
they can’t sit still for classic films they can’t sit still in a dark theater they can’t take the wailing cold of the cutting wind
and, they certainly can’t stand to be alone
the wind whips, stinging like a shapeless jellyfish, zapping you with a high voltage charge, like a downed power line
Tousle the soggy noodle Stir it in the pot It’s no longer stiff and sharp; More inclined to rot
It’s decidedly well-seasoned; Overly so, perhaps More than oregano, salt and pepper; Too many spices, in fistful slaps
Dusty, rotten crumbs, from kitchen floor Grease, tracked in from the streets As well as lint, and various perversions That flaked off bedroom sheets
Along with the turmeric, garlic, and basil, There’s a reduction of sweat and tears The pot overflows with olive oil, And existential fears
The noodle once stood proud and tall, Looking sharp, in a new cardboard box Advertising logos, and bright colors, Like a shiny, gold brick in Fort Knox
Now, it’s soft, it’s overcooked, Full of inconsistent flavors And, the intense heat of the kitchen Hasn’t done it any real favors
The noodle is tired and sickly now, You’ll likely find it tasteless It’s slathered in clashing sauces The ingredient choices, baseless
Still, the noodle is all that is left, And one must attempt to preserve it It’s the only meal or means there is, Whether or not you deserve it
The pot, too, has been banged about; It’s hardly fit for duty It’s been kicked more than a martial artist In the head, and in the booty
It’s scratched, and chipped, soiled and bent, The handle held in place by hope Too look at all the permanent stains, You’d think it was allergic to soap
But this, too, is necessary to keep One can’t simply throw it away Without this beat up utensil, Where would the noodle stay?
This kitchen debacle is a catastrophe Of lowbrow, modern cuisine But, a noodle in a pot is all we’ve got And, I know that you know what I mean
in desiring ourselves, we desire to fancy ourselves as creations of god’s divine light it is true, we are first; shattered and broken vessels of sound, which could not hold light
dance with us, come come, and be joyful be mirthful, be drunken come, and forget we are the new wine the skins, having bursted the host could not drink and, did sorely lament
let us throw shadows in every direction join us in the song which shall never be heard the cheerless dirge of uncelebrated things a melody of madness, fallen short of the word
for, nothing is anything if anything is nothing and, what is our reward if we have not control? so, let us pretend that we are the light, not the darkness which shall never be whole
telling all those who would stop to listen how they, and not we, fell into disrepair how they, and not us, are the lost, lonely devils whose deeds caused the light to weep in despair
let us join in agreement and be not divided details of narrative, we shall conceive and, dividing all things, we fall into slumber allowing ourselves a story, to believe
Most stories don’t have happy endings The brutal truth is that most do not For each hero who makes it home, In unknown ditches, a hundred more rot
For every song about some brave champion, There are endless graves without any bones For there was no body which they could bury Only lost names engraved on stones
We must admit if we’re honest about it, Eventually, Death claims them all Those who we celebrate after a battle And those who on the battlefield fall
Those who seem to be safe back at home Are also short candles in a night so late None escape the long-armed grasp, Of those pitiless stranglers, time and fate
Something in the Air – an album of 10 original songs from Trent Boswell, available on June 8th, 2022 at most major music streaming services like Amazon Music, Spotify, iTunes, etc.
Published Works
The poetry and music of Kevin Trent Boswell
Support This Work on Patreon
Magus72 on Patreon – the music, poetry, and madness of Kevin Trent Boswell
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 see the blood that spills in the streets Can practically smell the gunpowder air Tasting the ashes, bitter on my tongue I hear the explosions, but I am not there
I cannot claim to fathom their fear Or say that I know the depth of their dread I’ve not had to bear the loss of loved ones Nor have I the need to step over the dead
I live far away from the noise of the horror I close my eyes with no fear of sleeping No aid raid sirens awaken me rudely I read in peace, tea silently steeping
Pictures and articles pour in daily Videos making me a bit more aware I know it’s happening; I know that it’s real But the sadness I feel does not compare
I hear children crying, and nothing stops it I see the confusion and pain in their eyes I smell the smoke and festering wounds But the foulest odor is the stench of lies
A well-heeled madman’s misinformation Distorted guile drips from his tongue Slanderous justifications for the slaughter Of unknown thousands, old and young
But my food is hot; my belly is full I don’t hide underground or need to run There are no tanks parked out on my lawn My hands are empty; they hold no gun
I don’t have a gas mask close at all times My roads are clear, my home is intact The power to stop the storm is not mine It rages on, and the sky is blacked
I cannot order the attack to halt And to send in support is not my decision I don’t determine the fate of anyone else I need not defend my political vision
No sons or daughters go off to fight Because of anything that I say or do But war will not cease of its own accord No moving of money makes it less true
I can say kind things and show my support The only thing worse is not even to care The words I say, meaningless, useless It’s easy for me, for I am not there
If I believed it, I’d say, “Wait. Do nothing; Or else he may set the whole world afire.” I could say I believe to hold back is better But were I to say it, I would be a liar
Powerless, unable to stop a mass murder Intervention may mean the death of us all So, we answer the cry for help by saying, “We pray for you and hope you don’t fall.”
To cover our fears of atomic destruction Supportive words hang on digital display Perhaps if we allow the bully his toy He’ll go no further after getting his way
If only it were true that a taste of victory Made conquerors quit; one land controlled The wanton wishes of children who know Nothing of madmen, bloodthirsty, bold
I cannot assist in their hour of darkness Or insist that others answer the pleading My heart hurts for those brave defenders But my pain is painless; I am not bleeding
I cannot say “Fight,” nor can I say “Wait.” It’s not my problem or burden to bear After all, it’s easy to speak in abstractions It’s easy for me because I am not there
good morning, all you beautiful people you lovely, angelic folks i call friend i want you to know that i’m thinking of you though fiery days, together, do blend
whirling quick, down the drain of time not seeing your faces, hearing your voices distance and schedules demand this of us circumstance offering no other choices
i want to take this brief opportunity to say that you still mean a great deal to me i’d rather that we were conversing, laughing than where and how we happen to be
more often now, do i have these thoughts since all appears to be coming apart the wretched state of things all around us… i think of you, how i miss your heart
each moment is truly a blessing, unique neither taken for granted nor guaranteed i’d pray for you to have happiness, joy if i thought it helpful to request or plead
but alas, our time on the big, blue marble ephemeral, flickering, fleeting, concise disappears quickly, precious little warning like a glass of sunsets, smiles and ice
tumbler, carelessly knocked from our hands by a stupid stranger, passing by in a roar an ignorant ogre with a love of wealth a disdain of beauty and a love for war
beastly creatures, not one, but many loving too much, to climb and to fall punching holes in our collective boat though surely it sinks and dooms us all
the cup of this world, spills over with promise wonders of nature, so much opportunity carelessly ruined by the madness of kings who with stolen gold, kill with impunity
we, being lovers of kindness and good seeing their greed, the destruction it brings it hurts our hearts, we sigh and conclude “i guess that we just can’t have nice things”
as we watch them ripping it all into pieces everything beautiful, too soon to die i want you to know how much i love you i’d hate if the chance were to slip idly by
i want to tell you that you’re all in my heart and in my thoughts, your memories glow i’d not forgive myself if i wasted the opportunity to let each of you know
just over the horizon, a banshee wails as we near the welkin, do smile, once more i’ll be thinking of you, as we take that step through the long, strange and endless door
I never quite fit in Never fit neatly enough Into any of the boxes
Despite being a straight, white male Somehow, I always still manage To be the different one In every crowd
I believe in science But I’m also an occultist
I’m entirely too rational and skeptical For a great many in the occult community
I hold disdain for those who think that White light is the solution for every problem, That all things are possible through magick And that crystals, sage and essential oils Will cure absolutely anything and everything
I’m what is known as a gray magician, Equally comfortable with Angels and demons Blessings and curses
But I’ve always been A little too “light and goodness” for some And a little too “dark and scary” for others
My acceptance of atheists, As well as agnostics and Satanists Gets me odd looks from the Holier-than-thou clubs
And my complete lack of Any bitter hatred of Christianity Makes the Left Hand Path people Somewhat suspicious of me
But the fact that I believe Spells can cause change And that it’s possible to Communicate with unseen entities
This gets me automatically pigeonholed By anyone in the scientific community As either a lunatic or a charlatan Or both
I’m too Ceremonial for the Witchcraft crowd, Too witchy for the Hoodoo crowd, Too Hoodoo for the Ceremonial crowd And so on and so forth, ad-infinitum, ad-nauseam
I have kinks that get me labeled As a pervert, by many
But I usually found that I was something of a disappointment To a lot of the kinky people I met Because I wasn’t a submissive male Or because I wasn’t bisexual Or because I wasn’t whatever else They were hoping that I would have been
Of course, they’re always happy that I am Open and accepting and loving Of all orientations, gender-identification, etc But I’m still a straight, white male Which is, to many of them, Still sort of boring, sort of a letdown And I get that, I really do It’s OK, I’m not offended by it
I play chess and I listen to classical music I both listen to and play jazz So, I’m a bit too “uppity” For many rock-and-rollers
But I’m only a decent chess player And a mediocre jazz guitarist So, I don’t get to sit with the really cool kids At any of those tables
I also listen to punk, speed metal, Gangster rap, blues, rock, pop As well as dozens of other genres And somehow, it’s still a surprise When someone else likes the same bands as me I’ve never really figured that part out, Seems like there’d be more commonality But there you have it
I write poetry and hell… Everyone hates that
But even among the poets, I don’t stick with any one, single genre So, none of them really gets me, either
When I branch out into things like horror poetry, That freaks a lot of people way the hell out
“What the fuck is wrong with that guy?!”
Sure, they love Stephen King They don’t bat an eye at The Walking Dead Or movies like Hellraiser or Saw But I write one little, horror poem About cannibalism and suddenly I’mweird
OK, so it was more than just one
I play guitar, sing and write songs But my style is all over the map So it’s just too this or that for Almost everyone
I was even told as much, by a friend, A guy who had helped a pop artist, A one-hit-wonder, to get a gold record Yeah, I was close friends with a record producer
It didn’t help me one bit
He said “You’re a very good singer And you’re a good guitarist but…”
“People want catchy songs”
“And they want to know Exactly what they’re going to hear When they come to a show. You are all over the place. I had no idea what you’d play next. Pick one style and stick with it.”
“You can be a genius, later.”
That wasn’t good enough for me I always wanted to do all of it
I wanted to do all of it, now
I’d play rock, blues, folk, funk, metal, Country, pop, weird, avant-garde stuff And psychedelia
However, most people seem to be more Chocolate or vanilla or strawberry But not all of the above
So, somewhere along the way, I’d lose the crowd because I played a song That was just too… something For their tastes
I don’t play or follow sports So, there went any conversation With three-fourths of the Male population, right there
I’m accepting of all religions But I don’t belong to any So, I don’t have any of the neat, lapel buttons To get me into those meetings
I hate bullies So, I never get invited to the hate crimes Instead, I’m the idiot who will Stand with the guy who is outnumbered, Just because he’s outnumbered
But I think everyone is fair game When it comes to rude jokes Especially me Because, if you can’t laugh at me Then, who the hell can you laugh at?
But I sort of suck at political correctness So, I piss off most of the woke crowd
It’s OK, the feeling is mutual
I don’t get into cosplay or anime I’m not a Star Trek guy, though I like the show I don’t collect or read comics or manga I don’t keep up with most television
I advocate healthy eating but I’m not vegan
I can dance but don’t really like to I can cook but don’t really like to I can small talk but don’t really like to
I only comment on politics When it looks like my country Is about to shift into fascism; I’ve talked way too much about politics In the last four years
I’m no fan of hatred So, I don’t get to sit with any of Those guys in the white sheets Or the black boots, bald heads and suspenders
But I’m a little too strange of a white guy For most minorities to feel Totally at ease around me
It’s probably safer to have “Normal” white friends And I actually get that; I don’t take any offense to it
I’m not fluent in any other languages, Despite having taken both French and Spanish So, I don’t get to play interpreter for anyone
I think the climate crisis is way more severe Than nine out of ten people do Want to clear out a room fast? Bring that up and watch them all scurry
I’m not a cat person So, that rules out about three-fourths Of the female population, right there
But I can always talk about dogs With other dog lovers And there’s a saving grace, for certain
I’m into martial arts and that’s too violent For many people But I’m not a black belt in anything I studied So, I’m not important enough to listen to In those groups And even the style I’m most into, Jeet Kune Do, is controversial, Because it’s extremely eclectic And it thumbs its nose at any type of Tradition, purely for the sake of tradition So, that pisses off a lot of people Who practice traditional styles
I’m not a Right-Wing nut job but I support The second amendment and I own guns So, I just ostracized myself from Both the Right and the Left, Right there
I don’t surf or skate or snow ski I’m not a connoisseur of fine wines Or fine cuisine I don’t read anything on best-seller book lists
I’ve always been either Lower class or lower, middle class So, I can’t get into any of the swank affairs
But I’m a bit too odd to get invited to Most of the cool kids’ parties
It doesn’t really help that I don’t smoke weed and I don’t usually drink The lack of these habits raises many eyebrows
I don’t fit hand-in-hand with most, other people
Even my closet friends, Dear, dear, beloved friends Would readily admit:
“Yes, he’s an odd one. Oh, we love him. We just don’t claim to really Understand him.
We think it’s probably quite enough To just love him And let it go at that.”
And with that statement, I’d completely agree
I’m perfectly content to be The black sheep, the odd man out The different one
But all this lack of fitting in Has helped me, in one, very clear way
It has compelled me to develop A desperately needed survival skill And that is
Good listening
Because I learned early on That if I was going to last More than ten minutes In any conversation, In any room, Anywhere
I did much better if I Kept my rather strange opinions, Beliefs and attitudes To myself
But I did even better, still
When I could repeat back the opinions, Beliefs and attitudes that someone else Had just expressed to me
Everyone appreciates being Truly heard
Not everyone needs to be agreed with It isn’t even everyone who Needs to be appreciated
But everyone Likes to know that you were Actually listening
And if they say anything at all About music, martial arts, chess, poetry Or anything else I’m interested in Well, I might have just bought myself Ten more minutes of friendly conversation
And when all else fails, When I’m talking to someone and I can’t find Any common ground… at all
I can always punt I default to the saving grace of Dogs
But if it becomes clear That they don’t like dogs…
I find myself weeping But I’m not weeping for me Not for anything I might have missed Or anything that I had hoped to be
It’s not because of some thing I desired But did not manage to attain It’s not something I had that I didn’t want Nor any of my own physical pain
It’s not for me, I had room to move I rolled the dice and they fell as they did But I took my chances, I took my shots I went for it all and from life, never hid
Sure, things could have turned out better I could have had an easier time But I know not everyone gets to win To the top, only a handful climb
Still, all-in-all, at the end of things, I did OK and better than many I had sorrows and joys, resources and gifts I got to spend my talents, every last penny
Yet, generations are coming behind me Emerging from the dark of the womb Into a darker world, for which we’ve not Prepared them, nor should we assume
That somehow, they’ll just be alright That they’ll manage some way, to sort the mess That some miracle solution will present itself Or that God or good luck will bless
Nor should we think it likely the case That hard work will see them through it all Nor in hubris, think what stands today Will not, tomorrow, surely fall
Least of all, we should not dare To turn blind eyes to their plight Out of sight is out of mind But by no means makes it right
Having turned over each, useless stone After turning my wheels, digging in deep With no useful advice or answers, for them I bury my face in my hands and weep
From the black book of horrifying, awful, terrible and frightening things that will keep you up late at night and drive you to drink too much and too often, Out On The Killing Floor
Available on Amazon
WARNING!!! Take only as prescribed. Keep out of reach from children, pets, pregnant women and anyone who still has any hope for the future. May cause sleeplessness, fatigue, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts or visions of impending doom. Some readers may experience weight… not weight gain, just the heavy weight of existential dread. User assumes all risk and releases the author from any and all legal liability. This book is not approved by the FDA or anyone else who enjoys being happy. May be illegal in your area.
Become a Patron
Magus72 on Patreon
Patrons get exclusive content, early access and other perks.
There are no words, none that suffice None that may cover or explain None that express the loss of loved ones Or which help to heal the pain
Anything that we might say Anything we try to do It all falls short, next to the grief And only grief shows through
When someone has lost a special someone A lover, family, pet or friend There’s not one, single word we can speak That will put them on the mend
No expression of condolence helps Or will the pain, forestall The only thing worse than feeble attempts Is to say nothing at all
In times of loss, in times of grief We’re not much use to those we hold dear It’s best that we assume as much And say only “I am here.”
Speak nothing, hoping your speech is useful Know that we hold no such power Say only “I am here with you, In this, your darkest hour.”
The most that we might possibly do For a friend who has a broken heart Is to demonstrate respect, by saying “I don’t even know where to start.”
To offer our humility, saying “I can only imagine the weight of your pain. I can do nothing for you, except be here. And for you, here, I will remain.”
creak of old hinges, original, hardwood flooring clanging of ancient, iron pipes
scraping, scratching from behind the walls, below the floors and from the attic, above
things too small to see things that can’t be seen, at all things that receive no mail, no visitors things that aren’t supposed to be here or anywhere else
quick, bright flashes memory’s dim lenses flecked with dust and specters
once, a place of mirth and much company echoes of laughter, music and children, floating through every hallway
scents of pot roast, potatoes and carrots, cigars, perfumes, liquors, fruit tree logs crackling in the fireplace, roses, thyme, basil, rosemary and lavender from the garden, drifting in through the open windows, freshly baked pies and cookies all washing over the senses of friends and neighbors
finely crafted furniture of oak and leather, where once they sat, sipping teas and sewing, nursing babies, reading the newspapers, scratching the chins of kittens and puppies, holding hands, kissing in the happy hours, consoling each other, after some loss
all of it now covered over by tarps draped with sheets and drop cloths consumed by the dry rot of time or dampness, the mildew and stale, trapped air which slowly made their way in
these too, desired to stay here, forever to find a home, within these walls
anymore, only whispers float through these rooms
no one has lived here for many years
the kitchen, bedrooms, parlor all bare and sullen the pantries stocked only with cobwebs of memory
this house was the home of more than a few hearts a place of comfort and rest for a great many souls
If you ever were in any kind of doubt About the evil in the hearts of men Think about Chicago, circa 1890 And what happened there, back when…
A hotel was built on S. Wallace and 63rd Owned by one of the devil’s own pawns A slimy little man by the name of Holmes He raised the money through elaborate cons
How he went about his money schemes Is bad… but it pales, when compared to why He built the place up with the sole intention of Trapping people there, to die
This fiend kept all his contractors in the dark So none knew the true nature of the place Hallways, leading nowhere, many fake doors Each worker had a puzzled look on his face
A great many builders, all with small jobs There was no reason to suspect anything foul Lots of secret passages, trap doors, thick walls So no one would hear the victims howl
The store, up front, was innocent enough The apartments on the third floor, too But the second floor and the basement, These were where… awful things, he would do
Chutes that lead to the basement below A huge bank vault, for… something diabolical A crematorium and acid vats to get rid of bodies And a labyrinth… not at all metaphorical
A maze of hallways, sinister booby traps, So much evil, it’s hard to imagine it all Thing is, it wasn’t a movie, it was a pet-project His own, private, murder mini-mall
To say he was mad, well… that just doesn’t cut it It was deeper and much more perverse Hollywood has made millions and they do try But have yet to dream up anything worse
Dahmer… he was mad, liked eating the dead Ted Bundy killed women for sexual kicks Richard Ramirez, Ed Gein, a whole host of sickos But none of them ever bought pallets of bricks
H. H. had a slew of craftsmen and laborers To build a museum of death and by age 35 He was eventually hanged, after confessing to 27 murders, some of whom were still quite alive
The Zodiac escaped capture and Scotland Yard Never did apprehend the ol’ Ripper, Jack But neither of them ever went so far As to construct even a shanty or a shack
I have to admit, I’m unable to fathom The depravity of such a despicable plan How so much planning went into the thing And all of it… from one, single man
I promise you, I don’t find anything whatsoever About any of this gruesome story funny But I shudder to think, what some other lunatics Might’ve done, if only… they’d had enough money
If had a bunch of cash, I’d probably build the Finest recording studio that anyone’s ever seen I can’t imagine my first thought would be to build The set of something like Saw, Part 14
But one man had exactly such a thought Unspeakable evil was just his idea of fun He may have killed as many as two hundred, Yet, they could only convict him for one
How many victims? No one knows, because Acid and lime don’t let much remain He admitted to 27 but some were still alive The only certainty was that Holmes was insane
I’ve seen and read about many ghastly things Some of it factual and some, fictional mystery But you can go read all about H. H. Holmes In any reliable source of modern history
I’m bothered to the core by the sickness of men The terrifying things that killers will do But H. H. perturbs me, far more than most Because all of his story is entirely too true
There are madmen and there are murderers But you can’t just say something’s “not right” That a man dreamt up such a chamber of horrors Well… it’s why I lock my doors at night
My cover of Willie Nelson’s “Seven Spanish Angels”, a wonderful song that he got Ray Charles to do a duet with him on. I don’t care for modern country music but I love Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn… to me, that’s real country music.
The great jazz saxophonist, Charlie Patker would go into a bar and load up the jukebox with country songs, which puzzled his jazz cat friends. When they asked why, he’d say “It’s in the stories, man. Listen to the stories.” Nobody can tell a story like Willie Nelson. How much more true is that, when Ray Charles is helping him tell it?
I’m doing the vocal, playing all the guitar parts and the bass. I’ve never been much of a slide guitarist, so it’s not exactly amazing slide work but it came out just well enough that I didn’t ditch it entirely. Since I didn’t have Ry Cooder’s number, it will have to do.
You can support this work and download the song for free at:
He looked down into her brown eyes And said “Say a prayer for me” She threw her arms around him Whispered “God will keep us free” They could hear the riders comin’ He said “This is my last fight If they take me back to Texas They won’t take me back alive”
There were seven Spanish Angels At the Altar of the Sun They were prayin’ for the lovers In the Valley of the Gun When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared There was thunder from the throne And seven Spanish Angels Took another angel home
She reached down and picked the gun up That lay smokin’ in his hand She said, “Father please forgive me I can’t make it without my man” And she knew the gun was empty And she knew she couldn’t win But her final prayer was answered When the rifles fired again
There were seven Spanish Angels At the Altar of the Sun They were prayin’ for the lovers In the Valley of the Gun When the battle stopped and the smoke cleared There was thunder from the throne And seven Spanish Angels Took another angel home
Words and music by Willie Nelson
Special Thanks
Special thanks to the following people for their video and photo contributions:
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
Everything crumbles, fails and breaks All of it in shambles, all in due time Crushing, the endless slew of heartbreaks Before that long nap we take in the lime
One plan works out and we give many thanks Success, daring us to dream more grand Shedding tears, when another one tanks, Going not-at-all how we’d imagined or planned
Through all of the ups, downs and plateaus At the end of each, long, tired day There’s some place that each of us goes Where to rest, our heads down, we do lay
Some sleep in luxury, like kings and queens Lovers in silk sheets, fathers and mothers With children nearby, in comfortable means Dreaming of futures, brighter than others’
Those on whom fortune never gives a call More than just some, a much larger number In hovels, which are hardly homes at all In cars, shelters or alleys, they slumber
Each type faces their own, unique struggles Days, a mix of good and bad, one discovers Either one goes down easier with snuggles With a little love, one more quickly recovers
Turbulent, these unplanned ups and downs Coming home, victorious or beaten by the fight Smiles are always more welcome than frowns But not everyone thinks you’re such a delight
People are critters possessed of great capacity For cruelty, murder, greed and deceit But a dog is a true friend and lacks the ability To ignore you, to lie, betray or mistreat
A puppy is always ecstatic to see you When you’re gone for minutes or many an hour And there’s very few things one can do To cause their opinion of their master to sour
Get yourself a dog and to it, commit Good food and walks, like clockwork Never hit it or neglect, the least little bit Remember well that dogs don’t speak Jerk
Every day, that dog, you have to be earning Their kindness, something we don’t deserve Train yourself, lots and lots of learning How a happy, healthy dog, to preserve
Get your lazy butt up, take it on a walk Read everything you can find about training Give it routine and real love, not just talk When they misbehave, your anger, restraining
Don’t try to reason with a dog, silly human Learn their language, don’t angrily assume… It doesn’t speak English, you have to illumine You have to be the adult in the room
Pay no attention when they do naughty stuff Lavish them with praise whenever they do right Patiently teach them, never yell or be gruff And you’ll know in the end, it was right
Because days… you’re going to have all kinds Tragedies and celebrations, galore Friends come and go and lovers lose their minds But a dog will adore you now and evermore
Where we humans go, when our lights go out Is a thing that we hotly debate and discuss But all dogs go to heaven, without any doubt Because dogs are far better people than us
in the sixties and seventies, everyone went over the top
musicians wore outlandish costumes and behaved as if they were invincible
sometimes, they believed it
but mostly, it was because they had seen through the facade of the system
they did lots of psychedelic drugs which taught them that everything… and yes, i do mean… everything… is utterly ridiculous
there’s literally nothing you can say, think, feel, believe, wear or do that isn’t… just plain silly
rather than take ourselves seriously, why not revel and delight in the temporal, inane shenanigans that are our lives…
ourselves
these days, everyone is up their own asses, again
everyone is busy, twenty-four-seven, trying to convince everyone else that they’re the coolest, that they’ve got it all figured out
“if you’re into disco, you’re not cool, because disco was silly and they just thought it was cool, before everyone knew better”
or
“if you’re into _______, then you’re not cool, because ________.”
put whatever you want in there, classic rock, polka, country, surf music… whatever
someone is going to be actually offended that you like it
“if you’re into that, then you’re not cool, because that’s not what i’m doing and i’m pretty much the only one who’s doing what’s cool.”
it only tells us how terrified you are of our opinions of you
and that’s really the only thing that sets you apart as being truly ridiculous
it’s the not knowing that you’re ridiculous
that not knowing is what makes you comical, farcical
acting cool is cool but believing you’re cool… well, that just makes you kitschy instead of campy
but if you start right out of the gate, convinced that everything about you and what you’re doing is utterly ridiculous, with the intention of milking that silliness for everything it’s worth…
then it’s not ridiculous at all, however ridiculous it is
and it is
for the love of god, please stop trying to convince us that you’re cool and that what other people are doing isn’t
it only makes you into a sad caricature, a parody
you see, we really don’t care what you do, as long as you do it with all of your heart and soul
put on a ten gallon hat deck yourself out in wild makeup wear a smoking jacket sing out of key… in pig latin play bongos while tap dancing do the tango to speed metal dress in leather and do opera dress in drag and do gangsta rap wear a suit and tie while you sing outlaw country music
just know beyond any shadow of doubt, that before, during and after…
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
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.
Here’s a Pink Floyd cover I did. This is the song “Childhood’s End” and it’s from their album, Obscured By Clouds.
Trent Boswell – vocals, guitar, bass
Lyrics:
You shout in your sleep Perhaps the price was just too steep Is your conscience at rest If once put to the test? You awake with a start To just the beating of your heart Just one man beneath the sky Just two ears, just two eyes
You set sail across the sea Of long past thoughts and memories Childhood’s end, your fantasies Merge with harsh realities And then as the sail is hoist You find your eyes are growing moist All the fears never voiced Say you have to make the final choice
Who are you and who am I To say we know the reason why? Some are born; some men die Beneath one infinite sky There’ll be war, there’ll be peace But everything one day will cease All the iron turned to rust All the proud men turned to dust And so all things, time will mend So the song will end
Words and original music written by Pink Floyd. I’m covering the song but I’m not charging anything for it, because seriously… who can afford Pink Floyd royalties?!
But you can support the creation of more music, poetry and madness by Trent Boswell, at:
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.
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 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
This piece is from an upcoming collection of poems, called conjunct neptune. The details of the book are in the link, which is the first poem that I wrote in the series. If you haven’t been through that one, it might be more helpful to read it, first. There, I explain what the theme of the book is.
This piece is about Luna, our Moon, when She reaches the point in the roughly twenty-nine day, lunar cycle that She sits in the same space with Pluto… you know, that thing that wasn’t a Planet and then it was for a while… and then it wasn’t, again.
Pluto is similar in several ways to Saturn. The similarity resides in that both Saturn and Pluto/Hades represent a miserly, curmudgeonly, old and cranky energy. They’re both decidedly masculine in presentation but definitely not in a loving father kind of way. Saturn is said to have eaten his own younguns.
Saturn/Kronos Eating A Delicious Snack
Pluto is the Roman God of Wealth. While not identical in nature to Hades, He is similar enough, in many respects.
He holds dominion over wealth, particularly anything that is obtained from the Earth. Since our whole economy is (or was or ought to be; you decide) based on the trading of gold, silver and thousands of other minerals, that’s arguably a rather huge amount of influence on money.
All that goes into the making of the things we buy and sell and trade, it all comes out of the Earth. Even services use material resources (offices, paper recording keeping and endless cups of coffee). This means that they, too, are part of Pluto’s territory.
The Greek equivalent of Pluto is Hades, who is famous for presiding over the Underworld, as it was laid out in Greek mythology. While Hades is not synonymous with Christian concepts of Satan or the Devil, He was still considered to have a brooding, intense personality. It’s said that He was the least-liked of all the gods and usually called upon only for curses.
One thing is sure enough, when astrologers look to Pluto, when other planets are aspecting that body, the effect is one of intensification. Whatever it is, the force of Pluto is one that assists in creating wealth; many uber-rich folks have a Jupiter/Pluto conjunction in their natal chart. But that same energy acts as a multiplier of other ideas and behaviors, as well. Not all of them are good, by anyone’s yardstick.
Pluto generally gives a dark, rather gruff and grumbly, moody tone, one which is keenly interested in power, information, serious research, the accumulation of large amounts of money and so on. The characters of Scrooge and Dr. Frankenstein both come to mind.
Pluto’s influence is the stuff that spy novels, governmental coups and hostile corporate takeovers are made of. So when the lovely, sweet and nurturing energy of the Moon meets with the Lord of Hell, the mood tends to turn a little dark.
This is compounded by the fact that (among Her sweeter qualities) Luna is also a harbinger of mystery, confusion and sometimes, even madness. These are usually (although by no means, always) in reference to initiations and rites of passage. But sometimes, it’s the plain ol’ garden variety crazies.
When Luna conjoins Pluto, attitudes in general lean toward the more greedy, distrustful and even the downright paranoid.
This is not to say that a person who has Luna conjunct Pluto in their chart would have these terrible (or the more positive) traits. A person has many Planets and aspects between them, each thing acting as a counterweight against the others.
Here’s a neat list of famous peeps who have this aspect. They’re a wide mix of personality types, though it’s safe to say that most of them lean toward the intense side of things, even when it’s a positive flavor of intensity. So this piece isn’t about bashing anyone who has that aspect (nor is any other piece in the collection).
No, this is about the energy of these two stellar bodies, by themselves, if we were somehow able to isolate them from everything else. We cannot, obviously. In this hypothetical case, the nurturing of the Moon is almost always degraded and polluted by the the obsession that Pluto represents. The wealth multiplication of Pluto is deranged by the comfort-seeking of Luna and results in “I need all of it, so I can feel good.”
If you enjoy the poem, consider supporting more such creative madness and lunar/plutonian madness, by yours truly, over at Patreon/Magus72.
Now, bearing all of these arcane ideas in mind, I give you (or rather, I row you across the river Styx, to the dark, forlorn shores of)…
conjunct pluto
what fresh hell is this?
of what use, is your clever array of pointless words?
when all, soon enough, becomes kindling for the black flames of unforgiving abyss?
sour not, my tired ear, you tiny, petulant slug
muddle not, what little respite is left, of sweet, peaceful silence with all your futile mumblings of hope and dreams and other, such soap opera nonsenses
leave me alone
and keep all your words… all those pathetic, condemned souls, standing foolish on the gallows, as if last words were ever anything more than last
ask me no favors
i expect you to lie
for i see into the murky heart of all your dark, shady schemes all your plotting and planning to stab me in the back once i am not looking
and because of this, i am always looking
i am always watching
i never sleep
i have cameras and listening devices, bugs planted everywhere and a legion of spies
because one must take great care, and use only a measure of the mean, an average of what intelligence they offer using only the most plausible bits of what the bulk of them say
never place all your bets on the words of any one, particular spy because you cannot trust spies nor words, nor people, nor intelligence
nor anything else, for that matter; not that anything matters
the only thing that you can trust is that trust in anything is, in itself… untrustworthy
trust only that things will always break and that they must be repaired trust only that things will die and that the burial of these things is expensive
the undertaker is himself, always on the take and hence, i abstain from the taking on of anything that has a pulse because such things are merely mouths to feed they are things which get sick and doctors, too, are expensive and they are things which disappoint you, break your heart
but i’m more sensible than all that; i paid the doctor to remove my heart
most sensible purchase i ever made, that surgery
hearts and souls and conscience, these are luxuries that are far too expensive too many sick days, lost wages and worries which are not worth the wear and tear
but the point is…
i’m watching you because i know your ways
you and your patiently, waiting for me to die or to slip up or fumble, so that you may usurp my power
i know of all your clandestine, assassin’s designs your machinations for the taking of all that i have all that i have worked for and all that i have stolen all that i have swindled away from the trusting all that i have, only because i possessed the backbone, the fortitude, to slay the meek to take what was theirs and make it my own
in short… i know you
because i see the bitter truth of things, how all are self-concerned, consumed with self and nothing, nor anyone else
therefore, i keep to myself and i keep everything for myself i retain all that is, as my own
since when did anyone ever do anything for me?
you must take by force and by fakery by clever graft and by hard work and by brute force and by the bloody blade and you must never give anything away, not ever, not to anyone and never sell anything that you may need, later and never keep anything that you can sell and never sell anything too cheaply but never hold onto anything that is cheap and will depreciate in value, over time but never spend too much on anything
you understand?
you must be wily and wise and clever and most of all, ruthless and cunning
for all that there is, in this barren world, is the having of things and the having, not of things
there is the taking and the being took and nothing else
and they’ll all try to take everything that you took from someone else
they’ll try to take it for themselves in a heartbeat, leaving you with nothing but an empty basket of space, where things used to be
except that there will be no basket, because they’ll have taken that, too
and so, mark my words, you dying insect…
not that words were ever anything worth marking down, unless they were the words on the deeds to land and bank accounts…
you mark my words…
you’d better take and take quickly or else be took from
and you’ll be left not a solitary crumb, not a single morsel, to put into the greedy, little mouths of all your expensive, insect offspring
now, off and away with you
i’ve no time for you
i’m terribly busy, watching everything that was or is or ever will be
watching it all burn and crumble into ash and blow away, into oblivion
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.
Kevin Trent Boswell 