vacuous

I wrote this Sunday evening after one of my guitar strings broke. I was already slightly frustrated with some other things, amidst reading some pretty heavy material, and I just wasnt feeling the "bright" sound of new guitar strings. Furthermore, I havent had a cigarette since 2002, but the idea of a disgusting cig embodied my mood.

                                                                                                                

I want my strings old and worn out. I want them to ring dull and deep and dark; like the blunt touch to a weeks old bruise.

I want the harsh critique of an old has-been who was more than slightly used; with bitter sentiments about the way the world works.

I want rustic stained callused fingers to feed my crooked teeth. I want to play pick-less arpeggios with a cigarette between my lips and a piece of scrap paper nearby. I want yesterdays coffee, room temperature, and bitter to compliment the stale smoke that dances on my tongue.

I want a reason to scream in an octave you cant hear and play it off like a whisper, with a smirk reminiscent of every devious thing I've ever done.

I want to let my mind race like a maniac while occupying the like with straight talk about the forecast. I want to intentionally go the wrong way before being admittedly unsure and unaware; then play dumb and offer an apology so contrived it's insulting. I want total, 100%, complete, thorough destruction. Chaos. I want every single thing systematically destroyed, poof, completely to the ground, but done silently and with zero plans of reconstructing.

I want to waive my fist and march around like a freak and not give two shits.

I want you to win; to be beaten fairly and be genuinely indifferent about it.

I want to get in a philosophical debate about how 2+2 can equal 5; before we both agree we've been fed so much bullshit it's beyond our breath but ingrained in the very syllables we emphasize.

I want you to see it my way before I retreat from my ideologies. I want to disregard what I cant have once I get it and then complain about losing it.

.............

Thoughts become things....

I often take you with me in my day dreams

With a slight shift in resonance we're a world away

Living off pristine vistas and the new

We're sharing cups of warm laughs in a quaint cafe

Passport stamps are played out

Visas fatigued

And it just so happens we've topped the Seven Summits in under seven minutes

And sailed the 7 seas all Seven days of the week

Yes, just a dream, my inner critic chimes

But my reality transcends manifestation a la grapes to wine

So I dream a dreamer's dream

I hang my coat on ideals

My thoughts on your smile

in this fantasy with wheels

It's errant and without aim

a swift rush between a pause

But yet just a dream....well...just because....

Sometimes I wonder what you think

Where you place your yesterday

Do you blink in the moment; in your dream of today?

Oh my, my musing mind

always losing it's place

But you the constant in my dream to escape....

Still

While you exercise your routine trepidation, I wonder aloud if it's in an attempt to show the universe, yourself, or your friends that you're trying?

While the mirror stares back and you groom yourself in agreeance, I wonder what pageant this is for.

While life chases, and you run, I wonder if you will ever trip and refrain from grasping at conveniences.

While angst consumes, and you clench, I wonder if you realize you just lost a passing moment.

While you turn up the volume to deafening levels, and recite the lyrics of inaudible distractions, I wonder if you ever truly listen to the beauty of existence; to silence.

While I watch you hide yourself from yourself, I wonder with concern if you'll hide it too well, as so it will never be found. I hope you will be revealed; and if so, when, and by whom?

While I sit back, knowing it's now your time, I pray the fiery intensity of your being will marry an equally vibrant curiosity; one that seeps from your pores.

When I see all the fortunes this life has found you in I wonder if you will ever truly realize your own fortune; if life, without tragedy, will humble you to the point of apologies. I hope you get to see the softer side of grace dance beside you like the Aurora.

I see you have so much strength, followers feed from it, but yet a crutch is still firmly placed under your arm while you ceremoniously skip to avoid limping.

I wonder if the centrifugal force generated by you affords you the feeling of being grounded, or you too are uncertain.

I wonder if the ramifications of this life will ever resonate with you in an alarming fashion. If you will ever wake up, see the sun rise before deciding to take over the world.

I dream that you will learn to build smiles from your deepest moments; that one morning your eyes open a little wider and you learn something from yourself before teaching it to all of us.

Cold Blood.

Let me first start by saying my parents are amazing people.

I know it's an obligation as someone's child to honor your parents with a blessing like this, but to me this is far far beyond that. I look up to them and feel lucky to do so. It is an absolute treasure to truly admire your parents. Again, they are amazing, resilient, and determined, driven, individuals who have found a beautiful symmetry in one in another.

Going deeper, let me add that they both were unfortunate enough to lose their Father's, early in their respective lives. When my Dad was eleven his Dad, Kermit, died of lung cancer. That poem will come another day. This is about my Mom's father Robert Roy Edwards being murdered in Cold Blood, by Larry Hutchinson, for a $400 car. Like all of my writing, my details are specific and accurate, outside of "muggy" everything here is based on what I've been told. For the record, the story just feels muggy to me, so I wrote it that way. Additionally, I have to add, this is a very VERY sensitive subject in my family, (still to this day). To the point where I'm not sure if it's okay if I write this blog. If my Mom is not okay with it I'll be taking it down. This topic has been so off limits my entire life to the point that I didnt even know all the *specifics* until I decided to write this. It was (and still is) impossible for my Mom to talk about - which is beyond understandable. She did oblige and give me some necessary details for this song. Which only further solidified my understanding of her experience. And I hope this doesn't sound arrogant, but writing this poem has helped me further understand my Mom's inner anguish. Wow she is a beautiful Woman - I love you Mom! I remember being about 9 years old and lying in my parents bed, it was just my mom and me. I think I slept in there b/c my Dad was out of town, maybe not though. Anyway, I remember asking her about this topic and her getting emotional about it (again, beyond understandable). I remember her fighting off tears and telling me she couldn't talk about it. I think it was the first time I realized my Mom was human.

More: when I wrote "The Pen is mightier than the Sword" I really wanted to write this song but I didnt have the necessary details. And while both songs are on the somber side, it's not that to me. It's more that those are two sensitive place in my person and I only wanted to venture into them when I felt ready as a writer...eee...ready or not here I come!

Further, I've scared myself as a kid trying to imagine the tragedy both of my parents had to endure. It's no wonder they found a compatibility together that they couldn't with someone who couldn't relate to that experience.

Interesting: I remember when I was in fifth grade, my Grandma Marge came over to the house and gave my mom a taped together note from when she was 15, her father was murdered when she was 12. She wrote a letter to her Mom (my grandma) expressing her pain, and their struggle to regain normalcy. I remember one line reading, "We both lost a man we love," it was very powerful, particularly when imaging the strife my Mother was enduring at such a young age. Needless to say, I think my Mom had some wild teenage years as a byproduct of dealing with a murdered father. Anyway, my Mom never gave the note to my grandma. She tore it up into tiny pieces and threw it away. My Grandma found the note, taped it back together and saved, giving it to my Mom 30 years later.

One last thing: Please understand any hyperbole I use with regard to anger, in this note or any other. I dont keep those emotion convenient, I try to live happily. However, writing is an insane journey to me. I've explored and surpirsed myself, and by doing that I've had to touch on some unhealed wounds. I say this with regards to this poem, the one about me being stabbed, and the unwritten ones about my experiences I have kept stored in my head.

One thing I liked what my Mom said when she volunteered alot of info in this discussion, is that, she believes in looking forward. So do I. You have to. And I try never to live in revision but I believe in analyzing my past experiences to lear from them, obbviously. This poem though doesnt even pertian to that.

One last thing; when I curse in any of my songs, I'm not singing those words angrily. Well, at least not in this song. It's soft and the words are used more to surprise you. Think about a curse word in a Lisa Lobe song, that's how I be.

More More More - I write my poems way longer than necessary, b/c they can always be hedged down later and pillaged. So if you're like some people and think they're too long that's only b/c when the words are flowing I don't turn them off, I'm just putting all of it out there for later. Holler.

(I wrote this up in Montana but it will definitely go under some major overalls. I need to sleep on it more. But I figured I'd publish it now and try and get some feedback.)

And FINALLY, I wrote this with "Hurricane" by Bob Dylan in mind, if that helps you imagine the flow of the song. It's not to the same melody or anything, but the same in delivery.

(Chorus)
Muggy Summer Night
August Eleventh
Southwest Portland
Nineteen Sixty Seven
A Father lost Forever
An Angel Sent to Heaven


This 22 year old boy, This Bad Young man
Come to buy a car, but left his scratch in Salem
So they plan to go....
Go on down the road
To pick up the Cash
cuz the deal's closed
Oooohhhhh....and just so you know…
Margery said she would follow
Oooohh...grab Jeanne and head on down the road
It made sense,
It’d simplify the trip
But they suddenly left
w/o saying a blip

Oh Oh...and just so you know...
A life of memories you done Stole....

(chorus)

Mr. Edwards -- Robert Roy
A Father you stole, from two daughters and a boy
And Margery Lucille
God Rest her soul
Left to raise a family all on her own
A young widowed mother, Left all alone
Left without her husband to console

Off Forever, Never saying Goodbye
A family in shambles
And young Jeanne left to cry

(rift)

Oh Man...Oh Larry!! I wish it was you that they had buried!!!
Oh Man...Oh Larry!! I wish it was you that they had buried!!!





Imagine the memories, that you robbed
40 years later, My Mom still sobs

He was selling a car, for his son in the service
He was a family man that in no way deserved this
Local Classifieds, He put out an ad
And in came the Devil with intentions Bad

And all for what?
A $400 car?
In hell I hope you burn like a fine cigar.
Slow and Steady -- Eternal Flame
I hope you burn a thousand years for each second of pain
That you've caused my family
Lana, Monte and my mother Jeanne
And even the grand kids and especially Margery

She stayed up all night
the night you took him away
I hope you know what you're facing on Judgment day

From 52nd, and Taylors Ferry
You stole a life, without a weary
An innocent man, left to be buried

For just that lil' red MG?
With a sporty racing stripe?
Another human being had to give their life?
For a $400 car?
You left a family in strife

Your actions a wave, every year's been a ripple
Through the rest their lives, this moment's trickled

How could you even accomplish that task?
Burn in Hell you sociopath

After only twelve years, in the state prison
Now a free man, living free in Lebanon

And only twelve years, for stealing a life?
That's hardly describes "paying the price"
So keep your fingers crossed
Cuz if we ever see your face
I guarantee, your life we will erase

But that's just my anger, talking aloud
Strumming my ego, being a man for a crowd.

I'm far beyond that, I believe in one common love
But what you have done, cannot be undone
In the heart of this family, You thoroughly stung.

Fatherly obligation, selling off the car
The end result, was you committing cold blooded murder.

Larry Hutchinson, you sunovabitch, you sunovagun
What were you thinking when you murdered someone??
Oh Man...Oh Larry!! I wish it was you that they had buried!!!
Oh Man...Oh Larry!! I wish it was you that they had buried!!!

Following Monday, found by the boys in blue
With the stolen car and murder weapon too
Holding out, legally stalling
Plea bargain comprises are appalling
2nd degree murder, to give up the body
Like the twilight zone, reality shoddy

Murder in cold blood, you killed a man
My Grand Daddy you shot with a gun...
Murdered in cold blood by Larry Hutcinson

I never met my Grand Dad, due to your selfish Actions
Cold Blood on your hands. Where the fuck was your compassion?