Saturday, December 02, 2006
smokey dopefolk songSmoke blows by so silently
In a night this dark
As I sit here quietly
And mumble in the dark
Talking to my self
Cause there’s no one else around
Seems that they’ve all got a place to be
When 4 am rolls round
They’ve got something to wake up for
I can’t say that I do
I would just go home and sleep
But there’s nothing to go home too
So here I sit
Alone and cold
On these dorm room steps
Really ain’t so bad
I could do worse
Than sit here by myself
Maybe I’ll take a ride
If I find
Here alone again
Alone with my best friend
The starry eyed night
a classic...well, to me anyway. and i've added a couple new nuggets as well.
90% of what people tell you is crap.
Remember your roots. Just like a tree, you will fall without them.
Money won’t solve all your problems. It will solve about 9 out of 10 though.
Your mind is your most valuable possession. Without it you are nothing. With it, you are only nothing if you chose to be.
Always buy used.
Always get enough sleep.
Love is an important human need. Never take it for granted, but don’t make too much of it either.
Don’t make a habit of making promises. They work just like checks. If you make a bad one, it will come back to haunt you.
Plan for tomorrow, live for today.
Remember that sunlight is essential to the production of many chemicals in your body.
Gas prices change quickly.
Trust is a gift handed out too often, and often with too little thought.
Fear and doubt can be your greatest enemies. For whom else would you change your plans if they only whispered?
A one hit wonder is still more successful than most of the population.
Always give rides to strangers who need it.
Carry a gun.
You can never be who you want to be until you figure out whom exactly that is.
When people disagree with you it doesn’t mean you’re wrong.
When people disagree with you it doesn’t mean you’re right.
You cannot be responsible for the happiness of others.
Making up your bed is a waste of time. But you should still change the sheets once in a while.
Take lots of pictures.
Write. Letters, thank you notes, poems, stories, songs.
Run for office.
Watch the news.
Never let anyone tell you you’re wrong unless they can prove it. And if they do, take it like a man.
Stay out of debt.
Always own at least one nice suit, a navy blazer, a pair of black shoes, a pair of brown shoes, and a good pair of mud boots.
Whether you judge or not, you will still be judged.
Know whom you need to impress, don’t worry about the others.
Your mirror is not the only thing that is a reflection of you.
Marksmanship is a valuable skill.
Everyone has ulterior motives.
Start, and constantly contribute to, an IRA.
Tomorrow is never as far away as you think; yesterday is never as near as you wish.
Every man worth his salt should be equally able to rebuild a carburetor and a computer.
Balance your checkbook.
Keep your lawnmower blades sharp. Don’t wait until it’s time to mow again. (That’s not a damn metaphor, sharpen your lawnmower blades)
Learn to weld.
Make, and live by, two budgets: one for time, one for money.
Never be afraid to kill, if necessary.
Never be afraid to run, if necessary.
Go to city council meetings.
Don’t get married if you can’t afford it.
Try not to watch too much television; it will eat your time quicker than you think.
Truth can be as damaging as lies.
No matter where you move to, you still have to live with yourself; your past doesn't disappear like your last mailing address
Good fashion, like a good joke, must have one thing exaggerated or juxtaposed.
An obvious play on Pink Floyds “Wish You Were Here”. This is kind of a slow rockish/folkish/singer/songwriter type groove with a little psychadelliaelectronica thrown in for good measure. It’s also my feelings concerning my long and continuing trip in life with my ever-present co-pilot of mental illness (depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and depersonalization/derealization)
Running from an 8 year old monster
The faster I run
The more I know that nothing is ever gonna be the same
So hard to run from an imbedded parasite it
Must be so comfortable in there for so long
I’ll trade you the sum
Of all I’ve become
And everything I’ve ever thought
For one chance to smile without
One touch without numbing me
So many years
I wish I was here.
Plastic for so long
But decaying anyway
I won’t last forever
But apparently this will
I’ll leave it to only no one at all
No one deserves this
Take me back home
I want a ticket back to 13
I want a memory that doesn’t scare me
I want a feeling that I know is mine
I want an easy way through all this difficulty
I want to know how to be alive
I want to enjoy life under the pyrosphere
I want to know what happiness is
I……I wish I was here
I just don't belong in this place
Everything that should be good is gone
Oxygen gives life they say,
but it burns my face
I'm told that I live here,
but this ain't home
Every day I'm so afraid
That I'm going to get caught
Everyone knows I don't belong here
That I'm an alien, a fake, a fraud
And so it's been
As long as I can remember
Everything looks spring
But I feel November
That brown southern water
Hiding, so deftly, the monster turtle.
In one quick snap,
Your finger is gone.
Just doing his job I guess.
I’m sure he’d have made
One hell of a defendant
Showing me myself in shades
Darker than I should be
But it’s still, obviously, painfully,
sunburn is the morning,
aloe is the night.
sleep to me is opiate,
my drug to fight the light.
so on to dreams of happiness,
or better yet no dreams.
on to darker pastures,
of feeling only sleep.
Across the river I see you, brother,
Or compatriot as you could be
In some other time
You look back, circumspect,
Seeing or not
It matters not, as does the question,
Is this fog or smoke?
We’re both lost travelers here.
Strangers in a strange land,
The Good Book puts it.
And were it morning,
I could just as well take coffee with you
As with my
From here I can’t see your markings
Yet still enemy I know you be
But we just look
And trade not fire, but sullen nods
For that river offers us a respite
From the cold holes
We shall fill tomorrow.
Open pages of the gilded page book
Stare back at me from an old photograph
I stole the camera when I was 17 and I don’t care now still
The gold dust stayed on my hands for a day
They defied washing, just as the words of the pages
Wouldn’t wash from my mind
The sun is a subtle violet now
The last of the spectrum as it reclines into night
When last I spoke of that time I had never killed a man
Funny what a few words will do to you
Synapses firing emphatically, trying to find something
Inside the book or my head
I don’t know which/I never will
The grey fading to grey cement laughs at me each night saying
Even I wouldn’t be taken in by a book
fall, a time of slowly dying, cool and restful we find
our protagonist, prostrate in the peach grove cool and resting,
falling leaves cover his half-naked body
he'd have more clothes if he wasn't half-crazy
and just days ago, maybe wasn't
summer, the months of beauty and life,
between youth and death, among the flowers
and lightning and showers
the peaches still growing, a mind still unfolding
pretty pictures of people
leaving tall buildings,
direct from the top floors,
saves electricity, he thinks it’s pretty
and makes so much sense, and no one is crazy
until someone tells them
Spring finds our man half hungover from happiness
Of the particular
Kind spring is famous for
Wonderful colors embracing the canvas
Now glowing with glorious
Feelings so fabulous
Future so bright, holds more promise
Than children, who having
Intelligence rivaling Hawking’s,
leave adults gawking at
of things still unsolved by
the best minds of elders
but promises die
and children don’t keep so well
so don’t make predictions
(temp drop, chord changes)
Winter is not quite
As cold as his body now
Floating so stiffly
Beneath the permafrost
Fed by the sunlight
A few flowers remaining
Despite the temperature
White silence settles
So cold and relaxing
Is found in her face tonight
Black is so flattering
For such a frown
And a false form of peace comes
And shelters the family
Like a little girl in church
Accepting her insignificance
In the eyes of the Big Guy,
I sit hallucinating, you might call them dreams,
Of future times, or past, when something was/is alright
these things entrance so easily, me,
and I’m just another lost boy, though,
on most days.
blue corn chips and the smell of Arden’s Sunflowers
the sight of clear cold lakes
and the feel of an old bus seat
such little things can create such lasting
And I’m not afraid nearsomuch
Maybe I’m a new person,
Or maybe I’ve forgotten that I’m pretending
Not to be frightened
It can’t possibly matter
When perception becomes authenticity
And I wonder aloud
Should I be sad that another’s dreams
Haven’t come together either?
I answer myself with one more “maybe”
And I take another pill
san_ford, you remember the trip to waukaway?