The bugs have overwhelmed my deet defence,
So I've retreated behind the screen door,
Smoking by the doorway, leaning back in a chair,
Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, and Christine McVie are haunting me with their words,
To never break the chain...
My eyes feel like there's grit in them,
I drink a glass of water to rehydrate a bit,
To counteract the cigarette's sting,
Of 2 packs smoked when I should have only smoked one.
I feel like a record player, and my table belt is just slightly off kilter,
Making me so my rounds just a little too fast,
Just fast enough to be noticeable and an annoyance.
13% battery left,
How many more can I do?

6 poems today,
Wanted to see what I could come up with,
Are they rough...yes,
Are some of them short and to the point... Also yes,
But the emotion still rings true.
3% battery...
2% left...
1%...
Goodnight

Stan Roger's is calling out to the start sky on this moonlit night,
His baritone cadence stretching through the pleasantly tempered air.

I take another smoke out,
Lighting it quickly and taking a drag,
Trying  to figure out where all the time went,
It's as though I've blinked and everything has changed.

It's been happening for a long time,
I know,
But then again,
That's how it always is,
Isn't it?
Taking note unconsciously,
But never taking notice,
For it's change is too unwelcome.

But for now all is quiet,
The owls hooting amongst themselves,
As a breeze gently passes by.

Justin Chancellor is blowing my mind,
His timing as he hammers on his bass,
Setting the tone in the picture Maynard James Keenan paints as he rips through the events,
A great separation between sects of the faith,
The horrid fate of a monolith,
To crumble and burn,
Alone and lost,
Adrift a raft of ashes,
Floating out to sea.

The taste of tobacco, tar, and ash is too much at that moment,
I stub out the smoke,
Taking a swig of cheap beer,
To wash down the rancid taste.

The song changes again,
Keenan belting out about his dark passenger,
Making all his victories taste of ash,
A most dreaded specter indeed.

My mouth is no longer bone dry,
I really need to quit,
Trust me.

Kassie Valazza is my partner here tonight,
Softly crooning to me a most saturnine tune.

At what point is leaving not considered cruel?
Is it the encouragement of our loved once,
As long as we promise to once more return?
Is it a private decision that is to not be judged by others,
Regardless of the anguish it causes others?
Perhaps as long as the treasure gained,
Whether it be in gold or memories,
Outweighs the pain caused,
It is acceptable to depart?

Her red hair shines in the moonlight,
As her face twists up such a saturnine way,
Her expression seemly a mirror of my heart's own experiences in this moment.

And as the guitar trails off,
The song finishing on an unfinished note,
I am alone once again in this room,
Staring out at the stars,
And a lonely, lonely moon

I sit here.
Contemplating it all,
Of the difficulties and obstacles that one must encounter,
When in the pursuit of making a concept album.

So many parts must go into it,
To tell a proper narrative,
With lyrics written well enough to not just sound like spoken word.
Rush is a master of this technique,
To be able to make such an easily understood story,
All one has to listen to do is listen to the lyrics,
Acknowledge the musical cues,
Maybe is given a few lines of backstory,
And is at least a little bit smart,
They are told quite a touching tale.

Pink Floyd does it well,
Telling tales of oppression,
Of goodbyes to friends,

The Who do it multiple times,
From a young London man,
Besiged by nostalgia for the bad old days,
To the telling of a deaf, dumb, and blind kid,
And his struggles as he goes through life.

Green Day seems to have done it most recently (in the proper format) with some success,
The struggles of their "Jesus of Suburbia",
A story of anger, love, rejection, and suicide.

It seems like most time the protagonist of concept albums always get the end of the stick,
Why is that?
That the underdog can't ever seem to catch a break?
Death is his end destination,
No ifs, ands, or buts about it,
That or they are placed in a situation where death is preferable,
Because all hope is lost?
Or if they're caught on the cusp of the unknown,
Which can be quite as bad.

So here's to you, you lunatics,
You rebels of causes untold,
You'll live in these story's forever,
Your vinyl Valhalla victorious and verbose.

Bill Wyman and **** Jagger are sitting down by the fire with me,
Preaching out from the tiny speaker in the small radio I brought with me,

The crackle of the fire and the upward avalanche of cherry embers into the air distract me for a second,
A dance of heat and light that has entranced me since I've been a child.

I light a smoke using a stick I've been using to stir the bonfire,
Fortuitous for me because I forgot my lighter inside when I last went to get more beer.

Drums lull me back into the song,
Jagger laying out the words like an expert mason,
His words are the bricks that the song is built on, sturdy and precise,
The message they lay out is strong.

That every man has a darkness in him,
It's been there since the very first sin,
A little devil on our shoulder,
Whispering sweet nothings in our ear.

The bonfire a perfect example,
The higher the flame,
The denser the darkness seems to pool,
Just outside the light.

At times you will be weak,
This is the pain of being human.

The song changes to one of a plea,
One of asylum,
From the chaos of the world at large,
A world that we had in 1969,
Desperate voices screaming for a stay of execution.
Would you be one of the people I wonder,
Who would stand against the night,
To save the hopeless and downtrodden.
A hero of the people,
And a bane to those who would do the people harm.

The fire has died down,
Only the bluest of flames are licking up from the wood.
I add another log as another song comes,
In a flash I am transported to England in the times of '66,
The viewpoint of a depressed youth,
Wishing the world wasn't as bright as it was.
The instruments slithering about like a cobra,
Ready to strike at any moment.

I take the large gallon bucket and upend it over the flames,
The water drowns wood and flame.
The fire hissing in pain as steam is given birth to.

The small radio now had Eric Burdon wailing to me Baptist-Style about the dangers of the Big Easy,
As I head back inside.

I sit here,
Fingers aching,
Smudged in ink,
From when I changed the ribbon,
My right knee decides,
At this very moment,
To make its regular bout of grinding pain known to me,
Yay.


Heloise Tunstall-Behrens and Luisa Gerstei are making my heart shatter,
From over 3,700 miles away.
These sirens are begging the listener to Sing them to sleep,
Because they've gone and lost the mindset,
To dream seamlessly.

Their club has swelled by one,
I say to myself as I light a smoke,
It's about to be a long night.

My knee starts complaining once more,
The old injury settling down after I massage the ailment.

Now the trickling of a xylophone is tapping out of the wires,
Gentally accompanied by a guitar and the girls,
They're warning the listener of their past transgressions,
It's gentle tone,
Lulling you into hearing,
Before your brain can register the lyrics,
However,
They're whisked away by the xylophone,
What was a steady trickle has swelled into a quick stream,
They're now telling the listener to use them up,
Because that's what they're expecting anyway.
Seems like a tale of escaping from something bad to me.

Is this why I write?
To escape?

Or is it to bring you into my world,
If only for a bit?

Sorrowful and soulful sounds come from the radio,
The Red Headed Stranger is plucking away on Trigger,
A whole different kind of cowboy.

Singing of times long past,
Of a woman long gone,
A woman he wish had stayed.

I use the last of my beer to walk down the smoke and ash,
Stubbing out my smoke atop a mountain of finished Winstons.

I look back on it now,
On the regrets that I've had so far.

Of trips not taken,
The could-have-beens that went undone,
And the Ones that had been let slip,
So it is here I find myself,
Drinking alone on this warm summer midnight.

If one's body were a book,
What would mine say to the world?
Would it be a tale of injuries and woe?
Or like trophies to admire in the years to come?

Would my tattoos tell the story of why I got each individual one,
The mind frame I was in when I got them?

Would my thrice broken nose,
Crooking just slightly to the right,
tell tales of fist fights and rough housing,
or of the time I spilled face first into the cement, when my bike flipped on me.

What of the scars?
Do they tell of workplace accidents,
Of battle, of burns and tight scrapes?
When I busted my brow on a marble windowsill,
Or when I busted my cheek wide open from being hit with a pipe?

Tattoos a plenty,
Each could be explained like an ancient epic,
They are only put on because they are earned,
Through blood, sweat, and pain
By way of spiritual revelation and as a proclamation of faith?

Maybe it's the imperfections that tell the real story,
Wrinkles caused by a brow that is furrowed far too often,
Or the creaking of my right hand,
From when the fingers have been broken and bruised too much.

Would my eyes,
My windows into my soul,
Would they still be bright and shining, or would they be dull and weak?

Waylon Jennings is twanging over the airwaves,
Asking me if I bore witness to the events unfolding between him and the Apple of his eye.

I can hear it though,
He's got a load of chew in,
And I'm jealous.

Quitting *****,
Doesn't matter if it is good for you or not,
It just *****.

Memories come rushing back in when I smell that minty tobacco.

A "graduation gift" from our Drill Sergeants,
Just offering us some if we wanted it,
Seeing as we were no longer recruits,
But honest to god infantryman,
The jolt of nicotine directly to the mouth after 4 months of nothing,
The head buzz hit me like a sledgehammer,
But thankfully enough I'm not alone.

Another memory,
I'm trying to get the taste of bile out of my mouth, as we're dumping our gear after a long ruck,
The blood seeping through the heels of my boots,
A familiar blue tin is offered to me by my team leader,
I nod to him in thanks,
As I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

A more painful one,
The lingering taste of midrange bourbon,
Mixing in with the harsh bite of  *****,
Toasting to friends lost.

The present time gently brings me back to my chair as the song fades out.

Yes Mr. Jennings, I can see what she's doing to you,
I'm where you're at right now.

I see you all,
You night owls,
Perched up high in your trees,
Wide awake in the darkest of hours,
Hunting for the words that hasten the dawn and sleep,
For the words that will set you free.

It's dark,
Shaun Morgan is bellowing into my ears that he's reliving the same experiences over and over,
That nothing's forever.

The flick of a bic,
The taste of tobacco and ash,
Filling my lungs and giving my brain a buzz,
And in this sleepless night I'm inclined to agree with him,
Nothing lasts forever,
So what are you waiting for?

Strings softly sing out from the speakers,
Drifting through the room like a piece of flotsam,
Gently drifting along some unseen current,
Dipping to-and-fro,
And like all currents tend to do,
It picks up.

Faster and faster,
Swiftly building into a crescendo that resonates in the smokey room,
Faster and faster in tempo,
Peaking as Gabriel sings on.

Torn asunder by an impossible task,
So many of us seem to be,
Sacrifices for a tomorrow that could be just a little bit better,
Impossible choices rising up like towering walls of flame.

I take a minute to sip some beer,
Miller High Life and Winston's,
Shakey Graves is stomping out through the wires,
Telling the tale of a boy walking to his execution,
His head held high,
Misguided in his actions that evening,
in the waning days of summer.

The song ends, I take out a tin,
Open it up and throw in the last of the dip I had,
After that I'll be done with smokeless tobacco.

Elton John is now waxing poetically about the ideas of roses in Spanish Harlem,
His voice eloquent, nostalgic, and tear-jerkingly honest,
The loss of innocence in an idea,
Ripped asunder by the cruelty of the world at large,
If only there were one Good Samaritan,
If they were to stand up and say enough!

In the album he is but the Master of Ceremonies in the château.
Weaving great tales of happiness and woe.

And isn't that what life is,
Both the ultimate comedy and tragedy?

But what do I know?
I'm just an Average Joe.

I sit here in the darkened dining room,
A small light shining in from the kitchen,
Just enough to silhouette the curtain of cigarette smoke that hung about the room,
I've been sitting here,
Smoking all the while,
Listen to Robert Plant croon,
About a woman he loves with all his heart,
But against his wishes,
He has to bid her adieu.

I sit here, smoking, in this warm and comfortable room,
All else is quiet,
Everyone else asleep,
Plant singing my anthem so sad and true.

But eventually the song ends,
And the record must be flipped,
So too the anthem changes,
One more upbeat and slick,
A song of change and travel,
And ever pressing on.

Ellekari Larsson is haunting my radio tonight,

My lungs burn once again,
As the smoke enters and leaves my body,
Floating lazilly upward to form a blanket of roiling grey.

I looked at my bookshelf today,
And realized with a start,
That I had a shelf of momentos,
Of those who were long gone.

A folded flag,
A well worn tie,
A photo of a man and boy both laughing,
A teddy bear and a cross made out of a straw,
All snapshots to help me remember.

Times that were better,
Even some that were worst,
But important all the same,
For aren't the most important lessons those that hurt, even if just a little?

A charcoal rubbing of an inscription,
A Tom Clancy novel with a dog-eared page about halfway through,
It hurts to look at these momentos sometimes,
But it feels like a betrayal to look away.

The piano and cello amble slowly along,
Like pall bearers shouldering a weight upon their shoulders,
Both physical and emotional.

A copper disc embossed with hands held together in prayer,
An antique Mr.Goodbar tin,
Containing an ascot and a box of matches.

The song slowly comes to an end and I can finally look away,
Take a drag from the cigarette,
Nearly burnt down to the filter,
As I get lost in my thoughts again.

As I sit here in a late night stupor,
Throat burning from cigarette smoke and hot ash,
I bear witness as Shaw cries out to DeYoung,
Trying so hard to give him a lift and a light,
To shore up the talented man's morale and instill a will to fight.

As he starts in on this,
I take a sip of coffee,
Burning lips and tongue upon the bitter brew,
With a muttered curse and a wince,
Eyes begin to relax just a bit,
As accolades are rained upon DeYoung.

But like that first distant rumble of faraway thunder,
That is the harpinger of a massive storm to come,
Tones beginning to change,
As if the more he speaks the more his patience wears until-

SNAP!

- an accusation is thrown out like a slap to the face,
That there's more that he can do,
If only he stopped getting in his own way.

Tap-tap upon the ashtray as ash falls into a heap of itself,
Lids growong heavier still,
The song like an anthem of conciousness,
And knowing that it would soon run out of steam.

Sweet sleep avoided,
Each nights dreams becoming vivid to a disturbing degree,
Like some kinda ****** up inversion as to how I want it to be,
Like how it use to be,
Before the hooks of this monotony sunk so deep as to embed into the bone.

The mountain seems so high as it towers overhead,
And makes me want to knock the **** out of me from so many months ago,
But erecting myself straight as tighten once again,
Clear and sharp once more.

I sit in an ocean of empty Budweiser bottles,
Upon an island of Johnnie Walker Blue,
Mind flittering  through topics,
Whilst Steve Martin rocks the banjo,
Pickin' those old folk tunes.

I'm in a happy spot,
Between buzzed and blitzed,
That place you can only get to on a summer evening,
Or perhaps a bachelor party or two.

But listen to me ramble,
Please,
Come and take a seat,
Your dogs must be barking,
Would you like a cig?
Or perhaps a drink?

If it's neither that's no matter,
It's the company that keeps,
Just ignore my rambling when it crops up,
Treat it like a bad **** on a spring breeze.

You remember old cartoons?
What care and expertise.
Every cell hand drawn,
Fufilling every child's entertainment needs.

But what of old television programming?
What the hell happened to MTV?
Just give me my music videos and rock music,
Even if you can only go as far back as 2003.

Oops,
I'm doing it again,
How embarrassing,
Just a tipsy old fool,
Remember,
A **** on the spring breeze.

But seriously,
What about Vault?
Saturday morning cartoons?
Products as seen on tv?
Cha-cha-cha-chia?
Myspace?
Zines?

Perhaps you don't know what all those are,
Too young to remember the scene,
Of ska, skateboards, roller derbies,
Of Cribs, **** my ride, skating videos, and terrible tv.

Remember it all,
Those strange years,
Young and transitionary.

I remember it all,
Those strange, strange years,
Back in 2003.

A farmer comes to love what he grows,
Even if it is just a bit,
So much effort expended,
Something has to be felt,

Warm late summer days,
Soaked in a warmth you imagine a mandolin sound would give off if it could,
Lazy clouds floating across an blue immersive sky,
Sitting underneath a tree surrounded by four fields,
The tickling of healthy grass scrunched beneath one's feet,
A gently breeze on occasion,
Brushing across one's face,
As if to lull you into a peaceful sleep.

As Billy Joel is pouring out to the listener,
Of a tale of patrons in a bar,
I think of what would happen to my works when I die.
Maybe I get a couple collections printed but they never really sell,
And years after my death,
One such book is found in the piles of books in an antique store.

Maybe it's a curious individual,
Amused by the art embossed on the book,
Or maybe he is an actual fan of poetry.
Maybe it's just a kid who is thinking old books are cool.

Either way the individual would read my works, gets a whole lot of hubub about it,
And years after my death I am talked about as an unsung poet of my time.

Novel idea right?

Andrew McKnight is on tonight,
My story teller for this bout of sleeplessness,
Thought I had shaken the insomnia,
But it's jaws had bitten deep.

The story he tells me is a sad tale,
But I think it best to share with you,
So come and sit dear Reader,
Listen for a spell,
For sometimes a sad tale is needed.

They haunt the various valley's of Virginia,
The cornfields of Maryland,
And Pennsylvania hillsides.

Silent specters spectating upon the states,
If only we could hear their thoughts,
But alas the roar of the vacuum is all assuming.

Andy spins his tale,
Weaving one of a Young Greyback,
Cut down in his prime,
His words a portal into the thoughts of these silent Specter's thoughts.

That war turns boys into men,
And men into memories,
That no one ever wins at war,
That the last loser asks for terms.

It's a tale of grave matters,
But a necessary one I believe.

Time ticking down,
Like the guttering of a dying flame,
So close,
Can nearly taste,
Where you and me will soon be three,
When our son we can finally meet.

I can picture his little hands,
His oh-so little feet,
Eyes as big as plates,
So filled with possibilities and innocence,
A pitcher for you and me to fill,
With kindness and glee.

But it seems so far away,
Still seems like a bit of a dream,
That the hypothetical seems to still carry me,
On a cloud,
Gently floating,
On an azure dream.

When I was little,
Behind the backyard of my childhood home,
Separated by a field and a couple of rows of trees,
There was a factory,
Not a big one, just a small one,
That liked to operate at night.
The window of my old bedroom faced out  towards the backyard,
And by extension,
The factory.

I use to lie awake at night,
After I crept over to my window and pushed it as open as it would go,
I'd just listen to the sounds of the factory,
And imagine it were different things,

When I was 6 I'd imagine it was some sort of 100 foot tall beast of mystery,
Maybe walking on 6 legs, each 75 feet long,
Lumbering nearby like a gentle giant,
When I was 10,
It was a spaceship,
Destined to take me to a galaxy far, far away,
When I was 13,
It was a crowd cheering me on as I scored a touchdown.

It was relaxing,
It was southing,
Familiar and safe.

But one day the banging and muffled crashes of steel stopped,
Apparently the city finally cited the factory for noise violations,
And all heavy operations were to be halted by 8 pm.

I suddenly no longer had my monster behind the house,
No spaceship to take me to a galaxy far, far away,
No crowd cheering my name.

From here on out I'd have to go exploring to find monsters,
I'd have to build a spaceship if I wanted to go far, far away,
I'd have to put in the work so people would cheer out my name.

The night is still,
A silent cold hangs crisply in the air,
A quilt of noiselessness encases the world,
Looking up upon the stars,
So dazzling in the pre-dawn air.

The moon hangs over the Eastern Horizon,
Just a sliver alit along it's bottom edge.

As the world slowly begins to stir,
Slowly cracking the sky and setting it aflame,
An all encompassing blaze that kisses upon my brow,
Warm and caring,
Loving and tender,
Like that of a mother to a newborn babe.

It is here that one can be at peace,
Where the current troubles slip away like steam from an exhaled breath in this crisp warm air.

I stare,
The outsider looking in.

******* comment,
Or a practiced defence?

Cigarette slowly shrinking,
Ember glowing bright.

Out of options,
Out of time.

Walls closing in,
Creeping like vines.

Shotglass is full,
unlike the bottle.

A fantastical opening,
But I cant tell whether it's tone is genuinely happy or bittersweet,
For a pinnacle that would soon begin to descend,
Waters and the whole troop carry on,
Singing of a beautiful and terrible place,
A place where one's own failure can be due to one's own success,
Whether that's good or bad I leave for to you to decide.

Anthony Kedis is rolling like a runaway train,
His voice carrying too much momentum to be stopped,
He just keeps rolling down a track of guitar solos.
It's unusually hot here,
As I wipe sweat from my brow.

My bottle of water is sweating on the table,
My eyes are stinging from the heat and perspiration from my forehead.

Flea is laying it out hard,
His slaps on the bass with specific design.
It's almost time to go to bed,
Got to get back into a rhythm.

The door swing violently on hinges,
Being slammed open from my hurried retreat,
Breath burning in my lung from a headlong sprint,
Running from pain and rejection,
Running from potential jeers and slants made against me.

You weren't strong enough,
You weren't fast enough,
Why didn't you see it sooner,
WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE HIM?!?

Tears streaming from eyes burning in shame,
Feet hurting from the force of being slapped bare against asphalt,
As the road gives way to grass.

You could have been better,
You could have done more,
Why didn't you see it sooner,
WHY DIDN'T YOU SAVE HIM!?!

Blood dripping from nails digging into palms,
Vision tunneling,
Head light,
Self hatred building.

I wasn't kind enough,
I wasn't there in time,
Why didn't I see it sooner,
WHY DIDN'T I SAVE HIM?

....

Legs give as muscles cramp,
Vision slowly returns,
Finding myself alone in the woods,
Silence blankets all around.

Breath returns to normal,
And sense finally returns,
The cutting words still gnawing in the background,
Should have never given them a chance to get a foothold.

Slowly returning,
Plodding steps sending up twinges of pain from raw bare feet,
Returning to the normal world.

If you find me dead in the field,
Prop me up by the nearest tree,
Place my hat in my lap,
And face me west,
So my soul can leave with the sunset,
And my boots can finally have a reprieve.

The anthem ripped out from the Frontman, the Drummer, and the Bassist,
Making a sound larger than should be possible,
Their anthem ripped out through the old amps,
The music revitalizing the old speakers.

The Drummer hammered out powerfully yet precise.
His feet rattling off like machine gun fire,
His bandana tied around his brow.

The Bassist laying down a metronome-like effect to it all,
Notes swaying and dipping to the tune,
Flaring out occasionally to add more gravitas,
Showing he was still his own musician.

The Frontman declaring to the crowd of transgressions committed,
Of battles won and lost,
But also the views from the other side,
That the enemy may be man still.
A story of agony and anger,
Sorrow and Savagery,
With jubilance for the act of violence.
The Frontman's solo soaring high before axe kicking down upon the audience's heads.

The Agent was stunned,
His dropped drink forgotten,
As he reached for the payphone on the wall
The experience in front of him spurring him faster.

The Band continued,
Their sound crescendoing,
Coming to an almighty peak,
Only to begin it's decent to the earth,
Crashing down magnificently,
Down upon a dive bar in the run down part of town.

As a youth grows,
Taller and taller,
Like The Cedars of my youth,
But also rougher and rougher.

To those who have known him from before can recognize him,
But to others he is a shadow of his former self.

There is however,
One thing,
That has ever remain the same.
With the instruments in his hands,
his eyes soften,
the creases easy bit,
The weight is lifted from his shoulders, And even a smile can be seen.
As he hears from the Allfathers of the Waves, Summoners of the sound.

The pain dulls over the years,
As the boy becomes a young man,
And the young man decides to follow his dreams,
He runs away,
With only a guitar in his hand,
A backpack of clothes,
And his car,
He rides out West,
Like the pioneers who came before,
A musical gold rush.

The desert was hot,
The boys feet ached,
His legs protested,
The sweat stung his eyes.

The young man stumbled,
The heat waves of the road throwing up a curious pattern.

It was then that the young man spotted it,
Just beyond the next hill.

He stood up,
Wiping the sweat from his brow and forged on.

The cedar had become an iron oak.

When he arrived though,
If only in fleeting flashes,
But still it was there,
When the instrument was in the young man's hand,
It calmed the storm that raged behind his eyes.

Fleetwood Mac is on the radio inside as I look up at the morning sky,
In the east,
The sky is a mixtures of light pinks, blues, and gold,
The moon still shining brightly in the morning sky.

I take a drag off my Winston,
It's taste stale lingering on my tongue,
But a small price of smoking them all night.
My eyes are burning and my joints ache,
Getting older *****.

It had followed him for most of his life,
Sitting patiently,
Waiting still,
For the Spider knew it would eventually get it's chance,
A cruel judgment bestowed upon him by the fates.

The Spider's legs were long,
It's beady eyes glistening,
Milky venom dripping from a maw of  nasty little teeth,
Shivering with anticipation,
For soon it would be time to strike,
And then it would finally feast.

To our hero's who were celebrating,
To the spider they were completely unaware,
Hiding amongst the guests,
Some of them the Spider had been feeding on for years,
But now it was time for a new dish.

The Bassist had turned in early,
The Drummer in another room,
The Spider closed in on the lone Frontman,
Who defenceless and alone was introduced to his doom.

TapaTapa-Tapatapa-Tapatapa
The beat lulling one into trance,
Plant hypnotizing all who hear,
Building steam,
Sailing across the sky as stars come out,
Glimmer behind like them like some wake.

How far does one travel in a year,
So many steps,
So many blinks,
So many breaths.

Go!

The desire hitting like a blow to the solar plexus,
Driving breath from the lungs,
Making that next breath literally taste sweet.

It makes you look off to the far-reaching off horizon,
At those hard to reach goals seems so far away in the desert like a mirage,
But teeth are bared in a grin at the challenges.

Like floating now,
But gently being glided down,
Laid finally to rest upon mattress and sheet,
A pillow soft and cool.

Eyelids growing heavy,
Not long to go,
A balance has finally been achieved,
At long last balanced upon the fulcrum.

The body stronger,
The mind sharper,
The eyes clearer.

It is here the Insomniac finally drifts off to sleep.
Taken up once again to sleep amongst the millions of stars.

Come to me,
Oh look and see,
Please tell me that I don't belong.

To this place,
O' to this world,
To this situation I hath rote.

But negative,
Nay I say,
Tis a situation so grand,
That it can be only sung out in the tongue of yore,
For it is only the most noble of mantles,
Of Fatherhood's door I adorn.

It shall be I,
I be armed with simple tools,
A fresh ***** or bottle,
To assuage my young liege lord's woes,
For betwixt the soggy ure or rancid scitan,
I dread knowing such knowledge,
But my sacred duties of ****** I shan't ignore.

So for now,
Oh humble bards and wanderers,
Listen to this tale no more,
Create such joy and celebration,
For upon this day,
My Firstborn son is born.

Oh Gygax,
If you could see what you've made,
What it's become,
To those you've touched,
With simple dice, paper, and pen,
You'd see a community you've helped,
A people inspired,
Of joys you bring everyday.

You introduce to some a world of creativeness,
Of fantasy and dragon slaying,
To others you've helped provide a creative outlet,
Something they thought they'd never have again.

You've helped people make friends,
Some lifelong,
Connecting them in various ways,
But through it all,
It will have all started,
With a 20 sided dice,
And a simple question;
"Would you like to play?"

You've helped some through some rather dark and rough patches,
A form of escapism that can't compare,
To others you've provided a fun weekly activity,
To decompress from the toils of the day-to-day.

From the starry eyes of our most youthful,
To the slightly hazy eyes of old,
Entertainment you've brought to us,
From your average joes,
To famous folk,
The touch of your creation enraptures all that it beholds.

My friends and I gather again,
On this Friday night,
To fight zombie hoards, Kobold warlords,
Even a Black pudding or two,
And for a little while,
In those fleeting instants,
They're great hero's of Valara and Altour.

So thank you Gygax,
for all you've done,
as we sit down at this table,
from the noble adventuring group known as the Assless Chaps,
(Exasperated Sigh)
And their beleaguered Dungeon Master.

It was a new day,
As I suited up for battle,
A new campaign,
Something sure to leave the uninitiated rattled.

A polo shirt to defend against the piercing stares of haughty individuals,
A thermos of coffee,
To brain the sandman with when he arrived with reinforcements mid morning,
Neatly combed hair to camouflage myself as just another drone,
Plucking away and invisible to predators.

As I sit down at my desk
I take a look out the window at the rain,
And imagine I was out in it,
For the rain is much more enjoyable.

But fear not,
I still have my secret weapon,
Devastating to the enemies of fun.
A power so great it will ensure that I will never fully succumb to the forces of drudgery.


I raise my pantleg a bit to take a peek at my crazy socks,
Instantly making my day better

Elton John is charging forward,
At the rate of 152 bmp,
Like a boat racing shoreward,
A boat who's crew is due for some leave.

Chargin like an angry rhino,
John is jumping about,
Tearing through the room with abandon,
Just begging for a scrap.

Feeling invincible in the moment,
Where everything is going JUST right,
Where your spoiling for a rumble,
To tumble for tumblin' sake.

To break free from the usual,
For a breath for fresh air,
For a breath of something REAL!

Chain smoking like a man on death row,
Cold beer in one's hand,
Getting well and truly ripped,
Pleased at where the night is going.

All tasks accomplished,
All challengers laid low,
Sporting a bruised and bloodied brow,
But a victorious smile showing all the same.

Wind blowing through hair,
Legs churning asphalt like it's no one's  business,
Feet barely touching the ground,
Onto the next scrap,
The next in a long and wonderful night.

Looking out from my summit,
Out below on the mountain of my mind,
The words of Getty Lee and his friends,
Sprouting from nowhere,
Telling me that the human being is like a planet,
And that planet is divided into hemispheres,
But one cannot exist without the other.
Intellect was one such hemisphere,
In another hemisphere was creativity,
Another was experiences,

And the smallest one was one I had been trying to ignore,
It was withered, abandoned, uncomfortable, alone,
It was the hemisphere of the bad ****,
Memories of traumas,
New and old.

But now I knew without those I would be a completely different man than I am now today,
What's a little pain in the long run?

Some say it's thicker than tar,
Others say it tastes like turpentine,
To the first I'd say that rumor is stretched too far,
And to the second I'd say it tastes quite fine.

As long as you do it right.

I'll even give you the recipe:
- A *** of water
- Coffee grounds (1/2 cup-3/4 cups)
-A non-tattered boot sock (it'll take a little while to find a good one)

Step 1: Pour coffee grounds into sock and tie it off.
Step 2: Bring *** of water to a rolling boil
Step 3: Steep sock and leave it in ***.
Step 4: Remove *** from heat source.
Step 5: Wait 5 minutes then serve.

That's it,
That's all there is to it,
The magic behind it all,
Add or subtract time as preferred,
Cheaper then a coffee machine,
Once the right sock is found.

It is an odd thing to learn,
So off the wall and profound.

Are you brave enough to try?

The young man stepped off the bus,
Pack of clothes on his back,
Guitar case in hand.

He decided to forge his own path,
In this place were so many had failed before,
Just another individual in the City of Angels.
His chuck's scraped the pavement as he spun around,
Trying to take it all in.

Quickly he found the city was but gilded, It's thin layer of gold covering the lead core underneath.

It got to the point where the young man had almost given up hope.

But steadfast he marched on, Accumulating like-minded individuals, And soon they stood shoulder-to-shoulder.

Ready to take the World by storm.

Lateralus is slicing through my mind like a hot blade through butter.
My ribs being hammered from the drums,
The bass thumping upon the sides of my head,
The guitar solo piercing my flesh like a spear.

The lone bass beat is what remains in my heart,
The steady thumping of a tough but tired *****,
The incoming vocals is a rush of adrenaline to the muscles,
The amalgamation of the instruments,
The effort to stand once again,
Then a guitar calling out from the distant mists,
The call of the next battle.

When I was younger he was stronger than Superman to me,
Wiser than Albert Einstein,
And funnier than a book of knock knock jokes,
A constant in the ever changing experience that it is to be a kid.

As I grew older he gained a couple new facets,
He at times became a source of ire to my teenage mind,
But patience was one of those attributes that never changed,
Although at times I more than likely stretched it to it's very limits.

And as I became an adult it clicked,
And it was like it was before,
Any previous tensions were wiped away,
Connected again after a few years of being gone,
Many a Friday night's spent just drinking beers,
Shooting the **** and listening to vinyls that he bought in high school.
Sometimes just sitting quietly smoking,
The silence a place we could both find solace in.

And now I am slapped with a harsh truth,
That he's not invincible,
That anchor won't be there forever,
That even Superman is mortal.

That a man I've seen endure the impossible with barely a muttered curse and a grimace just for spite,
Could contemplate throwing in the towel.

Talk about a shift of paradigm, right?

All because of something I never planned for, even though it comes to us all.

Eyes closed,
Fillings a'quivering,
As the dull background roar of the wind tearing by.

Eddie Vedder belting out the works of Etwistle, Townsend, Daltrey, Jones, and Moon.
Smoke exiting the windows as both my Father and I smoke.

Both laughing at the schadenfreude,
Seeing a traffic jam forming the other way,
Stretching out for 8 miles ahead,
With miles of more traffic to soon add on.

It's a shared humor at old jokes,
Shared a thousand times,
Like when we went hunting all those years ago.

I suppose it is nearing the time,
When my own path veers me so far away,
From the once small town I had grown,
Before I am to travel west,
In search of fufilling my purpose,
In service of the community as a whole.

The sun slowly setting,
As we reach the outskirts of Cincinnati,
The sky blue to flaring orange,
Lone clouds like embers being flung off the sun.

It's like slow motion,
Much like a train derailing,
You can't bring yourself to look away,
As the fist flies toward your face.

As soon as the foreign limb makes contact  with your cheek,
It seems like someone pressed the fast forward button,
Because you seem to retaliate immediately,
Over and over,
As more blows are returned to your head and sides.

You throw your weight forward,
Catching them off balance as they were on their heels,
Wrapping them up around the midsection in a picture perfect tackle.

You both go flying out the front door and into the street,
Both struggling to your feet,
Both you and your opponent's friends pull each other apart,
And make haste to leave before the cops arrive.