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Alex McQuate May 2019
Without you it seems so much murkier,
So much harder to tell what is real.

It is like a curtain that you lift up,
Allowing me to see the audience beyond,
But truths of people,
Instead of the people themselves.

Without you the curtain is lowered,
I can hear the murmurs of the awaiting gathering,
But without you it remains only that,

Without you everything is amplified,
So much harder to keep a handle,
But so much better in a different kind of way.

What an entire life would look like without you I wonder,
And better yet,
I wonder why it fills me with a cautious kind of glee?
Alex McQuate Feb 2019
Leon Russell is tickling the ivories tonight,
Playing in his liquid and impossibly smooth way,
As I pull another Lucky Strike from a half empty pack,
As I contemplate the feeling in my gut.

As if an invisible hand is tugging at my guts,
Gentle but firm,
As I contemplate the words you just sent me,
Sending me into a spiral with effortless ease.

Making me pour over every punctuation mark like it might be the Rosetta Stone that'll decipher the text you dropped into my lap before you headed to bed.

Leon croons and I ponder,
Tap tapping ash into a growing pile upon the ashtray,
How could such a slip of a woman make me so nervous I wonder,
Like I'm rock climbing without a belay.

Keeping me on my heels,
Giving me whiplash in the worst kinda way,
Loving the way it feels,
But hating how the matter won't just stop bothing me and leave me to lay.

As Leon wraps up and exit the stage,
Good ol' Taylor saunders up and after taking a seat at the stool,
And begins to expertly play.

Realization I think begins to dawn,
And frankly scares me shitless,
To find that the text is actually a wonderful and terrifying grenade in disguise.
Leon Russel & James Taylor
Alex McQuate Jan 2019
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-


- 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.
Fooling Yourself- Styx w/ CYO orchestra
Alex McQuate Dec 2018
Why does one write?

What fickle emotion caused an individual to pour their thoughts into this fickle little beach we call reality?

Is it joy?
Such a blooming emotion that sends gentle waves that lap upon the shore,
Changing the way it looks over time,
Until one day it is unrecognizable lest you squint your eyes really hard,
and turn your head just-so.

Is it love?
That soaring thing that can bring new perspective to a shore that you have seemingly memorized through years of meandering along it's lengths,
Making everything bright and new again.

Is it anger?
A maelstrom that drives into the shore with an almost unatural fervor,
Furrowing and scarring the shoreline in a single night,
But it's effect lingers for many years to come.

Is it nostalgia?
That message in a bottle that you always seem to stumble into while exploring the shore's short length,
Only to realize that the messages have arrived always just a bit too late,
Not enough to cause a noticable impact upon the beach to an outsider,
But brings new meaning to the person who finds it.
Alex McQuate Nov 2018
Revelling in the sounds of rock,
Burning Turkish cigarettes down to the quick,
Enjoying oakey bouron and bud lite,
Floating through the stress of in-laws on a cloud of nostalgia at 120 mph.

Steppenwolf, Zeppelin, Rush, and Jethro Tull,
Performing a private concert,
Whilst I sit outside in a cardigan and trapper hat,
Counting down the hours till I can get back up on the Mountain again.

No signal within the warm ***** of the hollar,
Unless you want to go to the top of the mountain,
But you'd to busy hunting to care,
Chuck shoots on occasion,
But no great hunter would Chuck be,
Probably be queasy at dressing a buck,
I'd wager Chuck would upchuck.

Another dart down, about time to head back in,
Anderson exiting out with Locomotive Breath,
In to converse with the inherited family,
With a practiced smile in place,
Day dreaming of being in the woods.
Alex McQuate Oct 2018
Townes crooning to my fevered head,
As I'm cast through a mindscape of love and hatred,
Shame and pride,
Sailing one great hallucination,
As if on a new rollercoast track,
Smoother than a ball bearing rolling across oiled glass.

Hooked by the hopeless story as it is told,
Of a curse laid upon those who have sight,
To see what lied in the fog and impenetrable,
Those vile machinations that they had laid.

Throat going dry as the mind burns and fills the burnt remains with cotton,
Time stretches out ahead,
A weight settling in behind the eyes.

The addict's words have such a painful splash across the airwaves,
it taking my fuzzy self a few moments that it isn't just Zandt's voice in the fray with a whirlwind of guitar strokes,
but a lonely harmonica,
That is his words droning through such a fabled instruments.

The walls warble with the tune,
The flag flutters into sight line as lungs are filled deep and shudder.

A controversial documentary plays as Zevon hammers upon the piano,
A crescendo of a warriors tale,
The old days of Rhodesia as it sung out like a beacon of the colonial world,
Right or wrong isn't my right to determine,
For I wasn't there,
Which brought back the last old guns of an even older world,
An age of adventures and thrills,
Unknown danger and reward.

As I think I settle back into the normal,
I look out and see only a half hour has passed,
And the fever is still burning strong.
Alex McQuate Oct 2018
Jimmy Page and Towns Van Zant sit here,
Strumming out tunes in my living room,
Zant with his unique brand of country,
Page with his acoustic style that's so unique and blue.

Sounds drilling gently into the skulls of the unsuspecting,
Driving deep into the mind,
Defences cast aside at the overwhelming force of the medicine's effect,
Sending one into a journey of the mind,
Unknown depths and introspections dredged up in an unexpected discovery.

Gaining momentum,
Greater and greater,
Only to realize that this shall reach greater heights,
Heights that you will never have enough time to reach it, even if you had an extra 10,000 days.
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