Look at you in your wide brim hat,
Dressed in black,
Fingers dancing across the Strat's neck,
Easy as you please.
Voice of anguish and whiskey,
Telling me a story of one lost long ago.

I sit listening quietly, as the rain falls outside,
And a train can be heard lumbering across the tracks.

Your words take shape,
Odd stranger,
With hair long and black,
The shape is of a man recently sent free,
Deciding to walk through the roughest place in town.

I need a drink,
I take a swig,
The smell of pine like smelling salts for my brain,
The taste of fireworks and Christmas trees reminiscent of candies eaten on Halloween nights.


Then BAM!
You yell out,
Telling me of a poor dice rollers fate,
Like a siren's call,
******* me back into this sad, sad narrative.


And lastly of the visit,
The one dated to seal the protagonist's fate,
Of the freed man once again being put into chains,
A tale of Sisyphus best personified.

You lead off,
Leaving the bar room cold and empty.
I slide in another couple quarters,
And again you begin to play.

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.

Traversing through sewer like tunnels,
Never quite large enough to stand in,
The air reeking of fetid bile.

Sounds bounce all around,
Tricking the mind endlessly,
Jets of steam from various pipes obscuring various dark tunnels.

I am not alone...
And whatever it is is hungry.

The sensation crawling down my spine,
Is that of dozens of spiders,
With needles instead of feet.

As I stop to take a breath I am looking down,
But the sound of a rock being disturbed on front of me makes me halt.

Screeching cries reach me from all sides as they bounce all around,
It is then that I look up and freeze,
For there are bright orange eyes in the dark just ahead.

It doesn't move,
And neither do I,
But it's silhouette remains shrouded by the dark.
A heavy air is settling now,
The silence like a blanket over all.

But from the silence comes a paralyzing sound.

A throaty and demonic like chuckle,
Crackly like the crunch of moist grave soil being struck by a shovel.

Clearly coming from behind me.

It's late out,
Michael Trent and Carry Ann Hearst are spinning me a tale,
Of which they constructed around the end,
Of two Musicians,
Crossing paths many a time on the road of life,
To only find out their paths soon merge.

Now ain't that interesting?
To think of those we meet at crossroads,
Only to find out soon enough they are the ones you come to rely on most.

Crossroads,
So many crossroads,
To weave a pattern much like a tapestry,
Where do your crossroads lead?

Neil Young is on now,
A song written in a time that he was homesick,
In lands far away,
Even though he had no home to go back to.

A place where it's lush and green.

There's a Russian word for an ache like that,
It's called tocka,
A great longing and anguish,
With nothing to long for.

Numbness spreading like a creeping wildfire,
Carrying heat along the wave's crest,
And that's when it hit,
Ideas spewed forth,
Everything was clearer,
Everything was bright.

The Trio were on fire,
Immortal in their success and youth,
On the rise ever higher,
To some their words were truth.

To be loved by all,
Their following seemingly limitless.
As was their potential.

Look upon thy creation and shudder.

A century,
100 years,
Almost 1,200 months,
A hair over 5,214 weeks,
36,500 days,
Et cetera and Ad Nauseam.

A lot of time,
To build,
To demolish
To create,
To destroy.

But even with it all it is just a grain of sand that's in the hour glass.

But let's narrow our discussion here,
Let's just say part of one year,
More specifically 118 days.

Prose thoughts and insomniatic ramblings given a cohesive direction.
And a long time passion project procrastinated until now.

A lot can happen in 100 years,
Hell,
A lot can happen in 100 seconds,
Your bloods makes 5 complete laps in your body,
The Earth moved 3,000 kilometers,
And the average human being has 70 thoughts.

Imagine if you just latched onto one of those fleeting thoughts,
Seeing which way it took you,
New ideas perhaps?
Perhaps you remember something you long thought lost.

Again,
Et cetera and Ad Nauseam.

The air is thick,
Grey eyes bloodshot from the cigarette smoke and lack of sleep.

Townshend in a rare role,
As he holds court over the airwaves.
Warning of the masks worn by those who derailed others while rising to the top,
Their vices always taken to an extreme.

The night air is finally cooling down,
It's gentle waves giving me occasionally goosebumps.

Didn't have any schooling after turning 17,
Yet by the time he retired he was living in a home that he had designed.

He would run out in the middle of making lunch to chase squirrels from the bird feeder,
But you could give him a picture of one and could give you any info you wanted on it,
From scientific name to dietary needs.

Had an extensive liquor collection to make any aficionado green with envy,
And hadn't touched a drop since his first grandchild had been born.

And perhaps most shocking,
He owned and regularly operated a boat for 57 years,
And never learned how to swim.

He was the living contradiction,
And he is a contradiction to this day,
For even if he departed us some time ago,
He is still teaching me things.