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.

My mind roams up and out,
As my body heads east,
Bearing witness to both great and terrible accounts,
Riding on the banks of a river of fog,
Greying out of the physical world near complete.

Islands of treetops,
I pass by,
As tales of grandeur are told,
Great adventures and terrible fates whispered in my ear,
As fear begins to take hold.

As sullen worlds of lone clouds are surpassed,
Moving ever closer to the goal,
Satellites of radio towers hover below,
Broadcasting radiowaves to those who travel the ether,
Guiding them through the fog and the sorrow.

John Denver is my guest on the porch,
Gently playing off to my right,
As we take in the morning before us.

Sky a spectrum of pastel blues and gentle oranges,
Clouds upon the horizon a regal purple,
Water rippling gently forward,
To lap upon the pebbled shore.

Bald eagle perched up in his nest,
Surveying this beautiful land,
An avian king of the lake,
His stance is one of grace and imperious splendor.

Drive hard through the night we did,
To arrive at our perfect morning scene,
To leave behind the abject horror of the concrete and rebar forests,
To this place where God would go to fish.

Gently swaying on this bench,
Listening to Denver's crowning tune,
Everything feels just right,
In the land of lakes so blue.

Someone seen before,
Your dark hair entrancing in the pleasant summer breeze,
In this place that seems both old and new.

Come a thousand miles,
To end up spellbound by your natural grace,
A look about you that invited natural curiosity,
With gentle eyes and kind words,
Quite literally causing me to stop in my tracks.

Kind words in a playful tone,
Heart a flutter,
Scaring the **** out of me in the process,
Not because you're trying to be hard to get,
But simply because you're so very hard to forget.

In my late night musings I'll imagine chasing after,
But that is after my painful trip back to the Midwest,
Leaving behind the town of tunnels and tea parties.

Thoughts turn inward,
As space between me and that haunting place is increased,
As a gentle rain begins to decend upon Seneca land.

Perhaps whatever messages I might have glimpsed of are all imaginary,
Or mayhaps you feel the same?
A corner to the great puzzle I didn't even know I missed.

At that great imaginary horizon of mine I can see just the tip of the obelisk to the east,
Silhouetted by the rising sun,
Standing as a marker for where I wish to be.

Sitting here alone,
Atop a pile of ash and burnt paper encased filters,
As Plant tells me of a girl long past,
Causing me to reminise.

Met by chance,
And instantly captured by your pure differentness,
The tint given to you by the city seemed to almost glow off of you in amber waves,
So different to what I was use to growing up in the Midwest.

Your starkness in the way you went about things,
Your personality drawing me deeper still.

Guilt I felt upon realizing what these sensations were,
For you were the sister to a man I could easily call a brother,
And tales told seemed somewhat tainted,
I knew some of your story without you knowing,
Like an invasion of privacy without doing anything wrong.

I'd come to visit you and the family,
My first trip to a place so large,
Everything so tall,
Nothing but in person did it injustice,
But alas I was only passing through.

I'd end up nestled into the mountains and lakes of the deep north,
And sometimes when flying I'd imagine I could just see the tips of the scycrapers on the horizon,
Like fingers on a hand waving a hello.

Plant has already left,
Waters, Gilmore, and Wright take his place,
Telling a most mournful tale,
The mound is growing quicker by the minute,
Teeth were unconsciously being ground.

When returning sometime later,
You could instantly see through the ruse,
Of the damage being hidden,
That the smile wasn't quite reaching my eyes,
But you said not a word,
For you knew I wasn't ready to talk.

I look away ashamed at our last meeting,
Hurting and lashing out,
Acting in a way quite opposite of the way I was raised.

I sit here now alone,
The guise long gone,
Leaving me with a parched throat.

Stepping out to the porch,
I look to the east,
To where the woods lay,
And imagine the glow of the city lights on the horizon,
So that New York Girl doesn't seem so far away.

Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the face's of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegiance given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out despite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warrior's words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the battered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.

Years have passed,
Time an enemy that cannot be conquered,
Leaving heros to be quietly forgotten.

The Prince is older now then when he started this self imposed exile,
Golden hair grown out,
Lines showing signs of setting deep on a once youthful face,
Adorned in a cloak to better conceal himself from recognition.

The Queen,
Old now,
Sitting stooped upon the Cursed throne,
The only one left with claim over it,
Heedless of the consequences of her own pride and greed.

As the distance greatens,
The Prince sheds his cloak,
His slip into anonymity complete,
He stops to look behind him,
To gaze upon the watchers,
Their careful gaze taking in all.

Always silent before,
Never to judge,
Just to bear witness to the acts of all,
And now the watchers call out.

The Travelers heart aches,
Upon such a sorrowful sound,
A last gift given to the man in ancient tongue,
A key to success in the Travels future,
And then the traveler walks on.

The Old Queen receives word from the Traveler,
Sharing his knowledge imparted to him by the Watchers,
But only for him to not realize it is knowledge delivered too late,
The Curse would not be lifted in time

The Traveler pauses at the beginning of the Mountain path,
Seeing the beautiful range starting  just a mile off,
A welcomed change,
To give away the Watchers gift to others as well.

The days grow long,
But many sights are beholden to the Traveler,
So many things to see,
Beauty of the journey not lost on him as he still silently mourns his home

Ages pass,
Great deeds are accomplished,
Friends made,
Loves lost,
Wisdom gained,
Muscles lost,
Eyes dulled a bit,
As adventures slowed down,
And the travelers name is lost to time.

Roots are formed,
Set atop the tallest mountain,
Not far from a kingdom,
Set in the valley below,
Not too different from his home,
The one left behind too long ago.

The Hermit takes the Travelers place.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Trying to race to the western promises.

Passing into lands previously untravelled,
Towards the glow emenating from those golden opportunities,
Almost as if taking flight towards the stark blue horizon.

Not long to go,
Just a push and a plunge,
A great fall to the left on the map.

In search of a better future,
As great plains are traversed,
The beacon of answers to great questions lay ahead.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Trying to outrace the eastern storm.

Lessons in the trunk,
A case of tenacity in the passenger seat,
Goals hogging the back seat.

The wind tussling hair as it passes,
A gentle greeting as the countryside opens up,
The air clearer with every mile.

Everything seeming sharper,
Like a previously unknown haze being pulled from the eyes,
Colors vibrant and new.

Skimming down the road,
Fingers embraced by the passing wind,
Chasing the setting sun and running from the night.

A sweet saga sung,
A cigarette crackles as it ignites,
A tale tragic for my lungs,
But chemicals rush through the brain setting it alight.

Sweet accents to the tune as the tale unfolds,
As our hero's story unfolds,
A bittersweet departure,
Kept apart,
Held at bay by ideology and circumstance.

But a darkness approaches,
A dark fate comes closer,
To destroy them all,
And she orders her opposite to take her bow,
Standing shoulder to shoulder to bear the brunt of the storm.

The dark haze creep in the Valley,
Eyes peeled to the east for their only chance to survive to hold out,
Already morning the orchards that would soon be lost.

The rot begins to spread,
Grotesquely twisting the trees as they shrivel and waste away,
The scion of the ****** angered at the pyrrhic victory.

The long night bringing a great battle,
The feral calls are cried,
They meet in a great clash of steel and magic,
In a secret war away from private eyes,
How can just one battle last so long?

Armor is rent asunder as weapons are damaged and woundss attained,
The Scion steps forward with a sword set ablaze,
And the woman lies bloodied off to the side,
The warrior lays set with her bow pulled and arrow drawned back,
Her aiding him even after she was taken off the board.

The Scion draws closer still,
His face finally shown to him,
As the symbols of the before set aglow along the bow,
The arrow is loosed,
Sending it along it's trajectory as the sun finally climbs from the east, washing everything in light.

The Wanderer meanders west,
Atop his horse,
Topping the dusty mountain crest,
Pulling his steed to a gentle stop,
To give him the moments necessary to process what he sees.

A great forest aflame,
A creature most glorious and terrifying,
Charging up mountains and sending up great pillars of flame.

Tidal waves of orange and red dash themselves upon these ridges,
Sending a mist of super-heated embers down the other side,
Beginning the process anew.

Great billowing towers of black smoke that roils and is in a constant state of flux,
Losing form as it ascends miles high.
Such beautiful and glorious destruction that could ever be seen,
An apex predator that could not be tamed.

The Wander turns his horse around and meanders back,
Changed from this experience,
The likes of which would never be seen again.

Soaring high above the tops of the clouds,
Towards a destination few dates to go,
A return if sorts to a life that would be both old and new.

The moon reflects across the ice crystals below,
Giving it an etherial glow,
Their tops shorn flat by the wind,
Giving the appearance of a calm lake in the summer,
Like glass from another realm.

A decision was made,
A war still raging inside the heart,
As new obstacles are thrown up.

Willingly leaving family behind to throw one's self into danger,
To put service before self once again.

That great apex has been reached,
And one can feel the descent,
To skip upon that lake top,
Gradually sinking through like the proverbial stone,
To arrive at the next leg of the trip.

Riding alone along that famous desert road,
Heading west for a new page,
To reap what could be sowed,
A opportunity rare in this day and age.

Eyes growing weary,
And like a mirage it does appear,
A place to make the head unbleary,
Where one can cast aside one's doubts and fears.

So alone in the journey it makes knees nearly buckle,
A sirens call is heeded,
Tempting with sultry eyes and unspoken promises.

In a haze stumbling forward,
Not aware of the dangers present,
That the boat was being lead shoreward,
To be dashed upon a jagged outcropping's crescent.

It is here one gets ******,
Like a fish when it realized it's been hooked,
That the risks are everywhere,
Like stumbling into a minefield,
Not recognizing the risks until halfway across.

It's enough to bring the brakes to a screeching halt,
The sudden sound warbling through the empty desert air,
Kicking up clouds of sandand salt,
Seeing to one's horror that there is nothing really there.

It's enough to ***** off even the most steady,
To be tricked by the wraiths of the land,
One had to speed across these parts ever at the ready,
Otherwise they invite disaster and ruin,
As they oft walk hand-in-hand.

So tear through these deadlands,
Never look back,
And don't need the sirens call,
None of it is real.

So tear through these deadlands,
Never try to get to the shack,
It doesn't contain what you think you lack,
Just the fires and poisons of your enemies,
Those enemies of your past.

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.

Marching forward,
The Old Gunney marched to the golden throne,
Halting and coming to the position of attention,
Ready for his final Inspection.

He tried to live as a good man,
Dispute some burrs in the corners,
He was kind to his family,
Full of humility and humor.

Without a doubt his inspection would be up to *****

Being pulled into crossroads,
Like chains wrapped around arms,
Pulling in opposite directions.

Looking to their left one can see a return to the past,
A past that one would miss and love so,
They can see themselves strong and fast,
But dancing on a knife edge,
In which the slightest tumble would bring misery and woe.

But with such dangers come great rewards,
And one of these gives quite possibly the greatest gift of all,
The opportunity to live to the absolute extreme,
Something that is hard to come by these days.

Looking to the right one would see an exploration of the new,
Something that's stirs in them,
Like how it was to discover that love for a spouse all over again,
One could see the transformation into something different and better,
But this would require wrestling with disaster,
Risking everything going up in flames.

But facing off against this threat would guarantee the future,
A chance a peace of sorts,
The feeling of completion they didn't know they even yearned for.

The strain begins to grow,
A decision needs to be made,
What is one to do?
Either way opens them up the possibility of real and absolute destruction,
But giving at the same time unprecedented gifts that some never even get the chance to see.

Either way it goes,
They shall forever be freed.

Sitting here on this mountaintop porch,
Staring out into the valley lit by moon and stars,
Johnny Cash can be heard riding a locomotive of Nashville acoustics.

The Valley looks like it belongs on an alien world,
Bathed in blues, greys, and blacks,
Unique to these southern nights,
Upon vast forests that are both awake and alive.

Cash sings of retribution and redemption,
Upon the coming of the end,
A tune too sad for such a beautiful scene,
The song is changed

Cronin and Richrath accompany me on this trip,
Driving down this stretch of 75,
Driving amongst the clouds and mountains of the Blue Ridge,
Giving off a soft yet intense tune.

The sun has just set,
Giving the sky a odd dark hue,
The rumbling of the jeep is a constant,
Sounds from the old engine almost giving the song certain cues.

The wind ripping through the open cabin,
Tearing at clothes and hair,
The howling it gives off,
Fails to drown out Cronin's cries,
Of his personal philosophy he sings.

Better the brutal truth than a shocking revelation of betrayal,
Hands gripping the steering wheel tighter,
Driving to destiny,
A better future awaits.

Driving to destiny

Looking at the fully filled in page,
A good poem,
Sure to trend within minutes.
It just feels right.

A pause,
A half smile,
As the small X on the upper right hand of the window is clicked,
And the profile page is brought back up once again.

Creed Bratton strumming along,
Singing the oral history of his hometown,
The place from which he departed to embark on his great adventure.

I sit here in the dining room,
Looking contempitave at near empty pack,
A lone cigarette lays a little worn,
The last defender in it's paperboard Alamo,
I ponder at it for a moment before lighting up.

The guitar resembling the chugging of a train,
Rumbling down Californian rails.

Even the time changed resembles the screeching of brakes upon those rails,
Upon those iron horses,
Before chuggin' along once again,
Tempo and mood increasing once again,
Before passing by and roars to the horizon,
Chasing the setting sun,
It's sounds disappearing eventually into the passing wind.

Pain ignites,
Your shoulders and biceps set ablaze to to the beat,
To this resurrected tune from the plantations of long ago,
A specter that hangs over the shoulder  when heard.

Up,
Down,
Hold that ****,
And you start to think this Sally chick might just be a real cold *****.

Up,
Down,
Rinse and repeat the pain.

It's just 30 reps,
Why is it so infernally difficult?
Up,
Down,
Hold,
The pressure builds in your muscles and your brain,
Pratcher & the Gardeners heedless of your pain.

The last chorus,
Just a little bit more,
Is it just you or is the music slowing?

The women are weeping,
At the poor departure of poor ol' Luxe.

The song cuts,
You sigh in relief,
As your body crumples on its own accord,
Sick of your efforts and insanity.

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.

Townsend and Daltry are the ones putting me in a trance tonight,
Sending me to a time of excess and glory,
To reflect on a personal fight,
A battle against one's own mind,
One that will undoubtely be gory.

The first two minutes are void of voice,
The mixture of keyboard, synth and guitar too pure,
To me it seems like the perfect choice,
To express the feelings of one's own self-destruction,
As something without a cure.

False fronts are raised,
A gilded shell to all those to see,
To cover the corrupted and depraved,
To hide away guilt and shame,
Buried deep down,
Then Townsend lets it rip.

Its all just a great misdirection,
The perfect lie to distract and deceive,
Smoke and mirrors to lead you away from the lows achieved,
All in the name of dark recreation.

Inhaling,
The unfiltered cigarette' s tip glows bright,
Adrenaline is released and insulin is suppressed,
Yet the words continue yet.

A certain brand of funk pours from the speakers,
Setting the air alight with 80's vibe.

They call to you now,
The addiction and excess,
For you've tasted from the apple,
And now the hooks have sunk in.

But rip through the straps you must,
Put on a smile for all to see,
You mustn't show weakness now,
For all the others must see you as free.

The guitar is haunting,
The drumming sublime,
The bass setting an ominous tone for this tune,
Like Damocles's sword set above your head,
The slightest slip will cause everything to be hewn.

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.

Standing vigil,
As winter gets in one last blow,
It's like falling,
Landing deep in some cold ocean below.

It's impossible to breath,
Struggling to the surface,
The arctic currents ripping all heat away,
Like it was the wind itself.

Breaking the surface,
Battered by waves,
The ocean spray stinging face and arm,
Dark tidal currents swirling below.

Grey clouds circling overhead,
Like the sharks most assuredly circling down below,
Both curious yet extremely dangerous,
A covergency by either would spell ruin and woe.

Draper's voice is lulling me to sleep on this night,
Singing an old gospel that brings water to my eyes,
Bringing forth memories that are warm and bright,
Along with the realization of just how fast time flies.

Du Chene and La Plante preach through the wires,
As I light up a smoke,
Watching the candle gently sway ever so,
As these two bear witness to the making of legends.

Personal courage,
To tell one's personal tale,
To cast off the societal thirlage,
And wander to where the predators wail.

They sing in perfect synchronisation,
The country twang of Du Chene a contrast to La Plante's,
Her vocals heartbrakingly beautiful,
As if the entire swath of water that is the Mississippi were as smooth as glass,
With the ability to turn as haunting as the memory of a lost love.

The skill to keep your wits about you,
Are needed in lands such as these,
And if you survive your legends will grow,
Gaining momentum to match the distance you travel and the tasks you complete,
Traveling with you,
Like the sensation of stain in a long healed wound,
That occasionally ghosts along the area.

That after your gone and long faded, Your travels will live on,
A wraith along those old and now overgrown trails,
To morph into something almost alive,
With each retelling of your tale.

Winding down their tune,
The music takes a calm tone once again,
Like how you imagined the eye of a hurricane as a kid,
Slowly winding up again a tad as if to hint at the struggles ahead,
They sing of where they wish to be,
And their willingness to bear the brunt of their tasks to reach their promised haven.

How do you describe a songs meaning,
If it's something that to each individual it means something different?

To one it's a song to play at a wedding,
Another another it is to be played at their funeral,
To some it's something drunkenly blundered through with your buddies at the bar when your hammered,
To others it's something that's best played quietly on the radio at night.

To me it's a song about a perfect Florida night,
Standing on the beach with my toes buried in the sand,
Staring up at a star sparkled sky,
Creating a dichotomy of images that leap out at me in full color,
When the vertigo finally breaks,
Rocketing my body into space and the constellations beyond,
Beautiful sights never to be seen or studied again,
Each an individual beauty to be marveled at for but a second,
Before being forever lost,
Then being slammed back down to earth again,
Gaining momentum more and more,
Wind that shouldn't be in space forcing me to shut my eyes against it's sting.

Finally reaching earth and breaking through the atmosphere,
A fire from the friction trailing behind me a mile long,
Streaking across the Pacific and the Western US in a blink,
Hurtling at Florida with speeds that induce a pucker factor of 10.

Faster still,
And the beach is soon in sight,
Breaching the horizon that was made by the gulf.

Tearing in many times past the speed of sound,
My impact into the sand leaves a grader that forever changes the coastline,
Driving me deep into the earth crust.

...

I open my eyes,
As I look up from where I lay on that Florida beach,
Feeling in one piece and whole again.

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.

Jimmy Page rips into his guitar as I rip into some nachos,
Covered with some real toxic-spicy **** I accidentally created in the kitchen,
And suddenly Black Dog becomes an anthem to my agony.

The habanero peppers dig hooks in as the serannos and the jalapenos begin going to work,
Hitting me with staccato body blows,
Pausing but for a moment before laying in again.

It's as if the very air itself is aflame,
The sriracha's heat sears my throat and lungs,
With the cayenne peppers charring my stomach.

My eyes water,
I want to wail like Plant at the moment,
As sweat begins to gather on my brow,
The sickly sweet stink of the apple cider vinegar used laces the air and stings the nose,
****** hair practically gets singed as it passes.

Page let's loose a riff with his instrument that imitates my heartbeat,
As the heat finally grows too high.

I reach for my only lifeline,
Something almost as terrible as the devil's ketchup itself.

I take the mason jar and take a swig,
And another fire snuffs out the one currently raging in my esophagus and brain.

My breath fast,
Blinking hard and quick,
As the song fades along with a bit of my happiness at creating something so wicked,
As I grab another chip...

John Denver serenades me tonight,
As I **** down nicotine and ash,
My senses are alight,
My joy drawing from some infinite cache,
As I think back to Her,
To my run-in with Ms. Minnesota.

A jarring bump in of coincidence,
But not entirely unwelcome,
Your voice carried your smile,
The real thing was like telecom,
Broadcasting far and wide.

A resident of the once-glacial ridden plains,
But a call girl at heart,
I wonder if the waves call to your soul?

You're concerned that I have to drive home so late in the night,
And I secretly wonder if you're trying to disguise that you're sad to see me go,
But now that it's so late,
This bump-in unfortunately needed to end.

You wish me a goodnight,
And to you I do the same,
Probably with a goofy smile on my face,
I walk out of the front door,
And head on home.

I think of Ms. Minnesota,
And the goofy smile is back,
I certainly hope we meet again.

Cruising through The Great Plains,
In a well traveled and well loved hatchback,
The calm rhythm of folk acoustics follow the gentle sloping motions the land takes as they travel
Clusters of trees off in the distance,
Looking like tidal waves in the evening sky,
Looking almost dark blue under a cloud filled sky,
Forming an ocean all their own.

Tearing up I-75 like bats outta Hell
The radio jacked up to MAX
to be heard to the roaring of the wind,
Seeing as the top is off of the jeep

Zeppelin and The Who
Van Fleet and The White Stipes
Generations of rock
Shared by the elder and the young
Different problems faced
Yet shared circumstances

The pace is rapidly set
Like invaders they ride
Or gunslinger of the old west
Buying into the legends of their own immortality
Like a final ride  before closing that part of the past for good

Even some of that Seattle sound trickles in
A much younger and angrier Pearl Jam
Sometimes even the garage rock get a turn in the spotlight
Their pace exponentionally increases like a runaway train
It's end destined to be in a glorious and terrible wreck

The road trip is on
These rockers of all ages are on the warpath to a good time

God help us all

What strange creatures are we,
Humans,
Capable of finding something that is by all means ordinary suddenly beautiful and new.

One-sided feeling,
Perpetual curiosity,
Argumentative to a fault,
Falsehoods for no good reason.

Waking up at peace with the world,
And suddenly become flooded with the awful rememberence that someone you loved was forever gone.

What odd creatures are we.

Never allowing us to truly rest on our laurels when we lose someone
Smiling upon those times with them where everything was good,
A sad smile of times lone gone,
Gone with the autumn leaves.

Spiraling mindsets,
Shattered perceptions,
Twisted and mangled plans for the future lie all around.

Dying dreams scattered in the churned-up mud,
As a light but steady rainfall of dread cascades upon the carnage.

The accusations are steaming from where the rain hits it,
Both sides fired shots at each other so rapidly the barrels warped beyond recognition.

Rusted fields of barbed comments lie between,
Where even a knick could spell infection and disaster.

New dreams arrive to replace the old,
But are torn asunder just as quickly,
Hard truths rake their lines as they cross,
Torn asunder by those terrible things.

This place was once nice,
Full of hope,
A place of peace and happiness,
But now is lost,
To fire and steel,
As the guns finally fall silent.

Alone a tired man writes,
The scratches of pencil on paper his only companion in the room,
Writing down his experiences,
Hoping someone will read them one day.

His shoulders are slightly slumped,
As if weighted down by all he has seen and done,
A physical presence that never leaves him,
A great yet terrible burden he bared.

His once -sharp eyes are slightly dulled,
As if to filter the things he now sees,
Through the tint that is the past.

His hair is grey,
The dark hair he once had long since changed,
A new grey hair with every lesson learned,
Lessons he writes down.

Scars can be easily seen on his tan skin,
Traversing from his gnarled fingers,
Up across the backs of his hands and disappearing up past his elbows,
Hidden by his rolled up sleeves,
A roadmap of past knicks, cuts, and mistakes.

The scratching continues in the room,
With pauses only for him to put a filled piece of paper into the growing stack,
Drawing a blank one and continue writing once again.

How much of a difference,
Does a few hours make?

In the grand scheme that is time,
A few hours can be both nothing and everything,
Windows of opportunity,
Constantly opining and closing,
With just a few ticks of the clock,
Some never to return.

When our lives are a summation of these things,
They seem to take on a new importance, no?

One door closes,
Another opens,
A labyrinth of opportunities and pitfalls,
With no guide to possibly be found.

So take a moment,
Collect yourselves,
There are a million opportunities more,
And fear not the unknown,
My friend,
It is the recognizable that should be feared.

Cresting the peak of the mountain,
The Wanderers stopped their wagon for a moment,
To take in the glory before their eyes,
Great mountains all around,
The bases of these monoliths of time shrouded by clouds and mist,
Hiding their true size,
When the clouds were shot through by the wind,
It completed their effect,
It was as if the mountain peaks were islands,
Protrutions from an ocean of soft white.

They had traveled for days,
Their horses sore,
Treacherous was their way,
But the reward could not be ignored,
A prize of knowledge and lore,
Pieces of puzzles that they needed,
For solving it had evaded both of them for so long.

Their reasons for answers were different,
Brought together by chance,
But it was as if their fates intertwined,
Curling around one another like creeping vines until they would not, could not be separated.

One was an individual formed from facts and an urge to adventure,
Away from family for the first real time,
She was the summation of the terrerial,
Things as solid as the wooden boards beneath her feet,
The other was formed by instinct and an urge for purpose,
Experienced in the world and it showed,
He was the summation of the ethereal,
The abstract, like the legends and folk tales of old.

The fought for different reasons, yet the end goals were the same,
Two individuals bound down a path of hardships and toil,
Trials and tribulations that neither could imagine was in store.

But it was something both knew could be conquered,
For touched by fate were they,
As they got their horses going again,
They descended down the path,
Into the mists,
Into the horror and unknown.

A singular spark
Igniting a small amount of kindling,
From there it feeds,
The worst and most terrible flames can be caused by the smallest of embers.

It hits you like a semitruck,
One that is loaded with lead weights and ******* bees,
It's like a switched is flipped and your mind is transported to an earlier time,
To when you were younger and more brash,
When the calm flame that resides within you rages into a towering inferno that threatens to burn anything that stands in its way.

Past goals that you once thought impossible to reach now seem trivial,
And that you can now blow through them like their made of wet tissue paper.

Your hands start to shake like nothing else,
Not from fear,
But excitement,
It's like all your senses crank up to 11 and beyond,
Everything is crisp and vivid.

You're ******,
Your not sure at what,
But you know you're ******,
And it's not a spatula anger,
It's the kind of rage that people are wary of,
For it's one that is tempered by calculated thoughts and an even rationale.

The real dangerous kind.

You need to get up,
To do something,
Anything.

But sometimes the inferno will burn everything up,
Leaving only smoldering ruins and devestation.

Ice clinking,
Cool liquid touching lips,
The familiar of ethanol biting the back of my throat where some remains.
Percussive,
Repetitive,
Hypnotic.

A soft strum of a ukulele  breaks that pattern,
Accompanying the beautiful wails that I know will haunt my dreams,
As assuredly as the person who she wails over will haunt hers,
If she can sleep at all that is.

It's staccato rhythm is almost primal,
Like an erratic heartbeat,
Driving the song with time signature changes,
It's unpredictablilty works well,
Xylophone notes giving it an etherial-like quality,
As if to give me a feel that I'm in a dream,
In the sleep that evades me so.

Their voices sound forgiving,
Almost begging,
But their words relay a bitterness,
Who was it that scorned them so?

As the song draws to a close,
It fades off as if the band has finally drifted off into the sleep they craved so.

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.

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.

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.

It's that time again,
The voice crooning softly belongs to Josh Kiszka,
With a voice eerily reminiscent to Plant,
Perhaps a comment on the music one is raised on?

Taking a drag while thinking back,
To when times were simpler,
To when the innocence of childhood shielded one from all the nasty things of life,
To a place that was better,
The before.

Before bills,
Before taxes,
Before jobs, responsibility, and chores.

The before.

Ripped back into the now,
I exhale,
Tapping ash into an overflow tray,
Older and wiser,
But worn and a bit frayed,
Wishing for the before.

Before check ins,
Before people felt the need to lock their doors at night,
To when it was better,
A pinnacle of its own.

Drawing in again as one of the other brother rips into a solo that seems like it's straight from the Bron-Yr-Aur sessions,
To the before.

The Before can be reached again

The heros were at a crossroads once again,
But a much different one from the time before,
This one was one where they had not been,
And one they would end up not all traveling along the same path.

The Drummer and the Bassist pleaded for the Frontman to see reason,
That the path he chose only would lead to ruin,
But with the spider whispering its words their pleas fell upon deaf ears.

It is here that the Frontman struck it out alone,
Feeling betrayed upon their refusal to join him on this path.

He was alone now,
With only the spider for company,
Too blinded to it all to realize the dangers upon the road he went.

As time went on,
The days grew long,
And the struggle for The Frontman grew ever greater.

Feeling adrift in time,
Without a map or compass,
The spider ensnared him further still.

It whispered wicked things,
Full of malice and hate,
Corrupting the Frontman wings,
A cruel arrow shot through him by fate,
A great gift tainted by the spiders poison.

Like a volcano that lay dormant,
For so long it seemed almost forgot,
But after too long it exploded,
The target of it all were those that were adorant,
Tearing asunder all that it sought.

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.

Objective upon objective,
They stack one upon the other,
Higher and higher indeed,
Until a snag scrubs it entirely away.

A new stratagem was needed,
A long term goal to help better align the rest of your life,
But steps must be taken,
And too soon they always pile up,
And the stratagem must be cast away.

This continues onwards,
Farther and farther,
Leaving The Frontman awash in an ocean of grey.

Inhaling deep,
The crackling of burning tobacco and paper,
The drying sensation in my mouth as smoke is brought in,
A slight stink in the back of my throat as hot ash slightly sears in passing,
A small amount of vertigo as oxygen is deprived from the brain and the endorphins flood in.

Taking a deep breath just after,
Delivering cool oxygen to my lungs.

Wait

Wait

Wait

Exhale,
As another rush of endorphins hits,
Releasing a stream of grey smoke,
Contributing to the haze already collecting near the ceiling.

Flick
Flick,
And ash falls from the end and collects in the faux marble ash tray,
A small mound having already formed.

Elbow on the table,
And watching the stream of smoke lazily drift up in unique patterns,
Each one different as various small winds changes each a little bit each time,
Mesmerizing really.

Take a pause and do it all over again,
Rinse and repeat.