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.

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.

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.

The fire is crackling,
Head slightly spinning,
The world is quiet as I write,
Zevon keeps me company tonight,
Thinking thoughts of you.

It's hard to believe you've been gone for three months already,
Three months since your sister broke the news.

Perhaps I held off writing this,
Thinking that not doing so kept some part of you alive,
That my simple denials were all it took to keep you with us.

Perhaps it was after that the anger,
Rage at what you'd done,
Bitter at the precieved betrayal,
That if anyone were to kick off this mortal coil first it was gonna be me.

Maybe it was that I was holding out hope that if I didn't write this you would just appear one day, and as long as I didn't you would say.

It might have been I was just too tired.

I remember when we first met,
I thought you as nobody more than some silly kid from Staten Island,
With dreams and delusions bigger than your stomach,
But you won me over with corny jokes and high spirits,
Whether it be because of the ****** weather,
Or when my Grandmother died.

The tears come now,
On this chilly March morn,
As I think back, to 3 months ago.

I hadn't seen your family in years,
The ones who considered me like a second son and brother,
Fearing they would hate me,
For what I wasn't quite sure,
That I hadn't done more,
That we hadn't spoke to one another in so long?
I certainly hated myself,
Driving through those Pennsylvania Wilds.

I remember the last time we spoke,
Relaxing in your familial home,
You embraced me and told me to be careful,
Telling me you loved me in your own words,
And I told you in my own words too.
God I ******* miss you.

Zevon plays on,
The tears come faster still,
The screen is blurry as I type,
Warren's words echo what I imagine yours would be.

You were a poet,
A warrior,
A brother,
My friend.

Confidant,
Motivator,
Philosopher,
My friend.

When we took you to the cemetery,
I was right there at your side,
Carrying you to where you would forever rest,
Before they sealed you in I snuck my pin into your hands,
I was afraid you'd forget me.

I was the first to leave the building,
So I could sneak around a corner and shatter.
The brave face I held for your family impossible to maintain,
I suspect your family knew,
But it was the way I was raised.

After I left for home,
About halfway I broke down again,
This time on a cliffside vista,
The landscape mostly obscured by the driving snowstorm and evening gloom.

The rest of the way I played your favorite tunes, and sang along as badly as you use to.

I miss you Mike,
And I know I will never completely understand,
But you will always be with me,
Upon my arm and in my heart,
Watching my back through all my stupid ideas.

Warren's song has ended,
The fire died down to glowing embers,
Tears dried and eyes aching,
Tiredness dragging at my bones.

But I'll heed his words, Mike,
I'll keep you in my heart for a while,
Alongside all the others.

After all,
He never said how short "a while" had to be

Tell me my love,
What is it you need me to be?

Am I to be a shining knight?
Slay the dragon,
Climb the tower,
Defeat the evil king with my might?

Do you need the gentle giant,
A gorilla in the mist,
Some juxtaposition of size and timidity,
A stalwart wall of muscle that is oh-so reliant?

Shall I be an old-time Cowboy,
The Marlboro Man made flesh,
With those predator/prey eyes that scan the horizon,
Shaded from the sun with a hat made of corduroy.

Or maybe I should just stay me,
The man that is always there for you,
The joking friend that is your favorite person,
The one that makes you feel oh so free.

A hiss as pressurized fuel escapes as a gas,
Fumes escaping into the atmosphere.

The crackling of steel scraping on flint,
The cacophony of sparks following,
A fountain of brilliant orange light.

The ignition point is a dark blue,
As one of the sparks finally ignite the billowing fumes,
Spreading almost instantly,
Eating up the latchkey mixture of oxygen and fuel,
Produced in such a violent reaction was...


a singular light


Its flickering warmth
Dancing across the winds as they pass nearby.

The heat deflects off cold steel,
And soon a change was being made.

The Frontman took forth the Elixir,
The gift of the very helpful spider,
Providing him a way to save that which had been lost?

The Frontman looked at the Elixir,
Multicolored & unintelligible patterns flashing through the post mortem aqua vitae.

The Frontman drove the cure into his body,
Hoping to fill the long bleeding wound in his heart,
Hoping he could just speak to them again.

Too late to realize that the Elixir was gilded,
That the game had been rigged from the start,
The flashing covering up the milky white venom,
And the cure?

A nail in the coffin.

Think of the *****,
The hobo,
The Great American Travlin' Man,
Seeing the sights,
The great spans of this weird and wonderful county,
Taking in places that will never be seen by you or me.

We look down upon them,
Or with indifference,
Content with our homes, cars, and jobs,
But consider this you,
With these things would we really be considered free?

Chained by loans,
By the banks,
By a mortgage or three?
Who's more at liberty,
Us or the ***** travlin' the street?

Pardon me stranger,
Could I have a moment of your time?
Are you available to give to me,
A smidge of your mind?

I can see the ashes in your eye,
Grey and flaking out as you blink,
Falling like gentle snow,
Small puffs as they hit the ground,
Leaving a gentle trail in your wake.

The gentle sounds of a crackling fire following you,
Each and every step,
Much akin to the crinkling of a pop can,
A bittersweet reminder of the things you've had to take.

The scent that wafts from you,
The smell of charred oak,
That oh-so unique sensation,
Of destruction, or something that was used to create?

That warmth that seems to emanate from your very soul.
Seeping into everyone that you pass,
The dying gasps of a forest fire?
Or of a carefully tended campfire,
To fend off a winter's cold embrace?

So if you can,
Kind stranger,
A piece is all I ask,
So that I may see,
So that I may partake.

Sitting with my father,
And a man I grew up regarding as an uncle,
Catching up and reminiscing of earlier days,
When they did something that made my heart break.

They both looked at an empty chair,
As if waiting for it to chime in,
A chair where a third man used to sit.

My father's smile grew slack,
The twinkle that was there snuffed out,
My uncle took a quick draw,
From both his cigarette and his beer,
Both sucker-punched by the old sting of grief,
Remembering their 3rd.

A mix of these two men,
The third use to be,
A man with an uproarious personality,
The kind of friend every man finds that he needs.

He was a kind soul,
A man to emulate,
Kindred to his fellows,
A rare quality you never see.

A confidant,
A sounding board,
A getaway driver,
A unique kind of breed.

They come to,
The moment shattered,
And they continue to speak.

Walls closing in, hard to breath,
Staccato rhythmic my chest.
Looking back over every word,
How did I **** up,
Had to,
How could I not,
Dark,
Dismal,
Sinister whispers.

Been a while since I felt this sensation,
Like an unwelcome person back into my life,
****** up,
Had to,
Rata-tat-tat goes the heart.

Forgive me for my **** up,
Twas not my intent,
Words slipping out without realizing,
Hours later,
Analyzing,
Reanalyzing,
Overanalyzing?
No, wouldn't feel this way otherwise.

Apologies not enough,
What if this is the straw that breaks the back,
What if this is the point where it all falls apart?

My fault,
Of course my fault,
How can it not be my fault.
Rata-tat-tat goes the heart in the chest.

Pressure release valve needed,
None to be found,
Reach for my laptop and pound on the keys,
Will words be enough?
Will the prose suffice?
Am I bound for a torturous night of no sleep?

But I deserve it,
How can I not,
Good ol' Rob ******* up yet again,
Can't do anything right,
Could never do anything right,
Deserves all that he gets.

Vision narrowed,
Tunnel of black,
Pinpricks of light that are all that can be seen.
Turning burning eyes into watery blurs,
Rata-tat-tat goes the engine as it screams.

My brain is suddenly alight like fireworks,
A thousand ideas spawning from thin air,
Things I've forgotten ten times over come back in a flash,
Birthday dates,
Phone numbers of old coworkers,
Names of films.

I need to find paper,
Need to write this down before I forget.
My phone rings,
I answer it,
It's a Telemarketer,
CLICK!

The paper before me lies mostly blank,
The only words written are as follows:
--------------------------------------------------------­-------
                                   Glass stopper
            Canada!      
                                  Pe
      Colin Hay                             black garlic


       ()**()
         /l l/
----------------------------------------------------------------­
          ^ Above is my best text translation of a doodled elephant head.

I'm about to scream,
Because I can't remember for the life for me as to why I wrote them,
It's all dialogue with no context.
A paper of hieroglyphs and me without a Rosetta Stone.

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.

It keeps me up at night,
The future,
Such a beautiful place of impossibilities,
A place that holds the laughter of my son,
The tears over my just-passed wife,
And my grandchild's love of books.

I must talk quick,
For I'm unsure as to when this feeling I'm having shall fade.

An inner monologue of sorts,
Much like that of Johnny Depp as he plays  the role of Hunter S. Thompson in the film "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"

How far,
Dear Reader,
Would you go to stick to your core beliefs?
Even if that means being Cold, Alone, and Abandoned for the Wolves,
Excommunicated and Exiled?
How strong is your faith in your ideals,
Reader?

Hopefully most of you won't ever have to go to such lengths,
But to those who do,
You unfortunate individuals,
I wish you good luck and Godspeed.
Been there before,
And I don't relish ever going back to that.

But if you weather the storm,
I'll be there at the finish line,
With a bottle of water and a change of clothes.

When I first moved out of my parents place,
And got an apartment with two of my buddies,
They asked why whenever I wanted to relax,
I'd have a beer and listen to music,
Why not play video games or watch TV?

I looked at them and remembered why,
It's what my grandpa would do when my grandparents babysat me ,
He'd be sitting in his chair, chewing some tobacco and listening to the radio,
Big Bands blaring out of the tinny speaker,
Enjoying the shade of the screened-in mud room.
And when I was a little older,
My dad use to sit out on the back porch after a hard day's work doing landscaping,
Nursing a cold beer and be listening to his records, which he had set up right by the backdoor, it's screen door allowing the sound to pass through with ease.
Sometimes Led Zeppelin,
Sometimes Rush,
Sometimes it was a band of some local talent that was all the rage for a week back in 1974.

Now it was my turn, even years after the revelation, that it was their way to decompress,
A reprieve from the days struggles.
For me it's a dining room that has a sliding glass door that opens out into the back yard,
Where I can play songs of my choice,
Either from albums I've gleaned from record shops over the years,
Or CDs burned , a gift from one person or another that everyone seems to collect over the years.

I'm almost out of smokes,
I realize,
This thought halting the ruminations I was just having,
I need to also choose a new record or CD,
Maybe getting a drink wouldn't be too bad either.

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?

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.

What kind of person are you?
Are you the kind of person who pulls the first smoke out of a pack,
Only to put it back into the pack upside down,
Dubbing it the "Lucky Smoke".

Maybe you're the kinda person who says they're into Johnny Cash,
But didn't even know Cash started out singing Gospel.

Could you be the kinda person to be able to have their nose broken,
Only to smile because you've finally come across something that's a challenge?

Perhaps you have a secret talent,
One you think you're not good enough at to show anyone,
But trust me, if people knew about it I know they'd be surprised.

Perhaps you feel like you've been dumped straight into the gutter,
By either those you trusted,
Or by those you never expected to betray you.

Whoever you are,
If you're feeling alone, trapped, or like the walls are closing in,
Come take a seat,
Let me tell you a tale or two,
Let's listen to a record or three,
And maybe I can ease your mind for a little bit,
In this smoky room of mine.

Speaking of the Man in Black,
Cash is playing the role of a dying man,
Who is begging his friend to do something, anything to save him.
His words like weights upon one's shoulders.

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.

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?

Motivation seemed to be a big issue for me as a kid,
Only what had me interested would get me more actively pay attention,
But when it happened I was like a dog with a bone,
Hard pressed to give it up,
My motivation burning brightly.

But such motivation could be a double edged blade,
For flames that burn the brightest are also those that are very short lived.

It makes me wonder about you, dear reader,
Is your motivation slow and steady?

Or perhaps your like me,
Brilliant but fleeting,
The experience of discovery and newness of an activity being your real drive?

To the former,
Take a chance and be more aggressive in your actions,
May this advice bring more wind into your sails.

To the latter,
Pump the break for a second,
Take in the scenery so to speak,
Be amazed in the factors that went into shaping the events around you,
You may discover something you may have missed otherwise.

And to those I've previously left out,
Don't worry,
And wipe away that pout,
I was saving for the best for last.

You tightrope walkers,
Tiptoeing the razors edge,
Follow your gut,
For it hasn't led you astray yet.

Carry on my fellow travelers,
Your pioneering efforts haven't gone in vain,
Blaze the trails,
Climb the mountains,
And ride the rapids.

This evening I was listening,
To the ebb and flow,
Maynard James Keenan was telling me a tale,
One of struggle and heartbreak,
The passing of a person he loved,
After 27 years in tribulation,
That she would finally be free.

It reminds me of when I was a child ,
When a person very close to me died,
Cancer ravaged their body,
A brilliant mind imprisoned in a failing vessel.
He was smarter than any of us,
And because he knew what the endgame would be,
That there would be no last minute solution,
No magic cure,
Because he knew that he was calm.

The way he carried himself,
Knowing that terrible truth,
Was nothing short of legendary,
Every stride with purpose,
An in-extinguishable fire in his eyes.
And in the end he greeted the end that we all must eventually face like a cool summer breeze,
Knowing that he would no longer feel the pain,
That of his body turning on itself.

He was better than us all,
Someone we should all aspire to be,
We're glad he has peace,
That he was finally called home.

It's a nice day, as I curse the very concept of a migraine,
Ian Anderson is flittering about,
Telling me of a peculiar elf like character,
That looked after the plants during the winter,
He is a minstrel that expertly weaves a narrative, in which we are played down on a hammock of his words.

Now it's a cautionary tale.
A tale of an old man and a mouse,
And that like the mouse,
The man could see the trappings of his everyday life like shackles,
Unnecessary responsibility a collar.

Ian probably is standing like a crane at this point,
One foot off the ground, steady as a rock.
The hat atop his head quite peculiar,
Giving off an almost manic expression,
As he plays his flute,
Coming off as slightly unhinged.
But what would you give to be able to live life in such a manner?
Without a care in the world,
Able to solve all your problems without having to worry,
As the stakes of failure would be so low as to not even warrant attention.

I open my eyes against my will,
The light spilling in from the window at just the right level to bath my face in the rays of the morning sun.

Vedder's emotionally raw voice is coming from the radio in my clock,
His words attempting to smooth the pounding coming from my head,
But to no avail.

The harmonica an excellent segue to the playing of a song,
A complete opposite to Jeremy,
The strain on my eyes ease a little,
As I make breakfast,
It's almost gone by the time I'm writing this,
About to head out to do some landscaping.

Vedder is now telling us all a tale,
Of a boy who finds out a terrible news,
The man whom he calls his father,
Is actually his stepfather,
And that his biological father was dead.

His words haunting me as I go outside to work.

I've been traveling,
Trying to return to my roots,
So return I did,
Returned to the woods,
That carpet the mountains of the Appalachian.

Up the mountains I climbed,
An old rifle slung across my back,
Boonie cap keeping eyes free from the harsh glare of the sun as it filters through the canopy above
Trying to find on the mountain that I've been lacking in the North..

Wildlife is active all around,
A breeze is flowing up the mountain,
Whisking the settling heat up and past the peak,
My footfalls soft and sure.
I come across old trails I haven't seen in years,
Mostly washed away and rendered impassible.
On the eastern face I find the remnants of a forest fire.
The field that once held nothing but cinders littered with healthy saplings,
Already taller than I,
New deer trails and bedding areas,
The old ones I discover to be abandoned and the new roost of varmint.

It finally strikes me,
As I descend off of the old mountain,
The truth of what it was I lacked,
I fell into the trap that ensnare many a men down in the South.

The trap that the Mountains lay,
From the Adirondacks to the Allegheny,
Of being a timeless place,
Where you are unplugged from the rest of the world,
And everything is simpler,
It's a trap that had not chains to wrap around arms and legs,
But to encase around the mind.

It is easier to leave than last time,
For I know I shall return,
To this little retreat,
In the Daniel Boone National Forest.

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.

Flickering little flame,
guttering in your final moments,
what was once some great blaze,
now gasping your final breaths.

Lower and lower now,
blinking some kind of morse code into the Aether,
telling those out beyond the dark of your tale,
of your victories and defeats.

Of where you were and what you did,
the sights you saw and the things you heard,
whisper some more now,
little flame.

Tell them of how you started out as this little spark,
brought forth from material energy,
whose trip was a tale all its own,
summoned from the heavens to bear down,
and claim your terrestrial throne.

And oh, what a throne you held,
little flame,
rising up to conquer this world,
beautiful yet terrifying,
horrifying and baroque,
a destructive force that would sweep the board,
and set up the pieces anew.

You smolder out,
little flame,
accompanied by a little whisp of smoke,
a sad but appropriate epitaph,
to mark the end of your reign,
a glowing ember all that remains,
which disappears soon after you.

Flexing of biceps,
Feeling pressure like the skins gonna rip,
Tiger pacing in this cage,
Make it hurt this time please,
Give me a double of that delicious pain.

Let me hear that clinking of steel,
Turn my flab to taut,
Let me kneel at that altar,
And let me sacrifice that pound of flesh.

Skin crawling with fire,
Burning at 15 million degrees,
Let the frenzy of my highlander ancestors possess me,
Fill me up with that Scottish rage.

Singular focus,
Struggle is oh-so-great,
Carry me across the crest.

Ascend me to that higher plain,
To where my demons are slain,
Where the rest is granted with trembling muscles,
And the lungs burn with blood and sweat.
Let my chest be darkened with persperation,
Raining down from my brow like a deluge from the heavens,
Brought in my efforts and gains

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.

Bring it on sandman,
You little ****,
I'm gonna break your ****** nose this time...

Crack you in the face with 3 cans of energy drinks,
Clap your ears with open palms of Clutch's latest album,  "Sunrise at Slaughter Beach" at 100 decibels,
Kick you in the nuts with a steel toed boot of a lit cigarette stuck in the nostril,
Inhaling deeply ,
Painfully sending cinders through my sinuses.

Body blows of cold water,
Blasted through the most concentrated setting on the nozzle of the showerhead,
You feeling it yet bud?!?

I can go 12 rounds,
And your knees are shaking on the 3rd.

Knock out a few teeth with smelling salts,
Kicking that sweet sweet adrenaline into overtime,
Overclocking the ol' brain matter with that brown fluid in the grey matter,
Show me them pearly whites now.

I will beat you this time slim,
I know all your tricks,
Give me your best shot,
And well see how well your blows meet the meat.

Immaculate hit you 3 ways,
Hard, fast, and repeatedly,
Write your will with your blood and spit,
Cuz when I'm done with you,
You'll be crawling away from me,
Beggin' like a little *****.

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.

The Agent stood on the corner,
Smelling faintly of bourbon and stale cigarettes,
Loss and despair.

He was a rising star when he had started,
A keen eye for talent and shrewd in business.
But those times had long past,
For all he had now was the bittersweet yearn of nostalgia and just enough in royalties for a dumpy apartment.

A light rain started,
It's cold droplets stinging lightly on the Agent's reddened nose,
Irking him,
Beyond not just having a drink.

The Agent spots his shelter,
A bar just down the street.

As he walks in,
He shakes loose the rain that hadn't clung yet,
And shuffles over to the bar with hands shoved deep in pockets,
He goes and orders a drink.

It is then that he looks over to see a band getting ready in the corner,
It is then that the Frontman belted out the count in.

And the agent dropped his drink.

Why are so many poems sad?
So serious and full of melancholy?
Where are all the poems of puppies and socks fresh out of the dryer,
Those poems that fill you with glee?

I want those rhyming schemes filled with jokes,
That make you want to chuckle and stamp your feet,
That make you feel a bit happier,
That make you feel a bit of cheer.

I know that it all can't be kittens and rainbows,
But can we open the blinds from time to time,
To let natures beauty shine through to you and me?

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 *****

They traveled together,
The passionate group of three,
They stop at a bar to catch their breath.

The Bassist was quiet quiet and aloof,
His lack of words offset by the weight of each one,
On the rare occasion when he'd throw in his two cents,
His sound was emotional and true,
He spoke without speaking,
With tired eyes,
And a half crooked smile.
He drank a Guinness from a clean pint glass.


Next was the Drummer,
Bobbing his head to a tempo only he could hear,
His sound and energy was like a locomotive engine when he gained momentum,
He would play through a ten minute intermission if let to his own devices.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk,
Darting to and fro,
His expression of a not-quite-there-frown,
More of a look of constant boredom.
He drank some pale beer that was probably half watered down to start with from a dingy glass.

And at last we have the Man,
Who was now the Frontman,
With a well-worn guitar,
He was dedicated, but haunted by the fear of failure,
But fear can still be used to fuel a sound,
Adding an edge of importance to his words,
His eyes are closed, however, to better concentrate on the sound coming from the old and battered jukebox,
A blank face is his,
Indecipherable to even those who knew him best,
He drank a bottle of something local,
From a bottle,
With just a pinch of salt.

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.

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

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.

Sometimes funny,
Sometimes terrifying,
Sometimes mysterious,
Something nice.

Something remembered,
Something forgotten,
Something changed,
Something repeated.

Wake up.

Their message was sent,
The people,
They had rallied,
And at the front of this force stood The Three,
They traveled far,
They traveled wide.

By now The Frontman was a full adult,
The face of a man you'd trust,
Well spoken and confident,
Ready for anything that could come.

Their faces we're everywhere,
Their voices and sound being sent on all the wires,
Bound for History were The Three,
The only factor was time.

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.

Rapid striking of Copper and Nickel,
Tantalizing both the ear and the heart,
What is it that this hypnotic tune,
That has both the momentum of a freight train and a falling feather,
is trying to tell us?

Realization drops like an anvil upon the egg of a quail

This siren song is calling westward,
O' Hark!
Offering both salvation and  damnation,
The Spirit of the West Herself calls,
Rattling one's teeth with her percussive thunder,
Blinding with the flashes of her lightning,
Strobe-like in both aspects,
Prostrate thyself,
For with every booming step she draws closer,
and the music grows louder.

Is that her steps now?
Or the thundering of your heart in your chest?

She whispers upon the howling winds,
Promising nothing that is in your control to change,
Only that her domain is a hard and still wild place.

It is everything you feel the desire in this moment,
An escape from this quicksand you have found yourself in,
Toward the unknown yet the sought after.

What shall happen next,
That is the chapter that we'd have to write,
For good or ill,
A sign or an omen.

Drive Forward!
With a thundering of your own,
With the ground shaking momentum of a thousand charging horses, I say!
Drive forward with a fury of your own making,
Let your purpose be just and true!

DRIVE!!!

...

And like she was never there,
The Spirit of the West disappears,
Her spectral like visage disappearing into the wall,
The vision broken,
Leaving you once again in the quiet and dimly lit room.

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.

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.

Click
         Clack
                                  Click
                  Click
  Click

The butterfly knife handle is smooth against my palm,
Worn down through years of ownership and use.

Click
                 Clack
         Click
                                  Click
   Clack

Curtis Stirgers is telling me the story of Poor Ol' John,
My mind is at peace,
And my thoughts are clear.

  Click                    
                    Click
                                       Clack
                            Click
                                      Clack

I can see the flashes of steel,
Sending off glints of light out in the darkened room,
I'm mostly zoned out,
A quasi-zen state in this dance of blade and flesh,
A Balisong Ballet.


Click
         Clack
                                  Click
                  Click
  Click

Sometimes I feel like my life is this canyon,
with a river in the bottom of it,
And that I'm on a raft,
Paddling along.

And in this canyon,
From my raft,
I can see those who have been my mentors,
Up at the tops of the canyon,
Calling out to me if they see rapids ahead.

So far they've been pretty good about it,
Not saying there haven't been rough patches,
A couple of close calls,
But I'm still in one piece.
I know that up ahead though,
There's whole lotta rough stuff,
And my lookouts aren'tt going to be of much use.
So it'll be just me against whatever's up ahead,
With nothing to rely on but my own wit.
It'll be like the bad 'ol days.

Eddie Vedder's voice is raised barely above a whisper,
He's saying his goodbyes to society,
Wishing for them the best,
But saying ultimately he didn't belong with them.

I felt like that once,
When I was embarking as a fresh faced kid,
To fulfill his dream of serving his country,
As an infantryman,
And when I arrived and as I was trained,
It felt like I was finally in my element,
With people who thought like me,
Our Drill Sergeants were the perfect example of what we could be if we applied ourselves,
Our First Sergeant; an example of what we could do if we pushed ourselves past what we were traditionally taught wasn't possible,
Our commander was the kind of individual that you whisper about,
A Captain with a very inked out past,
An old man playing a game where men tended to die young.
Walking within the vicinity of such individuals was akin of walking amongst giants.
We as recruits all started out without much confidence,
What little we did have,
Was false confidence.
These men taught us what it meant to square up and get nose to nose with a whole load of nasty with a **** eating grin on your face.
We were immortal.

I sit here alone years later,
About to start the next chapter in my life,
When it dawned on me.
We knew each other when we were immortal,
We're not immortal anymore.

When my Grandfather passed away in April,
I was down there with him,
Making dinner for the two of us,
We'd watch jeopardy and the news,
While eating a Drumstick ice cream.
Whilst driving him to the doctors or shuffleboard league,
He'd tell me tales of when he was in the military,
And all the various hijinks him and his lifelong friend P.E. would get into.
He also had some last minute advice when he elected to be moved into hospice.

It was just a little over two years since my Grandmother passed,
When Grandpa decided to go to the next great adventure

He had some words that he was very sure couldn't wait.
I talked with him for hours that night,
Until he finally nodded off.
My sister and mother arrived the next morning,
And I left on a flight back to Ohio by noon.
We talked that morning,
For what he knew would be the last time.
He thought it would be best for me to head back up to Ohio.
He didn't want me to see him get any weaker.
He told me to live my life with as few regrets as possible, and that he loved me.

That was always a big thing for him.
He always said he couldn't ever remember his father ever telling him he loved him,
And that he tried to tell his kids and grandkids how much he loved them.
He would always be aware of what sports season was currently happening for his grandchildren,
And what their placing was.

He would get into these fits of laughter when he was trying to explain to something finny,
Where he couldn't even get any words out,
He'd be giggling too hard.

He was one of those people that when he was born,
God went and broke the mould.

Of the things I inherited, one of them was a typewriter.
Oddly enough,
It was about as technically advanced as he got,
Besides using the computer to play solitaire.
I remember when we'd go and visit in the summers,
On weeklong trips,
And I'd spend as much time as I could on that typewriter.
I'd start out with elaborate visions of a great novel or screenplay,
But by week's end they'd be short stories that were of ok quality for whatever age I'd be at the time.
What I never thought about is what happened to them when my family would  go back to Ohio,
I never thought my Grandpa would ever read them,
Let alone keep them.
So imagine my surprise when I come across a box labeled stories.

I miss you Grandpa

Gilmore, Waters, and Wright,
Powerful message you send across the waves this night,
Full of valor, sorrow,
Righteous fury and duty,
To a man who in the forest of his mind,
He is his own blight.

But a hollow shell of what you once were,
A pale imitation,
Your psyche fractured and raw,
You flew too high and burned too bright,
An Icarus to all those that saw your star dim and fall,
You got them out of the trenches, but was bogged down by the machine gun fire that is the world.

But it is too late to turn back, you say in your own mind,
I'm but a white dwarf,
An small insignificant thing that is but a husk of its previous glory and splendour,
But you must realize this,
Little white dwarf star,
Before the inevitable heat death of the universe,
These white dwarves will be the last thing burning,
After everything else goes cold and dark.
So shine on

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.