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

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.

The boys has aged,
On the cusp of becoming a man,
Old enough to drive but not old enough to vote.

The child has improved in eight years,
The sound comes vibrant from the boy, Although it is still a hair twangy,
And the timing off just a bit.

He has passion,
Though,
Which makes the imperfections that much better.
The sound Echoes in on itself when it bounces off the cement walls,
And the closed wooden door of the garage.

All of the boy's work producing an emotional and raw sound,
Which flails about,
Enticing others to do the same.

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.

She walks through a once destroyed field,
Bare feet slipping through tall grass upon this warm and clear summer day,
A place once filled with shattered rifle and hewn shield,
Crater-filled like the surface of the moon,
Now but small divots from where artillery shells were sent their way.

Her hair the color of spun gold and copper,
Looks out upon the grave of equipment and limbs,
Overgrown with wildflowers and sapling acting as shims,
Filling the spaces where corpses were dropped where men once stood,
Stood tall and proud for the sake of honor.

Green eyes flecked with silver,
Peer into both present and past,
Looking out upon both abject horror and utter beauty,
At ghosts long past and young men,
Looking into eyes filled with dread and deadness one moment,
And the next with exuberance and naivety.

Step by step she crosses these hill filled plains,
Teaming with life,
Where once not even the rats could survive.

Gentle breeze kisses her cheek,
Where once it would have been blistered by gas,
An elemental force providing a cooling sensation,
Once upon a time it would have been nothing but burning and fire.

Bees lazily drift across the visage,
Where once it would have been bullets,
And at this she freezes and her heart breaks,
Looking at what she sees.

In this duality she sees a young man,
Crying and clenching at his chest,
Laying in one of the small divots that adorn the land,
And at the same time she sees only a skeleton adorned in tattered cloth,
Still in silent in the final sleep.
She crouches down beside the boy/skeleton and gently caresses his cheek,
At this the boy looks up and stops his shrieks,
Gazing upon this angel in a land where not even the devil would tread.

A ghost of a smile graces his lips,
As a dulling takes place in his eyes,
The pulsing blood slows and stops,
And the specter of explosions slowly fade to wind through the grass once again.

She stands,
And continues on her way,
Witness to a hell made heaven,
In a field of France on a summer day.

You honestly think you know don't you,
Deep in your heart of hearts,
You wish to know the truth,
When in the end,
And after the fact,
You'll wished the secrets had remained so.

My mouth tastes only of ash and tobacco,
My right thumb sporting a small burn from the lighter,
And my eyes are dry and scratchy,
And all I think about is how you're gone from this world,
Never to greet the sunrise with me again,
To laugh at my stupid jokes,
Or be my only ally when the world itself seems to be out to get me,
A wall to press my back to,
A rope to my drowning man,
The Governor's stay of execution to my riding of Ol' Sparky.

I sit here,
Thinking of you Dear,
Watching the sunrise on the lake.

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.

As the Old King stared out upon his lands,
As the crops burn,
The village set ablaze,
His keep being ransacked,
His line  being ended.

The Old King reflects on it,
On his decisions as the invaders closed in.
Was it because he got too greedy?
Or perhaps he'd been too harsh,
Too violent in his actions,
To haste to lay down the law when there had been an alternative.

The Invaders they gotten into the room,
The rasp of a dagger as it's drawn.
Not too long now.

The Old King reflected on his family, Surely slaughtered by now.
Did they cry out for him to protect them,
As the sword blades and axe heads descended upon their heads?
He had failed them.

The Old King,
Who once stood tall,
Towering over anyone who would try to cow him,
Now stood with shoulders stooped,
An old sword,
Predating time immemorial,
Was held loosely in his grip.
The Assassins stepped closer.

One last glance,
As if to burn the sight of his dying Kingdom into his brain.
He was ready.

The Old King stood tall once more,
Taking the last chance he would ever get to do so.
His grip tightened,
The ancient leather creaking in his grip.
The Old King turned,
Sword held high,
Rushing to meet his executioner

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

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

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

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

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

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

....

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

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

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

It's back,
As are you, dear Reader,
A later night,
Smoke drifting lazilly across the beams of light,
Cast from the street lights outside through the blinds.

Neil Young is giving the info and the orders,
A call to gather and speak out against the injustices,
But only if they are present and an unaddressed problem.

It is only in witch hunts that witches are really noticeable,
And if there are none, then the hunters will make a monster,
Even if it sacrifices the innocent.

Sitting out here in the porch,
Listening to Tool,
My phone is fast dying,
Probably best that I allow it,
It's good for it long term,
To every once in a while just let it run
Completely out if juice.

Is that true for humans too?

You look at me,
Reading my face like a book,
When I think it is as solid as a tree,
You pour over the lines and crags like a Rosetta Stone,
Deciphering what I feel in my very bones.

It is alarming,
To have someone who gets so easily through my walls,
So carefully erected over the years,
But alarm is quickly followed by joy,
To have you in my inner bastion,
To assuage my worries and fears.

I don't think I'll ever quite get over the feeling,
That I don't ever deserve someone as good as you,
But in time I hope,
With care and shared memories,
That it will lessen and become an appreciation of something new.

There was a time in which I was bed-ridden for months,
Stuck in a limbo between weightless peace and excrutiating agony,
And all he while I saw snow bury the earth in a mighty wave of white,
It's winds lashing at anything exposed like the spray of the sea.

But all the while I lay bed-ridden.

As the snow began to melt,
So did the last dregs of lethargy from my shoulders,
It was time to charge on.

Busted half my stitches in my first try,
But it wouldn't be my last,
Getting stronger was the goal,
Here I stand,
Running when they said I'd need a cane for 3 years more.

Run Free

Hey there,
Glad to have you here at last.
I know that the porch is a bit chilled,
But there's a blanket on the couch,
Wrap yourself up and stay a bit,
Enjoy the Tunes,
And perhaps we will come to know a bit more about one another.

Eddie Vedder is the guest star for us tonight,
Talking of our connection between us and nature,
Fitting I think,
For my company here tonight.

When I was young I found that the world quite ******,
Filled with greed, selfishness, and awful,
It flowed around me like the sludge of delta,
That was on the outskirts of an industrial city,
Spewing oil-like pollution,
Our long term survival be ******.

When I was 18,
Freshly crossing the threshold that separates boy from man,
I came to find out there's more than just muck and mire.
There are fountains in these infested waters,
That spew forth clean, drinkable water,
Shining like golden beacons in this bayou-like slop.

....

I go to light a cigarette,
but looking back at you I quickly pocket it,
I know it bothers you,
and your comfort matters more to me than a quick fix of burning cinders and glowing embers.
Where was I again?
Doesn't matter, the song has changed and with it changes the train of thought.

The White Buffalo begins his tune,
Playing with all the momentum of a bucking bronco,
Yelling out in his unique way that he belongs in a much earlier time,
And I think the same holds true for you and me too.

I can imagine you down in the holler of Kentucky,
Or tucked away in some rural tract of Montana,
working with your horses,
Turning freight trains into true steeds,
Kind yet sassy like your own.
I know I would certainly be down in the holler,
Maybe farming,
Probably running shine,
With a smile on my face being chased by some coppers,
White lightning sloshing in the back and some splashed upon my mind.

The song changes again,
Where is the time going?
Benjamin Tod emanates from my phone now,
His tone, tune, and voice mellows me out a bit,
And I imagine you as well,
The song subject?
Difficult.
It's beauty?
Immeasurable.
Much like your views of people and those in this world.

I wouldn't call you naïve,
for that isn't true by any stretch,
But you see the best in others,
It scares me senseless,
For I know it's burned you before,
And it will burn you again,
But I will do my best to help you stay in this place,
For it is rarer than finding a fist sized diamond in a Tennessee Mountain.

The song comes to an end,
and the world is silent once more.
The playlist is over,
And I know you need to be heading home.
I walk you to the door and bring you in for a truly great bear hug.

The first time you hugged me you caught me by surprise,
making me realized that it was something that I loved supremely,
That you could find comfort from a broken down gruff grunt like me,
and that doing so brought some great measure of warmth to my touch-starved heart,
Something that I hadn't felt since I walled off that bleeding *****,
Many years ago.

I close the front door,
asking you to please let me know you got home safely,
and I retreat to the porch once more.

The familiar click of the zippo and burning of ash,
I feel guilty,
Even after you're gone,
I want to be better,
and perhaps I can be.

I stub it out after a few puffs,
blaming the short smoke on the cold March temperature.
Coming back to the warm inside,
And wait for you to say you've safely returned.

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

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

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

I never wanted him,
And I swore I never wanted him,
But the time he approached me about moving  in was the second I just didn't care.

At first it was awesome,
An exciting time,
Doing something not cookie cutter and certainly not something I'd do if I was in any sort of right mind.

And for a time it was great.

The curtains finally seemed to be drawn away,
But little did I know all I was doing was putting on blinders,
When I thought I was exploring the new and adventurous,
I was rooting through the dark and the dangerous.

The roommate turned out to be a creature,
A monster in sheep's clothing,
And he was in the middle of the flock.

I think I ridded myself of him,
Though he is always knocking on my door,
I made the mistake of letting him back in once,
Something I'll never repeat again.

Driving down the road,
Going much too fast,
One hand on the wheel,
The other around the shoulders of the girl he was with.

They love each other,
At least they think they do,
Their adolescence making them believe that they'll beat the odds.

A turn arrives just as the boy looks away, And suddenly they're airborne,
Just as soon as they're in the air however,
The forces of the world take hold as the car comes down hard.

I walk on,
For I'm the only one on the street,
All is quiet at 1:35 a.m.,
As I try to clear my head.

Afraid of failure,
Afraid of the walls,
As they slowly close in,
Constricting tighter and tighter,
Running out of options,
Running out of air.

I will try to not kid myself as I begin to pick up pace,
That smooth voice still pouring out at the back of my mind,
My pace picks up yet again.

A trot,
Could barely count as a run,
But the slight relief of the gentle breezes is all I need to spun me further,
Faster and faster,
As the tempo picks up a second time.

It's all I can do to keep it below a sprint,
As my lungs start feeling dry and hot,
My heart ratcheting it's beat up to a whole nother level.

The walls start to fall away as I finally break free,
If only for a little while longer.

I see you now,
Tired soldier,
Your last battle long since past,
I see your tattoos,
Your scars of war,
Your soul tortured by long past deeds.

Know that I don't hate you,
Tired soldier,
For you did your duty,
Your honor unblemished and upheld.
I salute you,
Tired soldier,
On this cold winter night,
And know that we shall meet once more in a lively and lovely field.

The sky will be blue,
The grass oh so very green,
The flowers colorful in their bloom,
The wind softly whispering,
Through the trees in the distance,
The temperature warm,
With the sun kissing your face with a lover's hue.

There we will sit,
Tired soldier,
With your brothers and sisters,
Long since past,
And regale each other with outstanding tales,
We shall laugh,
We shall weep,
We shall lie,
We shall believe,
And we will find contentment in this place.

So sleep now,
Tired soldier,
Your watch is done,

Sleep, and be forever at peace

Spare me your honeymoon love,
Give me some of that seven-year-old love,
Where sacrifices are given,
And sacrifices are taken,
Where your significant other is your port in all storms,
The foundation your house is built upon.

Wouldn't you stay?

It came from the blue,
Not quite true,
For we had been scared a time or two to be true,
But now,
WOW,
Such a tiny "+" symbol can change so much.

You now rest in your Mama,
Just the size of a jellybean,
but our little Bam beano.
how you'll grow.

Will you love Harry Potter,
Star Wars,
both, neither?

In my dreams I see you playing the guitar,
but I'd be just as happy if you decided to play the bassoon,
to follow your dreams,
and love the journey for the beautiful chaos that it is.
To be foolish and terrifying,
because like Willi Carlisle says,
"It takes a certain kind of fool,
to make a difference in the world."

I imagine you being kind,
and these acts bring tears to my dilated eyes.

Speaking of eyes,
Will you have your mother's or my eyes?
Here entrancing green or my steely blue?
Will the world harden your eyes to what you see,
or will what you see soften you to what you can do?

Sweet child,
are you my daughter or my son?
Will you have me wrapped around your finger?
Or will you have me thinking of my own old man,
trying to not do what he failed in and copy what he had succeeded with.

I think of the future,
the danger,
the cost,
the sheer time.

God the time.

When you learn to drive, I'll be 44,
graduate with the class of 40 or 41.

My God the time.

We can't wait to meet you, my child,
Our sweet little bean,
Whether you're a Wyatt or an Ellise,
Just know that Mommy and Daddy love you,
and can't wait to show you the world,
with all in it to be seen.

Thundering onward like a runaway train,
Chugging forward with a cavalcade of machine gun- rapid jolts,
Driving the story forward with irreversible force,
Carrying the message with irrevocable determination.

A parallel path does not make it the same,
For effort is still the cost of progress,
And blood shed must still be extruded as a price in these endeavors.

Fired from that ultrasonic cannon of life,
Flying through that azure sky,
Ripping holes through cotton ball clouds when flying through,
Thrusting forward into that blue 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dust kicked up by boots in the auburn dusk,
Fire alight with June's angry ire,
A lover scorned,
Willing to burn with her most righteous of anger,
Plucking out angry chords upon a silver and brass lyre.

Clothing hugging tight,
Leaving nothing yet everything to the imagination,
Sweet temptress of addiction and spite,
Eyes blazing green like a copper-fueled flame.

Cheekbones so sharp that it slices the air as she passes,
With those ****** features only second in their cutting potential when compared to her razor words.

Legs like stilts,
Going all the way to the moon,
With heels that could have punctured the hands of Christ,
That could just as easily be used to keep one's casket securely closed.

Those eyes seem angry,
We should probably start running

Look at your pool of friends,
And tell me,
If you were to label your friends with a personality that fit them best,
Which one would you end up labeling "The Fool"?

Now I never said *****,
Do not misconstrue me,
Ma'am or Sir,
For my words are only said with the purest possible intention.

So this individual,
This "Fool",
Would you say they are content with life?
Not just happy,
But utterly content with their station in life?
Want for nothing,
These luck individuals be,
For without such individuals we as a species would have faded away into the final darkness.

People think our legacies have to be based on wealth, ideals, and land.
When in fact it's our instincts.

Pardon me friend,
I don't mean to barge in on your time,
But have you seen my muse?

No,
It's not one,
For I once had many,
But now I had none,
Leaving me here rambling like a mad man,
Of things that had come but are now gone.

I offer great advice when I can't see to follow my own,
My muse my muse,
Wherever did you go.

Perhaps you were in my viewpoint of the world and the people in it,
That has changed so often in the times that have come before,
Or mayhaps your in my faith in something higher,
With nothing in my mind but a downward spiral,
Into Oblivion where one can never be refound?

But alas,
Fear not for that,
Dearest reader,
For my muse is found again,
Always popping up in the weirdest places,
To always be found again

Stevie Nicks is telling me about her emotions after an argument with an old lover,
Her hearts still probably beating fast,
She's pouring them out like a faucet,
It's lone electric guitar underlining the loneliness of the song
But it is also one about hope

The lakes waves softly lap on the beaches pebbly bank.
The crickets out in force.
All is quiet on the lake front,
A vacation well deserved

Disconnection and disassociation,
From old jobs, old apartments, and houses.
Like I'm a ghost who'd fragmented into so many pieces and places,
Who's hauntings connect me to these people and locations.

Chains that bind one another in an eternal embrace of love and despising,
Tired bones in a youthful frame,
Disjointed memories and discombobulated thoughts,
In grey mush contained by a dome,
Perpetuating thoughts along neural highways and electrical connections,
Riding a lattice-work of joints and tendons,
Bringing a lumbering machine of flesh and carbon,
Through this odd and enthralling plain.

I'm just laying here in bed,
Ian Anderson is explaining to me through my headphones,
Of how alone I could be,
If I made the choice of going my own way,
But that I would find what I am looking for.

Long absences,
My muse fills me once again,
I am afraid to stoke the fires of it too quickly,
and let these embers get chocked out and die.

But the words are flowing,
and my mind feels so clear,
The troubles of the world are held at bay for a moment,
And for now, it's just me and these keys I type on.

So while it's still here I will type,
My stature relaxed and my heart light,
And hope it burns some more

Dance on the edge,
Between great success and ruin,
Flip the coin and see which way it lands.

Curry favor with the despot king,
A loaded ace to keep in your sleeve,
And smile a wicked grin.

Do you see the Saint Elmo's fire?
Gathering on the masts of the ships of our lives?
The potential energy for greatness at the very tops?

Tear on down the street,
Tear on down the lane,
Tear on down to the great avenue that is this human experience of ours.

What was once a refuge,
Soon became a cage,
Whether self imposed or not wasn't an issue,
And if asked you wouldn't get an answer.

The silent yet imposing North Winds would caress your cheeks here,
As you see the fruit starting to rot,
Marigolds blooming,
Like yellow bells ringing in the impending Autumn air.

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

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

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

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

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

Is it upon such a limbo I must dwell?
Where hope is lost and none is well?
To be in a state where hatred swells?
Where quarrelling is preferred to the silence of this empty well?

Tell me the truth,
But don't break me so,
For I lack the spare parts,
To hold me together for more,
Be gentle on my frame,
None too unkind,
For this dread is most dreary,
When the end is neigh.

I'm looking here,
Why is it gloom all that I see?
Let me shine a light into these dark corners with a candle,
Chase away this negativity with a warm orange glow.

I know just one candle doesn't illuminate much,
But with this flame other candles can be lit,
And perhaps we can brighten up this room just a little bit more.

Naive?
Maybe,
But I just can't feel the wrong,
For life is hard,
And being pessimistic is just too **** tiring,
Perhaps we can try something new?

Despondent and alone,
The little music box plinks on,
Sounding like a heartbroken and cold harp.

You slowly realize,
Little music box,
That your plinking rhythm is actually an anthem.

It's an anthem that many would march to war for,
Little music box,
But remember always,
Little one,
That absolute power will corrupt absolutely.

All for an ideal that plucks from the little music box

Where would you be,
If you were the perfect you that you could be for a day?
What would you do?

Would you try and give your life the theoretical "boost" so to speak?
Maybe by getting ahead of a backlog you've been trying to get past at work,
Or by making an important life choice.

Maybe you'd go and try something new,
To see the viability of possible choices.

Or maybe you'd not change a thing,
For you've been the best you that you could be the whole time.

When we talked today,
You called me a bear,
Some hulking beast that could scare away the dangers of the world,
But behind your eyes I could see what you wanted to also say,
That I would also try and scare away the rest of the world at large,
To lumber through the forest alone,
So that I could not be hurt by anything ever again.

I saw that hurt in your eyes,
That while as this great beast I would fight and die for those I love,
My isolation would always make this number always too small.

I see you too though,
For if I am a bear, you are a hawk,
Flying in the sky so far above.

Your ability to see so much so clearly with but a glance nearly scares me,
But your cries are welcome all the same,
Giving warning of the dangers that I cannot see,
I rely on your honest calls to keep from wandering through these woods belligerently,
Giving me a cooler perspective,
Calming the storms in my heart and in my head.

But little hawk,
Do you not isolate yourself too?
Where my self-imposed exile is in the trees and mountains,
Is yours not in the sky and clouds?
Your high perch gives you sight for miles,
But none can reach you there.

I know you don't mean to,
And perhaps I read too much into this metaphor,
But my offer will forever stand,
Remember to swoop down and visit this simple bear every once and a while,
And I will endeavor to join you in the blue skies whenever I can.

Mandolin plinking from a tiny speaker,
McKnight doing his damndest to make my knee bounce,
Bringing tunes that remind me of Appalachian summers,
Transporting me to those mountains and hills.

Summer barbeques with Carolina gold slopped into mashed taters,
Sweet corn smothered in butter,
Gentle breezes and acoustic guitars,
Grilling meat and beer in ice-filled coolers,
Giggling young'uns and laughter of their parents,
Such vivid memories of the oldest generations,
Telling of the time their homesteads received electricity.

These wise elders regaled us with oddities and anecdotes,
Nuggets of delivered knowledge wrapped in allegory and stories,
Their amusement evident in their not-as-bright eyes,
As they watch us trying to suss out true blue kernels of wisdom from the tall tales.

Family friends that are loved just as strongly as my own parents,
Friends they grew up with,
From WAY back in the day,
Telling each other the same tale for the millionth time,
And yet laughing uproariously like it was the first time.

These are days that have been in the past,
And snapshots of days in the future,
When supper in summer Appalachia happens once again,
Great nostalgia and anticipation wrapped up in a great ball of joy,
South of the Ohio Border.

Laying here in our bed,
I've never felt more alone,
You once gave me comfort and love,
Now anger and scorn.

I long for songs I've never heard,
For places I've never known,
I long for people I've never met,
For events I'll never go.

I long for a 5 hour cut of "The Thin Red Line",
The red dust of a northwestern Australian road,
For a red streaked sunset at a burning man,
An applause from the crowd lauding my accomplishments.

Give me my peace,
That I had so few years ago,
Give me back my confidence,
Give me back my home.

I long for my place in the world,
I long for not feeling like the fool.

A ring of flaked green surrounded by an ocean of blueish grey,
Pupils like a lake,
You could almost see the thoughts like fish,
Swimming around just below the surface,
Their outlines making the lake glimmer in the light of the sun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But from the silence comes a paralyzing sound.

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

Clearly coming from behind me.

I dreamt last night,
Of rolling  hills and fields oh so green,
A place I've never been,
Of places where my ancestors wandered, foraged, and lived,
The land of faeries, kelpies, and the Bean-nighe.

One side of them were cutthroats, scoundrels, and raiders,
The other descendants from the Pict kings and slayers of bears,
Warriors one and all,
Rebels and criminals too.

Fleeing to a new world,
Given different names,
Settling down in the land of Quakers and holy men,
Where war would call once again,
Spilling blood in a civil war of a different kind.

Sitting on the porch,
Drawing from an ice cold bottle,
I think back to my childhood,
Tyler Childers yodeling into this pre-summer air,
I'm drawn back to when I was six...

My father's father babysitting me,
Taking me for a walk through his garden,
Filled with carrots, tomatoes, and onions
Which he tended to every day,
I remember asking him what it meant to be a hard worker.

He paused to look at me,
In that way he would,
His face seeming to scrunch in on itself,
And after a moment,
As it always would,
Would return to it's natural state.

He told me to wait there,
And was gone but a minute or two,
He came back with a bucket and some trowels,
And had us digging up the veggies he grew.

It felt like hours to my children's mind,
But was probably only a minute or two,
The bucket was filled,
He paused in his labors,
And told me to give him my hand.

His hand dwarfed my own,
Dispite it being ravaged and shrunken with age,
He held my hand up for inspection,
And with a slight grin,
Turned to show me what he saw.

It didn't appear to be anything to me,
Just some dirt and grit on my hand,
Until he explained with wise words,
"A hard worker ends his day with dirt under his fingernails, Louie, that's all that needs to be seen",
And with a nod,
We went inside,
To wash up for chili and franks.

I never knew that he was sick.

Fast forward a couple of years,
And I'm playing in the creek of my childhood home,
Looking for snakes,
And enjoying the day,
My mother came out,
Looking upset,
And called me in,
That we were going to go see Grandpa,
And with that my heart soared.

It didn't soar long.

He looked so small,
In that sterile hospice bed,
But as children often are,
I was oblivious to the situation,
And ran up to his bed.

He was so weary looking back,
Ravaged by cancer and time,
His face a roadmap of hardships,
Of trials sustained through the years,
But not seeing this then I ran up to him,
I smiled and said,
"I'm a hard worker Grandpa, just like you said!"

Adorning the undersides if my nails,
Black from creek mud and grime,
Some life returned to his dying eyes,
And dispite not being able to speak,
It didn't matter,
No words needed to be said.

It was the last time I saw him,
So long ago it seems,
But that old man taught me a good lesson,
That I won't ever forget.

Being brought back to the present,
Bone tired after a 12 hour shift,
I look at my hands and grin,
Grin at the carbon encrusted nails and oil stained creases.

The signs of a hardworking man.

I never tried to describe the thrill of inspiration,
Let me try it here,
Maybe you'll understand,
That odd sensation of a muse that strikes with such a odd sense of glee.

A shudder at the lower back,
Like when you get a chill,
Tingling in the thighs,
Like you just squatted 400 lbs.
Accompanied by a shiver in the knees.

A quiver along the shoulders,
Like you're riding on some great wave.

The air is cold,
Yet thick and choking,
As spectral fingers begin to stretch across the land,
Asserting dominance upon the hillsides,
The creeping fingers now more akin to a cavalry charge,
Bringing whatever it can into it's  mysterious embrace.

For this ethereal creature knows it's time is slipping away, like sand through a clenched fist,
And is eager to revel in every action it can.

Falling like a blanket over the countryside,
Dampening sounds,
And playing tricks on the ears.

All I can hear now is the crackling of tobacco and the roar of silence that is the mist,
My nose is cold,
But my hands are warm,
The smell of cigarettes and dew clings heavily to the air,
My own contribution to the beast hangs about,
No wind to whip it out of my sight,
My God is it quiet.

Home is where the heart is,
They say,
But to me that is just not true,
Home is where the spirit lies quiet,
Sitting contently in a gentle stupor.

I pack my bags,
To travel south,
To visit where my soul will lie quiet and still,
Where the people are full of life and the land is quiet,
Nestled in Appalachian mountains and hills.

It is a land that borders near-untained wilderness,
An hours drive from anywhere truly uprooted by man,
Where the morning's sun is greeted by smoke-like pillars,
That billow up from the mountains ascents.

It is a land of shine and fiddles,
Of guitars, trucks and barns.
Where your neighbor is your cousin,
His neighbor is their brother,
And his neighbor is his Ma and Pa.

It's a land of quiet reflection,
Far removed from the roar of highways and cities,
Where if the world were to end,
It would take weeks to know,
And would be bo real loss in the end.

The people are hard,
But gentle at the same time,
Always willing to give a helping hand,
They have tales to tell if you've got the time,
I recommend bending your ear and listen.

It's mountains are steep and treacherous,
Infested with snakes, ticks, and venomous spiders galore,
But watch your step, make the ascent,
And it's views are worth the trouble.

The food there is genuine,
Made with love and care,
Whilst simple it makes its taste so much more true,
If you aren't careful you'll gain 30 pounds,
On this hearty holler food.

And the sky,
Oh the sky,
May be my favorite part of all,
The bluest blues,
The whitest whites,
It's sunsets a tear inducing menagerie of reds purples, pinks, yellows, and golden hues.

As the last bag is packed, and my car is gassed,
I ache for my spirits home already,
For it is someplace I can never visit often enough,
A place where I am most lackadaisical and happy.

For in the hollers loving embrace I am sheltered from the pollution and dread of man,
Where for but a fleeting moment,
Frozen in time,
I can feel like a kid again.

It zips forward and past,
Through and around,
Tick Tock goes the hazy clock,
Apples decay to fuzzy and shriveled husks,
Beside blooming lilies.

Just five and a half years,
Transformation in the oddest of ways,
arriving bitter and broken,
Moving along this next path as excited and improved.

Momentum gaining,
like breaking into a run downhill,
where any moment's hesitation brings devastation and disorientation,
Heartbeat hammering from a stone solid 50 to 105,
is it anticipation that drives this acceleration.

Ecstasy of movement and insanity,
like feather brushes of fae-like intent,
getting lost in fogs of spirituality and philosophy.
Brutal momentum of guitar strings being finger picked,
Psychically projecting images of brutal revenge and bitter grief

Madness? No
******....

What are you, a cop?

Missing a step now,
the stumble turns into a tumble,
as the green of the grass flash past, as does the blue-white of the sky. Blue then green, blue then green,
blue green,blue green, blue green,
bluegreen, bluegreen, bluegreen
bluegreenbluegreenbluegreenbluegreen.

The hill turned out to be a cliff,
stomach roiling as I fall,
into some fantastic and manic vision below.