Levon Helm haunts my ears this morning,
As I drive up 127 with the top down,
Passing by Montezuma,
So I can see a most peculiar sight.

There's a town in an Ohio,
Where time seems to have been frozen,
A singular main street of tall buildings,
Surrounded by fields of corn and soy,
Where I have only seen blue skies and sunshine.

Like Springsteen's song the band is covering,
It seems to be a town of perpendicular and parallels,
Booming business amidst rust belt squalor,
A mixture of broken souls of the old,
Sprinkled throughout the shining and smiling faces of the young,
Looking forward to escaping?
Or maybe content in their little slice of 80's America?

There is a lake that is the namesake of the town,
Or maybe it's the other way around?
That borders this town on it's eastern side,
And for long I have always wished to just take a day and sit upon it's shore,
To take a day and just breath.

It was honestly a mistake that first brought me through this sleepy town,
All those years ago,
Through this odd land surrounded by forests of windmills,
That stretch to the horizon like fields full of planted and forgotten giant's pinwheels,
That took me from Detroit to Cincinnati by way of the Indiana border,
And arriving here felt like a surreal dream.

Just a silly 18 year old,
How was I to understand the uniqueness of this place I'd stumbled upon?
But going back up a year later,
A calling I felt deep in my bones,
To see if it was more than a dream,
So return I did,
And to my surprise it still remained,
This analogue paradox in such a digital age.

10 years later,
And it is all the same,
As if the world outside doesn't matter,
And perhaps it never would.

I pass through slowly,
Waving back at the residents that throw up a hand in greeting,
Such a antiquated greeting that still kept alive in this time capsule town,
And as I pass through it's district,
As quickly as I came,
A warmth remains,
Some nostalgic sensation for something I have barely experienced as a kid,
Or perhaps only imagined I did.

Wind howling,
Lightning arcing,
Rain falls in great painful sheets,
With thunder booming like the yells of some great giant,
Woken from his eternal sleep.

I wonder what it feels like,
To be struck by one of those voluminous bolts,
To be ignited by plasma who's degrees are in the thousands,
To be burned out to the core.

I sit beside you upon a rock.

Sometimes you are old and tired,
Sometimes young and confused,
Sometimes wrinkled and eroded by time,
Sometimes unblemished and new.

You are always in the same place though,
Although what you look out at is almost never the same,
A desert vista,
A wooded mountain,
A busy city,
The ocean as it crashes with great spray.

I sit beside you as you look out upon the scene,
And gaze upon your face,
The expression sometimes fearful and clenched in anguish,
Sometimes with joy and lack of pain.

I sit with you there,
Looking out at the world,
Sometimes you tell me your tale,
Of battles won,
Of lovers lost,
Of incredible adventures and times relived once again.

Other times you scream at the unfairness,
You blame me,
Shouting obscenities and things profane.

Other times it is but a quiet prayer,
A litany of holy scripture and proverbs that you repeat every day.

But in the end you always quiet down,
And look upon my face,
With tired eyes,
With heavy bones,
And listen to what I have to say.

I never say the same thing twice to you,
As we sit,
Upon this umbral plain,
And once complete,
We look out upon the world,
As the distance starts to haze.

Sometimes you ask if it will hurt,
Sometimes you ask what comes next,
I just shrug my shoulders and give a little smile,
For the next event was never meant for my gaze.

You close your eyes,
As you leave this place,
Finding peace in an eternal embrace.

I know each of your faces,
I come to know each of your stories,
And to each one I shall weep.

For you will never be alone,
I shall be waiting,
Upon that rock,
Waiting quietly to speak.

Kassie Valazza is my partner here tonight,
Softly crooning to me a most saturnine tune.

At what point is leaving not considered cruel?
Is it the encouragement of our loved once,
As long as we promise to once more return?
Is it a private decision that is to not be judged by others,
Regardless of the anguish it causes others?
Perhaps as long as the treasure gained,
Whether it be in gold or memories,
Outweighs the pain caused,
It is acceptable to depart?

Her red hair shines in the moonlight,
As her face twists up such a saturnine way,
Her expression seemly a mirror of my heart's own experiences in this moment.

And as the guitar trails off,
The song finishing on an unfinished note,
I am alone once again in this room,
Staring out at the stars,
And a lonely, lonely moon

Can you give me a moment to gather my thoughts,
and let me know if I'm wrong,
but are there just some days where everything just seems to click?

Where the turbulent winds of the world calm for a second,
Realization comes in that allows you take stock,
and let's you come to the conclusion that things aren't as bad as they seem?

We're on a trail of time,
Spanning such a cosmic range of distance,
and that we get so wrapped up in the here and now,
we simply forget that the trail doesn't just up and stop around the next bend?

Hard times end,
Storms come to a stop,
and the sun will arise once again,
The body dies,
but the soul travels on,
and the world rotates again.

12 jobs,
9 cars,
78 Summers,
5 partners,
Such odd yet specific numbers.

Grains of sand through an aperture,
Tick tick tick goes the pocket watch,
Tock tock tock goes the grandfather clock,
Bing **** goes the church tower,
Cookoo goes the antiquated clock.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days.
Glimpses, figments, memories, experiences.

Snippets, songs, albums, discographies.
EP, LP, Concepts, compilations.

Take a breath and see what you can,
For here one minute,
Gone the next,
For the Law of Averages is the way things have always gone,
And the way it's always went.

Oh my beautiful May Queen,
Sleeping beside me on this bed,
Your hair tousled,
Breathing soft and rythmic,
Dog staring out the window to your left.

I wonder to myself,
On this Saturday morning,
Of how lucky I could be,
To have met such a pearlescent example of goodness in the world,
And graced enough to have you see me.

Your kindness is without second,
Your gentleness bar none,
With a mischievous streak a mile long,
And a loving tenderness that sings out to my heart a great and gentle song.

A balm to my anger,
Your words and touch have been,
A gentle pouring of warm water upon my heart set abalze,
To temper my hatred and my rage.

I know that I wish to wed you my May Queen,
Who sleeps gently by my side,
Perhaps you'll dance and merrily keen,
At that ring if gold and jewel inside.

But for now my love,
I must sleep again,
For sleep piles heavy at my eyes,
So that I may wake up,
So happy and carefree,
That you are by my side

Mournful tunes,
Sorrowful news,
There is a savage grace at work in one who can sink below the lowest depths of hell and come back up with such a cautionary diamond,
Simmering rage boiling beneath calm water surfaces,
Dealing with their own past perdition in stride.

Sitting and swinging,
On the bench of my Grandfather's lakeside home,
Where warm summers were spent,
Learning to swim, ski, and fish in Kentucky waters,
Where I read The Stand in a week,
When I was only 13 years old.

Where I plinked at soda cans with a BB gun,
Had corn on the cob, hushpuppies, and catfish,
Had annual family putt putt competitions,
And night's filled with dominoes and stayed up until 3,
Just sitting on the porch and watching the moon bathed lake,
Passing a J and listening to the crickets,
Softly holding discussions regarding topics from music to the planets,
We truly talked about everything.

That summer we spent fixing up that job boat, swimming the half mile across the cove without a life jacket,
Where I truly felt at peace.

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

Silence,
Cold, angry, suffocating,
It's all I get from you now,
When all I try to do is right by you.

Silent glares with silent words,
Silent in your judgmental world,
Blaming me for all your sins,
Expecting me to go along with it.

I'm the hald that feeds,
And all you do it bite, bite, bite,
Leaving me alone in my cold, dark nights,
Stabbing me with your angry gaze,
Expecting miracles when all the while you sing no praise.

You hold on long enough to give me hope,
Then rip out of my hands that metaphorical rope,
Leave me to fall into an endless abyss,
Silence,
Is all that hits.

Gentle brushes upon a strong back,
Clouds of dirt going airborne with each pass,
A metaphorical cleansing of my own soul parallels the cleaning of the coat.

Gentle eyes that peer past barriers,
Caring not for the ****** past that is seen behind the walls,
But instead focusing on the soul that built them,
Perhaps there's some good there?

Scraping muck and awful from ***** hooves,
Shedding spiritual mud and dirt from crevices in my heart,
Making it lighter with each pass.

Tack is put on,
The gentle creak of leather and tinkling of metal buckles and clasps,
Tightening down violent thoughts and keeping them secured.

Bit gently slipped in,
Caring being taken to ensure a comfortable fit,
Control being given back to my life.

A step into a stirrup and with a swing of a leg being settled upon the back of this beautiful creature,
Ears tilted back,
Listening to her rider.

Peace,
Contentment,
Healing.

What madness,
What wonderful madness,
Thrusting through my soul with 3000 strings,
1000 voices,
250 drums.

Cruise me along,
On a bottle of whiskey,
Bobbing to the *****,
Swinging to the beat,
Floating on the tune.

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.

They took you off life support,
The day the willow flies died,
I went back to work,
Finished my shift,
But to tell the truth I felt hollow inside.

You were already brain dead,
The doc's said,
That you wouldn't be in any pain,
But all that was running through my head,
Was memories of disturbingly good meatloaf,
And looking forward to you birthday cakes made from scratch,
Every single year.

I thought of the horror my mother must be going through,
Watching her life long friend,
Tube down her throat,
Having to watch her pass.

Eyes stinging from loss,
Anger bubbling deep inside,
Need to go get drunk,
Smash some ****,
That's a healthy way to deal with it....

Right?

Your raspy laugh, joining into with my mom's fit of guffaws,
At some dumb inside joke,
That all started when you two were still in grade 5.


I get home to the apartment,
Bring the whiskey to my lips,
It's frostbite burn making it's way down my throat,
To pool,
Swirl,
And radiate out,
Making me numb and glacial cold.

It was so unexpected,
That's the rub,
To blindside us,
To make this hurt so raw,
But it's the fact that you were one of the TRULY good ones,
That's what chaps me most of all.

One of those special breed,
That makes you want to shout up at God,
To unleash your grief, anger, and dare I say it, hatred?
To spit in the face of some divine plan?

It poured down though,
A downward deluge so bad it's as if it's Him confirming,
That he is saddened by having to do it too.

She told me as they wheeled you out of your hospital room,
The staff lined the hall,
As they wheeled you to that surgical suite,
Where you were to perform your last physical act of kindness in the world,
To donate your lungs and and kidney to people who desperately needed them,
And that makes me tearfully wonder too.

Will they ever know of you,
Your gentle nature and generosity,
Loving demeanor and benevolent heart,
To help all those that you knew?
....
That they took you off life support,
They day the willow flies died,
Where the sun was bright,
It poured down lake Erie,
When the angel trumpets bloomed.

Seeing as it's 6:45 in the morning,
I pray that this will suffice,
That a poem on your phone,
Beats a petal on a pillow,
In the Tuesday morning light.

It's your kind and empathic nature my May Queen,
That I find so sweet,
That you could be such a rousing supporter,
Of my dumb jokes and my argumentative streak.

I promise next time will be a pedal,
The fortune teller said that'd be fine,
So sleep well my lion, dragon, and May Queen,
Revel in the sandman's night time delights.

Sometimes, I just get blown away by how beautiful you are,
with a smile that clears away the clouds on an overcast day,
And a laugh that sounds me like church bells,
That I hope will ring in the near future.

I went a looking for a ring,
And I was blown away by the prices of a rock and a bit of gold,
But you are so worth it,
I'd be happy to pay for 10 times more.

I know I planned to propose to you in Scotland,
but with our little unexpected addition to our family,
I hope the mountains of Kentucky will just be as magical to you.

Our time together gets me through the bad days at work,
where nothing goes right,
And getting to sleep next to you makes me wish I never have to leave bed.

Our banter makes Abbot and Costello jealous,
and gets us laughing so hard I tear up,
and you nearly ***.

You are the one for me,
And everyone I know can see,
I can't wait to get down on one knee,
And ask you to marry me.

My heart flutters thinking about you in a white dress,
and my stomach drops thinking about seeing you walk down the aisle to me.

I can't wait, my May Queen,
It's something I can't wait to see.

Looking around,
Pit-Pat Paddy-Wack,
Heart bat-batting to an electronic beat,
Morale swinging like a grandfather clock,
Tick-Tick-Tocking,
One moment serene like a Sholin Monk,
The next rageful like Kublai Khan,
Sweat running like rivulets like some kind of Gatorade commercial,
Vision a-tunneling,
Fists a-tightening.

This inner monster jumpin,
Like a monkey on the bed,
While the outer demon is swayin,
Like a reed in the breeze,
Duality being duplicitous,
And clarity illusive like a cloud in the fog.

**** pets,
**** them for loving us unconditionally,
**** them for making us care so much,
**** them for leaving us too soon,
**** them for making us miss them.

Sit here on this rocky cliff precipice,
Listening to this American woman play with this French orchestra,
Directed by an Italian man,
Jamming out to scraps that were written by a Jewish man in '67,
Making such a beautiful sound wave that bowls me over in it's benediction,
Over and Over,
And Over again,
Carry me to sea and drown me again.

You said the other day that you saw people as puzzles,
That each person was a whole is a picture comprised of pieces,
Each piece a picture all it's own.

You said that you liked the picture my puzzle showed,
Multifaceted and colorful,
Each bringing in new prospectives that you didn't see before.

But that little monster that resides in the corner of my mind wonders,
Will you always think the same?
What about the pieces that are waterlogged and warped,
The ones destroyed by rough handling,
Careless placement leaving them bent and even torn?

I know that you'll say that it doesn't matter,
And perhaps that may be true,
But I know there are some pieces that even I don't like,
They're ugly, repugnant, and even grotesque.

But I shall place my trust in you,
a fragile piece of my heart,
as you become a piece all you're own.

In time perhaps you'll become that final piece,
that makes my picture whole

Words hammering upon steel hoods,
Disappearing as fast as it appears,
Partially hollow yet oh-so full.

A good company of souls,
Filling an empty bowl,
Their stories and discussions filling it in a steady warm flow,
Filling it to the brim,
Overflowing,
A great quenching for my dehydrated trim.

Where can we go?
In this summer rain laden land,
What shall we see?
Untold relics of a forgotten state,
That ended in a flame wreathed wreck.
What can we hear?
The passing winds that are whisper-gentle.