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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I look out at my hometown,
And what is it I see?
I see a stranger,
Bearded and haggard,
Staring back at me.

Oh, my hometown,
So filled with cherished memories,
What happened to your pastures and your fields,
Your farms and your special feel?
Where I explored so deep in my formative years,
Never able to uncover all of your secrets.

Your fields are now filled,
With cookie-cutter suburbs, million-dollar home-o-ramas, and strip malls,
Your farms a distant memory,
Your pastures destroyed and paved over,
Parking for the urban refugee.

You were a place of mystery,
A home for 8 generations before me,
But now you are nothing but a hollowed-out husk,
Gutted for profit and a name.

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

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

Bolting upright,
In a valley oh so green,
Adorned in white,
And seeing clouds dot the sky,
I realize with a starling realization,
"Oh ****, I guess I died."

Make my way to the barn I saw,
See a spread on a table 30 foot wide,
I see Jesus with all his fellers,
Laughin' while sippin on wine.

I walk up to the Son,
And ask if I can have a seat,
He gestures to the empty seat to his left,
Apparently, he was waiting for me.

As Jesus laughs at a joke from John the Baptist,
I take a sip from my glass with a trembling hand,
Looking at our savior a gather the gumption to ask him an important question to me.

As he turns to me I feel my stomach drop,
He says,
"Go on my friend and ask."
I say to him,
"Oh Lord, how is it this came to be?"

He ponders this over a bite of trout,
Gesturing me to take a bite of my own.
As I chew on the tender meat he swallows and says.

"My boy, you were a bit gruff,
and crass I may say,
But you believed in me and dispite your rougher edges,
You never lost your faith."

I looked over to James,
Who's talking to Matthew,
Debating the best kind of fly for fishin,
And Jesus continues to me.

"While you stumbled a time or two,
And did some things that made me shake my head,
You did your best to be a better man,
So for that you can join in on this little meal,
and feast here with my friends."

I take in the scene before me,
The surrealness of it all,
And a smile creeps along my face,
But quickly falls with the same pace,
"But what of my family Jesus,
Are they alright after my death?"

He turns to me,
A smile in his eyes,
and lays my concerns at ease.

"They'll grieve you,
and in time they'll just join you here,
But for now let's finish up,
Because Mary makes a mean cobbler"

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

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

Strum out to me,
Oh music man,
That sweet mandolin tune,
Tell me the secrets of this world,
I'll keep it just between you and me.

I'll take my snippets of unfinished poetry,
And you take your unfinished book,
We'll mash them together into a chunk of clay,
And what results I think will do.

Let me take you in my arms,
And swing about the room,
To some merry little jig,
Only heard between us three.

Let's laugh to loud like *******,
And banter like buffoons,
Rant and rave like jabbering macaws,
And croon until we're blue.

Take care of me when I drink too heavy,
And nod along to my song,
Even though my guitar may be out of tune,
Carry my traumas when they become too crushing,
And say you love me too.

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.

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.

Ask a vet, if there were three things they didn't have enough of.
The core of it all would boil down to these:

Never enough time,
Never enough bodies,
Never enough bullets.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But from the silence comes a paralyzing sound.

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

Clearly coming from behind me.

It's 9:38 P.M.
It's going to be another night for the profound,
I'm in that same darkened room,
Same kitchen light,
Cigarette smoke not quite filling the room yet.
But it shall soon, because I can already tell it's going to be one of those nights.

The sandman apparently forgot to visit, for my eyes are still fresh and new.
Getty Lee is jumping from the speakers,
The anthem is long and blue.
He's telling me about the protagonist of the story,
He had just discovered a relic of the past,
It's potential for destruction could not be more true.
Of how he takes his own life,
To hide away the weapon he had stumbled upon,
To ensure its location could never be pried from his mind.

I think of old buddies from the Army,
The shenanigans we'd get into,
Of times both bad and good.
It's when I do this that I really smoke cigarettes,
Or use chew, that was a bad habit from the Army, but I'm quitting that.

Neil Peart is thundering out a solo that imprints onto the inside of my skull.
I let the waves of sound wash over me.

I remember the stars,
One warm summer's night,
When I went on a camping trip with friends,
We were out in the middle of nowhere,
But more importantly,
I remember you.

You were an old friend of a mutual acquaintance,
The one who organized the whole trip,
And you were from out of town.

You were something else,
Nothing but curious eyes and dangerous smiles,
And a wit like nothing else.

As we took to the canoes,
I learned you liked the same beer as me,
Which no one else on the trip did,
You would furrow your brows when you were trying to recall details from a story
And you liked to laugh at my jokes.

By the first evening,
We had become fast friends,
I let you pillage from my beer,
The kind I brought because it was my favorite,
Inside jokes already formed and nicknames were just around the bend

You sat beside me at the campfire that night,
Shoulder to shoulder,
For warmth we both reason,
It was chilly,
Our friends gave us knowing stares that
We ignored,
Suddenly finding a patch of dirt or the fire very interesting.

I remember talking with you after everyone went to sleep,
Still on the log,
The dying embers our only real measure of time.

In the morning,
You were unnaturally energetic,
You say you're always like this in the mornings,
The dawn setting your hair ablaze.

We're back in the boats,
And both of us are silent,
It's not awkward,
But comfortable.

We reach the end,
And on the bus back to get to our cars,
Soon followed by us all getting back to our cars and saying our goodbyes.

I don't mean to save you for last,
At least I don't think,
And then you're in front of me.

We chat just a little bit,
Delaying what we both know must happen,
Last night we both realized we would probably never see each other again,
You being from out of town,
We were delaying saying goodbye.

You give me this look I swear I could have known for years,
And promptly attack me with a hug,
Giving me a very warm and inviting kiss.

Then you were gone,
Driving down the road,
And out of my life.

I remember the stars,
One warm summer's night,
When I went on a camping trip with friends,
We were out in the middle of nowhere,
But more importantly,
I remember you.

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

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

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

How's your heart,
If your heart was a tank of gasoline?
Is it full of rich, high octane jet fuel?
Or is it sputtering,
With only the dregs of several month old junk at the bottom?
Filled with iron oxide sediment and dirt?

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.

It's been too long,
Need to blow proverbial dust off my works,
Inspiration struck like lightning,
Like the sensation of hearing a song from your favorite band that you never heard before,
From when they were younger,
Their faces with so fewer lines.

Faster and faster,
For you never know when this new song is going to end,
Only that in the here and now lies you,
The you that is most present for all the major things,
Here for some of the victories but all of the defeats,
The tides are rising friend,
Do you need to be thrown a rope?

The solo is hitting now,
The song soon reaching it's conclusion,
But it's when that favorite band of yours is younger,
Full of **** and vinegar and ******* attitude,
Crescendo!

Slowing down,
Let it all echo out,
Gotta mellow the tune,
To reach a natural conclusion and peaceful end,
Leaving your enthralled ears graced with the fading of the wave's...

...

...

...

You hit replay.

Sitting in my bedroom,
That's become more of a waystation than a home,
For home to me is wherever you will be,
Zach Bryan crackles out the words I know I will think of,
When I am 20 years older,
And our son has left behind our home.

A traveler on his own journey,
Embarking to his own destination,
In time making his own mistakes,
But in them learning his own lessons,
And from that his own wisdom will be gained.

He will visit,
I know,
Although his first couple of visits will be too few and far between,
It will make you teary,
But knowing that it needs to happen all the same.

Those days to come seem so far away now,
Yet so close all the same,
But I know that we will eventually come to love every minute of it,
And wish we could live through it all again.

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?

***
   ***
       ***
           ***
               ***
                   ***

Aqualung is hitting me with blows from the guitar,
His watery breathing ragged as the percussion from his drums penetrates my  brain like nails.

Then,
What is this?
An acoustic guitar, Anderson, and a gentle bass lays me down,
Easing me down from the sudden hurricane when the old sod starts.

Then the last of the lyrics,
Anderson is begging Aqualung to remember him,
Desperation evident in his voice,
As the old man passes,
Rattling out one last haggard breath.

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.

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.

It's Christmas time,
A young boy unwraps a large gift,
And sees the object inside,
It has a basic color scheme,
It's strings beautiful and bright.

The boy strums his small hand across,
Summoning sound from the hollow instrument,
It's a cheap thing,
Just in case the guitar is abandoned by the boy,
But alas a bond is formed,
And the boy's life is set into motion.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Gentle strings,
Gently lull me to sleep,
Keep me in that gradient that leads to the dreamland,
To where I can find that so-great peace.

Where my greatest stories come forth,
That trial run of the final rest,
Where all men are equal,
Whether a pauper or a prince.

Chase you I will,
With fervor and intensity,
Till I'm out of breath and full of ease,
Squeaking like a piece of machinery,
In desperate need of grease.

Take pity on me,
And take my soul to the most peaceful of place,
Where my aches are gone,
My woes are arrested,
And my worries are at ease.

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.

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.

They say that the stairway to heaven is long and precarious, and some say it never ends.

I can't remember who first told me that,
And I can't find any reference to it,
Believe me I've looked.

Robert plan is informing me of the woman now,
After being led in by the acoustic guitar and flutes,
Foolish woman,
Learning at the very last minute,
That her life was a waste and her hoards of wealth mean nothing to her now.

Plant says that this song can have as many meanings as stars in the sky.

Nice thoughts to start a run to.

Excitement!
Anticipation!
Dread and Gloom!
All these emotions running through my head to name a few.

Taking the plunge,
And self-publishing one's first book,
Uncertain of this loving recreation's first foray into the world,
Will it be loved?
Will it go unread?
Only time will tell for this collection of prose and truth.

Snow falling slowly,
Muffling everything in sight,
The flakes like cotton *****,
Softening this morning light.

The wind is calm,
Bringing peace on this lake of ice,
Where down below lies the cold cold depths,
Down below,
Where my demons lie.

Such a juxtaposition,
Heaven and Hell,
Separated by the frozen water of my mind,
Serenity and Perdition,
Eternal reward and punishment,
So close and yet so distantly defined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

Looking to the western sky that's aflame
With oranges, reds, and yellows
Highlighting and sharpening the clouds
Making them look like plumes of smoke from a forest fire
That is burning so far away

Later on the reds turn to purples
Losing the battle to the unstoppable night
Cooling in the dark of the wolfs muse
That howling place they rule with all their might

Blues lose out to the black
Deep and oh so dark
Quiet like some great predator
Rule absolute and oh so great
Giving out its boon to the animals of its domain
That will rule until the coming light

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.

Puffy white glaciers crawl lazily across the sky,
The buzzing of flies and the smell of freshly cut grass,
The puffs of dandelion seeds floating across the field,
The cool breeze refreshing to heated faces,
Sky a pleasant Infantry Blue.

Do you remember?
When we laughed so hard,
That I lost a contact?
That little jig you did started me chuckling,
My snorts got you to join in,
My ribs hurt the next day.

Do you remember?
When I told you that I first loved you,
And you kept me in suspense?
Later on, you told me that you felt the same when I said it,
But was scared that it was too soon for you to vocalize it too,
But to be honest I wanted to tell you on our second date.

Do you remember?
When you first seemed to read my mind,
And told me exactly what was going on in my brain?
I was furious with your father,
And I wanted to snap him in two,
You just looked at me with your hypnotic green eyes,
And told me to breath,
Rubbing my shoulders as you did so.

Do you remember?
That first pregnancy scare,
Where we didn't know what we were going to do?
We were in your car,
Outside that convention we were volunteering at,
And that talk laid the groundwork for what we would eventually have to go through.

Do you remember?
Our first kiss,
Upon that restaurant roof?
Slow dancing to Tyler Childers,
Playing through the tinny speakers of a phone,
On that warm sunny day in June.