bring me to your albatross and from there we shall depart. I will bear your woes, your weary load, so you may still your heart.

if you lead me to your albatross, I insist it come my way. do not shelter me, only strengthen me for the spells of disarray.

bestow to me, your albatross and I will dress it up in cloth. I withstand for you, dear friend of mine, so you may reach abroad.

I believe in you just as I am restless for you

be well,
bcb

there was sign of life.
the modest gathering of juvenile boys, unbeknownst to man, tread across our barren land with their threadbare sneakers and sentimental minds. the youth spoke of our unspoken parlance. entranced, they were, of our melodious style, our sultry sways and intrinsic device. preserved ponderously was the allure of the oracular clouds and the virtue of the boundless sky. beheld from this came an admiration that stretched far beyond the comprehension of a closed eye, an admiration that could be felt. it was the youth who asked to see that of what could stop them. it was within the life of us that we could present nothing.
how far they might go.

be well,
bcb

tell me you're happy, tell me you're truth. my mind, this chasm of thoughts profound and beautiful sounds, leads me to places I've dared not go, but I dare you to know that through it all, I still see you, I still feel you. but it is I that's naive, like a boxer too scared to bleed. it is I that believes that love is all I'm meant to see, but tell me what I truly see. if I'm mistaken, then let me be. and can we learn to make amends and learn to never fear the end, for in the end I'll coincide with knowing that this bitter land is a better land for it was graced by your eyes. stand bold yet pretty. go forth and conquer. your gentle heart and benevolent face can know no bounds, so love out loud. I'll be your believer forever and I'll see you again my cosmic queen.

be well,
bcb

a sunday evening I was born
a timeworn name to call my own
would adumbrate an impartible home
endowed there was a lulling pass
and a far-off train did whistle through

I was ten and wistfully torn
a naive mind won’t hear a quarrel
only boorish lies and schlocky morals
never mind that lulling pass
though, a far-off train did whistle through

a beardless boy too young to mourn
my reverie held you anchored
a voice at three forever clangors
where’d you go, oh, lulling pass
still, a far-off train did whistle through

meddling now, I palmed a thorn
a wives tale spelt of love and bliss
I won’t countervail her ornate kiss
oh how she tastes of lulling pass
and a far-off train did whistle through

a suave path was never sworn
to reminisce means to salvage the pain
a luring abyss for the susceptible brain
take me to my lulling pass
there, a far-off train will whistle through

restless, yes, but never worn
a bluff I’d be to render now
complacency, a wretched cow
I’ll meet my own dear lulling pass
as a far-off train does whistle through

be well,
bcb

life is but a moment,
a moment for you.
a moment is followed
by a moment that leads,
a moment to wallow
is a moment to breathe.
the beauty comes when
intent of the genuine
and intent of the mind
puncture each moment;
a moment defined.
the minuscule moments
that carry you through
and the significant moments
that bury you too,
are everything and anything
with intentional truth.
and life is but a moment
a moment for you.

be well,
bcb

may all your words commend themselves
for what they might reveal.
may you feed your tongue with perpetual
thoughts that exist beyond the veil.
I insist, my brother, from where I stand; I've
yet to wield my own.
I resist, my brother, this vile land; this home
is not our home.
our call is for another day, may your throat
know ardent rest.
for when time entails your voice to save,
may it only know your best.
this  isn't a gentlemen's quarrel, this isn't a
ponderer's spot;
but this stream of reality has lent me so far,
so shall I assess all that is taught.
lead with your eyes and surely you'll follow,
but lead with your ears, see better
tomorrow.
there is peace within you, even when
nothing is still

be well,
bcb

as man goes does a man grow. for what he grows, he may not know. it is what he knows that he tends to show. what he does not show, he does not know. we know not what we know.

I believe there is a certain necessity for persistent re-evaluation of one's self. to allow the psyche to reassess and perceive one's personal growth. are we still exerting energy and resources towards what finds us that betterment upon our inner wealth? this should directly concur with pure candidness; one's ability to balance the acknowledgment of their faults with the appreciation of their prosperity. this aforementioned ideal of persistent re-evaluation corresponds with my argument that complacency is trifling in today's world. though, I mean to mention a prime difference between that of momentary complacency and perpetual complacency. momentary complacency is viable and is, in itself, essential. we must, at times, come to terms and concede for rejoice. perpetual complacency, however, proves to hinder our ability to constructively progress our state of well being. within this argument, my mind wonders to that of this near obsession with improvement and all of the flawed gimmicks that follow. how far can one go? nevertheless, I want to be better. I want to see better. I firmly believe that we could do better.

be well,
bcb

such a foolish conception to mull, so convincingly, or with great pithy, over certain ‘what if’s’ of your peculiar past. there’s ‘what if’s’ of the future and ‘what if’s’ unsurpassed, but what if ‘what if’s’ of yesterday were more a splinter in the mast.

repudiate all that distracts

be well,
bcb

from time to time will I stare directly into the face of the moon and imagine myself at the bottom of a well. a charming well, though pallidly dark and a scent of bromine; there lies life far below the veil of light so obscene.
a buoyant mystery.

from time to time will I stare directly into the myriad of stars and imagine each one as baroque needle ****** within a sunken black canvas. an extravagant canvas. constellation of blemishes, an unhinged art. each blotch it’s own name, to set them apart.
a shimmering reverie.

these are the gifts that call to me.
persist enduringly.

be well,
bcb

today i feel quite alive
how exquisitely dear
that this ****** composition
and each soul in their position
ushers me to tears

today i feel quite alive
how transcendentally clear
that this world we inhabit
composes peace amongst rapids
and boy do i love being here

so to my people who love and to my people who see
know to endure and continue to be  

be well,
bcb

for your sake,
I will live this life as it was meant to be lived;
to love
to see
to be

be well,
bcb

the sun shined down on me
and made a blissful scene
for the day before
i must implore
the rain laid waste of me

the sun shined down on me
and heard my tangled plea
for i dare want more
and i dare explore
all there is to be

and when the sun shines down on me
will i stand and make you see
that a soul like yours
only blossoms and soars
and how you’ve got a friend in me

be well,
bcb

his was a house that was bug-less
no spiders to enthral
it was duller, yes, tidy too
but no silk laid on the wall

his was a house that was bug-less
no house flies there to learn
that loitered flights and abandoned view
entails a point of no return

his was a house that was bug-less
no carpenter ants would stay
maybe three or four would journey through
but never carpenter ant parades

his was a house that was bug-less
no moth to shadow the light
see a moth's good why is a lesson true
don't be ugly blinded by the bright

be well,
bcb

hey, lovesick child with the benevolent heart
hey, lovesick child from the pinnacled start

oh, how you’ve become such finespun art

au revoir, au revoir, to that which lays scars
but know each scar that you bear, sets you apart

oh, how you’ve become such finespun art

be well,
bcb

for fifty years have you walked this earth
for fifty more will I walk like you
for fifty years have you stood proudly and boldly
for fifty more will I stand like you
for fifty years have you served so resolutely
for fifty more will I serve like you
for fifty years have you seized so relentlessly
for fifty more will I seize my own
for fifty years have you reached for better
for fifty more will I reach like you
for fifty years have you loved endlessly
for fifty more will I endlessly love
this you have inspired within me
all I do is for you

be well
bcb

it was late at night
when my guitar string broke
and I didn’t know what to do.
so with a laden sigh
and a tempered joke,
I tried to change my point of view.
I’ll tell you it wasn’t easy,
no instantaneous claim,
but if my guitar string
broke any other day,
I bet I’d be the same.
see, it always hurts to lose a string
make it one or two or three,
but as long as one’s still hanging on,
you can make that guitar sing.

be well,
bcb

he was the musical man. no one could quite play a tune like him. the pluck of a cello with the flick of his tongue. the trumpets, they roar, with every riddling hum. this musical man knew only to strum, make sounds disappear and come back with a drum. ‘play your last note!’ cried the silencing storm, who stood only to dampen; to live in abhor. the musical man, the brother, the son, said, ‘oh, I’m not done. no, I am not done! for I will play my music until my eyes see the sun!’ so play your music, mr. musical man and watch as the sun comes again and again.

be well,
bcb

they choose to not believe in me. my curiosity heightened, I wonder... will they always? by asking that, it may appear as if my existence solely relies on the convictions from others, but that is not so. to fret now, about the wariness of others, would deter all that I know. let me add that there are many moments I've shared with them. there was warmth. there was clutter. iridescent faces crowded the walls with ***** looks. the air embalmed with rosemary and ashtrays. but there is much they don't understand. they don't know the song of the neon lights. they don't know the thoughts of a clouded mind. they choose to not believe in me. my curiosity heightened, I wonder...are they foolish?

be well,
bcb

it was the formality of it all that killed him. the restraints of the underlying structure suffocated his voice, his very reason. he ushered his last line, “what more could I be.” this was his seed that fell beneath our feet as we blindly tread towards the tree of bureaucracy. a nourishing spirit once said that before you slumber, let your eyes wander to that undiscovered, and so I did. the unconventional dream fell unto me, and as I woke, I asked, “what more could I be.”

be well,
bcb

After deep observation, it was the old mind that spoke first to the young thinker,
“Why is it that you periodically pardon yourself from this reality in which we harbor?”

The young thinker, entertained with this interposing notice, introduced his perception of this particular act of reservation and detachment. As such an act of consideration, left restrained is a sense of why.

As he does, the young thinker spoke,
“It is upon my fair and conscious decipherment that this reality surely prevails despite my absence. Though my unceremonious naïveté may have coaxed my mind into the notion that the genuine functionality of this existence bids no satisfaction or blossoming in conjunction with my vacancy; I know better than to revel such a thought. From myself, have I withheld the truth of the matter, but no longer shall that be. This pivotal revelation preeminent to reassessing my proper call to reason. Why am I here? May I enduringly unify my will to my why.”

The old mind, bolstered in comprehension and for a moment, rested, understood this why.

be well,
bcb

from the sun, I was conceived. for the sun, I labored in patience, but to the sun, I will not be conquered. when we first took a glance into this barbarous land, it was the sun who greeted us,’to the saguaro, seventy-five years of endurance amongst this toiled, arduous earth in order to receive the gifts of me!’ and so the saguaro, spartans of the sonoran desert, endured. oh the stories we hold, the landscapes we’ve seen. After seventy-five years, I watched as the arms of the saguaro began to develop, sprouting and scintillating were flowers sublime and fruits, foreign to the desert eye. all around me, the saguaro cried, ’beseech us with your gifts, our sun, let our labor be glorified!’ this cry was not found within me. instead, I pressed, ’from the sun, I was conceived. for the sun, I labored in patience, but to the sun, I will not be conquered.’ I will not surrender to that of my fears or to that of what I might depend on. I will remain a spear, eyes set on the beyond. I will be steadfast.

be well,
bcb

too many words,
too many words out there
and how deeply unfair
that some simply won’t dare

too many words,
too many words unsaid
but tomorrow’s not dead
wake up, sleepyhead

too many words,
too many words to write
toss those thoughts aside
it will always be alright

too many words,
too many words a-brew
though it’s only a few
that I leave with you

be well,
bcb

I am as the vernal bird
boisterous with my call
this verdant earth will hear my cry
my tender, budding song

I am as the vernal bird
a hunger ill-obtained
endowed I am of nature’s gifts
yet I sing until I’m pained

I am as the vernal bird
fearful of my flight
perched above a ghastly aim
I sing with all my might

I am as the vernal bird
eternal vertigo
I will be of wit and promise
I will sing the song I know

be well,
bcb