"alberta" poems
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
I worked for a woman,
She wasn't mean--
But she had a twelve-room
House to clean.
Had to get breakfast,
Dinner, and supper, too--
Then take care of her children
When I got through.
Wash, iron, and scrub,
Walk the dog around--
It was too much,
Nearly broke me down.
I said, Madam,
Can it be
You trying to make a
Pack-horse out of me?
She opened her mouth.
She cried, Oh, no!
You know, Alberta,
I love you so!
I said, Madam,
That may be true--
But I'll be dogged
If I love you!
3.4k
Three thousand miles
navigating a storm
without drop of bad weather
Abacus odometer clicks
rotating forward ―
spinning with the
world go round
Circling back down
a long and winding road;
where unforgotten memories
were once searchingly explored,
untrodden pathways
coursing way up north of alone
on the low highway
Now an aging shepherd
wonders without a compass ;
a vagabond deprived of light
from an ever blurring north star
Heart empty as a gas tank
with a broke down gauge,
running on fumes of hope
for unpromised tomorrows
Running from loneliness
just to be on the run
The gales of silence bellow
No feelings I can see ― lay me low
Wild-eyed daydreams
of Full sails billow out
through the windshield,
only hearing the unspoken
moments sigh restlessly ―
The dull droning road rumble
re-sighs renunciatively,
a tired monotone voice
mimicking the loathe silent echo
wallowing in an
omnipresent hollow void
deriding unspoken chaos
between the passing centerlines ―
A frost heave pothole erupts,
with a leaf-spring rattling thud,
as a fleeting cloud of dust arises,
set adrift with the draught
headed off the east side
of the Alcan highway:
blown way outside the lines,
towards the Alberta prairie
White knuckled steering wheel
held sway, rolling down
a beckoning wilderness
reincarnation;
default reset button paused ―
stuck in a moment ― until another jaw rattling
frost-heave pothole in the highway,
jars it free
Leaving it all behind
like a sigh breathed
in a silence a heart has outgrown;
just a fleeting cloud of dissipating dust,..
a paling whisper
the past seems to send forth
like a fading last breath
Letting it all unfold to become what it is
harlon rivers ... May 2018
... travelogue 2 of some
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
You say I O.K.ed
LONG DISTANCE?
O.K.ed it when?
My goodness, Central
That was then!
I'm mad and disgusted
With that ***** now.
I don't pay no REVERSED
CHARGES nohow.
You say, I will pay it--
Else you'll take out my phone?
You better let
My phone alone.
I didn't ask him
To telephone me.
Roscoe knows **** well
LONG DISTANCE
Ain't free.
If I ever catch him,
Lawd, have pity!
Calling me up
From Kansas City.
Just to say he loves me!
I knowed that was so.
Why didn't he tell me some'n
I don't know?
For instance, what can
Them other girls do
That Alberta K. Johnson
Can't do--and more, too?
What's that, Central?
You say you don't care
Nothing about my
Private affair?
Well, even less about your
PHONE BILL, does I care!
Un-humm-m! . . . Yes!
You say I gave my O.K.?
Well, that O.K. you may keep--
But I sure ain't gonna pay!
3.1k
*Remember Jerry 'cross the street?
He never said much
But I've placed my life in his hands
Time and time again
He's no longer a boy, Ma
But I don't know how to say
He'll never be a man
And Thomas, who stayed with us last summer
He was part of my squad
Was as straight-laced as ever
But we were knee-deep in wickedness
I hope he met God
And Andy was my partner
Always making me feel small
So I had a man's resentment for him
But he was truly very kind
Putting my safety first
Because he left me behind
to re-wrap my bandages
to stop my stump from bleeding, right?
Oh, and we fought
see, my pride was hurt
I was no pantywaist, I still had a leg
But he just laughed, said he'd come back
so, I've been lying in bed alert
'cause I'm still waitin' for that
man lying face-down in the dirt
But Ma, I'm coming back to Canada
And I only want you cryin' happy tears
But know that I won't visit our little town
Not for a long, long while
And maybe never our street
Not that home-road of the twelve ambitious young men
and little Peter, sneaking into the bustle
While only fifteen
Mother, please believe me
I love Newfoundland
But I'm heading over
to Alberta
So try to pretend I'm fully gone as well
Please don't tell ~
the only one to survive the shell
was your boy
who's gone through hell
I hope the rest were sent to heaven.*
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
I have friends who went,
to Bethlehem, to Paris, to Spain.
Left for London, Beachy Head.
Those friends came back,
back to Halifax, Portland, Bangor–
My friends go.
They go
to the bar for a pint.
They go
to the South for the summer.
They go
to plant trees in Alberta–
The friends who go
are the friends who went.
But I have friends
who are
gone.
Friends
who are
gone
cannot go
to the bar,
to the South,
or to Alberta.
Some friends have left–
through some door,
in the night, in the day,
in a car, on a bed,
on a stretcher, in the street–
and yes, they are
gone.
Where will I go when I am
gone?
Will I be with my friends?
Perpetually traveling
to the South, to Alberta,
to the bar for a pint?
No. I will not go.
I cannot go, once I am gone. When I go, I will be
gone.
I could go anytime,
night or day,
In a car, on a bed,
a stretcher, or street–
Yes, I could go. And when I go, when I leave–
I will be
gone.
So,
Friends who have
gone
where I cannot go,
they must know–
that we all will go, we all leave–
soon, yes, soon. Now,
in the pause
between
moments,
in the quiet space
of a last
breath–
we
all are
gone.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
I have scars and yeah
They all have their stories
Written scripts to heavy plays
With plot lines I can't share yet
So my mind's like an
Alberta rainy day
A longer expanse like a
Damp plateau or plain
Emotional highs are climbing like
A mountain range ready to drop from
This complex to extremes
But we can have happy moments
Without really being there
We all have our issues
And we work just to clear air
We all deal with them ourselves
Always in different ways
What's yours isn't mine, with
The dealings that words couldn't say
Like the heart's a grenade and
The pin can be a million subtle things
And the only broken heart I've had was
My fault with all my hopes and dreams
With built up emotions when I spared
Myself no lack of idealism
And if they say that drunk words
Are really just sober thoughts
Then in this life there's no place for
An inebriated heart
And while there's bruises on my back
From leaving problems out behind
I wouldn't accept any less than
Your scars and story lines
Because we're one of a kind with
The way that our mind would
Work through the times
And through writing and music
With George Watsky super verses
I've found my singular disability is
Over-thinking where my place is
But it's about time now
Where I'd work up to let go
'Cause I'm the only one to let down
When success is measured in gallons
So I put down the jugs and then
Expectations are the only
Exponential problems
And I know that I'll be fine
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
howling idiots (myself) who
spat on store windows ****** & still half-drunk,
leering strangers in cars & stars
creeping from the sky to show teeth in wry grins
while
balancing nimbly on balcony railings
gazing thru heavy curtains to watch russian
girls
********** on cold leather couches
shedding bulbous slavic tears which
ride crests 'f ghostly, high cheekbones &
at th'same time off some
where in drumheller, alberta
skeletons of ancient
kingly lizards rise & rattle like
1000 triassic maracas
recording spanish mariachis in
bloodbath bullrings.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 1:01 PM UTC
You are like toxin. Just the simplest thought of you can send my body into a figurative halt.
My heart stops.
The constant reminder of how volatile our union was stuck like gum to the fibers my brain.
My perpetual hate reminds how much I love still you. Yet I hate you.
I don’t know if it was your coy nature or the way that you made me feel like I mattered for once in my life.
But you will forever be engraved in my body; my organs will never part with the thought of your touch.
You are still the reason I cry at night and the reason I cannot love more than lust.
You destroyed me. Taking every fiber of my being and rewriting it to fit you and you only.
You don’t want me, yet no one else can have me. It’s like a curse that will never be lifted.
Whenever I looked at you I saw wedding bells and children and a house in the mountains with all the glorious passionate love that you promised me.
Now, I see how stupid I was. How completely crazy insane I must have been to believe that someone as cold as you could ever build something to last.
You flooded my chest with tea and washed out with coffee. Only to leave what had yet to be stained with a red blotch in the shape of your lips on the lining of my heart.
You make me sick. I am ill with the corrupted grunge stain that your love left behind.
I love you, but I ******* hate you. And I cannot even begin to think that I will ever be able to love again.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
The funding of my own little massacre,
my own precious little war crime. My smoke
is everywhere. My father coughs in his sleep.
My mother gags, hangs her head out the window, sick.
My cheap *** before and after cheap ***
I chat up some high-waisted pastiche on Alberta.
She tells me collage this and that and looks
so lit up and skinny, it's a dream.
Where I go to brand myself. I have this image
of a spark on my arm sitting stovetop red,
sinking into the skin, losing color as it digs,
turning to grey and then nothing like the drowning
of a comet's tail in atmosphere. My burns look so good
in the pale dormitory bathroom shower light: so baby tulip
and teeth, so how-I've-made-it-through-the-wringer.
Christ, I should be a film, look at me: so bent and bright,
such a cute boxer, such a prize fight.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 4:34 AM UTC
I am Munich
I am Paris
I am Edinburgh
I am New York City
But I am not New Jersey
I am not Bonn
I am not Alberta
I am where the city lights are
My life is a piece of art
I am where the symphonies lie
I am wherever Nabokov and Dali want me to be
I am on paints and pictures
I am temptation of rapture
Oh, Mister Nabokov, why this fate for me? (I beg to you)
Oh, Miss Grey, why this fate for me? ( I envy you)
Oh, Miss Banks, why this fate for me? (I hate you)
Tortured ****
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
"How are you?"
"I'm fine, and how are you?"
If only it were that simple.
He believes in power of self yet some days just feels helpless
Hardened body and calloused hands help to hold in demons
Fair smiles and warm laughs on the outside of the house of body
but step inside and see this is no home
Broken bottles fly like broken words in a broken family
How cold does it have to be to freeze a waterfall
as cold as he, as he is cold as ice
tears stop on frozen edge, invisible to all but him
because he hasn't let them fall since he was nine
it may seem sad, the lack of expression almost half of one's life
but that's the kind of man built by a father who never pulled punches
he threw them
yet don't feel sad for our dear boy, he doesn't feel sad for himself
he believes in character he believes in strength but he'd never put a child through that hell
never again would that play be renacted
the stage set in a three bedroom townhouse, this here, the broken home
tongues fly to make sounds echo down hallways into their sons room
is this love?
He doubted it.
Slurred words shouted names he did not know
****
*****
****
Days later he figured this had something to do with why he was moving out, why him and mum left
Why pa flew to Alberta and he was stuck with this mess
the lovely pile of pills and drink he called his mother,
in her sorrowful state of crazy
Our large rock continued it's jolly course around the sun, and many rotations later the boy was king
In charge at home, but not of himself, slowly slipping
calloused hands had nothing to cling to
Mum was losing it, keeping her on her pills was hard
and dad was gone,
whether he was leading a good life or shooting debts into his arms he didn't know
he hadn't talked to him in 3 years
didn't plan to either
So this is how it feels for he,
the bruised boy with good intentions,
keeper of pills and watcher of siblings
the man of the house.
You ask me how I am
and I'll answer it with truth
“I'm fine"
And how are you?”
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
WINTER
as the heavy snow fell
the chimneys in the village
belched with dark smoke
SPRING
on that day in May
the rustic cottage garden
arrayed in blooms
SUMMER
stinging rays of sun
lashed idle sunbathers
along the shoreline
AUTUMN/FALL
copper medallions
hung from the maple branches
in Alberta's streets
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I'm waiting with certain trepidation
Assured my reality
Is in for something big.
The eleventh dimension
Can't assuage my dread.
There's something happening,
As big as Dead.
The cellphone's our new Nativity,
Destroying my old myths;
Where's the white salamander hurrying,
Spirits hoovering, aliens lurking,
Hairy bipeds in the forests,
Yetis in the snow.
Nothing soon forthcoming.
It all looks like Alberta.
I can't snap inside the sun,
Nor freeze-frame a revolution;
Or the moment one feels love;
But truth is self-evident.
And the facts are yet to come.
All the best stories,
My life-changing beliefs,
Need one still, a black and white will do;
Til then,
I'll suspend
Disbelief,
And sustain credence,
Close to the dark room.
Then we'll be the Magi,
Bowing, grovelling,
Awed and surprised.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
Crisp and clear Alberta Mornings
The beauty brings me to my knees
sun rising over prairies
dew glistens on the wheat
Blue sky mixed with morning starlight
it's a sight that can't be beat
for all 40 years I've been here
there is no other place for me
The mountains maintain my direction
prairies stretch out to the east
northern lights are alway dancing
on clear central eve's
Winding rivers divide prairies
rolling hills and forest too
fresh scents pervade my senses
that's when I think of you
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
An Ontario man and his two children have turned up safe after getting lost in the woods on their way to an Alberta wedding.
RCMP Const. Jason Curtis says David Hill, 33, along with daughter Sierra Hill, 10, and son Riley, 8, set off from Edmonton International Airport on Saturday morning.
They were destined for a family wedding in Hinton, a couple hours drive west of the city, that was scheduled for 11 a.m.
Family members got a call Saturday afternoon from one of the children in the car that they apparently got off the highway and were lost in a wooded area.
The phone then cut out and Curtis says the family spent the night in their rental car before finding someone Sunday morning who directed them back to the highway.
He says he doesn't know why the Hills left the highway.
And exactly where were they?
"I don't know if they're entirely sure of that,'' Curtis said.
RCMP said a ping from the cell phone placed them in the area of Obed, Alberta, which is between Edson and Hinton.
Police said they launched a full search for the family out of concern for the ages of the children and for the fact that some of the group suffered from medical conditions.
Curtis said that after getting directions out, the family notified their relatives and police.
"It couldn't be a better outcome. Everyone's safe and sound. And we're just very happy,'' Curtis said.
"The people are moving onto their family event, though they might have missed the wedding.''
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 1:39 AM UTC
It could have been a pleasant Monday.
We sat outdoors and ate our sandwiches.
It was crisp October, and we were on a dig.
Earlier, we had used the transit to measure
teepee rings from the nomad Cree tribe
that once lived and loved here.
You'd found the marker stones.
I'd found a stone tool.
But now we sit having lunch in the tepid sun.
I looked at you and saw a young man
who swaggered with false confidence.
You wore an army jacket,though we were just 16.
Your hair was red, and a little curly.
Your eyes melted me, -robin's egg blue.
I looked at your hands still holding the paper
and I saw between the freckles on your wrist
a blue vein.
Without ability to stop myself I touched you there.
And then my mind whirled.
For the first time-
suddenly, I was in your blood,
your heart, your mind!
You were just as jolted as I was,
and we have never been the same.
40 years later. We write on your birthday.
You ask about my mother.
Do you ever say my name?
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 2:01 AM UTC
i. Arc.tic Eur.ope mark.ings wo.ven to lea.ves –
8 Salix Boloria nails whisper the
rocky, submarginal dark –
triangles of Alberta and most wide –
arctic willow (except, occasionally,
other spots of Discal cell) Numero Uno, we've parallel branch
( n. )
with basal spot
invaded by the darker
adjacent colors or silvery white;
ii. Fo.od pl.ants l.ight Ka.nsa.s
defined Oakland or the apex clasp
inner face of Valva
Texola Higgins. Food?
Brooded multiple orange
various species, obsolete cells
Yellowed cast; transverse lines..............(...)
9 Chlosyne wings; dark Maculation
Virginia portion
iii. re.d ex.tend.ing
multiple orange (except Vesta Millicta)
Athalia Ambigua
Callophrys south
brooded flowers
connected wing
tooth like line
but central gray
new Juniperus
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
Throw away your brooms and your mops
and all the tops to your good old canned goodies
and in fact throw your little cans of goody foods
with soups and little fruities away down
your flight of stairs and flight of windows down
those shining new linoleum walls
no need to worry about garbage here in these streets
so clean so clean so mean, and lean
and here everyone cries their child cries
and their bottles whistle that empty milk whistle
red wine milk drink drunk drank drinker
old clean city blues I see your dirt musings
can’t hide from me this great dirt
more dirt here than dirt itself has to offer
all things candy coated sticky nightlife
sticky affluence all your feet
stick to the black tar candy sucker floor
and I see you’ve been rat-free for thirty years
no bugs no slugs no moss
only late night sad sauce
always empty and wanting more
no rats no cats no dogs here
only cowboy hats
and all those old boys move
on down South anyway
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I've walked
The flat lands
Of Alberta
And ascended the foothills.
Near the doors of France
I've approached the caves.
Crossed the Channel
And homaged
The chalk altar
Of Dover.
Looked skyward to
The Dome,
Thought of creation
Across the blue
Michael knew,
And raised
A finger.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
I have had it all wrong,
I wonder if my grandfather
thought that, when on a steamer
he arrived a dreamer
of moving west from Montreal
single trying to find a life, better,
opened and tasted peanut butter,
and never did ever eat that again,
I have had it wrong, all of it
He kept dreaming and trying,
took the train to the northern Alberta,
saw his dreams take shape as he built
homes for other dreamers,
he met his wife, but that is a poem for another story,
he was a pacifist, he did not support, killing another,
but he sure had a temper,
for a peaceful man, he decided to retire, and that
let him get old, I admired him for what he stood for and sit at
a desk he built with my dad.
I still have had it all wrong.
The desk is nothing special
other than the hands and
knowledge that built it
and something a father and a son
did together, one of the last things
of each other, that
would be remembered, they worked well with their hands.
Both men were dreamers.
My dad had his dreams, he mostly kept to himself,
but you just knew that they were to do with
things outside of the house.
Oh don't misunderstand, he loved working with wood,
he knew firearms, he recieved a Medal for Military Merit,
for dedication above and beyond what a militiaman was
to do, he wasn't a pacifist, in many ways he was different
from his dad and so many more he was exactly the same.
Shame, I have had it all wrong.
I was not an A student, but Gee, I tried hard,
my potential was palpable we just needed to resuscitate it from time to time,
I joined the CAF, married and had three who have amazed me,
with their strong beliefs, so different from one another, see?
I have worked twenty jobs and not one among them defined as a career...
oh and yes, I have spent time in an unemployment line.
I am not a carpenter, like the other two could, my grandfather as a career
my dad took it on as a hobby, I am a pacifist, yes, but don't push to hard,
I might write you into a poem...
I have written so many serious and sombre pieces,
There is already so much sadness in the world,
If planet Earth could cry a tear, standby with the tissue,
I deal with my stuff in words, I try not to hang onto them,
Rather free them like birds, Ravens and Crows with Hummingbirds and Eagles,
My soul is sore and
Animus would rather soar,
so I pour the toxins from my mind, my skin, from my day
you already know I am not perfect I sin, from my way of life,
so I pour the garbage I live and beauty as I see
it is around me for you all to read, shame on me
I have had it all wrong.
I don't have to get it right, I must write.
©DWE122013
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.
Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.
You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ******** All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.
The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.
You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.
The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.
So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
I no longer like living by myself, and that is your fault, because you're not here to be grumpy in the mornings. every day I could turn to my right and find you, nudge my way onto your chest, and you would kiss the top of my head with your eyes still closed. one good thing about alberta is that the mountains are beautiful there, mountains that always made me want to go faster, run faster, climb, but lying there with you, watching the sun make shapes on the bed, felt the same as being thirty thousand feet up high, where the air is thinner.
I was always taking mental pictures of my legs wrapped around you. you would sing tom waits and britney spears within the same hour. I got mad because you didn't kiss me right when people were around. you were so proud when you remembered what kind of tea I like in the morning. I finally figured out how to take off your belt with fumbling hands, and anytime the cat was around, you would pick her up and put her in my lap.
sometimes we held each other in front of mirrors, as if to see what home looks like, and I would think to myself, remember this, always remember this.
passports and suitcases always make me nervous, now.
when you walked out of the airport I watched you go, and I was shaking. I understood when you said that it's all okay, that we've done this before, but I wasn't ready to do anything but stay. I took off my jacket and my shoes and I placed everything I had in little white bins, and I kept my head down and didn't look at anyone, but I'm sure every person who saw me knew that I had left behind someone I loved that day.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
Heading back to where I'd started
Thirty years since I'd been gone
I can still remember leaving
Didn't think I'd be gone this long
Playing legions and house parties
On to clubs and smoky bars
Things have changed while I've been missing
Had more wives than I've had cars
Heading Home...I think it's time
That little town, sticks in my mind
Heading Home...my heart is talking
It tells my brain that it is time
Did some tv and four movies
Put out albums and cds
Played in places long forgotten
Here at home and overseas
Played on flatbed trucks in rainstorms
Played in shopping malls as well
Played some shows in Arizona
Man, that place is hot as hell
Time to get on home and settle
do some tours but work at home
Time to be a grandpa proper
Unlike the dad who was on the road
Got a ranch out in Alberta
George Canyon lives not far from me
Maybe we can get together
And I can do one more cd
Heading Home to where my heart is
Been gone so long, time slipped away
Home is where my folks are buried
Home is where I'm gonna stay
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
It ain't no Love i take flight like a Dove
in my mind just beatin' time kickin' rhymes
about Reality but Life's a ***** im married To
only way i Can Divorce is through the Fatal Way
What's the Happy in that? i keep a Hot Gat
cuz suckas be yearning
tryna make into a Steerin' Wheel
and turn me into another Direction
but they ain't fuckin' me with that Indoctrination
Education failed me so the Drugs came to Me
on MLK and Alberta from Houston big rollas
went from drivin' a Gold Acura now im pushin' a
Beamer 7 a 2 quarters Slaughter
the competition on the Streets
suckas be walkin' with Water under they Feet
cuz ya they Slippin' Set Trippin' yo Inf load the Clip In
and let the Bullets riddle through ya Body
like you catchin' the Holy Ghost
i smoke the Most
til im faded out no Doubt
i know i done alot Wrong in my Lifetime
and soon to me my Downfall
cops tryna get me to fall
into their trap but im too Intelligent
i graduated with Honors from the School of Hard Knocks
knockin' boots became a 9 to 5 live
every monday through sunday was always a Gun Play
we don't have murals on our Subway
cuz we ain't got one
but i know that
verse was Irrelevant im never Hesitant
to get the Money its Always Sunny in the Streets of the H
theres always a dead body in the Ditch
Snitches hide in the Dark but like a Spark
to a Blunt we gone set they *** on Fire
and Make 'em Expire
and we still packin' Slugs
givin' a Shout out to my Thugs
with one what?
one Luv???? yo
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC