to George Gershwin: "I Sing of Thee"

Another day in the life. What life, it is a on going question.

The crowd opens to elephants, dancing in the street in odd formations; pink and yellow eyes. I am interested and i follow down some small scattered streets this caravan of noise and color.  There is a loving moon over head, a loving moon because she is still mellowed and hasn't fully taken over from the sun.

I think of someone away and assume the same celestial pattern is happening, but I doubt it. The world cascades in opaque fashions, and I understand the curve will not allow the same visual of the same sky. I hope it might be, but perhaps not.

to: Ben Sollee "Close To You"

A strong air is rising in the city on this particular day. But it closes and rounds out rather quickly, just like the fumes coming from the subway, a warm mist and then an arid dispersion, a zephyrean mist. There's more to this place than I know of, but still I am uninterested.

There's just one thing i think of, that replays, continually looping and swelling. It's not a dream, not a desire, but a vision of someone. A fleeting ghost that's been alluding me for eternity.

Folding my arms in the sand, or digging dirt or smoking in the forest pushes me no closer to you. But somehow embedding myself in this wilderness makes me feel closer to you, for even though I can't relate to where you are, miles away, I find solace knowing that these parts of nature are closer to you than I can be.

to Bright Eyes, "If the Brakeman Turns My Way"

There’s no answer to that query, just a need. A balance that stays vastly under-weighted or over adjusted. The dancers only walk now, and the snowboarders’ gear gets hung up early.

The community takes a lot of time to settle after a holiday, a torrent that rattles the majority of the locals. A sudden desperation that skews me and us.

Some automatic writing, a forced pen in hand, but there is a drive, a run to it. The Paris of the south looms in the back of my mind, veering and steering me.

All this death must need a counterweight, but the scales only balance when they need to. Fate is a curious pagan in that way.

And she will whisper an uplifting notion in my year. Ascending to a major tone and echoing encouragement. A beatle-sec sound and cadence.

If the brakeman turns my way, leveling, stopping, balancing and slowing

 Is that what we want, a pause in the action, a rest in the conflict , unrest in the natural illusion?

to Norah Jones, "The Long Way Home"

There’s someone talking to me in the background, but I’m only trying to move. Trying to follow some lights and street lights and head lights. There may not be a light on when I get there, but lord I’m sorry I always take the long way home

It’s not that I am hesitant, or disillusioned. The handful of rain propels me, carries me back your way. I love you sweet baby but I will always take the long way home.

Although you may be miles away, shifting and twisting in your own reality and I am shifting in mine. I love you darling if I could, I’d take the short way home.

Seems like the money has left, a long time ago, but I remember so many instances of carrying on no matter. Whichever, however, I don’t care whatever, I will spend the time and money, I will follow you through the long way home.

See us scream like an angel, a demon, something seeking attention. It is natural and I find it all the time. I care and I love, we move and we fly, shift and fall through the long way home.


And for a picture a little skewed....

to Noah and the Whale: "Rocks and Daggers"

There’s no need to play with my heart. Almost like a flushing that happens, some innate passion and love, an idea, a dream, the dream and then some type of de-synching. Sometimes, there is an innate connection, mostly though; it is as an artificial wall, purposefully trying to avoid eye contact or dialogue.

A light fluttering and we all dance on tip toes, amongst rocks and daggers. Jagged pieces and filaments

Of scrap metal that kick up with our heels. Others are dancing too, dancing to something that we create. A settling and a resound crushing that can follow with boats and the crashing sea; a tidal wave that can bury and comfort us.

But there’s a driving to that boat and current and rocks. A pressurized force propelling us towards something, unaware of any walls or avoidance or passions or syncing. There is something that is driving and comforting in the future, in some clairvoyant mind set, my mind’s eye is comforted. And while the world can turn at incredible speeds, never stopping barely noticeable on earth, we don’t have to run in reverse. I don’t have to turn back time and you don’t have to turn it forward.

In different spheres of heaven, there is a clock that drives everyone individually, and sometimes that forces against the general movement of space and time and earth and the sun. We have our own clock, but sometimes they can coincide with others.

To EELS , "Things the grandchildren should know"

There's a light in the window, but it's still light outside. The sea gulls move in an awkward flight pattern, more than usual, but it seems so reoccurring I don't notice it. Some type of floating premonition.

Isolated and reclusive isn't exactly where I am, but it is a pathway that I've been following, running away but finding comfort in the act of running.

People chase me, jobs, girls, family, dogs. I enjoy the run, a constant craving and longing for something I won't find. Re-learning and re-associating how to talk and speak, the sidewalk moves along with me. There must be something other than that I can tell, because everyone I know that's dead still resound in my head.

It's not at all good, not all bad, sometimes to refresh myself I talk to a mirror, but it's jumbled and choppy, no story of plot. Like this, my head is scrabbled and as gratuitous as I can be for meeting beautiful people, I move away, let it sting, but wish I could do it again.

to Johnny Flynn, "The Wrote and The Writ"

The snow was casting weird shadows today against an overcast sky. A holy sky, I watch skiers carefully glide down the mountain, like pastors reading through a worship book for a new parish. And what an alter they worship on. A skyward image that bellows and howls, a pillar of fire.

There is a writing and a carving in the snow and ice. Things that a wiser man could decipher, but I can’t. I look out of a window, cold and shivering, my mind elsewhere.

To green pastures and Australia I think of, the swirl of Dublin’s emerald grass mixed with an open sky. A faintly picking song reminds me of that place, but not a memory I suppose, more of a premonition, something that hasn’t been written, but will be wrote.

(song restart)

I picture us going there, side by side like walking up an alter. A communion we both make, but in desperate places, different minds. We cannot speak in tongues yet, and it is obvious, for our connection was lost, and our babel was broken a few nights ago. We spoke the same language and words, but now there is a separation, a type of schism or an excommunication. Ex-communication, the process of rejecting a communion, a unity. We didn't reject it, perhaps I just missed the next progression, You were reciting a hymn and I forgot the melody, and now I can't find the time again.

to AWOLNATION, "Sail"

There’s some orchestras in my life, some various noises and crescendos, some conductors and players who haven’t practiced their lines enough. I am the later, I forget my role and my lines, but am faking along anyway. It is a supportive role; I am here from the ambiance, for the presence.

My love has been the same way, she no longer sings like she used to. She fakes it now, among other things, and blames it on inspiration and lack of outlet. She claims she’ll fly away come summer, but I doubt it.

And we see each other at night, the music and dialogue between us resolve and we sit down. Enjoying one another, but only for a second. It is a rare and miraculous clicking, one that used to happen often.

I meet another girl in my life, a dancer, and she walks on her tips toes. It is a difficult transition, from someone creating the music to one who interpreting it. She has  broad shoulders, but she is not who I thought she was.

There is cardboard scattered along the house now, like an alley in the city I used to live in. Even the darker memories from that city seem bright now. The singer says I am the one who moved away and left, but she was gone long before.