Consciousness

If you’re not sure

then pause, wait

and listen to the sounds

of conscious—nothing—ness.

Muse

yourself and happiness

The only road block

between yourself

and happiness,

is you.

Mural, Santa Monica.

Children

Children are very important, more in tune

than our fragile adult minds are willing to admit,

because kids know what’s important

and they’ll tell you to your face,

though it’s hard to hear them

with all the nonsense man’s created

to convince the world

he ain’t so little anymore, knowing the truth

once he’s willing to truly listen.

My Nephew Collin

When I was a kid—after bedtime—as quietly as I could, I would crawl from my bed, onto the floor, then elbow and knee my way down the hallway to lay in the doorway of my brothers room…

When I was a kid—after bedtime—as quietly as I could, I would crawl from my bed, onto the floor, then elbow and knee my way down the hallway to lay in the doorway of my brothers room to watch his television.

He’s four years older than I am and, well, I thought he was really cool.

One, for having a TV in his bedroom. And two, for probably knowing I was there but not saying anything.

Whatever he was watching didn’t really make a difference but it was comfortable there, on the carpet, with the blue light flashing.

A dark bedroom can be pretty scary to a child, especially during a thunderstorm.

Now that we’re older, we speak when it is necessary, but not all the time.

Probably less than either of us cares to admit.

He’s a busy working husband and parent while I’m pretty much all over the map.

Though when we do talk, it’s a meaningful talk of mutual reflection. He provides me with information from four years down the line and I remind him that I’m listening by offering whatever small insights are on my mind.

I thought he was great then and I still do now. No matter the distance the bond between two brothers is strong and unwavering.

Basically what I am saying is I look forward to the next time we’re able to watch a little TV, crack a couple jokes, and just hang out—without any pressure—even if it means the carpet or floor, that’ll be enough.

The Sweatpants King And His Little Brother

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

Taylor calls for me from those stairs in Italy

I’m walking by a pay phone on the beach

Reminders from the East and a girl named Cicily

Talk me into circles out of reach

Send letters won’t you son to remind us what you’ve done

Don’t be a stranger call us once a week?

I buried what was left of my heartache in a trench

On that lonesome stretch of sand I was released

Now Bret he reads the lines in the background of my mind

There’s no one in this room to hear me sing

When journaling in thought feels like a raven’s claw

It’s Taylor who sits calmly next to me

The grass rests underneath her cheekbone by the sea

While chemicals channel flowing dreams

It’s 8am in August while I pour the gin and tonic

Listening to the ocean’s cresting wave

The cobblestone in Rome for which once walked me home

Now Cicily I hear her gently speak

There’s no such thing as time, if you believe that then that’s fine

But darling I’ve got no tears left to weep

I did my best to please the priest listening to me

Still Lucas rest assured me of my grief

I didn’t have to sail to France to find a girl to dance

I just went out every night for one last drink

So now as Taylor calls to me from those stairs in Italy

I pick her up once more from memory

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

I pick her up once more from memory

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

Call me crystal and I’ll make this clear

Call me crystal and I’ll make this clear

The world’s your oyster, won’t you be a dear?

Remember us, when you’re famous

Such a dangerous manifestation

Bite the bullet trigger happy kid

They said break a leg behind closed eyelids

Opportunity, don’t blow it

You’re a shooting star, now show it

Call me Ishmael cause I am drowning quick

Wailing never got you through the thick

What more could we ask for?

Through closed doors

Another kid’s born in the grave

By the third day he’ll be saved

Another wick is burnt too late

Just one more spirit and you’ll feel great

Wipe the Chalice, next in line to drink

Every word has meaning, child

who’s never’d time to blink

don’t think twice it’s alright

She said she had nothing to say

and the hard part was

that I kind of believed her.

She had it sometimes, this spark

but never really fleshed it out.

And even when she did

she always just kind of played the part

but never really got it how I saw it in her.

I think I just wanted her to be this muse

which she understood she couldn’t be.

Not because she didn’t want to but rather

because she’d already given so much of herself

that there really wasn’t more to give.

And what’s the point of giving your all

to something that never really gave you anything

but headaches and a broken heart?

Oh how we live for those who treat us like dirt

because in the end we respect them better than

the rest who smile and nod and tell us how

good of a job we’re doing just to get through the day.

But they don’t really care. To them

we might as well not even exist. I mean really

who do you call when you’re at rock bottom?

You call the ones you’ve loved, lost, and

will love regardless of the pain they’ve caused

because even when she said she had nothing

to say, I knew better than that.

I just pray she wasn’t telling the truth.

Hell even when I have nothing to say

I have something to say. But that’s me.

That wasn’t and will never be her.

“So don’t think twice it’s alright.”

Bob Dylan said that.

“I’ll let you be in my dream if I can be in yours.”

Bob Dylan also said that.

“Write with fire,” I said that.

I’m probably taking this harder than I should

but that’s who I am and what I do.

I know this. I admit it. I am this.

There is no turning it off, no turning back.

I’ll wake up tomorrow pen in hand regardless.

Don’t it feel good? That spark. Like fire, right?

You just can’t put it down no matter how hard you try.

See, you don’t choose it, it chooses you.

And if you don’t say it, someone will.

It’s all just wishful thinking in the end

so here’s another penny to the well

funny how it doesn’t even make a splash anymore.

stop, relax and wonder.

I know people

far too busy

to stop, relax and wonder.

And it’s quite sad

in a way

to stop, relax and wonder.

If they knew I

had the time

to stop, relax and wonder.

They’d probably scoff

like nobody ought

to stop, relax and wonder.

Until the sordid, morbid day

they stop, relax and wonder

perhaps it’s I

who’s mourned the day

one too many times over?