Tuesday, August 26, 2008


The fist shaped organ beating in the heart of hollywood, flowing life through los angeles, and those whose feet pound pavement, searching in vain for lost scripts, and forgotten lines, and existing plots.
Maybe it was the music but I was reminded of old faces and a more innocent time. Either forgetting hurt feelings or perhaps heightening the experience,
recalling a time when I was less jaded by the hills surrounding us.

Maybe the music broke my heartChipped away at surrounding ribcage protection to invade me
It cried out from below my feet and tumnled like crowd floating to the pulsating drumbeat of the stage
Offering up my lonliness on this alter that understands me better than the status quo. Telling me to be optmistic in such a pessimistic town, absorbing the collective energy of those around.

The red lights beat light like an EKG and my own responds unable to let go of an unsaid force inside of me that is begging for the moment things turn from bright hot sun to the cool gray dusk of stillness.

this place is like a church, as we all face forward to find our spirituality. In modern uniforms of faded tshirts and boots, we are the cynics looking for something, lost and found, upon starry sidewalks

Monday, August 25, 2008


As stories go,
there is usually pain
death or some drama,
created by let downs of some type
feeling jumpy,
needing to get out of somewhere to get going somewhere else
maybe it's like when you quit smoking,
after five minutes the itch subsides
evident to the unapparent misuse of someone's heart
he sits now bleeding quite freely
you see from both skinned knees
heavy hearted and waiting for it to start feeling better
maybe eventually his heart will not be used for her pin cushion
he has been told that the pains numbs a bit
with two parts denial,
one part whiskey
stirred slightly with a long look in the mirror.
As stories go,
there is usually pain
death or some drama,
created by let downs of some type
feeling the quiet,
its surrounding her and burrowing through ear canals
maybe its like going deaf,
after a while the white noise just fades
like a lullaby to drift you away to a healthier state of mind
she is quiet for the first time
her own voice in hibernation to herself
she is feeling sadness harder than usual but
she has been told things are usually for the best
she is growing her thin skin out to callused a bit
to live without that empty self induced guilty feeling
as stories go

Wednesday, August 20, 2008


im taking my words to a different place,
walking through streets at a different pace
with lowered eyes
lowered blinds
lowered lights
i would like to write upon the insides of the eyelids
view visions of the visionaries
share a part of something amazing
with broken walls
broken shards
broken records are playing back
words a song that never ends
when i challenge you for inspiration
to light fires