Songs Without Names

Too cold to go out we spent our time writing songs in our heads. Trading tales of walking away and of trying to get her to stay. Songs we’d never name. The amps hummed all night long and I did my best to sing along, but sometimes the music was just too strong, and I found myself blessed to simply belong somewhere in the sound. Sometimes too quiet to hear, sometimes too loud to bear, we etched out our faces in the music that we made there, and nothing would ever sound the same. It had never been so hard to accept the potential of success. No dispelled failure had ever been so filled with regrets. This all came too easy, felt too natural to fingers formed for 9-5 work, so easy, so natural, that it so nearly hurt.

I often feel bound by my life, chained to the choices I’ve made and those that have made me. I’ve turned my passions into hobbies and brought caution back in from the wind. But for these few hours, every few months, I move with constant purpose, heavy with guilt. Save for those moments recreating motion with music, I steady my boat up-river and paddle patiently. When the thick oil of the right rhythm on the right time swirls into my mind, though, I paddle no more. I let the weight of my worries anchor this lonely ship, and simply move the way the river of rhythm takes me.

Sometimes I see myself, atop some stage, belting out some song I never named, and I wonder how much has changed. I think about the divergence of roads, and what I became. Sometimes I wonder what these passionate hobbies really say about me.

One Beautiful Smile

These are the moments that make me wonder if I might still be sleeping; the moments I spend my everyday days waiting to see. She has no idea, she just keeps smiling, offering a photo for my mind to keep when times get tough. A memory to steady the boat when the seas got rough. These are the minutes that make the years worth every second, and I smile like a child too carefully protected. The cruelty the world has dealt me has disappeared for the time being and I stand in awe of what one beautiful smile can do to me. All around the fur of the hood of her coat snow collects then slowly melts; she looks like some kind of wonderful magic that if the whole world felt, they’d never want for war. She’s the cynical man’s worst nightmare, but I only ever want to dream right beside her. There’s words in the way she smiles, and if I could put them to music, it’d make the whole world dance while they cried, but I could never write it if I tried.

Sometimes I get scared that she’s catching on, realizing that every kiss I give her is a little bit strong, and that every embrace lasts a little too long, like I just have to keep holding on. Sometimes I worry that she’ll see why I’d drop any day for her, why I’d stop any pain for her, even if it meant pain for myself. Sometimes I’m afraid she’ll find the truth always on my mind these days, that those skies she hides in her eyes could keep the weakest man safe; provide the most infamous man escape. That the song her soul sings, could bring the strongest man to his humble knees, and the things her heart speaks, I believe, could truly bring the whole world peace.

What? She says, brushing the snow out of a lock of exposed hair.

I try to reply, but for a minute I just kind of stand there. Nothing. I say with a little grin, and open the door of my truck to let her in.

A Love Letter Home

I’m afraid that you may have to hear this one to appreciate it, but I wanted to post it anyway. It’s a song that I’ve been working on from several years ago, BuffKingdom and I worked out the verse lyrics together. I made a few changes, to better suit how I felt these days, and added in the chorus. I picked it up earlier this month and started playing it again, because I really like the idea it presented. The idea that all these negative things are always somehow positive in a way and visa versa. We live our lives in a duality of sorts, pending our perception. We can either see the things a moment tore apart, or see the things that moment made possible. It’s up to us.

Having found this amazing group of friends to pal around with has been integral in my seeing the other side of the street; the, shall we say, brighter side. People like BuffKingdom and the ever elusive, but ever bad ass Panther or his younger brother, constantly trying to put my feet back on the ground. The list is far too long to name every one, and I never thought such a thing might happen in my mid-twenties. For anyone that has ever seen me dance, I freakin love you. In that vein, here’s “A love letter home”

This is a story of redemption
this is a love letter home
This is proof of beauty in the silence
a trembling voice on the phone
This is never ending chaos
A real live reason to pray
This is the way the slow motion takes us
and we get carried away

This is the story of a well beaten soldier
still clinging to the idea of war
This is a journey to the ends of the world
and taking a step too far
These are the mistakes that have made me
live rivers down mountains to the sea
A chance to change what’s been chosen
a face that finally looks like me

Chorus:
Another last try, this life in the city
leave no man behind, this is a family
with no battle cry, just the songs we sing along to
no sense of time, but the ones we hold onto
but oh my, do these lonely nights
Seem so long

This is a story of forgiveness
a strange twist of fate
my resignation to the business
the key to unlock restraint
this is all momentary magic
and no one will ever hold on
the only fact quite as tragic
is sometimes nights seem too long

[Chorus]

What’re You Gonna Do?

By the side of the highway I sat with my head in my hands, once again convinced that no one understands, that God makes shitty plans, and how lately it seems like ’separated we stand.’ My bike tire and I had suffered a similar fate which was to suddenly, and inexplicably, deflate. So stranded yet comfortably seated on grass in the shade I strove to simply sink in to a nice and quiet summer day. That it was December, didn’t seem to matter, as I had bundled up heavily for the ride. The sun shown like summer only clearer and it nearly made me a believer until I heard the voice of a woman standing silhouetted in the sun so I couldn’t really see her.
Flat tire? She asked with the slightest sound of a southern child.
Squinting, I returned a simple confirmation.
When she steps out of the sun I see that she’s not particularly beautiful, and not particularly young, but there’s life seething behind her eyes that all her years would never disguise. She sat down next to me and stared off into the sky to maybe try and see what I was seeing and thus began our meeting.
You think it’s gonna get better darlin’? She asked, as if we were old friends.
Not if you don’t, I replied.
Why’s that?
No offense, I stammer, but you’re a little older than me. I think you would know better than I would.
Why? She asked again, shrugging her shoulders and trying on a sly sort of grin.
Experience teaches. I say, trying to sound educated.
She loosens her smile, and replies. Maybe, baby, but we gave the future to you. Now what’re you gonna do?

Silence

‘Sometimes silence is a sound’, she says, over the beeps and the quiet shuffle of feet. I returned her gaze, but kept making that sound myself. It was the only time I lifted my head, other than to leave, it was the only thing any of us said, until we made it back to our street. The stories started then, dropping like snow to the ground, we piled them deep while passing whiskey and wine; explaining that it would help us sleep. I listened to tales of a life I’d shared in, that sometimes sounded all together alien, and wondered about the places I had been alone. The stranger stories about me no soul would ever know.

The next night, we went out, and found some strange sort of strength in the unity of moving to the same music, of losing ourselves in the same grooves. When you find the pulse of your last chance, feel the desperate nature of life unfolding in your hands, you don’t really have much of a choice but to get up and dance. The world wouldn’t wait, and it never would, no matter how fast we chased, no matter how long we stood. So instead of making chase we lost ourselves in guitar, drum, and bass; instead of standing still we danced together with will and conviction.

Chased by the golden light of a winter morning, we made our way home, shivering five large in a sub compact car. All around us is death, hanging from every tree and coating the earth, yet the whole night out had felt somehow like a birth. Waiting on each one of us somewhere, around some unknown corner, in some anonymous cold room, death would be there, it’s patient. Not always as patient as we’d prefer at times, but it can wait for centuries for a moment no longer than the blink of an eye. We’re here, then we die. ‘I love you’, she said, into the frigid air, and I watched the white smoke of it hang there. A shot in the dark, followed by four more, and for the absent sixth we all got quiet, and I thought how she was right; sometimes it is a sound.

If I don’t make it out of this alive

I’ve been putting a lot of pieces together lately, both metaphoric and physical. This song was born out of that piecing together. The title line comes from a song I might have posted on here before, but I was never really happy with how the song turned out. In the beginning it was very vague, and I for a while I really dug that, but in writing this hybrid I found that there was a whole lot more there than I had initially written. So, if you recognize a line or two, regular reader, that’s why … more after the lyrics.

Burning on both ends of the wax
taking it in, no giving it back
dangling from a string overhead
hanging my whole life by a thread
I could burn the whole thing to the ground
forget what I lost, loose what I found
but if I don’t make it out of this thing alive
someone tell my mother, that I tried

Chorus:
speaking with angels bound
to the ground to break my fall
I’m thinking about leaving town
getting out and tearing down walls
I think someone made a mistake
these smiles they crack then break
but we can’t be too late
to finally awake

another day, another stage
we’re all writing chapters, turn the page
but who’s the author of your hours
to whom do you owe your humble powers
I could shake the whole thing from the ground
escape the race safe and sound
but if I don’t make it out this alive
someone tell my brother I never cried

(Chorus)

just another day in paradise
just another shampoo bottle life
what of these chances we take?
And the fumbling kind of love we make
I take my time to hide the fear
but they see straight through and I disappear
it’s somehow easier to survive
knowing none of us make it out alive

(Chorus)

I’ve been in an ethical/philosophical mood lately. It’s nice for a change, and it’s nice to see that if I decide to push myself towards a topic I really can eventually get there with some grace. As stated in the previous lyrics I posted, “I’ve Been Seeing Ghosts,” I’ve gotten tired of always writing about “her” or “she.” To me, “Make it Out Alive” is about the most universal of all concepts, and it should be the most unifying, but unfortunately it’s not; that we are all going to die. It’s really not that far off either, some longer than others, but there’s no “winning.” So many of us seem to go through our lives with our heads down, I was guilty of it for most of my life, and lots of us just call it being driven. Driven is fine, but I think there’s a lot to be lost by not spending a little time searching for yourself.
I’m beginning to come to terms with my age, the distances I’ve traveled, and the lives I’ve changed. I’m beginning to appreciate the book I’ve written over the course of my years, the blank pages, the ones streaked in blood, and those spotted by tears. I wanted to speak to the thin thread we tow our time with, that we plan our lives with, because at any moment it could snap. We’ll fall to the ground grasping, trying to breathe again but only gasping, and the only thing that can put us humbly back aloft are those other tangled threads that we’ve clumsily crossed. Strangers, friends, even enemies, people with all different beliefs, all different varieties of essentially the same dreams, may offer a rope, a wise word, or simply a better perspective on the road.
What I’m sure of, is that we’re all guardians and sightseers alike, all of us have answers, and a lot of them might not be right. Yet we’re all in this together out here all alone, there may not be any heaven and this might be our only home, but we’re stronger, better, and smarter when we stick together. I wrote this song because I was looking around at those people that would follow me if I fell, and at this story I was crudely trying to write and then tell. The song is about the contemplation of those things, and their sometimes separate, sometimes equal, meaning. No one makes it out alive, no matter how long you survive, and the most powerful thing any of us does with these lives, is to find better ways for those around us to thrive. We’re all we’ve got, and the sooner we realize that, the fewer get lost.
Thanks for reading. As always, comments are appreciated.

Ashes

What happens to the rebel yells of the young
once the curdle thins in their blood,
and the fire cools on their tongue?
When the war they fought for change
becomes a war they wage for wage
and a weeks worth of freedom feels a little strange
what happens to the war they never won
does it just go on?
Do we only send our kids to be soldiers
to fight and die in this battle until they get older
and the war simply waits on the next wave
and rarely is any ground ever made
but one by one, up onto the beach
one by one, into the breach
taking lessons too hard to teach, one by one,
like bullets until we’re beat
Until success becomes a new coat or a new dress
and the rest gets left behind, good soldiers get left to die
injured on the line, some never recover, some never try
but what happens to that battle-cry?
To that disproportionate disbelief with which we lived our lives?
How did that die?
When did we get so hungry for explanation that we’d swallow a lie?
believe easy information and just follow in line
We were soldiers once, with blood in our voice
but we’ve been soothed it seems by meaningless choices
decisions directed at distracting us
which razor is best, whose marriage is best
what religion has a cooler God than the rest
and if it’s a test then we’re failing
because off we went sailing,
hook, line, and sinker
no rope, no oars, no anchor
some convincing themselves they won
by buying extra things and calling it fun
So, what happens to the rebel yells of the young?
Have the been silenced again?
Or will they always taste ashes on their tongue?

I’ve Been Seeing Ghosts

So, I have been going through kind of a wild time in my life. I’ve written a lot but it’s been scattered, an idea here, a good line there, nothing that really ever found an ending. Which is why it brings me such great happiness to publish this, because it’s actually the complete thought I was looking for. I’ve been in kind of a funk lately, and my friend and I have been talking a lot about our issues with modern life, which leads me to this.

I’ve been seeing ghosts now darlin, and I’m not sure what that means
I’ve been seeing ghosts my baby, and they look just like me
I’ve been chased by spirits, they follow me home
I’ve been chased by spirits, it’s gotten so I’m never alone

[Bridge]
but I’ve been praying nightly, for some kind of release
yeah, I’ve been praying nightly, my Lord, just to find some peace

(Chorus)
because all that I’ve found, all that I’ve seen
is that fear and greed are used to make killers, out of you and me
and all that I know, and all I believe
is that we were meant for so much more than this, dying scene

I’ve been walking through graveyards, to and from my place
I’ve been walking graveyards, trying to hide my face
I started talking to Jesus, I called Him out by every name
the only answer was silence, and the soft sound of rain

(Chorus)
because all that I’ve found, all that I’ve seen
is fear and greed used to build walls, between you and me
but all that I know, all I believe
is that we’re more than what they take us for, not cogs in a machine
so maybe we’re young, maybe I’m naïve
but I’ve been seeing ghosts, and that can’t be all we’ll ever be

I was toying around with the first stanza for a while but couldn’t figure out where I wanted to take it. I couldn’t stand the thought of writing another one in which the pronoun “she” or “her” appeared, I really wanted to write something about us. All of us. Those blank faces, peppered with smiles and laughter, with all kinds of different things in their brains to chase after. We’re all in this together, and I think we too often forget that and just go about our days like no one else notices, like no one else cares. I’ve been lucky enough to find friends that I can trust like family and it’s through them, and them alone, that I’ve found meaning behind this whole ‘life’ thing. I too often turn down their extensions of friendship because I feel so indebted to them.

I wrote it thinking about shuffling my way through this city with my headphones on, just another hipster on a bike with one of those funny looking hats on, no one of particular interest; mostly because no one’s really interested. We survive in bubbles, rushed into reaching goals, and finally wind up forgetting what we were doing it for. To be better people, to be proud of ourselves, and build a better future for our children. Not faster, not richer, not cooler, but better. One where they learn more than we ever imagined and unlock secrets we struggled with for decades. One where they’re not judged by anything other than the content of their character and enjoy freedoms we could only dream of. Because we were meant for more than this paycheck existence. It’s become as much a part of our life as who we love and I just don’t think it’s right. So, I hope you liked the song as much as I like having written it. Feel free to comment.

Demanding Better

Demand better for yourself. Be confident in what and who you are, no one else in this world will ever appreciate what a bad-ass you are as much as you. Recognize those people in your life that don’t either a) think you’re pretty bad-ass, at least, or b) have respect for you; systematically remove those that don’t fit into either category. Defeat them. Fall in love, and love in the same manner you dance, sing, laugh, cook, and screw: with a near divine sense of pride, and like no one in the world’s judging. If you can’t be proud of the person you love then you’re just not in love.

“God” may have a plan for each and every one of us, but over the years I’ve learned to acknowledge that, while “God” may or may not be all mighty and powerful, when it comes down to it, “God” is really just a voice in your head. Probably not the same one that says burn things, but the jury is still out. Fly your freak flag high. Become an avid something. Collect stamps, read books, ride bikes, collect albums, whatever you do, do it because it truly interests you. I’d like to see more mansions with collectible Elvis plates hung on the wall.

Self-worth is all an interior thing, and despite everyone trying to convince you otherwise it’s all up to you what you become. Don’t let other people make you feel worthless. It’s easy to collect those people that seem to thrive off making us feel like we’re somehow lesser. Sometimes it’s the truth, sometimes they’ve got it a whole lot better than you; but this is a stand for your character not your position. Position will change with the slightest flex of the wrong wallet; character, however,  is the rock from which we’re carved. Be someone strong, standing straight against the driving waves even while you’re drowning. Especially while you’re drowning. Strong shouldn’t always entail fighting, though; strength of character is often measured in the ability to let go of something, rather than to fight against it.

Swim deep waters, drive fast cars, smoke cheap cigarettes, drink good beer, and make great time. It’s a jungle out there and no one makes it out alive. There’s certainly no turning back. Those you’ve picked up along the way may turn on you, may use you, may hang you out to dry without so much as a second thought. You’re an ant and this is ant war; but it’s life, and it’s the only thing any of us are good for. So suck the marrow from it, scrape the bits of it up wherever you’ve left them and paint something beautiful with them. Come together, not because we need each other to survive, but because we need each other to find that feeling of home in someone’s eyes. Be true to yourself, remember that if it’s a race, nobody survives a win and there’s no such thing as place; but keep in mind that we all run this race blind, and that we can never run it again.

The Voice When Everything Else is Quiet

I tried to fly. With body against my bike, pedals turning furiously, I put my head down and when I looked up, I had taken flight. The streets were silent, nearly deserted in the night and I made them mine. After a while I stopped noticing the wheels beneath me completely, and simply turned miles. I imagined the ghosts of the day wandering the sidewalks and parks, and tried to listen to the words they might say. Hobo’s and homeboys and ever color collar, they milled about mostly oblivious to one another. I fly through the lights, through ghostly visions of traffic jams and lovers holding hands, around the occasional tourist out searching for sights.

I turn into the circle at break-neck speeds, sure that my wheels are just about to betray me, and then I balance out, the curve back around is gentler somehow, but I keep two fingers on each brake with a bit of measured doubt. I catch the eyes of a late-nighters, perched on the center stairs. They all seem to look right through me, barely aware I’m there. Watching the movement rather than the object, the motion rather than the person.

I came around a corner and caught a couple making out. Well-past closing time it made a little sense, but what happened next, I still have trouble figuring out. When they saw me, riding quietly down the road, I caught their eyes for just a second or so. I wanted to say hello but before I could say a word, the man put his arm over her shoulder, and they shrunk further away from the curb. I just laughed at it at the time, but had trouble getting it of of my mind.

As I tossed the bike over my shoulder to retreat to my apartment since the night had gotten colder, I wondered what my new-found neighbors think of me. I thought about the night-owls, probably still perched there on the stairs, and the things that they must see. I thought about that couple shrinking away,and, if asked about me, what my friends would say. I make my way through the mess that in a matter of days had become my apartment.

On the couch, nearly passed out, I remember a thing one of my old friends from a few lives ago used to talk about. He explained that getting high was like becoming aware of this guy in your mind who’s up there controlling everything you do, and it’s his voice when everything else is quiet, it’s that guy you sometimes get caught talking to. Sitting alone in my apartment, stoned from exhaustion, I wonder if he’s right.

People argue over what separates human from animal, from the fact that humans can think in the abstract to that that they can consider God. Essentially the same things, but vastly different when you get down to the brass tax of what they really mean. Differences on that subjects aside, it seems to me, that it really could be, this little fellow in your mind. Our eternal narrator, a voice entirely internal that doesn’t doesn’t sound a thing like the occasional orator, or are we just not yet aware of theres. Could our pets be pondering philosophy behind I our backs, could we eventually outdone by the free-time of cats?

It seems doubtful that anything truly conscious of its freedom would really willingly put its fate in the hands of a teenage human. Yet, remembering that couple on the sidewalk, and the words I didn’t really need to hear them talk, I can’t help but think about the trouble it’s caused us. It seems outlandish to imagine, that passion might be better off without ration, as just a moment to moment indulgence of curiosities, and marking territories, the occasional humping of things. Somehow it sounds a little utopian to those who always work every weekend, and spend full dollars of their time on a 2 week return of a dime; before taxes.

In the end, though, I liked falling in love, even the part about falling out. I like walking around in the rain, to try and make sense of all the pain, even when I never do. For all the stress it sometimes causes I like going to work and helping people with their problems. I’ve even found ways to love school, by understanding that it’s not about something they print on a fancy page, but the way you make what you’ve learned into a more powerful tool, and no can ever take it away. These days I like trying out my wings when the opportunity arises, gives me time to consider the bigger things like the heroes inside of us, and why we try to hide it with silence.