Mississippi blues in my blood,
New Orleans in my soul.
Goin’ be a famous blues musician,
Though I can’t play.
Sent out from the plantation,
under cover of darkness.
Headin’ down to the crossroads,
Where I was told to run.
Soft, slippery wood against my hand,
my guitar strings howlin’ in the night.
The hot stench of sulfur,
Burning my nose.
An eminent outline,
The nefarious demon stands amidst the moon light.
Breath hot like fire,
His eyes a blood red
His scorched hands seize my guitar,
The wind changes at my feet.
A hollow clunk with screams of sadness,
My guitar gleams with malevolent power.
Given the gift of soul,
Though the price was my own.
I’ve become king of the Delta,
Singing the greatest blues ever created.
The demons and hellhounds in my dreams,
Haunt and torment me with persistence.
I think back on that fateful night,
The devil in his smoldering clothes.
I thanked him for my harmonious deliverance,
He welcomed me graciously into damnation.
Dead for seventy years,
My blues still cry out to the night.
“I pray that my redeemer will come and take me from my grave.”
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Ghazal {Also know as Guzzle}
Inside these cozy homes a sweet retreat to rest your feet, on the avenue
If I could only borrow the keys, on the avenue
A car sputters its life’s brevity
Its black fog swirls with the amber leaves, on the avenue
Like patchwork the lawns are well trimmed and neatly hedged sweet greed
A little girl forced to eat sweet peas, on the avenue
The flight of plastic bags and there skin flapping in the air
Stuffed with the Sundays news through the trees, on the avenue
Red bricks white borders green ivy grows along the house side
Nesting soon enough a pride full of worker bees, on the avenue
If I could only borrow the keys, on the avenue
A car sputters its life’s brevity
Its black fog swirls with the amber leaves, on the avenue
Like patchwork the lawns are well trimmed and neatly hedged sweet greed
A little girl forced to eat sweet peas, on the avenue
The flight of plastic bags and there skin flapping in the air
Stuffed with the Sundays news through the trees, on the avenue
Red bricks white borders green ivy grows along the house side
Nesting soon enough a pride full of worker bees, on the avenue
Fathered By Memories
you were a giant to the kids
in the neighborhood,
they used to joke you would hit your head
on the clouds.
memories when, with all your strength
you lifted your car into the sky.
and the day in the pool when you saved her life.
games like red light green light,
when you let us win.
those where the days I don’t remember.
late nights spent playing
football and racing track cars
laughing when you crashed
your laugh was a force
to be reckoned with
along with your anger
but I don’t remember much of that
mournful days spent reading letters you wrote for work
hearing your voice on the church choir cassette.
to the days of your demise
I wanted no other father
I learned about you through mom
she said you gave me advice,
when I was only six
it would be easier to go on without you
if these memories were my own
so I shed a lonely tear and wait
growing up with only memories
in the neighborhood,
they used to joke you would hit your head
on the clouds.
memories when, with all your strength
you lifted your car into the sky.
and the day in the pool when you saved her life.
games like red light green light,
when you let us win.
those where the days I don’t remember.
late nights spent playing
football and racing track cars
laughing when you crashed
your laugh was a force
to be reckoned with
along with your anger
but I don’t remember much of that
mournful days spent reading letters you wrote for work
hearing your voice on the church choir cassette.
to the days of your demise
I wanted no other father
I learned about you through mom
she said you gave me advice,
when I was only six
it would be easier to go on without you
if these memories were my own
so I shed a lonely tear and wait
growing up with only memories
Monday, May 28, 2007
Journal Post
I had my second visit of an allotted three today. It was nice, she has a warm smile. I stress myself out all the time. Like on the way over to her office. I’ve always had a bit of nervousness when it came to talking about my life; especially when it involves me telling the truth. That is the hard part; I want people to think of me better than I am. But isn’t that what everyone wants? The world is run by instant gratification, over indulgence, over opinionated liberals. Liberals don’t have a heart. I found this out a long time ago. Maybe when I was ten? How can you be for everything bad?
Let’s just look at the basic structure of the media in any given day. An active day in the media always has at least five pivotal stories. These can range in severity. In this day and age at least one story involves the slaughter toll in Iraq. Then a discussion about what is being done about the “situation” in Iraq. They don’t say war anymore. Maybe because we want to be deaf dumb and blind of the problem.
If it is summer time there will be a story about a white teenage vacationer who was kidnapped in a small town on a small Island in a big ocean. So far the police have no leads. With in the next few days the hunt continues with tear filled pleas from the parents on national television. The realist like me will wonder why she was by herself in the first place. Where are the parents these days? Kidnapping seems to be a very popular crime these past few years. You might think that they are connected? Connected with rich corporate parents who are so eager to let there children go. Am I being too much of a conspiracy theorist?
I wonder where the time goes, one minute I am focused on my corporate connected kidnapping theory; the next I get a special report that flashes a message. Amber alert! Tom Ridge demoralized by being assigned a pointless job. How dare they treat a fellow Pennsylvanian like that? I wonder why he took the job. I guess it is the same reason I joined the flagship fraternity at Penn State Harrisburg; to be a founding father of something. He will be remembered forever. Not only for being the first big wig in the agency; but for being connected to this boob war anyway.
One of the most irritating and foul stories makes its way in the form of gas price; everyone complains. Everyone including the people who drive gigantic SUV’s and work trucks with the hemi just to have a hemi. Everyone is an environmentalist when it comes to gas prices. Shouting out there claims to Mother Earth. We recycle, drink soy, and install water limiters. What more can we do? Use your fucking head is a start. Stop driving a truck if you don’t need it.
When it comes to the last story it comes as no surprise that someone won the lottery. An older gentleman usually; with a little old lady standing beside him smiling through her dentures. What is the point really? You have lived 90% of your life already and only now do you get the break that you pray for. I mean what are you going to do with the money? Get off medic aid? Buy a hover round? It’s like whipping before you poop, it makes no sense.
I finger my wallet wondering how much cheese sticks and coffee is going to set me back. I figure six bucks. Don’t forget the tip.
At the end of the day almost all of these stories has something to do with the liberal media. If they don’t they soon will be. Anything they can “support”. I have sliced and diced liberals into one general character profile. They are pseudo psychological brats who got to much attention as kids. They were told they could do anything. The real parent will tell there children the truth; it doesn’t make a difference how hard you work for something it doesn’t matter. Its all about kissing ass. They are all about a cause. The cause changes sometimes which they announce in there monthly newsletter; “The Town Crier”. They stand for a cause that they think will gain them popularity. It usually only works when they are battling conservatives. If they are not then it doesn’t really matter.
A teenage mom walks into the diner and I am all ears to a screaming baby.
Let’s just look at the basic structure of the media in any given day. An active day in the media always has at least five pivotal stories. These can range in severity. In this day and age at least one story involves the slaughter toll in Iraq. Then a discussion about what is being done about the “situation” in Iraq. They don’t say war anymore. Maybe because we want to be deaf dumb and blind of the problem.
If it is summer time there will be a story about a white teenage vacationer who was kidnapped in a small town on a small Island in a big ocean. So far the police have no leads. With in the next few days the hunt continues with tear filled pleas from the parents on national television. The realist like me will wonder why she was by herself in the first place. Where are the parents these days? Kidnapping seems to be a very popular crime these past few years. You might think that they are connected? Connected with rich corporate parents who are so eager to let there children go. Am I being too much of a conspiracy theorist?
I wonder where the time goes, one minute I am focused on my corporate connected kidnapping theory; the next I get a special report that flashes a message. Amber alert! Tom Ridge demoralized by being assigned a pointless job. How dare they treat a fellow Pennsylvanian like that? I wonder why he took the job. I guess it is the same reason I joined the flagship fraternity at Penn State Harrisburg; to be a founding father of something. He will be remembered forever. Not only for being the first big wig in the agency; but for being connected to this boob war anyway.
One of the most irritating and foul stories makes its way in the form of gas price; everyone complains. Everyone including the people who drive gigantic SUV’s and work trucks with the hemi just to have a hemi. Everyone is an environmentalist when it comes to gas prices. Shouting out there claims to Mother Earth. We recycle, drink soy, and install water limiters. What more can we do? Use your fucking head is a start. Stop driving a truck if you don’t need it.
When it comes to the last story it comes as no surprise that someone won the lottery. An older gentleman usually; with a little old lady standing beside him smiling through her dentures. What is the point really? You have lived 90% of your life already and only now do you get the break that you pray for. I mean what are you going to do with the money? Get off medic aid? Buy a hover round? It’s like whipping before you poop, it makes no sense.
I finger my wallet wondering how much cheese sticks and coffee is going to set me back. I figure six bucks. Don’t forget the tip.
At the end of the day almost all of these stories has something to do with the liberal media. If they don’t they soon will be. Anything they can “support”. I have sliced and diced liberals into one general character profile. They are pseudo psychological brats who got to much attention as kids. They were told they could do anything. The real parent will tell there children the truth; it doesn’t make a difference how hard you work for something it doesn’t matter. Its all about kissing ass. They are all about a cause. The cause changes sometimes which they announce in there monthly newsletter; “The Town Crier”. They stand for a cause that they think will gain them popularity. It usually only works when they are battling conservatives. If they are not then it doesn’t really matter.
A teenage mom walks into the diner and I am all ears to a screaming baby.
Cancer
Have I, no respect for the dead
How ghastly the tone.
Sweat pouring off my brow,
Feeling the guilt, I inhale faster.
The devilish smoke,
Curls around my fingertips.
Toes tap and shifty stance,
Disgusted whispers from old ladies in black.
Purple hair in tight cotton swirls,
With conviction in their eyes.
They blame IT,
For his death
Cancer is the reason,
A bastardly Thursday at a mortuary.
Death usually catches up to us,
In time.
I light another.
How ghastly the tone.
Sweat pouring off my brow,
Feeling the guilt, I inhale faster.
The devilish smoke,
Curls around my fingertips.
Toes tap and shifty stance,
Disgusted whispers from old ladies in black.
Purple hair in tight cotton swirls,
With conviction in their eyes.
They blame IT,
For his death
Cancer is the reason,
A bastardly Thursday at a mortuary.
Death usually catches up to us,
In time.
I light another.
Being Daddy
Kozar’s Christmas Village
Extreme cold taunting tears.
Jungle gym daddy with kids on every arm,
Tired tenacious feet numb.
Piled in the car, trek back from the boondocks.
Solace sounds of children’s sleeping breaths.
The sudden “Daddy” whispered from the darkness.
Their tickles on the back of my neck,
I love you Daddy.
Turkey Hill ice screams on good nights.
The overwhelming task of picking four-hundred varieties,
Dark chocolate or white chocolate sprinkles.
Sticky cheeks, chins, and narrow fingers,
Shouting their love on my white oxford.
Soft silly giggles, tickling bellies and giving hi-5’s,
Twenty years younger than yesterday’s yuppie rat race
The end of the night has come,
Midget protest parental powers to be.
Freedom to pick a book as thick as their pinky,
If only they lay asleep for the end.
Covers complete their absolute comfort.
Bye, miss ya, love ya,
Standard goodnight wishes.
The flutter of their lashes against my face.
Quiet whispers of secrets well known.
Extreme cold taunting tears.
Jungle gym daddy with kids on every arm,
Tired tenacious feet numb.
Piled in the car, trek back from the boondocks.
Solace sounds of children’s sleeping breaths.
The sudden “Daddy” whispered from the darkness.
Their tickles on the back of my neck,
I love you Daddy.
Turkey Hill ice screams on good nights.
The overwhelming task of picking four-hundred varieties,
Dark chocolate or white chocolate sprinkles.
Sticky cheeks, chins, and narrow fingers,
Shouting their love on my white oxford.
Soft silly giggles, tickling bellies and giving hi-5’s,
Twenty years younger than yesterday’s yuppie rat race
The end of the night has come,
Midget protest parental powers to be.
Freedom to pick a book as thick as their pinky,
If only they lay asleep for the end.
Covers complete their absolute comfort.
Bye, miss ya, love ya,
Standard goodnight wishes.
The flutter of their lashes against my face.
Quiet whispers of secrets well known.
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