it is but a wanting for a deep blue sea and, yet, it remains but stoic in its gray.  i widen my grip on the board as if surfing its childish delights; water building to waves and cresting at once, the night tide taking me back to shore.

it is the shore which breathes so heavily, its harness all clipped to the moon and i, somehow uncertain of which one is pulling which.

but it is in the pulling which i tag along. the reach of the stars’ patterns lying. 

in lying, they disguise themselves as shapes shifting; lines connecting dots or merely dots connected, the outlines weeping like cut-outs in a flip book whose edges have taken leave from the constant page turning in this infinite bedtime story,  trudging along to its end.

but it is in the end which seems so wrongly stated.  our sights being not but barely over a straight line – not a full circle at all – we cannot gaze upwards and downwards at the same time, cannot look both left and right at the same time, and cannot, for certain, begin to peer behind. so we loosen our hold on the cul-de-sac of the skies, for it spins ‘round.

it is in the spinning which pronounces such disgust with the stories of the skies, for it allows only an outward temptation culled inward, verily.  we gather them silently and, silently, they are gathered; the shore in constant juxtaposition to the frigid seas, illustrating its own battle scenes and wanting only to form a separate story even as it is merely the hand reaching to be handed. 

in handling itself, helpless, it cannot counteract either deep.

and so sunrise.

and so sunshine.

we sit back and relax.

it is, of course, a good thing to be a-waiting.  to be awaiting all these eyes to hold you stymied in their gaze, all undone with thoughtful grace. 

it is, of course, a good thing to be spacing.  to be spaced and lost in an overcast sky, wishing the sun was shining, all without a thought for the gray.

it is, of course, a good thing to be late, see.  to be hoping time would stop so you could be somewhere on it, all with rushing out the same.

it is, of course, a good thing to be sane.  to be sane in your insanity like a genius with a cane; like a promise to a lost soul gripping their hands holding crosses and grants like there is not a grand thing.

it is, of course, a grand thing.  a grand thing.  a grand thing.

it is, of course, a grand thing. 

this life.

this life.

across the cliffs we clamber and in clambering we cross the cliffs, cold and without feeling.  as cars upon tracks, we roll silently but with the clickety clack.  we sniff out cultures worn out or worn off the rails and behind casual pits of rage or resignation, we are more and more lost amid the darkness. 

but it is through the darkness we are able to see rightly and it is with only a single flame do we go rocking.  back and forth from the engine’s face hid amongst canyons of bitter ales and formerly scaled stock of powder kegs, we seem only to devise ways to go on exploding and only with explosives do we ever wish upon the rails themselves.  for to be a safety net for ourselves; for to be rickety climbers of a pattern of deep degradation; for to be nothing which goes past another because we cannot be passed. 

we cannot.  we can.

we can go forward or backward and that is all.  we cannot turn, we cannot.  there is only the coupled way of knowing where or where to; where not or where. 

and just because we haven’t any wheels does not mean we cannot be driven. we are and we are.  or simply, are not.  until the rails themselves go laced upon the windows, we will be sliding forever and ever. 

and so we do.  and it is a sad state of affairs that we can’t be not.

crossed off patterns of the militant kind all aghast as trees through forest fires and snipped wires of the new battlefield; i rearrange and arrange the grass to again form a newly closeted freedom.  though it is little more than a statement of slight misunderstanding, this time i’m quite sure the assumption can be made that it is but the nature of things. perhaps the nature of things folded.  just as upon waking from a dream called nightmare it seems but a wit’s end.  and though the lists are made and made and dug into freshly tilled soil to be planted again, it makes for a strange sort of pulled garden.  so as the flowers bloom and the nightingale swoons like the temptress of an ancient age which hunts for to know what to do with the moon’s shameless glow,  only in crouching do we see beneath branches and only through branches can you see me at all.  but i am there and you are there and we are there to be seen where the touching of hands wiggles as a standoff of buccaneers.  and so we stand off.  and though the afternoon shimmies and the twilight shakes, it’s the mornings which switch on and off.  so i am one to be switched and it takes more than a flick to be donned.

but it makes sense in the moonlight.

but it makes dollars by day.

upon mornings of degradation pulled from the writ or cast off and spit on through a canopy’s drift, it is a day to remember; a breath through the wind which culls no beginners like bags full of spin.  it is a remark growing lonely as a heart beating to win or lungs captured and thinned out.  and so we exhale smoke or carbon dioxide whose atoms take heed of the warmth of the trees.  we exist and we exist but not to be existing; no, to be cautious in our attire and warranting truth to be lain forth.  i cannot stand to speak of more but i can sit or sleep and snore and be out with it.  but it takes something else to be found in the night; to be praying for what’s right with the tides.  so do be slinking past the notion it is but a weak-hearted’s plite with the moon.  for though we do only what we can, we can do more to be doing than to be waiting and waiting for a casualty.  it is not that which pulls and tugs but that which embraces.  and though these mornings aren’t wasted, they should be.

a needle fits the groove and so we dance.

a dig into the holy heightened takes lead and only until the wrought iron clangs shut do we find a will to be wanted a won’t for the gods.
oh how the mighty fall.
oh how the classless are benign to their fiddler’s wishes.
a shrivel with a bow you know not with a will to be wished upon stars you see twinkling.  they shudder and gasp at the world we inhabit and yet altogether, they form some sort of pagan cookbook with which we devise meals from their pages, taking aim at their wistless and their want to not be striving very far…
take it from me, dear people of this world: they’re only there to keep you warm.  only there to make sure of the scorn.  only there to be made into something else. 
and so we gaze to the heavens and ignore our surroundings even though they surround us.  they speak through us.  and only when we take notice do our silences abound.
and so be quiet, dear lovers of the topped begotten….take hold of your brethren and don’t be made foolish upon the light they keep.  that light shines as such and we nod to the men and women we cannot know and yet know fully well.
they are more beautiful with each passing moment for their moments all misunderstood.
and they will grow more beautiful as we misunderstand.
so please, please…
take hold of their hands.

there’s a man behind the curtain
brother, pay him no mind
there’s something which is closer
something better with time
yet, there’s something i can’t handle
something weighs on the mind
yet i know that i can beat it
without nickels
without dimes
without a preacher or a mime

there’s a figure laughing; certain
something only to find
a shadow of a martyr
who doesn’t have to die
but we can speak and i can feel him
i can see that he’s fine
and if, in fact, he’s only wandering
let him fly
let him sigh
let him lie

there’s a picture – only stillness
only shapes in the light
there are circles and squares
geometrically designed
there’s a pattern to be learning
and it’s plain in my sight
because control is just a word
when you’re better off blind
better off sighing
better off alive
better off not trying
no better
no crimes

and so shut your eyes
you’re lovely and kind

the supposed so is a name; a moniker.
like all names, such a name means so little.
such a name is nothing without a face.
nothing without words.
nothing without thoughts.
like all names, such a name keeps it all contained.
all the meaning.
all the loss.
all the faith.
all the hurt.
all the joy.
all the helplessness.
all the knowledge.
all the ignorance.
all the patterns.
all the color.
all the memory.
all the passion.
all the patience.
all the empathy.
all the addiction.
all the compassion.
all the trust.
all the hatred.
all the friends.
all the family.
all the forsaken.
all the dreams.
all the nightmares.
all the plans.
all the fear.
all the frustration.
all the healing.
all the regret.
all the integrity.
all the pride.
all the intentions.
all the mistakes.
all the learning.
all the language.
all the understanding.
all the hope.
all the hoped.
all the hoping.
all the love.
all the loved.
all the loving.
such a name keeps it all contained.
but such a name shouldn’t ever hide it all away.

(chronologically…as i recall)

Family
Friends
etc…

The Forest Gump Soundtrack
The Dubliners
The Wolfetones

The Beatles
Bob Dylan
Cat Stevens
Simon and Garfunkel
Joni Mitchell
Jimi Hendrix
Eric Clapton
etc…
Leo Kottke
Francis Doughty
Nirvana
Crooked Fingers
Modest Mouse
Bright Eyes
Sondre Lerche
etc…
Tupac Jay Z Eminem etc…
Gillian Welch/Dave Rawlings
Okkervil River
The Shins
Laura Marling
Big Star
The Faces
The Replacements
Rilo Kiley
Tom Waits
Why?
etc…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the supposed so began in 2009

as a recording project

for songs i was writing.

now, still writing.

and writing and writing.

the music itself goes back some years prior.

picked up a guitar at a very early age.

finally started to learn how to play it at age seven.

never put it down.

won’t put it down.

can’t put it down.

influences:

fifteen years of that certain music which

for whatever reason

meant something

to me

etc.

fifteen years of that certain music which

for whatever reason

meant nothing

to me

etc.

“sometimes you say things in songs even if there’s a small chance of them being true. and sometimes you say things that have nothing to do with the truth of what you want to say and sometimes you say things that everyone knows to be true. then again, at the same time, you’re thinking that the only truth on earth is that there is no truth on it. whatever you are saying, you’re saying in a ricky-tick way. there’s never time to reflect. you stitched and pressed and packed and drove, is what you did.” -bob dylan

dilapidated distance from a dying breed.  all pigeon holed and digable like scattered leaves.  it’s only what you know, it isn’t what you think.  although what you think’s all right with what you will one day know.  it isn’t plain to see, your eyes.  it isn’t deep within the skies.  it isn’t lost or without teeth.  it isn’t laying in the greens.  it isn’t playing all on schemes.  it isn’t trying to be anything.  it relies on your forgiveness.  it relies on bulleted statements.  it is lists writ from the heart without a pagaen’s flaccid dart; without a christian wishing on; without a buddhist humming songs; without all green whose gold is ours.  it is a pleasant way to be.  it is a way beyond the seas.  it is a planet from the deep now regarded but with that which covers me.  oh my goodness, i cannot believe.

remember oddities.

(and kudos)

and that moment with the truth

that moment all too short for me and you

take into account the buildings which make sure of their own statues; they are pale and forewarned.  they are cheap and plastically born from steel.  i cannot write.  i cannot feel.  but with an iron-clad fist or curtain, the same, i am without a love for the unlovely and without care for the uncaring which do go weathered like the night into a dawn clasped tightly to a song which sings like mockingbirds and, rightly, from their wings.  for, they fly and they fly and cannot be flown higher than their might as they go gliding through the night. 

disguised as brutes dissolving like flutes whistling or shoes gazing, i catch the light and am now without a sight to be seen sighing.  nor am i a distance from myself.  nor am i a version of yourself.  i am a heightened state of existence or perhaps just a leavened state of persistence or maybe just a battered bag of bones still creaking or maybe just a laugh into a dark corridor.  i cannot sit here anymore.  i cannot stand there anymore.  i cannot – i can.  i can be a shadow of myself or myself hands in hands with shadows culled or retracted.  and though it goes to show the hair on end, it is merely a mere merely mere and cloud nine.

tripped up, forgotten; begotten all plune with a dig into the earth or a swig from idle balloons which flow like water from lagoons and live like rabbits upon the moon.  there is no man which can be seen; there is no cannon boomed or cleaned; there is no lover’s lap too mean; there are no oddities.

ah, but what with a canopy’s eyes all shielded from a watcher’s cries for brothers; sisters watch and sigh.  i’ll make it on and on.  upon a wilderness all torn; behind an elephant whose horns are merely tusks all cut, reborn as piano keys all coupled with scorn or pennants none but withered porn you take into a corner store to steal, to borrow blues and ore to fashion sickness tightly born.

my, what a distant shadow…

the sun sets.

like a manic windmill; winding and wailing, i begin a descent and fall into the lives of others.  i caution the wind and it blows anyway…sometimes harder than ever before.  but with a rush upon the windows, i breach my own cautious mind and deliver myself into a failed sunlight whose darkness wields no uptake; no deliverance of evil; no pardon for the penchant of wild emotion.  i carry on my shoulders a siamese cat and though she shivers in the cold, i cannot make her warmer.  she makes herself warm in her own way; in her own time. 

they only figure rightly, she says.  they only catch you napping, she says.  they only take you down, she says.  we cannot walk but around and around, she says.  and so i carry my ax and sword.  and so i carry my charms with which to be stolen against.  i wield my ways of worry and i breathe and i smile distinctively. 

how can it be?  how can it be?  when the merchants aren’t selling anymore.  when the passersby don’t buy anymore.  we all need to take a step back and stop trying to fall up the shores. we need to remember we all remember differently.  we need to find the truth of a past which passes us by. 

it’s repeating, she says.

it’s repeating, she says.

high ground, she says. 

high ground, she says.