I'm always in love.
And sleepless. I'm that too.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
I'm Worried
I'm always in love.
Highly emotive and just beyond functional rationality. The gates remain closed. Under lock and key and solid pragmatism. A derelict waving his hands into oblivion. I shout this shit out of my system. Busy little bee he is...heart all a-flutter.
Highly emotive and just beyond functional rationality. The gates remain closed. Under lock and key and solid pragmatism. A derelict waving his hands into oblivion. I shout this shit out of my system. Busy little bee he is...heart all a-flutter.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Ave! Morituri te Salutant!
We temper the foolish with alcohol in our mouths.
I will not say your name out loud.
For the night says it enough to drown my town.
We bury the gold in the floors,
With the bullet in the open drawer...
Rolls and clinks, calling to be used when its called for.
Forsaken child in a red wagon at sunset,
Sold into this somber regret.
A new brunette occupies my dreams.
I ask, "Do you feel fine?"
She says, "You can't be serious all the time."
But I see her in a white dress and flowers held to her chest.
Open, festering wounds like cuts in the wrist.
She reminds me of my mother at her wedding,
Black and white and formally dressed.
She holds my mind in arrest.
Told to me once, twice, three times to watch her eyes.
That was a sub-par ending to the night.
They tell you all you need to know.
She's in the northeast city surrounded and swallowed, imprisoned by snow.
The youth go numb as they fall in love with a dying nation,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
Someone once said, "Your heroes are words that don't exist."
Easy to say when they lay them in the grave.
The family holds your place.
A green hill on a horizon far away.
By your grandfather, father; your head and soul shall lay.
Down the vine boy, with your very best.
The night they drove you down.
Release the hands you hold.
You belong to God, below His throne.
When He touched you and broke you.
Broke you in half,
On a blessing while angels laughed at your effort.
You're only fighting yourself when God enters the ring.
So sing.
Sing loud.
Sing now.
The youth lie sleepless as they fall in love with the dying nations,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
They'll pull the bait-and-switch on you,
When you hit your stride.
And pot shots come at you from every angle.
So much so, there's no place to hide.
As long as they have their self-importance, and your glare in the gleen...
There's not a fast enough moving stream,
To expedite the faces we turn away.
So long to the ordinary.
Fair play to the contrary.
Everything in moderation keeps you from complication.
Orderly and practiced is the name in vain,
And selfish is the self-inflicted pain.
People will speak of bells they hear from far away,
But all I hear are voices throughout my day,
"Before it's over, make sure you have your say."
I will not say your name out loud.
For the night says it enough to drown my town.
We bury the gold in the floors,
With the bullet in the open drawer...
Rolls and clinks, calling to be used when its called for.
Forsaken child in a red wagon at sunset,
Sold into this somber regret.
A new brunette occupies my dreams.
I ask, "Do you feel fine?"
She says, "You can't be serious all the time."
But I see her in a white dress and flowers held to her chest.
Open, festering wounds like cuts in the wrist.
She reminds me of my mother at her wedding,
Black and white and formally dressed.
She holds my mind in arrest.
Told to me once, twice, three times to watch her eyes.
That was a sub-par ending to the night.
They tell you all you need to know.
She's in the northeast city surrounded and swallowed, imprisoned by snow.
The youth go numb as they fall in love with a dying nation,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
Someone once said, "Your heroes are words that don't exist."
Easy to say when they lay them in the grave.
The family holds your place.
A green hill on a horizon far away.
By your grandfather, father; your head and soul shall lay.
Down the vine boy, with your very best.
The night they drove you down.
Release the hands you hold.
You belong to God, below His throne.
When He touched you and broke you.
Broke you in half,
On a blessing while angels laughed at your effort.
You're only fighting yourself when God enters the ring.
So sing.
Sing loud.
Sing now.
The youth lie sleepless as they fall in love with the dying nations,
And the golden wheatfields wave goodbye to the passing generations.
They'll pull the bait-and-switch on you,
When you hit your stride.
And pot shots come at you from every angle.
So much so, there's no place to hide.
As long as they have their self-importance, and your glare in the gleen...
There's not a fast enough moving stream,
To expedite the faces we turn away.
So long to the ordinary.
Fair play to the contrary.
Everything in moderation keeps you from complication.
Orderly and practiced is the name in vain,
And selfish is the self-inflicted pain.
People will speak of bells they hear from far away,
But all I hear are voices throughout my day,
"Before it's over, make sure you have your say."
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Sex Reminds Her of Eating Spaghetti
One of the major advantages of working at the premier radio group in the "Live Music Capitol of the World" is the fact that some pretty heavy-hitters will come strolling through for interviews and publicity shows from time to time. I've met Feist, Willie Nelson, Albert Hammond Jr., Robert Earl Keen, Bob Schneider, Lyle Lovett, Ja-Rule, Spoon, Drive-By-Truckers, the Cowboy Junkies; I saw REM and Pete Yorn in the studio and watched Andrew Bird play in our conference room, which was "fucking-A" sweet. Then there was that time I walked right past Ryan Adams one morning as he was checking out the newest issue of the Onion, and laughing to himself like some weirdo cosmonaut with his guitar strapped to his back.
Today I met Ben Kweller. Aside from the fact that I towered above him, there really was nothing too surprising about him. EXCEPT for the fact that he might have been the most friendly and congenial "person of fame" I have ever met. He was so ridiculously nice. I told him I'd been a fan, blah, blah...the same canned awkward bullshit people like him hear five million times in a week. And I really have...been a fan. I liked his first band Radish when I was in high school, and I've always had a soft-spot for his music. This was the same guy who played an entire ACL show with a nose that was bleeding so profusely, he stuck a tampon in his nostrils to keep going. It looked like someone cracked him on the bridge of his nose with a Louisville Slugger before he took the stage...it was bleeding like a sieve. There was blood (his own blood...not some fake-ass red corn syrup like Wayne Coyne spits on everything in sight) all over his guitar, his pants, it was fucking rock-star. His manager forced him to quit playing because he was getting so light-headed and almost passed out half-way through the show. Don't let his diminutive stature fool you...this guy is a straight-up bad-ass with a heart of gold.
He gave me his parking spot after he left (I met him in the parking lot). He literally said, "Hey man...you want this parking spot? I'm about to leave and you can have it."
Ben Kweller gave me his parking spot.
And I give you four tunes of his that I think are pretty damn swell.
Today I met Ben Kweller. Aside from the fact that I towered above him, there really was nothing too surprising about him. EXCEPT for the fact that he might have been the most friendly and congenial "person of fame" I have ever met. He was so ridiculously nice. I told him I'd been a fan, blah, blah...the same canned awkward bullshit people like him hear five million times in a week. And I really have...been a fan. I liked his first band Radish when I was in high school, and I've always had a soft-spot for his music. This was the same guy who played an entire ACL show with a nose that was bleeding so profusely, he stuck a tampon in his nostrils to keep going. It looked like someone cracked him on the bridge of his nose with a Louisville Slugger before he took the stage...it was bleeding like a sieve. There was blood (his own blood...not some fake-ass red corn syrup like Wayne Coyne spits on everything in sight) all over his guitar, his pants, it was fucking rock-star. His manager forced him to quit playing because he was getting so light-headed and almost passed out half-way through the show. Don't let his diminutive stature fool you...this guy is a straight-up bad-ass with a heart of gold.
He gave me his parking spot after he left (I met him in the parking lot). He literally said, "Hey man...you want this parking spot? I'm about to leave and you can have it."
Ben Kweller gave me his parking spot.
And I give you four tunes of his that I think are pretty damn swell.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Cliff Diving
Right now I'm walking through minefields with steel-toed boots on. A flak jacket above it. I'm focused. Terribly and specifically focused. Like America's New Darlings. Trusted someone else to pack my parachute as I squeezed out the door to catch the plane already headed down the tarmac. Turbines a-blowin'. My sights are peaked and filed down. The hair on the back of my neck stands. I'm lighting wildfires in my mind. Walking up to the front lines with my rifle zeroed in. I feel God hover above...the heat below. I don't need much and I don't need more. I think I've started a new avalanche. Let the horses who beg to run...
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