I'm alive in this beautiful poetry
searching for my own meaning
you try to sell me your clarity
I won't let you spoon feed me
I've got your scent
trace it back to your apartment
its all based on interpretation
this is all in your imagination
all of the right words elude me
they are all constantly moving
disintegrate at rapid pace
disappear without a trace
and I'm left tongue-tied
in these bright lights
I'm dying in this beautiful scenery
searching for my own meaning
* * * *
There are some universal truths hidden behind such easily ignored symptoms. (you were having nightmares last night. I heard you.) We breath a collective sigh. All exhausted. Feel tired and fat. All of us feeling deflated and short-fused. Just too much time in the studio. The guitars.
* * *
All of the gorgeous women in the world, dancing along with fabricated beats, the stomping of hooves on the hard ground, the flashing of brights to indicate the lighting of indica. No room in small hearts for people with big hearts. Those vast mysteries. I fill my head with nice words to thematically layout my dreams prior to sleeping. Controlling the outcome of all events inside that closed subconscious. Expanding internally until a whole new unique New York universe opens with all characters and mutations of characters from real life. I could write about anyone. Take the features from one person I used to know and put them on a body with a different personality. The sister of an old baseball friend, who had a dirt bag dad as couch, a dirt biking young legend, with aspirations to make money somehow in that world of bumper sticker slap stick endorsement. An awkward arrangement where girls came over and smoked with his sister. His friends sort of. What could have been done to make it all better. Know now what to say and everything would be so much different. Perfect grammar and spelling does not effect the outcome of most social interaction. Take your head off and tighten it back on, straight and lined up with the spine. That coiling marijuana feeling, snakes under the skin, spreading warmth, sinking into couches and feeling nostalgic for times by the waterfront. The cross dancing and dangling back and forth as they passed a joint through Europe. The secret and small farming roads between rich establishments. Every year there is a mudslide that dents the guard rail. Or breaks it off completely, in more drastic situations. Or when they lit candles and had good sex in dorm rooms with the window to the world wide open. I imagine they listened to perfect music. Probably Passion Pit. That happened a lot. Most likely is happening right now. College campuses all over the world. Those enlightening candlelit nights where everything is absolutely perfect but the recognition of this fact is dry and deceased. Arrives too late, after huddling together smoking American Spirits in the parking garage. The twisting architecture and the small stencil of a tank on the converging beams of ceiling, like cross hairs. We were there and we knew time. I dream about such lovely evenings of self-exploration at the hands of another human spirit. Did these events happen somewhere so far? They took pictures of themselves on my lap top as he squirmed in discomfort. Try to sneak an arm around someone. Watching a silly movie. Sipping on hot buttered rum or something more ghetto and inconspicuous like a spiked drink. A lemonade or a soda half-full of cheap booze. We try to focus on the movie until our eyes quit focusing and our hands reach for each others under the living room blankets. We lived in these rooms. We lived too much in these rooms and the history is a tidal wave when returning. My god. If I entered the very same dorm room to witness... The second removed pair of roommates... Using my old bathroom. My sketchy, sliding door. The red paint splatter on the ground from some other lost generation. (Where is the culture?) I remember times spent going out to the park blocks to smoke something or other. A light rain comes down through the trees but they offer enough protection to keep the ends glowing orange. No need to dose our flame just yet, god. (I realize that the religious person sees religion in everything. Some of my writing could appear religious to him although my intentions are clearly of a different category.) Music is my religion.
There must have been that one regrettable day that you stripped off your flannel in harsh, revealing light. Piece by pretty piece you disintegrated into a stranger. You told your friends that you were well aware of what you were doing but they are too distracted getting theirs. "You do you." And everyone ends up making out in closet bedrooms. High school graduation day pool parties. Minimal connections on this west coast haunt. Realizing the amount of remaining work to put in. Over 100 hundreds of editing and re-taking and tracking. Maybe people will recognize what we have to offer and those crazy enlightening nights will begin again. For now I have been living in a comfortable repetition of music and booze and sleep. Exploration today.
Witness a fender bender. Screeching tires, screaming underneath. The crunch of metal on metal. Drive off because it was entirely your fault and there were hundreds of witnesses. I did not catch the license plate but there appeared to be no damage on the vehicle bumped into aside from fear and whiplash on behalf of the driver.
Wonder what crazy careless nights lay ahead. In a frenzy, in a wild ecstasy I will swing from the rafters. I will smile from ear to ear. As if it's all I'm here for. There will be no shame and I will speak true and straight. Living for the road and the moment. Intelligence breeds intelligence and it is out duty to spread the word. Imagination is the heart of all important matters. The washed up screen writer who wishes to relive his best shots through a younger, more promising individual. Gave me some information. Not to represent me. Wishes to be a mentor. Give advice. Be a teacher again then.
