ethereal droppings...

Everything's a self-fulfilling prophecy when you're running from the weight of the world

2011-07-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

There you're standing now

With your head in a cloud

And your feet perched on gold

And tears are streaming down your face

in the face of everything good

that your heart's being told

And who believes in fairy tales

When they've been stranded in the mail

Since seven years old

Everything's a self-fulfilling prophecy

When you're running from the weight

of the world

All these fears and doubts

Have been having out

In the depths of your soul

And any hope that you

Might be illuminated by the sound

Of my voice is no more

Cuz what's the use of words

When they have hurt

And beaten you down

Since seven years old?

Everything's a self-fulfilling prophecy

When you're running from the weight of the world.

Ode to Mann

2010-12-29T15:13:00.001-08:00

Given the weather
Lack thereof
A man of the mind
Has turned from love
because passion never hit him that way

The flatlands are
a safe flat place
to iron out ones
blemishes
bleach your insecurities in the sun

But a trip to the mountain
was all it took
Our hero of the mind found there
The genius of his illness
and, "The agent of terror..."

Above the mind and under God
Between a lady and the stars
An organ grinder and a Spaniard
The pedagogue, the underdog
At this elevation one is taught that time is just a decoration...

The gift of the mountain
is to unlearn, that is, that your
body must detoxify
And spring from its earthly prison
blood and its unspoiled ruby desire

Then death consumed our hero
they were dropping all around him
And humanity was just decoration
But a pencil that he borrowed
from a Tartar-eyed, sallow cheeked temptation was his liberation

You learn from the mountain
In a fever high
that your life has been pre-designed
To overcome's to undercut
Clandestine, in its unmistakable stride

7 years and understood
life is that pursuit of which is
truest to the soldier in you

He lost his brother, cousin,
and the Tartar that we spoke of
But it's not to safe to say
that upon his return to his flatter ways
this burning resonates this day forward

Lily Loo

2010-11-15T19:05:00.000-08:00

Lily, the dreamer
Went out to sea
On an old fashioned steamer
Named after some dear old queen

And she likes
to think that her eyes
Are the portal to some
magic place in time

Where she dances with Krishna
Drinks tea with the Buddha
And politely declines
Some of Jesus' wine...

And when all this runs dry
She zips open the sky
And the scene washes clean
And some new friends arrive

Lily Loo, is this a dream
awaking your soul at the seams?
Or really do you have the means
To give to it all you can dream?
As we sing...

Lily lily lily lily loo
Lilly Lilly Lily Lily looooo
Sweet Lily Loo!

And always with Lily
Her presence, a must
Is no other, than mother
The pearl of her trust

Holding hands by the sea side
Building castles all ruled by
The ivory hand of Queen Lily's command

And when all this runs dry
She grabs hold of the tide
And pulls it over her shoulders
And closes her eyes

Lily Lou, Is this a dream
Awaking your soul at the seams?
Or really do, you have the means
to give to it all you can dream
As we sing

Lily lily lily lily loo
Lilly Lilly Lily Lily looooo
Sweet Lily Loo!

Silly Lily!

Lily lily lily lily loo
Lilly Lilly Lily Lily looooo
Sweet Lily Loo!

And her people sing...

Lily lily lily lily loo
Lilly Lilly Lily Lily looooo
Sweet Lily Loo!

Jesus, Buddha, Krishna!

Lily lily lily lily loo
Lilly Lilly Lily Lily looooo
Sweet Lily Loo!

2010-07-19T14:18:00.000-07:00

Clement Brown, Jr.

Well, the storm it was a rolling
Rolling through the town
And with no one there to notice
Stood little Clement Brown

Well, the lightning lit his brown eyes
and the rain dripped from his face
And his boots made size 5 imprints
on his father's muddy grave

Oh lord, won't you help him
Bring justice to his name
And kill the man who done this
The dreaded Parson Payne

Well, the storm was still a stormin
Out on beggars road
With the nearby churchbells tollin
His father's gun he'd load

One ring was for courage
Two for Clement's fate
And the third, it must've been strength
For he finally moved his legs

Oh lord, won't you guide him
And see him through this day
For no man here would dare face
The dreaded Parson Payne

Well the parson he was seated
On his crooked wooden chair
While his henchmen were feasting & dodging
his mean & crooked stare

Well, the wine was cruelly doled out
As his hand came crushing down
And he cheered the job they done when they
slung up that sinner Clement Brown

So, the Parson stumbled outside
Not knowing that his fate
Was to see his life torn from him
While pissin in the rain

Well, the storm it was exploding
As we reach the final dance
Where Clement bests the Parson
before the thief could strap up his pants

One Shot was for courage
Two for Clements fate
And the third it was on target
For life left the Parson's legs

Oh lord, won't you help him
Find closure on this day
When Clement closed the good book
On the late Parson Payne

Eternal proof of the Simple Truth

2009-07-24T12:04:00.001-07:00

When old van gogh
he lost his ear
I wonder if that awful ringing
cleared up for a day or year
before those old crows
carried him from here

I've fended death off
and have championed the cyclops
to be here, my dear
So won't you lend an ear?

I've given it my all
You see
To no avail
To no reprieve
I'm searching for eternal proof
of the same old simple Truth

And Jesus was a simple soul
who spoke in complex parables
And made his buddies heads explode
And called them sheep and told
them where to go

And there's no balance
there's just poor men in the
desert making do with truth
made up out of sandy soup

I've given it my all, you see
To no avail and no reprieve
I'm milking the eternal proof
From the plain old simple truth

As the amazon of my hairline shall recede
I think of a time when the world was sweet
I'd probably feign, hell well all is ok
And safety leaves me so benign
In the chaos of this Grand Design

I've given it my all
you see
To no avail
To no reprieve
I'm searching for eternal proof
of the same old me and you

You see, to no avail
to no reprieve
Just milking the eternal proof
of the same old simple...
You see, to no avail and no reprieve
We're milking the eternal proof
From the plain old simple...

Something had to happen here
beyond the reach of what we can perceive

2009-05-17T22:33:00.000-07:00

New Song I just wrote...

The Filthy Long Beach Shore

Kinda Sorta and Whole Lottanothing
on a perfect day
They were only living in the now
even though that was then

Kinda had something like
a poor heart condition
but she called it love
Whole he had a hole inside his big
gaping wound of a heart

And they sang oh sole mio
like the plump old tenor trio
As they held hands on the filthy
long beach shore
And they prayed secret and earnest
dirty thoughts of indifference
On a perfectly okay day

Soon they would be naked
and Kinda was
self-conscious of her body
Whole he was a bull inside
the china shop
of her loins

Then it would be daylight
and the room would have
the stagnant scent of last night's love
Whole he made his way out
in the silent grip of remorse

And he sang Santa Lucia
out his dirty honda's window
As the cool cleansing
wind played with his hair
And he cursed loud like a sailor
when karma sucked the air
out from one of his perfectly
balded tires

Split seconds of fame...

2008-10-18T12:05:00.000-07:00

I was on CBS National News for a split second, singing on my gondola right before the debates. It's at like 11 mins into the program:

Watch CBS Videos Online

Apparently, Katy Couric has the hots for me now. It's the stripes :)

a state of anti-grace

2008-08-06T13:54:00.000-07:00

I'm always amazed at the overall clarity I feel when immersed in the fecal-laden womb of a hangover. No joke... it's as if the darkness takes you to the basest state of being. It's here you'll find that every simple idea hits your eyes like a blinding light, whether it be the wonder of surrounding architecture, the infiniteness of an ocean vista, or the genius of a Denver Omelette. Granted, you want to puke your eyeballs out, think the world hates you and feel the closest you've ever been to death. But I think it's also the closest we come to realizing beauty, in its rawest form.

Nowhere can this state of anti-grace be more recognizable than at noontime, late July, in any given New York subway tunnel. It's around then that the sun and humidity have soaked into the ground long enough to turn every wet spot on your persons into a mini water park. And if you're lucky enough to also be sporting a whiskey driven withdrawal, all the merrier friends!

On the particular day I've yet to reference, I was dragging along at my loftiest state of anti-grace. Waiting 5 minutes for a subway turned into a year long crucifixion. I had already thought of a thousand ways to kill the guy next to me, listening to his tinny mp3 player with no headphones. But at the same time I was a tad too nailed to my bench to move away.

But you've never heard a sweeter sound than the distant screeching of subway breaks, sparking her way to your rescue. Nor the brilliant rush of air-conditioning that swoops out of her doors and carries you into her graffiti splattered bosom. However, the goddamn train ride lasts 5 minutes and spits you out into yet another hell-bound tunnel, where you are forced to somehow walk another 5 minute execution march to your transfer train.

It was here in the transfer tunnel I saw the sweetest fucking thing I can remember in ages. I was moving along at my usual up-tempo New York pace, one that I can surprisingly still muster in the foulest of conditions, and I noticed that a little 4 year-old black kid didn't want to let me pass him. He was so goddamned adorable. His little legs were power-walking in a Fred Flintstone-like blur, then running to catch up to me, then Fred-Flinstoning all over again. He kept looking over at my much longer legs, wondering how they still managed to pass his superhero gate with no effort. It was heartbreaking to do this to him. I in no way deserved to win this race....

I still remember being that age and wondering when the hell my legs were going to be long enough to go that fast. I could hear this kids thoughts in my head... "this tall person must be the happiest guy in the world to go so fast with such little work..." Unbeknownst to him that I would give the world to trade places: lucky little fella with no hangover, credit-card debt, bills or rent checks. No responsibility in the world other than to make the best of this shitty hot weather, and take on willing competitors in a race down the tunnel.

Our race lasted all but 20 seconds, whereby I left him in my dust to fight on against other heartless New York commuters to follow. None of whom, I can guarantee you, took as much joy in this little turbo-charged beam of light. His lesson was on my mind the whole way home. He actually took some of the edge off the heat and discomfort for me. He transported me back to a time when the simplest things in the world could speak mountains - without the need of a whiskey induced state of anti-grace.