Dwelling on the future
never seemed to make much sense:
splitting our infinitives
just wastes the present tense.
Why worry on what might be
and dwell on hopes and dreams,
when what counts of past and future
is what comes in between?

Yeah, maybe we'll be famous;
Maybe we'll strike it rich;
Maybe the car will leave the road
and leave us in the ditch;
Maybe we'll stay together,
maybe we'll drift away;
you can't predict the future;
all you have is here, today.

We're on this road together
until we both call it quits;
whatever happens further on,
let's burn that bridge when we get to it.

Dwelling on what might be
never gets us anywhere;
imagining some great misfortune
waiting for us there
distracts us from the present,
robs us of our savoir faire.
We have each other right now;
let tomorrow meet us there.

Yeah, maybe we'll be homeless;
Maybe we'll go back to school;
Maybe the weak will tame the strong,
and wise men act like fools.
Maybe we'll live forever,
maybe we'll fade away;
you can't predict the future;
all you have is here, today.

We're on this road together
until we both call it quits;
you never know what's coming
don't burn that bridge 'til we get to it.

29 DEC 2006

One of my pet sayings is "Let's not stress over that right now; we'll burn that bridge when we come to it." It's very much akin, in my mind, to the Sufi saying, "Never name the well from which you will not drink." In other words, don't say you're never gonna have a chicken sandwich while you're still waiting for the hen to lay eggs. Until the time is right, until there is that perfectly auspicious alignment of the planets that triggers the cataclysmic cosmic chain reaction that results in the events that form your tomorrow, you really have no idea what it's gonna look like. Sure, you have plans and visions and hopes and dreams, but until the proof becomes pudding you don't really know what it is --- and you certainly don't know the flavor until you take that first bite. Wow. A lot of mixed metaphors here. But you get idea. Live for today.

Sometimes it doesn't matter
Whether you like it or not
Stuck there on the back burner
Watching someone else get hot
Standing in the shadows
Where the spotlight doesn't shine
Doing nothing
Just there doing time

Sometimes it makes no difference
If you're ready to go on
Dressed up like a monkey
With your dignity half gone
Standing in the spotlight
No one else there by your side
Nothing doing
Nothing to decide

You just gotta ride
Ride and keep your hands and arms inside
You just gotta ride
It's the only way to get to the other side

Sometimes it seems so crazy
Like you've plumb run out of sense
Stuck there in the middle
Wonderin' which side of the fence
Leaning to the future
Sitting on experience
Doing nothing
Living life past tense

Sometimes it makes no difference
Doesn't matter how you choose
Either way is trouble,
You might be singing the blues
Standing at the crossroads
becoming yesterday's news
Nothing doing
It's past time to cruise

You just gotta ride
Ride and keep your hands and arms inside
You just gotta ride
Keep moving if you still want to survive

Yes, it's true the road can go both ways
What leads in, leads out, and nothing stays;
No use thinking that you'll never move;
you'll be on the road one of these days.

You just gotta ride
Ride and keep your hands and arms inside
You just gotta ride
If you want to get to the other side
If you want come along, you'd better decide
Hold on tight, and just enjoy
the ride.

27 DEC 2006

I've been listening to The Band almost non-stop today, digging the groove on "Chest Fever" from their first album, and hearing drum beats that sounds like a cross between Levon Helm and John Bonham. Also, thinking of that Sheryl Crow song "Steve McQueen". The chorus is pure groove and singalong, while the verses pull you back, with a stop-step.

The line "stuck on the back burner, watching someone else get hot" really was the impetus for the rest of it; that and a couple of fruitless hours bitching to myself about the possibilities in this here small town for any real musical adventure, philosophical or otherwise. What's the use? Shut up and ride. Life is (and I think some of you older folk can relate, because they don't rate 'em like this anymore) an E Ticket attraction; hence, the admonition to keep your appendages inside the ride at all times. Or, to quote stardances: don't wiggle or jiggle the baby; the baby might throw up.

No point in calling it a cryin' shame
Suffering in darkness for want of a flame
New boss or old boss, pretty much the same
Only thing different is a brand new name

No point in wallowing in might have beens
Pretending enemies are long lost friends
One signal receives, and the other sends
The means still leave their mark on how it ends

Float me down river, on to New Orleans
Fix me a plate of dirty rice and beans
What water doesn't wash away, it cleans
How it works out in the end depends upon the means

27 DEC 2006

I cannot say I learned to dance,
although at times I was inspired;
and with each wrong note, took a chance
that in his band, I might get fired.

Precision: like a jeweler's saw
he cut through space and time
with life in rhythm, bold and raw.
In one small couplet's rhyme

he could encapsulate a mood,
a generation's groove;
and for the soul, he gave us food,
and brand new attitude.

An icon, teacher, yet a man
whose troubles, too, were large;
Yet It seemed, standing at the mic,
he was alone in charge.

An acrobat, a poet, too,
a dynamo of sound,
who could with one hand get us up,
and help us to get down.

One of the first ones with the dream,
a mighty architect;
whose building not just brought us hope,
but helped us stand erect.

So many rise and fall today
in shadows that he cast:
The cape now hanging in the wings
has left the stage, at last.

25 DEC 2006

Praise for the sun born on this night
Praise for the coming of the light
On winter's longest stretch of dark
We praise the tiny, faintest spark

Praise for the coming of the new
Praise for the frost, soon turned to dew
When spring's fresh promise comes to all
We praise the fire that starts so small

Praise for the earth that slumbers deep
Praise for the world that finds, in sleep,
The dreams that feed brave summer's deeds
We praise the hibernating seeds

Praise for the sun born on this night
Praise for the coming of the light
Into the dark and bitter cold
We praise the fire as it grows old

Praise for the present and the past
Praise for what fades and what may last
Beyond our sight, beyond our time
We praise the seen and the sublime

Praise for the future and today
Praise what remains, what fades away,
And all things living that will die
We praise the earth, the sea and sky

Praise for the sunlight come again
Praise friend and enemy, and then
For each day forward through the year
We praise the means that brought us here.

24 DEC 2006

You know, so much of what we're sold is happy horseshit
designed to soften our resistance to a lie:
that you are where you are because that's right where you belong,
and your life will all get better, bye and bye.

Once you've swallowed that first dose, the rest don't matter;
they've got you hooked on the sedation of their choice.
Big business, and the government, the churches do it too;
each one has their own soft, seductive voice.

But sometimes lately in the wee hours of the morning,
in that stretch of dawn before the nurse rolls through
I've found myself awake, and thinking its a big mistake
to let the system get its greedy hooks in you.

And If in the name of normalcy, you've got to play the part
of the blissful happy fool, then I refuse.
Just because I choose to see the glass sometimes as far from full,
Doctor, don't you diagnose me with the blues

22 DEC 2006

Don't want much, but that's all right
Nothing much happens here on Saturday night
Get laid, get drunk, get in a fight
Maybe all three
Maybe at the same time

Don't need nothing, but that's OK
Nothing much here to speak of, anyway,
Get up, get old, collect your pay
Maybe all three
Maybe if the sun shines

This little town can sure get you down
Hard to find a reason to keep hanging around
Sure ain't no doubt the old rural route
is not the quickest way if you're hellbent to get out
Little town dreams, and little town schemes
keep us separated, too much space in between
But don't let the welcome sign turn you around
The world is a small town.

Don't say much, but that's just fine;
Nobody really listens to me, most of the time;
Get riled, get hot, get out of line
Maybe all three
Maybe if I'm tipsy

Don't ask much - that's just as well;
Nothing doing here - it's either flood or a dry spell.
Get set, get wet, give yourself hell
Maybe all three
Maybe the way it should be

This little town can sure get you down
Hard to find a reason to keep hanging around
Sure ain't no doubt the old rural route
is not the quickest way if you're hellbent to get out
Little town dreams, and little town schemes
keep us separated, too much space in between
But don't let the welcome sign turn you around
The world is a small town.

22 DEC 2006

Haunted by a hurricane that made it clear
who does and doesn't matter;
you learn to keep your mouth shut, though the beer you're drinking
tastes like muddy water;
You're told just pretend that nothing's changed
because illusions tend to shatter;
don't make a clatter.
Suffer in silence.

Listening to a government that makes it plain
it has no truth worth telling;
You learn there's not much difference whether it's the left or right
that does the yelling.
You're told to play along, to keep us strong,
'cause that's the only dream worth selling;
No shadows need dispelling.
Believe the nonsense.

Reading about hate that doesn't sleep, but seems to spring
from out of nowhere;
you learn to figure out who makes the rules, but says
they aren't obliged to play fair;
You're told your side is right, the side of might, thanks to a blessing
that you won't share;
Nobody wins, but who cares?
You look good dying.

Watching for the stormclouds once again;
another war, another season.
you learn to test the wind, to judge the spin
and it's end effect on reason.
You're told to shut your mouth, that any doubt
is ample evidence of treason.
Silence is more pleasing;
there's no point trying.

Haunted by a hurricane that made it clear
not many can be trusted;
you learn to seek the holy in the strangest places,
where the world is rusted;
You're told, keep a low profile, watch your step,
or you might end up getting busted;
People would be disgusted.
Keep it in private.

Listening to a radio that makes it plain
it's more than sound they're pumping;
you learn to find your own songs, without caring
if your single isn't jumping;
you're told no one will listen, if it's not the same old thing
the speaker's thumping;
Now, isn't that something?
Some kind of bullshit.

21 DEC 2006

As of late, there's been a commercial advertising your products that runs a little something like this ...

A man with a shaven head (not tonsured, but completely shaven), wearing maroon robes very similar in style to those worn by the Dalai Lama, is shown during his daily activities to be careful about not harming the natural world around him. He rights a beetle so it can go on its way. He checks his steps to make sure no creatures are harmed by his footfalls. And so on.

Then, he plucks a tissue from a Kleenex box and blows his nose. There is a voice-over reminding us all that Kleenex tissue kills millions of germs. Germs, of course, are living creatures too. This puts a very worried look on the man's face. I say man, but quite obviously he is supposed to be some kind of monk, most likely a follower of an Eastern religion, particularly as he has been acting with a Jain-like level of non-violence, and even sports a set of japa beads, not a rosary.

But all is not lost, the voice over assures us, saying "Thank goodness for forgiveness. Thank goodness for Kleenex."

However, there is a bit of a problem here. So far as I know, and I have been studying Eastern religions and the myriad of paths that preach non-violence and "do no harm", none of the sects to which the monk might belong have what you might call a "Doctrine of Forgiveness". That is, I believe, a Christian notion. Where paths preach non-violence and non-aggression, there is no forgiveness, regardless of how small or petty the infraction may seem. There is payment due. It is called Karma. It is also, in some strange circles, referred to as a law of physics: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. To coin a phrase, what comes around, goes around. If you truly believe in non-aggression and non-harm, you take personal responsibility for your every action, and do not seek (or expect) forgiveness. You expect a bill, and you are prepared to pay it. Even if it is mere, lowly germs who have given their lives to afford you better health, you are inclined to thank them for the sacrifice.

As one non-Christian practitioner who thinks that the beliefs of others should not be parodied out of ignorance, particularly to sell products, I think this oversight (and I'd like to think that's all it is) is nothing to sneeze at. But it certainly has inclined me to purchase Puffs instead.

Abandon Hope, all ye that enter here;
forsake that vain and selfish childhood bride
to drown her sorrows in a stale warm beer,
and unencumbered, dare to step inside.

There are no maps, no hackneyed turns of phrase,
to guide beyond the first steep, darkened stair;
you'll find no succor in the growing haze,
no scent of promise lingering in the air.

For here none blaze a trail ahead for thee;
alone, and as a pilgrim, you must seek
your own self's definition, and be free
of preconceived ideas of hear and speak.

No minotaur awaits beyond the bend,
awaiting your messiah's blade of death;
nor will you find a confidant or friend
to give you courage in a whispered breath.

Instead, just a great nothing waits within,
a void built from the shadows of your doubt;
the sum of what you could or might have been,
subtracted from what you could live without.

Abandon Hope, all ye that seek this door;
she will not be admitted past the sill.
Look on her face with kindness, just once more;
prepare yourself for a great test of will.

The journey on is not for finding out:
creation, not discovery, the quest;
but Hope will lead down a mistaken route,
with fantasies of blissful peace, and rest.

Sleep not! Lest in that slow malaise you fall,
and leave to others what should be your fate.
Forget those vain illusions! You must crawl
on hands and knees, and never hesitate

to seek out for yourself, and fill your hands
with truth, to feel its beating heart direct,
and in that moment's pause, to understand
what most learn in a lifetime to neglect.

18 DEC 2006

If you listen to the chatter
they'll convince you it don't matter, more or less;
as long as your wallet's fatter,
never mind those 'neath the ladder of success.
There's no need to feel an instant of distress,
or a sense of guilt for stepping past the mess.

In the growing of confusion,
they'll lead to you to same conclusion, wait and see;
as we suffer from delusion
that we're guiltless of collusion, you and me.
There's no need to speak up if you disagree,
or be wary of the threat to liberty.

Bow your head and learn your lesson:
better start to count your blessings, while you can.
There's another world tomorrow
filled with all the pain and sorrow you can stand.
If you think it won't come calling,
that your high flying ain't falling, best beware:
there's another side to living,
balance between taking and giving...
see you there.

If you mind the paranoia
you'll believe they can destroy you, if they try;
so you trust in any ploy,
become the wicked world's new play toy, by and by.
There's no point in any struggle, so don't cry;
besides, we must keep the mechanism dry.

Bow your head and learn your lesson:
better start to count your blessings, while you can.
There's another world tomorrow
filled with all the pain and sorrow you can stand.
If you think it won't come calling,
that your high flying's not falling, best beware:
there's another side to living,
balance between taking and giving...
see you there.

13 DEC 2006

for William Blake

Lo! I have wrestled angels in the catacombs of night
and risen, as if from the dead, bone-weary, at daylight,
my sheets soaked through with fevered sweat and every muscle sore,
and tufts of mutilated feathers scattered on the floor,

to find the world transformed in just a single evening's span
from one of warmth and sunlight to a shadow, pale and wan,
bedraped with funereal shrouds, their edges dipped in mist,
that turn to bitter gray and cold cheeks summer once had kissed.

And from that sleep like unto death, where angels and I tossed,
I woke not knowing why we fought, nor if I won or lost,
nor why the air that morning no more smelt of life's perfume,
but seemed to hang like sullen, leaden clouds there in my room.

From my opponents, not a word, no revelation come;
as if they were but ancient ghosts, their voices long since dumb,
or worse, bereaved of speech and reason, just their body's shells,
imprisoned in my dreams between their heaven and my hell.

I felt a sense of deep foreboding creep into my mind,
as if there should have been some message they had left behind,
some alchemic instruction, some archaic mystic key;
but I found nothing in the room, except what seemed like me.

I wondered then, if they were truly angels, or disguised
as such, mere demons I had conjured up to fantasize
some victory against the darkness of my thoughts of late;
some active principle to best my wont to hesitate

borne deep of my subconscious mind, where inhibitions fail
and dreams are formed of both apocalypse, and holy grail,
or if it was a memory brought out by some distress.
I wonder, what if William Blake had been taught to repress?

06 DEC 2006