1 AM, All Saints Day

My mind is a mess
So let me adress this
While everything is fresh
with wet paint signs

Campus dead at 1 AM
the suggestion comes up to
take pictures of our
All Hallows gear
Outside.
There two of us dressed up
One with a camera,
and a fourth just tagging along
The outside seemed like
the appropriate place to
pose ridiculously under
walking lights to fulfill our
fit of fancy.

You know, earlier
three of us talked
and told stories of
demons and angels
and how the latter
had shown in the
providence of God
giving aid to us in
times of outside outside interference
But she didn’t know this before…

We were discussing what poses
would look best to befit
our outer garb
Halloween was technically over
and we were now
dancing  around the campus lawn
on the day of All Saints

So, around 1:30 AM we’re talking
one of us freezing because
he forgot his coat and shoes.
A pair of headlights like wide eyes
flooded our background.
We thought nothing of it.
On the truck was the word
“SECURITY”
And in a case of mistaken identity
we heckled the driver…
until he exited the vehicle.

The lights shut off, the door swung wide
And silhouetted against the darkness
was a large man,
dark skin
security uniform
And before we could exchange confused glances
He had closed the distance
between all of us and
asked for information
about our school
And he told us the story of
how he’d come from his
home country of Nigeria
where he’d preached in front of
1,000 people
But when he came here he learned
experience isn’t everything,
that a sheepskin is the only
way he could get to where
he needed to be
for he had heard the call.
As he relayed all of this
liquid crystals
welled up around his eyes
But his voice remained strong.
So. Strong.

And on this day for all saints
this man told us his name
Samuel
“God has heard”
And God heard that night
as we asked if he needed us
to pray for anything.
We locked hands and he
tuned his voice to the key of heaven and
spoke in such authority
and volume that you
could feel the electricity
as this man, this saint
lifted all our trials to the Most High God
to fortify us until our final breath

And after the closing and
resounding “amen” from
we five saints
Four of us hit the ground
like the strength in our legs
was non-existent

And then the gravity hit me solid
between the eyes and on the chin
and I felt this great dichotomy of
Heaven and Hell within me
And I found that the Strength
never left me
and I ran.
Blind to everything but shouting
to high Heaven
until my knees met the earth
the grass wet with dew
and I prayed the same thing
I’ve been praying and gaining
more ground towards the target:
Letting go.
And not standing on my own knowledge
but His.
But through prayers of my own
and others.
I know it will happen because
Samuel.
Samuel…

Finding Peace

While I think this relates to something very internal, I felt I would share these two pieces with you.  There is a lot of time, emotion and conversation between these two pieces.  They were written about or for someone in particular.  I hope she understands.

This first one I thought was just a work in progress.  But I realized that it stands on its own so I will leave it as is.  Going back and adding usually ends very poorly for me.

I can still feel the grass at

my back, avoiding the

stare of the sun as I

spilled myself outward

and inward and all over

the face of the autumn sky.

It doesn’t feel like fall

out there

but I can feel it

in here

Where I begin to hide myself

among the waves of

unharvested crop

wind-weaved and swaying.

Yet you’ve found me.

Found me out again.

My eyes close

relaying memories kept

at arms length

that tell me to keep you there too.

Because you have every reason

to pick up and run.

[And here I thought we were talking about you.]

But you embrace me like the

autumn sky: in

its electric blue, cloudless

This one I just wrote today and it comes straight from the gut, the heart and a pen.  I tried my best to put everything away in this one long line of words.  It probably still doesn’t do it justice.

Dear child-like,

this letter comes to you

as you have me feeling

childish.

I’m spilling this ink across the altar of this page

because sacrifice makes for the best

full-hearted poetry.

And I’m offering it to you

with these broken hands

leading this pen in

a dance to communicate

with the elements

to make it rain again.

The fire that welled within me

died.

And I’m left colder than the air

that struck me on my exit

as I violently shoved that door

to the outside.

I was cold…

I was cold and you

were the one left shivering,

shaking from the heartpains.

I promise it was not my

intent to shatter you that way

but glass is something I’ve

put my fist against before

without thinking

and I’ve been reduced to shards

myself.

So, I know how the pieces

go back together when

it all hit the ground again.

So, I will

help you reassemble and move on.

Hopefully, lend a helping hand

so you can stand and

face the sun again

and smile.

Because it’s always warmer

when you do.

And I know you’ve

seen me mirror this

reflex and

even sometimes

shed my stone face

of my own volition

just watching you in action,

as you skip down the pavement

covered in the cracks

I’m used to staring at.

And as we

unearthed our own personal

graveyards, we refrained

from throwin’ tombstones

and from crackin’ open

coffins.

Because we’ve both seen

too many bodies,

but can’t seem to escape the ghosts.

So we exorcise each other

and leave the demons to the void.

We hold polygraph parties to detect

and erase the lies we tell ourselves.

I will burn the results with

the bones after we throw ‘em

(Because we don’t care to read ‘em.

It’s all a matter of metaphor anyways)

So, while I may have

blasted through my boiling point

today

I am far from breaking or buckling

for our God has given me the heart

of strength to follow you through this

no matter what shoes

I may be standing in,

or where I’m positioned:

In front of you,

burning bright to light your path

when the way gets too dark to see.

Or behind you,

showing the fires of Hell at your heels

someone else who’s been tested by them

and can testify the truth of the matter,

that we can only be tested and not consumed,

merely shed impurities as the

heat in the kitchen increases.

Or at your side, looking forward

giving our backs to the darkness

as its fingers grip our shoulders

kicking’ dust up in its face

as our pace maintains,

our strength gained as we are enveloped in the light.

Let us now lace our fingers in prayer

for the heart to make the decision right

and to fear not the consequences

because we’re not alone

no matter where we are

and we never will be.

So, to be in each other’s

company is merely a gift

of breathed-out divinity

that reaches far beyond

the curves of these

words or my pen

or my hand as I draw out

an order of words to try

and encapsulate…

but I cannot contain Him

so, I won’t.

Let us pray,

and pray from the heart out

to give us strength.

Because while others may run

I’ve been told to stay

sometimes to stay silent.

And from my prayers comes this,

the most important of all:

My heart is one of quick forgiveness,

and what wounds I may have

can be healed in the passing of a moment

and so can yours if you can learn these two words

that hit me before I knew you

(But not too much before, Child-like):

Let.Go.

Sincerely,

PitchBlack Sunshine

The empty end of the hourglass

A random, unrelated thought before I go into the real topic:

It has been impressed on my heart to be very caring and I have started caring more and being more interested in peoples’ stories.  So, when I ask you how you’re doing I’m not just being polite.  I honestly want to know.

I hit a wall today.  Not literally, but emotionally.  Everything spiraled down, down, down and I couldn’t see out of it.  So, in a fit, I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and I went.  No thought, just gut and this is the end result.  But not the end.

That these dark feelings

would pass…

Turn on the light and

drape it over me.

Hear me scream into

the microphone in my head

that amplifies nothing

but silence.

And I can taste it

like the bitter pills I

swallow daily, not just

the ones from a prescription pad,

not just the ones designed to

heal me, no…

But the grim realizations,

the let-downs…

every ache of my soul

unremedied

because of this impure heart

and these broken, useless hands.

I am useless.

But with the guidance

of Your hand

I find joy among the dead

and I see Eden again

though from off in the East.

And wandering.

Ambling

Lost.

But out of this dust

I cry for help, vocal

and this time

more than just these

dumbfounded rocks reply.

You are the thread

of golden light amidst this darkness.

All that I have

All that I am

is written across the

scrolls of the unrolling heavens

And the wind cloaks me in

its voice:

“You are not alone here.

You are not alone anywhere.”

Of all the things to battle,

I’ve chosen myself

over and over and

again and again.

But there’s someone here

now. And there always will be.

And I am sick of fighting

so remove those gloves and

hang ‘em up for now.

And let the sands of time

on this season run out.

And stay there,

sitting on the empty end

of the hourglass.

While Still Waiting

Some may remember this one. I was thinking about it the other day and thought of rewriting it. But I reread it first and found that there were some changes to be made but no need to scrap it. So, here it is. Reworked

In a waiting room
sitting in a semi-comfortable chair
doing exactly what the room is made for.
I’m waiting…
For my name to be called,
for my appointment
where I’ll tell the doc
how the seasons got me draggin’.
How deep into the abyss I can see
and who’s not in there with me.
But right now, I’m just waiting.

Personally, I watch people.
To pass the time,
see who else is sharin’
my current occupation.
I’m listening to music
in my headphones and
mimicking the double-kick
with my feet… badly
as my eyes scan the room.
This is where I imagine
I am am invisible to other waiters
because I’m looking them up and down
from my seat
And I don’t want them to catch me
and mistake it for starin’.

Across from me is an plump old lady
her stomach kinda sittin’ on her knees
her sides resting on the chair
in the place of where her arms go
and she’s restin’ her arms
on the folds of her own skin
like its extra padding for the chair.
She’s draped in a purple sweater
over an old grey t-shirt,
readin’ a book on pet detectives.
But I don’t know how much of it
she was actually readin’,
Cuz I never saw her turn the page.
Her face was wrinkled and sagging,
her top lip caved into her mouth
tellin’ me she was lackin’ some teeth
and was sportin’ a vicious mustache
to match the greasy strands of grey hair
spillin’ in every opposite direction
except over her eyes
So she could still read
Those same two pages.

Sittin’ next to me is an old black man
he’s kind of short and scrawny,
wearing fairly new blue jeans
and a black zip-up hoodie.
I imagine he is a king of nowhere
rocking back and forth on his throne
waiting for someone, anyone to return
to want to be part of his kingdom.
But until then, the king just sits.
His crown is a green baseball cap
and his bespectacled eyes
sort of gravitate to random parts of the room
and I think he knows that I’m watching him
out of my peripheral vision,
but he’s a king, man.
He knows that yer lookin’ at ‘im
cuz that’s what yer supposed to do
with kings.

I return to focusing on the music in my ears,
starin’ at my shoes and the floor
just waiting for my name to be called
when someone else walks into the room.
She’s an older black woman with
relaxed hair parted down the middle
in light curls to her shoulders.
She’s wearin’ a shirt big enough
to cover her arms in the long sleeves
but not quite long enough
to contain her belly
which is spilling out from under the shirt
and over the waist of her pants
like she never quite recovered
from what I imagine is probably
the aftermath of childbirth
many years ago.

She goes to sit with the king
and I can see her talk to him
for a while and I don’t listen in
cuz the music is more interesting.
She stands up and she looks…
she looks at me
and I wonder if I’ve offended
who I’m guessing is the king’s queen
just by the way she seemed to be
runnin’ things.
Tellin’ the king what to do.
[It made me wonder which one
was the patient here.]
I look at her while looking down
so I don’t think she can see
my eyeballs are lookin’ up
but she catches me, I think
because I see her mouth move
in grand motions
her words drowned out
and every time her mouth opens wide
her top lip conforms to the curve
of the gums in her top lip.
And she’s talkin’ to me
but I don’t hear her,
cuz I got music in my ears
and she repeats herself
two or three times before I’m able
to shut it off to hear her.
And she bellows,
“WHAT ARE YOU?”

I must admit
This question had me stumped
for a moment or two,
thankfully, she continued
“You’ve got the pumas and the…”
I can tell here she’s searchin’ for words
to describe what she’s seein’
and that she doesn’t quite get it.
“And the earrings, boy… what are you?”
And all this time she’s makin’
the kind of up and down gesture
with her hands that is meant to
encapsulate me,
so I finally answer with
the easiest answer I can muster
and tell ‘er…
“My name’s Jeremiah.”

And I think that made all the difference
Because at first I thought she was asking
why I came here, what my diagnosis was.
[Bipolar Disorder, type II]
Or maybe what kind of creature I was
clad in black with extra metal accessories
and holes in places where they typically
wouldn’t be.
[To which I would respond, simply "me"]
There were about a million things
I thought of before spouting my name, like
Master of the mercurial
Bottle emptier
Seeker of the divine
Constantly broken
Knees-prayer
Calculated thinker
True friend
Fearer of doors
Busted up heart owner
Evasive love giver
Hug on demand provider
Open-eared, open minded listener
Question maker
Personal researcher
Random word writer
Midnight nowhere driver
Love inebriate
Hate incessant
Heart knower
Life student.
I could have gone on in my head,
I really could have and
drawn up specs on how I’m constructed
and given those to the queen
because sometimes the words I speak
Get me in shattered glass house
troubles, cuz my words are like rocks
and yer gonna get hit unless you start
duckin’.
But, naw…
I just gave her my name
And that must have been enough
because her eyes got wide
from the verbal u-turn I pulled on her
And this is what she said,
“Oh, you got an angelic name”
and the king just looked at me,
no feeling, no intent, just looked
to which I responded,
“A biblical name, yes ma’am.”
And from the king and queen
[the king, was also nodding as if to
whole-heartedly agree with some point
I didn't make.]
I elicited a smile and they
went back to their waiting
and I to mine.

[insert title here]

Focus has upset my rhythm.  I am[nesic].  I have forgotten, it would seem, and replaced that space with academia.  I’ll come back to this when things start locking down again.

The beginning of a new chapter

It’s been quite some time since I’ve updated this page.  In the past month my journeys in life haven’t been the most exciting, I must admit.  The fun stuff has just recently begun.  However…

There was a decent amount of poison dripping from your unknowing fangs like an old faucet rusted.  And you’re rusted too, old divination station examining texts like tools, admiring their shine before you coat them in someone’s blood.  You laughed at the thought of me, like I was some sort of novelty party favor to spin ’round in your mind, through the pupils of your eyes.  But who’s laughing now that I see through you like cellophane, oh captain?  The dusttrail behind me should tell you something but your aging eyes are veiled in your self-imortance as you master your circus and lead them all blindly to the cliffs.  I will remember this always: your bark is far worse than your bite.  I can feel the poison evaporate from my pores like water on summertime asphalt… and then it’s gone.  My soul feels at rest in my new home knowing that you’re not there.

[Catharsis]

So, I started my time at Nebraska Christian College.  I came here knowing what I didn’t want in my college experience moving forward.  Everything has been wonderful so far, to be quite honest.  I don’t walk down the halls of the college with the thought circling my head that I was just a number, that no one around me gave a toss what happened to me once or even gave me a passing glance.  It’s not like that here.  It is certainly a community and everyone knows everyone here for the most part.  There is a wonderful amount of transparency among the students and even the professors.

There was a wonderful illustration of this in our first chapel of the year.  We were asked to meditate on things that were perhaps hindering us from growing.  We were given 10 minutes of silence to do so and it was just that.  Silent.  Silent. I had a few things laying on my heart.  Continually, early on in this experience here, we’ve had group prayer and reflection and I just hear over in my head again and again as tears start to well up [as they're starting to now a bit]:

[Let.Go]

As I feel there’s parts of myself I’m holding back or that I won’t give up… I’m not sure what, but I know it’s there.  And others did let go as we were asked to stand up to tell what we had on our hearts to fast from.  I heard some heartbreaking experiences that  I won’t air out here.  Being somewhat of an empath, I pick up on those things and it was like getting kicked in chest.  The whole time I just buried my hands, praying and praying.

This place brings out my true nature, the compassionate side, the part that actually wants to help in any way, shape or form.  Outside these walls I think I guard myself because people just seem to take and take and take.  I’ll keep giving either way, but here it seems to have more of me behind it.  I can’t explain it in words.  Of the prophet, priest and king attributes one can have, I’m feeling more of my priestly side these days.  I like it.  Takes me away from myself and focuses on others.  My hope is that it will continue and that God will strengthen my heart to maintain.

This is a family here.  If you live in the dorms everyone makes an effort to get to know your name.  When you walk into the common room you usually get greeted at the door by most anyone hanging around there.  Same goes when you’re walking down the halls to class.  More than once today someone has said hi to me whom I couldn’t recall meeting.  Award turtle moments.  But for the most part it’s done my heart well to not be a number.  People are legitimately interested in who you are and what your interests are and what you think.  I think they actually might be… Dare I say…. Christians?

I guess I don’t have a whole lot to add right now.  I’m pretty tired, still adjusting to the sleep schedule.  Getting up for class at 8 AM takes a toll when you’re not used to getting up before noon.

Mistress Music

I wanted to sing a song to myself, pull out an old, familiar tune to set my heart to in hopes of lifting this soaking wet curtain from around my head.  But the notes fell on deaf ears.  That music just won’t move me like it used to.  So, I picked up my 6 string accoustic assistant that goes by the name of Alice.  She’s dark and beautiful and, normally, we make the night time dance to the melodies that resonate from the action of my fingers across her strings.  But every note sounded sour and out of tune, so I put her away before my frustration with the notes that won’t play and the songs I can’t hear or write for whatever reason.

For having been so close for so long, mistress music, you seem light years in distance from where I’m sitting now.  Having lost my grip on anything that strikes my ears in the ways that they used to, I’ve resorted to silence and writing this letter to you.

Since childhood, I’ve been in love with your magic in the absence of silence.  Popping cassettes into my mom’s boombox from days before I was born and losing myself to the sounds of a million different voices that resonated smoke filled rooms and outdoor arenas when my mom was my age.  You were still a stranger then, madam, but you still infected me with sonic invention and prepared me for what would come later.

Teenage years is when I came into my own tastes with the gritty guitars of punk rock.  Popping in that first dubbed cassette and hearing AFI come through the stereo for the first time and I new it was love and it was because it was me that I heard through those cheap speakers, that was my anger and my outrage in those years when friends were few, the school days were long and the summer days were even longer.  You… you brought a new concept to my heart and to my mind that there were people out there who knew what it was like to be me and their feelings known through the buzzsaw guitars and buzzsaw drum beats with snare hits like gunshots.  It was there I found acceptance in you when I couldn’t find it from my peers.  I belonged somewhere and, while the people who were like me weren’t tangible, at least I knew they existed and I wasn’t the only alien.

Punk rock fed my fury into heavier music and that was where I learned the true extent of the expression of the darkest parts of myself that I thought no one would want to see.  When you’re a musician, you bear it all or you go home.  It’s that simple.  When I picked up my guitar, I felt you and I couldn’t take the onslaught or the fury and so I expelled what I could of you in my violent motions.  You were my muse then and you taught me to feel what I was playing and put my heart, mind and soul into it.

So, for all the cassettes, CD’s, LP’s and DVD’s and the countless hours of listening, writing and practicing I find myself run dry and empty.  I wonder where you have gone and why, oh why, mistress music, you have foresaken me?  You don’t strike my heart like a hammer to hot iron but like a hammer straight to the anvil.  And it hurts sometimes.  Is this something you can grow out of or has my soul just gone colder than it has in a long time and I just haven’t noticed?  I have always been the person to get so buried in music that, even through the stereo, I have to find my way to the top again to catch a breath.  Now, it’s all a memory.  Where did all the passion go?

I wanted to sing a song to myself, pull out an old, familiar tune to set my heart to in hopes of lifting this soaking wet curtain from around my head.  But the notes fell on deaf ears.  That music just won’t move me like it used to.  So, I picked up my 6 string accoustic assistant that goes by the name of Alice.  She’s dark and beautiful and, normally, we make the night time dance to the melodies that resonate from the action of my fingers across her strings.  But every note sounded sour and out of tune, so I put her away before my frustration with the notes that won’t play and the songs I can’t hear or write for whatever reason pushed me to do something drastic.

For having been so close for so long, mistress music, you seem light years in distance from where I’m sitting now.  Having lost my grip on anything that strikes my ears in the ways that they used to, I’ve resorted to silence and writing this letter to you.

Since childhood, I’ve been in love with your magic in the absence of silence.  Popping cassettes into my mom’s boombox from days before I was born and losing myself to the sounds of a million different voices that resonated smoke filled rooms and outdoor arenas when my mom was my age.  You were still a stranger then, madam, but you still infected me with sonic invention and prepared me for what would come later.

Teenage years is when I came into my own tastes with the gritty guitars of punk rock.  Popping in that first dubbed cassette and hearing AFI come through the stereo for the first time and I new it was love and it was because it was me that I heard through those cheap speakers, that was my anger and my outrage in those years when friends were few, the school days were long and the summer days were even longer.  You… you brought a new concept to my heart and to my mind that there were people out there who knew what it was like to be me and their feelings known through the buzzsaw guitars and buzzsaw drum beats with snare hits like gunshots.  It was there I found acceptance in you when I couldn’t find it from my peers.  I belonged somewhere and, while the people who were like me weren’t tangible, at least I knew they existed and I wasn’t the only alien.

Punk rock fed my fury into heavier music and that was where I learned the true extent of the expression of the darkest parts of myself that I thought no one would want to see.  When you’re a musician, you bear it all or you go home.  It’s that simple.  When I picked up my guitar, I felt you and I couldn’t take the onslaught or the fury and so I expelled what I could of you in my violent motions.  You were my muse then and you taught me to feel what I was playing and put my heart, mind and soul into it.

So, for all the cassettes, CD’s, LP’s and DVD’s and the countless hours of listening, writing and practicing I find myself run dry and empty.  I wonder where you have gone and why, oh why, mistress music, you have foresaken me?  You don’t strike my heart like a hammer to hot iron but like a hammer straight to the anvil.  And it hurts sometimes.  Is this something you can grow out of or has my soul just gone colder than it has in a long time and I just haven’t noticed?  I have always been the person to get so buried in music that, even through the stereo, I have to find my way to the top again to catch a breath.  Now, it’s all a memory.  Where did all the passion go?

Self-Motivation From a Man on Fire

Frustration sits waiting like a small, unlit pilot light in the pit of my heart holder.  What would normally make its way through like a wayward drifter on fire in the night escalates the situation until I feel consumed and I can’t help but react.  I hate walls for their restrictiveness but they also act as a guide and tell me when I’m going in the right direction.  Hasn’t been a path I’ve walked where something didn’t jump in way for me to hurdle.  And the man on fire is always watching, looking for his opportunity to rip me out of my seat in quickanger, teethgrinding, fistclenching.  But, without words, I know this is the path to go.  With the increased difficulty comes more assurance.  No opposition, no value.  The man on fire is my enemy and my friend, he lights my path with passion and lights a blaze beneath me to keep me movin’.

Give me yer best shot, toss me the next wall.  I’ll get past it and move forward with the humility to know that I need help sometimes.  Just like everyone has his man on fire, everyone’s got their fireman.  Drop that walking matchstick with a blast of straightforward, then let him help you up and move forward, man.  You got the steps.  You got it.

Where did all the passion go?

Smoke and lights on the stage, smoke and mirrors on the floor, in the pit.  You don’t impress anyone with that violent flailing of your limbs, at least no one I know.  Omaha used to be a place where the music mattered most and all the musicians had heart.  Now it feels like these kids are all fooling themselves and I’m a crabby old man.

It makes me sad, thinking about thing this way.  You know, a couple of years ago I would have no problem with what I was seeing but now I just feel like I’ve lost all hope in the youth of today who all wear the same band t-shirts because they all went to the same shows.  Were things like this when I was big into the heavy music scene or have all these kids just gravitated towards this music because they think it sets them apart?

What really bothers me most is the kids that will start fights at shows because someone pushed them the wrong way while they were pinwheeling their arms and kicking at nothing.  Violence begets violence whether you’re intentionally striking someone or not.  That’s just the dumb brutes that this mindlessness seems to bring out of the woodwork. They are so passionate about the music they love that they’ll make complete fools of themselves but can’t stand anyone different.  It’s that elitest mentality that really drove me away from the hardcore scene long ago.

To make things worse, you have all this passion wrapped around and centered in violence yet I can’t find anyone passionate enough to start a band and stick with it.  There’s no commitment or drive in anyone around here anymore.  It feels like me and my friend are the only dedicated musicians looking to start a band in this entire godforesaken town.

Why do I rant?  Because I saw a sea of kids screaming their lungs out for an amazing band and I thought to myself two things. First, where does this passion go when they leave this venue?  Surely, there are musicians amongst them.  Second, why can’t it be me on that stage again?  It has been almost 3 years since my last band broke up.  Playing shows becomes an addiction once you get them regularly.  I want to be back up in the lights making people move and evoking some sort of passion from people.  That is what I miss most.  I’m still working towards putting something together but I have to admit that my will is fading and it is taking every bit of my will not to give up after what I saw tonight.

Oh, to once again bathe in the hot lights and drown in my own sweat pumping out adrenaline through speakers monitors.  To be the one who got in and vomited everything inside out onto the crowd in soundwaves.  Keeping wristbands and passes as reminders and mementos, man.  I want to be back up on that stage again.

Smoke and lights on the stage, smoke and mirrors on the floor, in the pit.  You don’t impress anyone with that violent flailing of your limbs, at least no one I know.  Omaha used to be a place where the music mattered most and all the musicians had heart.  Now it feels like these kids are all fooling themselves and I’m a crabby old man.

It makes me sad, thinking about thing this way.  You know, a couple of years ago I would have no problem with what I was seeing but now I just feel like I’ve lost all hope in the youth of today who all wear the same band t-shirts because they all went to the same shows.  Were things like this when I was big into the heavy music scene or have all these kids just gravitated towards this music because they think it sets them apart?

What really bothers me most is the kids that will start fights at shows because someone pushed them the wrong way while they were pinwheeling their arms and kicking at nothing.  Violence begets violence whether you’re intentionally striking someone or not.  That’s just the dumb brutes that this mindlessness seems to bring out of the woodwork. They are so passionate about the music they love that they’ll make complete fools of themselves but can’t stand anyone different.  It’s that elitest mentality that really drove me away from the hardcore scene long ago.

To make things worse, you have all this passion wrapped around and centered in violence yet I can’t find anyone passionate enough to start a band and stick with it.  There’s no commitment or drive in anyone around here anymore.  It feels like me and my friend are the only dedicated musicians looking to start a band in this entire godforesaken town.

Why do I rant?  Because I saw a sea of kids screaming their lungs out for an amazing band and I thought to myself two things. First, where does this passion go when they leave this venue?  Surely, there are musicians amongst them.  Second, why can’t it be me on that stage again?  It has been almost 3 years since my last band broke up.  Playing shows becomes an addiction once you get them regularly.  I want to be back up in the lights making people move and evoking some sort of passion from people.  That is what I miss most.  I’m still working towards putting something together but I have to admit that my will is fading and it is taking every bit of my will not to give up after what I saw tonight.

Oh, to once again bathe in the hot lights and drown in my own sweat pumping out adrenaline through speakers monitors.  To be the one who got in and vomited everything inside out onto the crowd in soundwaves.  Keeping wristbands and passes as reminders and mementos, man.  I want to be back up on that stage again.

All rants aside, it was good to finally get to see some national acts back in Omaha.  Seeing iwrestledabearonce was amazing and they should not have opened that show.  August Burns Red was like watching someone punch you in the face over and over again.  It was hot and it was sweaty but man, it was good to see some good music live again.  I just wish it was me again…

Howling Mind or Truth on the Areopagus

Rapid movements in the hands, searching for that certain cohesion of thought, the glue that would grip all sides of the swarm of colliding stars in my mind.  I find myself imbuing myself with the flavor of the beat poets tossing frenetically the will for words not yet painted upon the page in electronic, LCD constellations.

Like Ginsberg stumbling through buddhist chants in Lincoln Park, fighting for the cause of peace between two warring factions of society.  Attempting deescalation with the resonance of voice against the front of the skull, you know, the sinus cavities and the wall of the sternum to sort of tie the two together. There was once great power in the “om” chant for it was believed that it brought unity between the two great warring parts of the body, the heart and the mind.  Let that rattle while your eyes are closed, relaxing muscles from the top down and feel the fine vibration in the cells of your being.

Ginsberg sought his peace, fighting in the realm of the war gods.  Like Paul at the Areopagus, the temple of the war god, pointing out that there are some things you can’t contain, some things that break through the very bonds that men consider walls, containment, by their very nature.  For Paul it was the eternal God who was unknown to the Athenians who built idols and structures for gods, with the lower-case g, that even they didn’t know the name of.  Paul gave them THE truth to their faces in a temple built for idolized war.  Ginsberg was seeking love and in a country up to their very neck in war where students were not safe from the brutality of police squadrons hefting billy clubs rocketing, in great arcs, cans of tear gas into the scrambling masses of people.  All the while these sheep to the slaughter held up a sign once meant for victory in a prior time of war but now had been mobilized as a sign of peace.

A small band of men who lived, loved and believed to the very core of their beings that there was an external to the things we internalize.  An eternal to the finite, however, let us not restrict ourselves to timelines for we while our time may someday come, life must be lived so that we can say we regret nothing.  That our souls were painted on our faces and our hearts beat together as one giant caucophany, a symphonic battery.  Let us not mourne for those that have died but celebrate in those that are alive and that includes the one that came back and will wrap us all in white cloths one day with great rays of joy.  We know there can be peace in places and times of war.  So, like Ginsberg, let’s connect wires from head to heart and fear not.  Like Peter, should we speak the truth and urge others to seek it, not in the confines of closed-in woodwork we call walls but everywhere holy, which is everywhere we breathe…  If we look.

I make no guarantee this will make sense to anyone but me.  But I’ll share it anyways.

Rapid movements in the hands, searching for that certain cohesion of thought, the glue that would grip all sides of the swarm of colliding stars in my mind.  I find myself imbuing myself with the flavor of the beat poets tossing frenetically the will for words not yet painted upon the page in electronic, LCD constellations.

Like Ginsberg stumbling through buddhist chants in Lincoln Park, fighting for the cause of peace between two warring factions of society.  Attempting deescalation with the resonance of voice against the front of the skull, you know, the sinus cavities and the wall of the sternum to sort of tie the two together. There was once great power in the “om” chant for it was believed that it brought unity between the two great warring parts of the body, the heart and the mind.  Let that rattle while your eyes are closed, relaxing muscles from the top down and feel the fine vibration in the cells of your being.

Ginsberg sought his peace, fighting in the realm of the war gods.  Like Paul at the Areopagus, the temple of the war god, pointing out that there are some things you can’t contain, some things that break through the very bonds that men consider walls, containment, by their very nature.  For Paul it was the eternal God who was unknown to the Athenians who built idols and structures for gods, with the lower-case g, that even they didn’t know the name of.  Paul gave them THE truth to their faces in a temple built for idolized war.  Ginsberg was seeking love and in a country up to their very neck in war where students were not safe from the brutality of police squadrons hefting billy clubs rocketing, in great arcs, cans of tear gas into the scrambling masses of people.  All the while these sheep to the slaughter held up a sign once meant for victory in a prior time of war but now had been mobilized as a sign of peace.

A small band of men who lived, loved and believed to the very core of their beings that there was an external to the things we internalize.  An eternal to the finite, however, let us not restrict ourselves to timelines for we while our time may someday come, life must be lived so that we can say we regret nothing.  That our souls were painted on our faces and our hearts beat together as one giant caucophany, a symphonic battery.  Let us not mourne for those that have died but celebrate in those that are alive and that includes the one that came back and will wrap us all in white cloths one day with great rays of joy.  We know there can be peace in places and times of war.  So, like Ginsberg, let’s connect wires from head to heart and fear not.  Like Peter, should we speak the truth and urge others to seek it, not in the confines of closed-in woodwork we call walls but everywhere holy, which is everywhere we breathe…  If we look.