Tactile (Poem)

Get to Know a Variety of Maple Tree Species


There’s a lot to be said for tactile suggestion

How treading leaves with rubber soles

Is an eternal orientation

Contextualizing roles

The shoe, the man, the fall

Somewhere between specificity and ambiguity

Strange songs begin to call

Like myriad birds

Flitting in their season

Whether in fifths or thirds

They will seduce a novel reason

The sight and prickle of the holly

The wind whips between bare branches

Without melancholy

Yes, due to such stanchions

As the footfall and the dusk

All such touches all of natures kisses

Will breathe life into a husk

For touch is truth that never misses


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Chipping Paint

Related image


Small southern towns that bake beneath a low hanging sun. If you’ve seen them all then you haven’t seen any.

Did you ever sit under Magnolia blossoms, next to a jar of crickets, as your friend’s sister twirled on a tireswing. A tireswing that was just ten minutes walk from a swimming hole?

No, I’m not trying to sell you chewing tobacco or homemade jam.

I’m just wondering if these places are going to stay.

They were sort of our version of indigenous tribes deep in the Amazon. All sleepy in a blanket of humidity and cicada song. As primordial as discarded peach pits that take root.

Do you remember battered banisters, and the highest technology being a superninendo; that you soon abandoned to slide in your socks across a musty woodpanel floor? You know the sort of stuff you’d do as an ancient Sharpee named Midnight watched lazily from his post beneath a shuttered window.

If you don’t I guess it doesn’t much matter.

Cause every sacred rite of passage that a barefoot, cricket hunting, Red Ryder marksman fell into, climbed over, or set on fire is now forever bathed in the witching glow of LCD.

Unfortunately that’s not an illicit substance that will get you closer to nature. It’s mighty uncanny. This disembodied voice that colors every living moment in artificial omniscience.

The oaks are still majestic at the periphery of the pasture. The earth smells sweet. But there’s a tension even here.

The question is am I old. Or are we mad?


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Cager (Poem)

Image result for 19th century man


Overclocked machines

Stuffed to the brim

With numbered

Listlessness so grim

So grimly unencumbered

To trim

Cutting meaning into action

Assembled and compiled

For a smoother traction

Cager faintly smiled

The neatness the precision

How carefree

To live without decision

In the geometric See

The paths are set

Garbage collected

There’s no regret

No life so masterfully

Architected


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Eyes on the East (Poem)

daffodils


O you voices of wonder….

Pour out your splendour !

All through the hills…

O sweet and tender!

Reedy and ready…

How the wind fills!

Various yet steady…

Eyes on the East!

Shine stars o shine…

From greatest to least!

All down the line…

Herald the dawn!

Impulse for dancing…

Sundays sweet fawn!

Tender is glancing…

Fresh wine is drawn!

O you voice of wonder…

Pour out your splendour!

Cast down your hilts…

Sing that great ardour!

That drones and that lilts…

It’s never harder!

Than at twilight…

But if faith will continue!

The Sun is our sight…

Shine on o shine on true!

Voices of wonder …

Pour out your splendour!

All through the hills…

Curtains are thrust back !

Exploding as Daffodils…



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Fatalism (Poem)

mcllelands


A coupla more songs

And its time to die

Same old fatalism

Somethin like two wrongs

Don’t make a try

Raindrop prism

Filters

Same old fatalism

Call it pessimism

Heavy hitters

Put on those tracks

Follow the rails

Again and

A coupla more songs

Draw some links in sand

Mostly longs

In whispers

Made of suggestions

Compulsive vespers

Miss and directions

Researching and

A coupla more songs

And its time to die

And and and same old fatalism

Under a rosy sky

Floating cherry smoke

Epileptic relativism

Gin and coke

And a coupla more songs

and its time to die

Filters parliament

With a heavy sigh

Empty boxes that cement

Every tender why

Same old fatalism

Random assembly

To chase away

Determinism

Determined to stay

Who said what to where and when

Is that destiny? Was that destiny?

I don’t Amen.

It’s hard when you speak in periods you know

Yea it goes something like

A couple more songs that grow

Into a cheap old mic

Maybe one day will glow

Like that same old fatalism

Like a raindrop prism

That arcs double wide

Trailer park philosophies

Theyr’e on our side

That same old fatalism paints symphonies

Come on baby do ya wanna ride?


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What I Mean (Poem)

Answers

You’re harshin my mellow baby

I don’t feel your vibe

You’re always maybe

That just ain’t my tribe

Well so

If you don’t dig it

You can go

I ain’t gotta fit

This ain’t no show

Why

There’s no reason

That you can’t try

It’s such a late season

Can’t you see that

Certainty

Isn’t a hat

At least not for me

If you want answers

Find someone who ain’t as free

Tow that line

If that’s your scene

I’ll be fine

Cause I don’t know what I mean


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Saturday Morning Jam

This Saturday morning has me thrilled with possibilities. So i tried to capture that in a little jam session on guitar.


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Friday Rain (Guitar and Violin)


Everything is mighty green.


Production Tools

FOSS!

Ardour

Focusrite Scarlett 2i2 (Mic that came in the kit)

CAD MH210 Headphones

Kdenlive

LINUX MINT!

Free GNU/Linux Logo Penguin SVG - TitanUI


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One Oh One (Poem)

Image result for finland thaw


Drums cascade

Tumbling over

Heartbeats made

Tumbling over

Driving shade

Never lower

Now staccato

Effervescing

Now Legato

Subtle dressing

As field

In bloom

As shield

Embracing gloom

Rhythm

All elemental

Natural logarithm

Living fall

Expressing

Thunder sun

Striking dust

One Oh

One


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Is Now The Best Time To Be A Writer

Image result for typewriter

The modern day certainly isn’t romantic. You need time for romance. And the modern day is all about instant access.  So, it’s no surprise that sepia hued conceptions of lone desks in sparse rooms reeking of whiskey jar with reality. And this jarring leads some would be writers to whiskey without the licence of having written like Bukowski.

You may not dig Bukoswski. You may think my depression era vision of artistic struggle is cheesy (Confession: It is but cheese is yummy). But the fact that many feel that today’s over saturated market, desensitized readers, and short attention spans spell doom for spelling out literary vistas is undeniable.

The aforementioned factors are certainly there. Even though some may question the degree to which they’re present. They are there.

What does oversaturation imply? It implies a flooded market. What’s so bad about a flooded market? Well, aside from the obvious increased difficulty in getting traditionally published there’s the accompanying lack of funds due to a lethal combination of stiff competition and sheer static.

But, was it any better for Bukowski or Poe? I don’t think so. There’s probably a good reason both men were notorious alcoholics. A bohemian paradise isn’t one. Poe was writing at a time when literacy still played second fiddle to operating a plow. His market was small.

What’s worse a big market with lots of noise and asskickers or a small market full of aristocrats? I really don’t know.

I know that in Bukowskis day even though literacy had improved it still played second fiddle to assembling widgets at GM.  Also, no one had time for reading.

That’s my first set of reasons for the firm belief that today might be the best time to be a writer. Because, despite all the hot air about overstuffed schedules readers have more time than ever. As do writers.

So, we have unprecedented levels of literacy and people who have time to watch the Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead while checking in on the Packers game.

Yes, but all these things are numerical…qunatative. It doesn’t matter if there’s more potential readers if there’s no engagement. People who are distracted by Game of Thrones and top ten lists won’t be reading very deeply if reading at all.

This may well be the lament of those who wish to view the past in roseate hues. But, the truth as far as I can see it is that these shallow consumers have a shadowside. Lots of folks, many of whom are in places like WordPress, are fed up with reboots. They make the exact sort of complaints that writers make. They’re hungry for deep engaging content. And seeing as they’ve had the whole worlds literary cannon at their fingertips are well equipped to engaged with said content.

Traditional publication and revenue may be difficult and it was always difficult. In fact I think that better informed folks might be able to argue that making money as a writer was even more difficult in Bukowskis day.

Yes, it may have been more difficult and it may still be difficult but there are many more tools. And one big difficulty is easily taken out of the equation. Writers as far as I can tell – want to be read.  Due to technology and sites like WordPress this has never been easier.

This is a wonderful tool because it provides the invaluable insight of feedback. And there are many tools at the writers disposal. There are instant translators, internet dictionaries, just insane amounts of information about any given topic. Not only that but there are countless tools for organizing that information, for formatting, spell-checking, and editing your work.

I still flirt with the idea of the sparse room with the weathered keyboard. I flirt with it cause it’s sexy and it’s fun. But this little idealization of where real work and real writers happen is like most idealisations mere whimsy.

I’d conclude with something more concrete but I have to make my second cup of coffee before my shift starts.

Thanks for reading and don’t let the idea of being a ‘blogger’ keep you from writing.


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