Are we through.

Been writing a lot of music in between Halfbake’s adventures. Here’s a bit of a song.

Please, don’t give up.
Please, don’t give in.
Learn to live in this moment.
Just give me this moment, won’t you?
Just between you and me
I’ll keep it secret, if that’s how you’d like it to be.

Isn’t it easier to cry?
Isn’t easier to die?
Don’t I always have to try?
Is that a lie,
is that a lie?
Give me a reason to fly
If I could lift me up these bones
without them turning into stone
I can’t do it
I can’t do it
I can’t do it alone

I’ve been some kinda fool, even more than once
Even when I’m on the stage I wear the dunce
I don’t feel fire, got no pain,
there’ve been times I should feel proud when all I felt was shame
Is that my name?
Is that my name?
How can I give it to you?
When I want it from you too?
Begging you to take my strings and make me dance
Begging you, without any proof to back it up, give me a chance
How can I tell you I won’t lose when I’ve never won
Or are we done?

Please, don’t make me be that.
Please, don’t leave me on a dime
Don’t leave me flat
Please don’t turn heel and run.
Are we done?
Is there more work to do?
Can you help me off the ground without making me you?
Are we through?
Oh are we through.

Inert

The blood stains on the mantel just never seem to clot
Sometimes I pout “Not even Shout can get out that damn spot”.
The wreckage and the ruins will never turn to dust
and all the corpses lay inert beneath infirtile crust

Though I’ve never had a scratch, I’m always on the mend
I guess it’s fine to wish sometimes that yesterday would end

I awoke in shock this morning, though it quickly went away
In my fatigue I’d some how thought that now had been today
But soon the fear and worry showed really nothing changed
that nothing ever really could, the way that god arranged

People never change, though oft they change their mind
The initial pang of pain solidifies the bind
and in a flash the photons freeze you to your core
though you never will develop, an image ever more

The Fate of Halfbake

Hello, gentle listener. I just wanted to quickly note that my posts have been scarce recently, only due to my prolific effort at finishing Novel One in the Halfbake series. I’ll be shopping it to publishers by October of next year, and am being careful about its online entity until then. Wish me luck.

 

The Fall

I turn the corner down the street.
I wave to Ayn, she is pert, dismissive, pinched. We smile daggers and exchange pleasantries, blow for blow.

The asphalt turns beneath my feet.
I push the earth along its axis with each step.
I asked him how this was, Atlas shrugged.

The corner dead ends, a wide birth aborted suddenly, I make no judgements of the path,

I walk.

My jogging suit is a revelation. My stride is impeccable.
My hair, irrefutable.
My eyebrows arch and descend with such grace that women falter at the slightest punctuation.

I am undeniable.

This day is mine, and I conquer it with power walk.

You never realize you’re falling.
You reflect upon it in the aftermath.
You recall the moment before, when everything was innocent, when your left foot believed that it would find purchase upon the sturdy asphalt of its predecessor,

And you remember the moment after,
When suddenly the dogma of order
was betrayed, and your faith in the static principalities of up and down was shaken.

The inadequacies of the human brain, with its faulty, temporal faculties,
and the ego centric modus, submerged in self pity,
engaged in the criminal investigation of blame, the indignation of hurt,

is therefor blinded by chatter
distracted by conspiracy
too deeply concerned to have noticed the miracle.

That brief, precious moment when you were patriot to no nations of earth or sky, when gravity forsook her bonds a breath, and crowned you king of a sovereign freedom.

What will they say to know she couldn’t see where the road was ending?

Perhaps she knew the route too well, perhaps her mind was scuttled by onus, or perhaps the world is hungry and the fissure’s maw opens where it may to swallow you, unaffected by your plans, unswayed by your vain understandings, your pleas, or your threats.

She doesn’t know. The unknown is digesting her now, eating away at her figment future, the decay of her goals, arrested, words lost.

What do you do when there is no one to blame? Congratulate fate on its bitter victory over your fortune, or rather shake hands with the devil of another name? Make friends with destruction, knowing the vicious wisdom that his true nature is not as it seems, that the twin extremes of destruction and creation are in reality simply the balancing principals of Change, evolution, the nature of mankind, the universe. Chaos and Construction, the A-Bomb and the evergreen, ransack and cul de sac.

The Song

A street lamp flickers down from on high and I’m thrown from my bike as God spits the flow of revelation.

He layith upon me the mantel of
Saint Coltrain,
I take communion with a hip flask of muddy waters, and a match box of nutmeg.

The angels sing a rag about rent to pay, and bills that pile on bills,
an osteoporosis croon accompanied by the clicking of aged bones and dementia’s muttering scat

The rain falls on the cement side,
grey moratorium, foot print frozen,
a fossil of days that dangle like tennis shoes tied, snared on wires buzzing with holy gospel

Coffee grounds tell the future in the derelict language of neglect

Cigarette smoke bends and zags a geometry of secrets, a conspiracy of jazz, an accusation of rhythms profound, the infinity chorus still singing to the plucked thwang of the

Big Bang, the violent percussion of being, accompanied by the deep bass sea of durac, the poetry of void, omniscience of absolute potential, and that resonance that encompasses all things and nothing,

Hear the high hat’s gentle rattle, the symbol crash, and the snare,
the bus engine, the ratatat-heels click, the beams that groan and swell with the sweet-bitter complaint of stress, and pressure, and age,

Hear the music of all things,
It’s theory is the calculus of collapsing stars, it’s composition is the miracle of anomaly

It’s Jazz is the a-rhythmic Jazz of joy and pain, in the minor key of hate, and the major of love, the abrupt flat of death, and short sharp of life, it is the Jazz of accidentals and dissonance, it cringes, it cries, it screeches, it screams

Creation is paradox, impossible, the curse of man is his limitations, one cannot create something that does not already exist.

All we can do is re-order the words, rearrange the pitches, augment the rhythm, and change the title, repackaged, remixed for the summer.

 

???

A stream of consciousness pros… poem? …thing? Thing.
Love.
Humans, how strange they act this way.

Hate.
Humans, how strange they act this way.

Humans, how strange they do that.

Forgiveness an exchange for was.
Love is an action only spoken of.

Mercy.
Humans, how strange they do that.

How strange, how strange to act this way
Should you laugh or do you cry?
You act this way.
Do you know why?

Are you jealous at the man that has the thing?
Frustrated by action, withheld by a string?
Does the journey make worthy the wandering?

How strange they do that.

Murder.
Humans, how strange they do that.

Lies.
Humans, how strange they do that.

To get worth from what your hands can’t reach,
what they can touch is the thing that you preach.
Mistakes you’ve learned from still you teach.
Isn’t everything out of reach?

Faith,
Humans, how strange they do that.

Belief.
Humans, how strange they do that.

What do they paint in their chapels of cope
on walls of illusion in the language of hope?

How strange, how strange,
they act this way
as they slave to prepare for a coming day
What, oh what is a coming day?
How very strange they act this way.

Humans.
The strangest things I’ve ever seen.
and no one alive knows what they mean.