usually it's been awhile.
To rise above it
you first need
to be down in it.
I told this to
the kid with the
Grizzly Adams
beard, who was
young enough
that I could
have been his
father--
if I had been
down in it
when I was 14.
But, naw...
life is not a bowl
of bananas and
cherries...
I was busy being
Michaelangelo
of the basement
all vision and no
practice, to notice
that life was more
than books, movies
midnight TV
and
guitar
and maybe
a nice magazine
stashed under
the bed.
But somehow,
out of that hole in
the ground
I filled out
the hole in my
head.
Beat that,
Eastpointe
Lizard King.
But then
I'm still waiting
for an OK
pair of wings...
Maybe the reptiles
had it right
before the best of
them
died
one starry night.
If you are reading this, then it means my autopost feature works right, and yet I am still in Detroit. Yes, most blogs have this through post dating a blog post, but my old template did not. If I dated my work for a time yet to be, it would show up no matter what, as soon as I hit "publish".
Anyway, this one just had to break loose... but now I'm off for Thanksgiving part 2 with mom and my sister, and maybe afterwards, some very fine company and a drink or 3.
See you all soon!
Footsteps stitched a thread
from the fire to the ocean
Leading to my El Dorado,
a fountain of youth
a bottle of Grey Goose
and amber-glossed lips
stone cold in love
Footsteps stitched a thread
from the fire to the ocean
The only remedy for
a burning heart
is a soul to quench it
Everyone should know
this,
But only two
know
for sure.
Happy Thanksgiving!
I'll be here answering comments on my last poem, so holler and I'll be there at your blog.
Peace out!
It's 5 minutes to midnight
and my brain is a pan-fried egg,
sprinkle on some pretty drugs--
and watch it explode
out on a highwire near you
4 minutes to midnight
and the new boss says
the old one still runs the show.
But the old boss just sits and stares
out the window at America Boiling
since he likes his plumbing thumb
right where he keeps it
3 minutes to midnight
and I just want to go home,
not this shabby room with:
a clock
clothes
books
ashes
10 empty bottles
and one deadman poet,
washed up on a shore near you
2 minutes to midnight
and the money men sing
a searing blues all the way down
to the sidewalk on Brush Street--
but the streets morn no one,
not even the rats born down below
Because it's 1 minute to midnight
and the house is burning down...
1 minute to save all that you love
but the drugs don't work
and the bottles are empty
1 minute to save all that you love
or watch the flames
devour everything near you
Bear with me while I get my voice back. This is OK, but could be better.
As for the top pic, no that's not my desk or anyone's desk who I know, but mine is almost that bad. A lot more books and CD's on mine, as well as a million notes written in the middle of the night, writing ideas that sometimes make sense, and other times I wonder what bolt of magic lightning I was riding when I took it down.
Just goes to show, when it hits, run with it. Because later on down the line, a few scratchy notes will often only make you wonder about your sanity.
Speaking of questions about sanity, here I have a link to a Bukowski poem that is quintessential to his particular world view (please excuse the free wii or iphone crap, adds are so intrusive).
And for a final touch, I was trying to embed a Jimi Hendrix video for "House Burning Down". But as luck would have it, the only good video for the song with decent sound quality had embedding disabled.
So here's the link, since it's a good one. Very political, I must say, and yet still very relevant to these changing times, as all great art usually is.
If I held out
my hand--
(as cold as it is)
I know
would take it
in a heartbeat
like the voice
of a god from
the hollows,
I feel hers;
the pulse
is a sultry rhythm...
and I tell you,
this fool can dance
***
it's been so long
too long
an ice age and
a half
but tonight
it all melts away,
sizzling into vapor
as I take her hand
so warm...
(or is mine so cold?)
the volcano...
Pele, my love
will be born again
and again
and again
to the music
we make
by simply being
Yes, Pele the Volcano Goddess, not Pele the soccer dude, errr, football bloke.
If you wondered where some of my fire comes from, wonder a little bit less.
Would say more, but I'm off to the city to go get burnt.
See you all soon!
As I was messing with things in the "customize blog" section, blogger decided it did not like the fact that I had 2 headers (the tiny one with only the blog name and the large one with my Detroit banners) and eliminated the banner for me. How special. Maybe it knows I don't live near Detroit anymore. Perhaps it wants me to call my blog "S Cedar Street Love Graffiti", or "Farm Lane Cow Chip Cozy" or some other suitably East Lansing-ish name.
Nothing I could try would bring back the 2nd header (which was a remnant from the chaotic age when we could apparently have as many headers as we wished) , seems we are all limited to only having 1 header now. We just can't be trusted with 2 headers, that would be total anarchy.
All I wanted was my banner back! Any of them--I have a large collection of banners that I made just for this site, and finally I decide to change the good old "Heartaching..." banner for a new one and suddenly I am only given the choice of a tiny banner for a tiny header, blogger having decided that I probably would have little use for a large header.
The only way to fix it? To change my template to this one.
At first, I was aghast at the thought. But after doctoring the HTML code a bit, I decided this one was perfect.
Now... To actually use this new template.
Here it goes, I need to rev up the old creative power cells and try to make a run at that next 100 poems.
Wish me luck.
Here's something I wrote at an old friends blog, before I had my own. Crashie brought back that memory to me in her current post, where she talked about how she got her start blogging by ranting on one of her friends blogs for a time, until she felt the confidence to begin her own.
Great how those things work out, ehh?
Gambler
by Eric1313
They will always be there
the good girls at the bad bars
the gazing faces you won't forget
attached to the name tags
you just can't remember
Inspiration--
now that's fleeting
something that tells you
that you are never alone
if you can just create this...
You aren't alone
even if part of you cries
or part of you dies
with each word written
But it won't always be there
so you better listen to it
before it finds someone else...
No matter what the faces said
spitting popcorn and beer fizz
you're all in--
let's see some paint
No matter what
the girls will always
be at your bar
So roll the dice,
Snake Eyes
It's your call...
"Wild Bill" art by Fountain.
Not my best, I'm sure, but the rust never clears off completely in the first swipe, ehh?.JPG)
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