Eyedea – On this I stand

I meant to to post this on the 16th of October on the Anniversary of his death. I was going to write an article on how he changed my life and influenced my writing. That may have not happened but it’s never too late to share.

“On this I stand
Two sets of footprints placed ahead of the dirt softened from tear drops
And overlooking the earth as the son of the moon
protected by a forcefield of pure thought.. On this I stand
A rally of unemployed disgruntled words spawned from long journeys through somewhere
somewhere that only causes me pain as I strain my soul crammin it with (light?)
so I could bring some there.
I bleed the blood of a cold stone that roams without a shadow
I’m only deep enough to realize that I’m shallow
My head I keep it up but its hard to keep it straight
when you don’t believe in love,
and you just cant cope with hate
Metal rust, leaves turn into dust,
as the difference between love and lust clarifies as trust
if you only had an hour to sum your whole life up
would you spend that hour sayin that an hour ain’t enough
I’ve escaped the shell that bound me to cowardness
now I’m faithful to the wind but compared to it I’m powerless
the first step was made, and it was a fair accomplishment
the pond was sittin still, so I threw a rock in it
and as my reflection rippled it all became clear
the seasons always change so there’s no reason for fear
we made an autobiography of our pivotal years
its all I got and I’m giving it you because I care
See, a lot of the time humans as artists exist in a self-projected state of falsehood
were either too close to our image to stay objective in our perception,
or too far away to be subjective in any matter
this only widens the void in social conformity
introduced to our souls at birth and so I write.
I don’t write without the intention of objectivity
or attention on the image
but only as an omni directional bridge
between the several (floating, tunnel structured?)
realities present in comprable space and time.
see I don’t write for the future,
I write about the future, for the present
I write with my past, about the future, for the present.
On this I stand
The oasis of a limbo adjacent to my generation, facing out the window
waiting for some ventilation, patient while the wind blows
graceful in its demonstration, overall innovation.
On this I stand
A fountain of youth sovereignty, (found in?) 1000 syllables more than a pound of flesh
deep breath of achievement, a dream and a wake up call
another haul of the quest.
On this I stand
Another loved civilization.
On this I stand
The purity of creation.
On this I stand
A paradigm for self.
On this I stand
I thank you for your help.
On this I stand
My first born child.
On this I stand
Something for now.
On this I stand
Life, love, death and hate.
On this I stand
An album, glad you could relate. Peace…”

Don’t drink the water (Senile Ramblings from a wise old homeless man pt 7)

When your dreams fall apart and every hope you have ever had seemingly vaporizes and abandons you, to make it in this world, you’re supposed to ignore the regret and pain that comes with failure. You have to some how get up and start again as if you were something mechanical,  an automaton tinkering along that needs to replace its rusted parts to be okay. You are not allowed to feel and most of us get it so wrong that we’re stuck feeling for the rest of our lives – picking at the same scab, never allowing it to scar over and heal. All we were was based on that dream that just some how got up and walked away from us.  It was everything that defined us. You found out what you were not and you got stuck in that void – in the middle of nothing. There was a point in time where you convinced that everything was okay and would be okay until you found out how disillusioned you were. There is no daylight any more – night and day seems the same. Memory reminds you of the times you could feel and how breathing the rain in felt. It’s like a smack now when it splashes you on the face. Now and then again, you get glimpses of what you were and you wish that you were a child again so you can be allowed to dream. You grow to realize that its a dream and so much of what you thought you wanted was an illusion. You’re an overstuffed waste bucket, a collection of every shitty experience you have ever had and you are so pale , frail and shell shocked against the sun light. You just wish you could go back and be what you once were.  Those glimpses are like tortures because they come and go, just when you think you’ve finally found sanctuary in a thought, it becomes over worn by the regret reminding you that you’ve climbed this hill before…

“One must imagine Sisyphus happy.” 

We cant do that any more. We cant fool ourselves into thinking that the mundane will provide us with enough self importance to justify our existence in the negative frames of society. What do we do now? We start searching for silver bullet cures in books, drugs and religion, dreaming that somehow in their words or chemicals, we’ll find a tunnel or a river that will wash away who we are and we’ll come out the other end, changed and happy. It’s a let down every time. Teach yourself to forget my friend. Teach yourself not to feel. You’ll lose a lot of your humanity but nothing can hurt you if you have nothing there. There is no suture that can stitch your child hood back. Sometimes the water is not made for drinking, sometimes you have to take a bath in it to come out clean. Unfortunately, there will always be stains and scars, you have to find resolution in your past, heal, gather the broken pieces that could still work for something new and move on.



Piss stained card board

When 5 o’clock comes knocking around,

you will catch me sighing silently to the clamping rotation of the passing trains metal wheels

You will hear me tapping my foot to its percussive cargo banging along

on its cold steel tracks,

I’ve been beaten down like those cold steel tracks and I guess you can highlight those as

the sad ,mute lyrics  of the morning

I cover my ears when the whistle blows,

This has become music to me, not just a steel snake hissing smoke

I find the car alarms and crowing roosters therapeutic, it reminds me that I’m alive

That I’ve survived to play my music

I place my hand on my heart to feel the heavy acoustics vibrating from my chest

This feels as real as the morning humming itself in through my open windows

“If you taught a machine to feel, do you think it would somehow form an appreciation for music?”

That’s a question I ask myself as I cling to the broken circuits leaking out from my waist

I’m trying to reassemble broken cogs they stole from me

They sang as they were doing it – it sounded like they were mumbling out of tune

Maybe you didn’t understand my song, you couldn’t step to its disjointed rhythm

I was a faithful drummer boy though, impaling the air with the solo a capella notes ringing out from the crowded chambers of my voice box

They were singing in falsetto

No they weren’t , they were singing in false echoes of a dead siren

Attracting flies instead of men

And I thought you’d save me

but instead of saving me, you joined and sang along to the chorus

Now there are no vocals that can wash those words out of my head

I don’t think you’ll ever understand why I’m leaving

Understanding is beyond your stubborn disposition

And so I know you’ll find my departure a mystery

But I call it an escape

I’ll rebuild my song with what ever I have left of my chords and i know its not too late

Like a grinning compost heap
I know when the night comes. i can almost sleep


Between the empty spaces

Its so well sketched out in my head but it somehow dies when it meets the page. Even as soon as the first letter gets inked, the idea doesn’t seem as grand as it did in my dreams. The words don’t seem that special surrounded in all that white. They somehow lose all their meaning when they have to conform to lines, spacing and eligibility. Maybe its my handwriting but typing it out doesn’t seem to help either. In my head, these words had an identity and a rhythm. Now, they are just mute symbols like stop signs. I think I just have such high expectations for my writing. I hope that every single phrase I put down will resonate perfectly; will somehow reveal something in me unseen by me. I’m trying to explore the frame works of my self because I don’t really know myself fully. Sometimes I do get those moments of shining revelation, a deep clarity and a single line will echo itself out perfectly. I get those glimpses of myself and its like playing peekaboo in front of a mirror. It feels like I was almost there. Other times – most times, its a startling let down – just like now…