Album

More information is forthcoming. It is 4:30AM at the moment and I just whipped this cover together.

Also feel like maybe I should get back to drawing. I'm starting to miss it, I have the artist's itch and it's not like rough elbows, you can't just put some cream on it and expect it to go away overnight. You gotta get in there and put work in.

Paper

You left too early,

yet we still share an unknown love

Did you say hello before I came?

Or pat my back as I went on my way?

Perhaps none of these things are true

 

All I know of you are tales

Your skin is paper

and your eyes are sunken black.

Skin, like paper, is what love is written on

Love is the ink that life is written from

I would hope for understanding

but that hope, too, is gone

 

There remains still a small desire

rather, a willingness

to want to know

or at least ask why

 

living, alive for a night

mostly all I found was paper

or dreamed of paper

paper skin

paper days

---

A short poem from June 2009 after a dream.

I was strumming the dobro last Halloween and came up with a song version, seen below. Can't remember how to play it, though.

---

I think the morning is when I feel most alone

I dread June for the memory

Press another day on and another night by

And the last one is how far away?

 

I met you once in a dream in a building

All of us were away and the world melts away

and the night melts away

and the morning rolls on by.

 

Your skin’s like paper

and your eyes are blackened bone

Love is the ink that life is written from

Skin, like paper, is what life’s written on.

 

I slept through morning and dreamed

you were here and knew me as one of your own.

Water

Something is wrong, I am sure of it.

The touch of your skin on the nape of my neck is no longer a comfort.

You have not said a word, but there is a sickness. I can sense it.
We’ve spent years in hallways and alone, always only with each other.

There is something I am unaware of, something hidden and dying quickly.
I have held you and loved you in both the savory dark and the day.

It is over the telephone that you tell me. You are distant and detached.
I have indeed loved you if I am old enough to know and believe.

You, in the quiet and calm, sticky and wet with blood, and so very, truly alone.
I will try to make it up to you. It was nobody’s fault but our own.

Alone in the water.

We are drifting apart, I am sure of it.

In a little house, in the water.

It won’t end well. Another year or so will be all.

In a little house on the hill.
In a quiet, little house on the hill.

---

April 11, 2010.

One that came into my head as I was writing in my journal/Manifesto.

Based on a real life account although it did not happen to me.

The Carbon Cycle II: Shape of a Painting

Brushes coming in from all sides
or maybe only one
painting me solid
Someone watching; studying
Cold chemicals wash over and through canvas
from opaque to translucent to transparent
then clean again – gone.

Pencils on paper
black and white, shading, giving way
to depth and life
The same judging – necessary?
To an extent.
Pressure, soft plastic on paper
From dark to light to blank
A silhouette remains.

Cells merge and divide
Born from ideas: in the future
They will make way for ideals
They are still judged – always judged.
Cells of carbon born with nitrogen and oxygen
And life together from love
From smooth to rough to cold they may go
Ephemeral as the others (this time - another error?)
Harsh chemicals, smooth plastic; sharp, shaped steel
Cleanse another creation away?
Prepare a new slate for creation – in what way?

Yet choices close in time
Breath begins and life lives
In carbon, from carbon, always carbon cycling
Still projects come alive
New judges open eyes and see

Fated to grow rough and weathered in time
Harsh and bitter in time;
fulfilled and gratified in time.
Then cold but remembered
Still and silent, yet ever alive in a way.

---

2009.

There were another couple lines at the end but I think I like it better as it is.