Lyrics to songs i'll write once i learn how to write music

I remember then, a while before,
I sideswiped a Chevy four door
In a town so very precious for
The blonde bombshell borne in Pigeon Forge,

My timings terrible they tell me,
And i hate to admit i agree,
Though i remember at twenty three
Being a touch more true to my capacity to gracefully structure a line...

Don't ask this broken brain the time or day,
Or expect a named remembered please,
But lets shake hands and friendlies stay,
As we exchange our brainy pedigree!

(Chourus)
A nerd, a nerd, you've fallen on a nerd,
though in this day and age, the title is absurd,
Neither of the two of we could ever disagree that
We've stumbled mightily and serindipadly into Valley
Valley of Nerd and Bard and Thinking corners,
Where the mighty thoughtful Jacky Horner
Did pull out before my unbelieving eye
An idea like a plum from this existential quandary pie.

So follow me well fast behind my oft loquacious find
for you and i have but hours to get our minds in lind
Before the party starts and the music plays
And the air takes on its hazey ways
And we all take a moment to kindly realize
That the friends and the family before our eyes
Are those we can value to a degree quite absurd,
Because ever single one of us, ever daughters son and sister
Every waistcoat and bowler cap and ugg boot wearing mister
is an un abashed and un relenting...

Nerd!

(Chourus)

where the hell am i?

Pigeon Forge, is where.

I'm in some strange limbo for the high school social network dropout. That kid that was e'er on the outskirts of social clamouring during adolescence? Me. Choice and circumstance always saw me an observer as apposed to a participant in the ever twining network of connectivity and gossip that constitutes the majority of a person's life when they're in school (primary and higher). I just never caught the appeal, and always found the practice of engrossing oneself in the life of another person for the sake of opportunistic voyeurism a little distasteful (he posted on his blog. hypocrisy strikes again!).

that is this place. we're all gossping, partying children again. but now we don't have a curfew, we don't have homework, and our parents are so bloody far out of the picture that we might as well be in never never land.

it's exhausting. the investment we lay in our personae building, the charmless way we attack each other through each other, the barely masked animosities we hold to ideas or principles at conflict...it's exhausting.

i have these next three days (monday, tuesday, and wednesday) to recover before i'm back to work. wish me luck.

When i listen to audiobooks i go Vonnegut...*Warning: i use racial slurs, though i do not wallow in their hatefulness*

Steven has no place in the situation that he is in.

Stephen is a man. Young by the standards of his time, Stephan has, in the entirety of his twenty one years of walking around the blue ball of water and dirt that he lives on (though he's never tried walking on water, he's pretty sure it wouldn't work out so well for him. I've got faith in him, though), never once seen a man with skin darker than his own.

Nor a woman, neither, but the usage of man was in keeping with the passively sexist usage of 'man' as a generic reference to any human.

Stev'n has never seen a person with skin darker than his own.

Stephanie can't remember the last time he was this exited.

I lied just a moment ago: To say that Sanguine has never seen a person with skin darker than his own (by the way, Salvia is a kind of man/person/human referred to an albino. Albinos are the happiest people in the world because no matter how brown their parents are they are always as white as the milk of their mother. Mothers milk is white enough for you and certainly enough for me. When Scandinavia was born, his mother, who was herself an albinic negroid, like her husband, her mother was as happy as you please.

"This nigger as white as the sheet they'd hang him with!" she said.

Nigger is a cruel and hateful meaning word with a funny sound. In the history of words with horrible meanings that are inappropriately fun to say 'Nigger' takes the cake. Were there a consolation prize available to the words next in line it would go to...

okay, finish it. what's the word? why is S- in a place to have never seen a dark skinned person? of what worth is a black man who is 'as white as the sheet they'd hang him with'? tell me what to do next.

And the kitchen sink...

When i am an old man, and far from here,

The gentle tide of my living will crest

A crashing wave in my memory where

The softness of my sunken breast

Will see my memories ashore again in you,

Washed up against this black leather island.

We lie, entwined like so much a braid

Of legs and books and breath, in repose

On the sprung sand castle couch we've made

Here we watch the world we chose

To leave behind in a thrashing surf of yes and no

A dinner, date, movie and kiss ago.

This tide of worried life and expectant faces

A salted sea with blood in mixed to the soil of places

We've set down roots to grow together, here and there

But this squall of stuff-er-ing follows everywhere.

So here we've found an island home,

Black and sticky in October sweat;

A place to park after a day to roam,

To suction to in our post day heat.

An old man remembers these moments, i'd think

When he's far away from the places he knows

Caught up in the lives of the places he goes

And reliving love, and life, and the kitchen sink.

a rough compiling of two images i found compelling (the old man and the black leather couch as an island.) they probably belong in different pieces but whatever; i'm tired and i had to get 'em outta this skull 'o mine.

Peace in a Ritual

When i am dead, allow my family the peace of a ritual.

Do not hold off on arcana for the sake of my broken spirit,

I am a Godless heathen, sure, but my family deserves comfort

So in the time of my passing, offer them the process of

Mourning my death not as determined by my living belief,

But by what it is that defines comfort to them.

voices conjured on a quiet walk

If you happen upon a strangers hand,
Left astride it's havers hips
astride your own,
(the familiar two that belong to you)
If they find you in a brush of static
That reminds both hands
that they belong
To a working, feeling body;
If in the hustle of a cross town bustle
You catch the eye of a fellow passing-er
(Someone you've no chance to
Catch the eye of ever
everevereverever
again);
If your barking dogs take you so far
Far from the door that you call yours
That you're all the way
To the cross-town library
And a baby-girl scholar bounces past
(Book in hand and feeling grand)
To her mothers side in a rush of noise...

Smile.

My little problem

I have a problem.
That is, there is a problem that is mine that i'm not entirely prepared to deal with.
What i mean to say is that if one were to say that a problem exists and it is mine, that one would be correct...
I think i'm a writer.
I've taken to talking to people about my idiotic ideas, my preposterous plot devices, my obsessive alliteration...shit.
I even think that i can write a bloody comic book! a collaborative art form that, when done well, is a mind altering experience and, when done poorly (as is the norm) is also a mind altering experience. A bad one.
And yet, i have no interest in writing the thing. I don't want to type it because, to me, typing is a sterile compression of my expression through the only medium i've any artistry in: heroically bad handwriting. Anyway.
I have writer's block, but in calling that i do myself too much credit. i have Poser's block. i am, at best, an aspiring blogger (because Buddha, Allah, Jesus, and L. Ron Hubbard all know I'm shit at keeping up with this)...Oh! i've been watching 30 Rock and man oh man is that show funny
Love that Tracy Morgan/Jordan.
Anyway, that's me. I'm trying to undertake my first serious writing project by co-authoring a Steam Punk western slash grecian style multi-plot epic with allusions to such contemporary issues as:

A. lower/middle class obesiety because of government subsidized food stuff
B. a damaged post-war generation raised by the PTSD generation of their parents
C. other topical stuff. leave me alone, i'm tired.

steam punks my genre...the story will work itself out.
write loving things to me.
i despise you all and would, were the power mine, compress you all into one middle aged accountant and make you my gimp. whom i would loving take care of. in my basement. jesus i need sleep...