full of empty
taut and warm
through closed eyes i see
a round door open
a pathway
i clear the stones and brush
to channel Peace
the sea flows through me
put your ear to my belly
you will hear
Music
duo
when i play music with heather
we become swans
forgetting deceitful lines in rounded harmony
we circle misery
shred self-pity
misericordia music
heals like morning breaks
heather says " i am" to the pouring rain
she does not play music
she is
the rain
i will be the birdsong
our counterpoint
the movement of god
Movies
almost famous, american beauty, asian flicks
Television
i'm addicted to idol shows and wife swap and i thinik "house" is hot. i'm not proud of any of this
sweet on the edge of a knife
exploding into vigours of leaves
and golden in january
pricking the hands of those who grasp
those greedy puckered mouths
but to the one with temerity to split me open
i be aching joy
there's a real woman
sits and plays her fiddle,
sings like she breathes...
her soul is music.
i saw a dream in her eyes,
a molten heart i recognized...
the real ones know
grey hair is nothing...
young ones and old
play with marie...
when they all go home
marie makes music
with the night crickets
hey you are not going to believe this i got a $500 Gift Card to Macy's for FREE in the mail today. my friend found this cool site and i did not believe it would work but just as she got her's i got mine too!! she was kind enough to tell me about it so i am telling you!!!
Mom, remember that poem you wrote about me? Can you post that sometime, I haven't read it in years. That is, if you still have it. I'm thinking of using it as an ispiration for something perhaps musically artistic, but who knows...
Tired of a listless sex life, the man came right out and asked his wife during a recent lovemaking session, "How come you never tell me when you have an orgasm?"
She glanced at him casually and replied, "You're never home!"
One of many road trips without the compass of soul
The light fades on Coast Hwy,
the discarded sun,
sets.
We left it dangling over Malibu,
left it bleeding,
headlights can't cut the dim.
Fleeing a crime scene,
oblivion in our rear view mirrors,
we keep driving,
driving
through Laurel Canyon.
The deeper into the city we go,
the more real it gets,
and the less like endless summer.
We could cruise North Hollywood
looking for substance,
like it were heroine.
We could look for someone just desperate enough
to take our money,
and we could try in vain
to buy our souls back.
We could laugh
at the gilded golden age,
swear it never did exist.
We could have a drink
in the Roosevelt Hotel.
We could visit old motel rooms
where Sam Cooke,
Janis,
and Sal Mineo
died.
We can roll a joint,
and have a good laugh
at death's expense;
but that laugh is on us,
for what we can never be is
remembered.
