All your life all you ever wanted was
A young Bob Dylan;
A rebel child, beautiful, sired from
A fractured home, formed so
That his wandering heart
Was itself his own. And he would
Take you deep down into the truths,
And sing on banks of gentle waters,
Ignite the spirit within you,
And you would wander too,
For all your life that's what you'd do.

And you might settle for something
Close, might lay your hand inside
A rough palm, remember a psalm,
And decorate your room with the
Fragments of all you once knew.
You'd hear the words wailing inside
A speaker, and wonder of that
Longing voice, and when he chose
To make the choice,
To choose to filter the whole of life,
And think about it later.

Don't care about the outside world.
This carnal fever, this thing that we do
When we're together...
Play on time, and words we love.
To throw them all about in the mood
We trust, I feel, you feel, we embrace
The electric fever of persistence.
Something stormy is going to happen
Tonight;  I can feel the air thinning,
Like the space between you and I,
Evaporate in a cloud of smoke and
Clinking bottles, while Leroy sings
A sad country ballad in the background.
Sing to me, sweet siren. Christen this
Night of active blues beautiful.
I am wilted flower, I am desert rain
Inside you now. I am lost in this
Collection of pavement without you.

What is the meaning to one's life?

That is the question. The question of all questions. Some tumble through without giving it a thought. Some find it in the aftermath of many years unfolded, sitting in a chair, watching a sunset settle. Money brings me little comfort. I imagine what it would be like to come into great sums of the stuff. I would buy this or that, visit this or that place, but I would end up right here where I am. So money won't fix it. Some find it in God. I admire to the utmost those people, but I don't think I fall in with their kind. Some find it in helping others. Maybe that's my path. I'll admit I haven't been very active in that department. Some find it in art. That's where I want it to be. It would be easy for me to sink into some music and fall freely towards the rhythm and pulse, the melodic drip by drip of ecstasy. This culture is cruel to music though. Everything is changing and fleeting to fast. Doesn't make the endeavor all together worthless, just a harder fight. I grow older every day. And now, being home, things like marriage and children and that other bit of life that everyone ascertains as the next logical step arrive at the doorstep in my mind. I feel and fear for it, for some reason. Is it because I'm afraid I might fail? Possibly. Is it because it would eliminate any last glint of a chance that I might have to find my meaning before I can teach it to others? Probably. Fatherhood is among many other things a personal tour guide through first experiences. You witness every one of them and hope you can react to each one with the right calculation, so that when your child grows older he or she will walk the world with grace, bravery, a steady mind and a fearless, open heart. These are all traits I am lacking. I'm currently afraid of the world. Afraid of what it will do to me if I venture out into it again. But it's also like a drug I can't kick. The highs are so very high, but the lows nearly kill. My grace is unsteady. My heart is severely bruised and my mind is riddled with so many questions, the chief one being, "what is the meaning of my life?" It's not an easy question. Try asking yourself once and a while. I would love to hear your answer. It wouldn't help but it would be nice to know someone who has seen journey's walking path. I'm not going to be guided by fear, and I'm not going to be blindly running away from this quandary. I must be still. I must meditate on this and these thoughts long and with clear-minded focus, and hope for the answer. Let the painful process begin.

One day, how I wonder,
Will I ever get it right?
So many forces against a rally
Of Time's cadence, and where do I
Find the time to harvest the grain
Of My own mind?
Will it bear something of value,
Or will I keep starving the crop
To grow lean and resilient against
The elements of this life's offerings?
Oh, but time grows me older.
I feel it by minutes, days instead of
Years of overlapping graceful trials.
If there is such a thing as dying in
The living, than I can only hope to
Be reborn in a short while.
Under the moon I feel my wake
Pass to a close of lonely thought,
Feeling not quite right spending
All my hours lost and in these fears.
To change, to break the cocoon is
One of the hardest things under
Drenched stars, and know you're
In the darkness. Spend enough time
With squinted eyes and the light
Frightens you back. Weak and weary,
Somehow this cannot last.

Too many voices are swimming inside my head,
And the choices, changes, spaces
Leave me feeling dizzy dread.
Panicked by a life that feels it's being
Plucked for me already.
Troubled by a foundation shaken
Underneath my feet.
So I'm falling all the time,
Falling through my time,
Losing every notion I once had in mind.
Where do I go from here?

Can't back on words.
Flare for the dramatic.
Static mind, stale smell
As Winter dies slowly.
This is the part where
I would beat me up proper,
Being a proper fuck up,
But refrain, abstain from
That for just one night.
Sun pours down as it
Tells me It will leave me soon.
Thanks.
Feels good.
So does the beer.
You know, I'd be a better drunk
If I could afford it.
Budgetary deficit will
Only allow a shot of brown,
Two or three beers,
And maybe that can do.
Found out some things today.
Two wheels feel awfully nice.
Pity it was only to work and back.
Found out how much it all hurts.
But if you sort of step back,
Check your limbs and breathing,
Stay away from the heavy rhythm,
Then it might just be okay a while.
There goes the sun.
Told me goodnight.
What an old man.
I won't be to bed a while,
And beat that son of a bitch
To waking, and workout, shower,
Spill coffee on the counter,
And be bound for labor
By the time he stretches his limbs.
Easy job. Probably good benefits.
Singular perception.
I know his game.
I play it to.
To burn.

I can't write my way out of myself.
Don't like who I am.
Don't like what I see in the mirror.
Don't like being bad to
A good heart when it's near me.

I'll take myself into the wood
And kill or conquer whoever this is
That's taken my body
And made a mess of my life.
A stupid boy. A scared shitless,
Little coward who delights
In the curse of tragedy.

I give up. No more words.
They are as knives that cut
The best intentions into pieces.

How many are the shades
of dismantle and recovery
in the human heart?

What lengths, what brevity do
these features seek to transpose
themselves and tear the very bit
of what we have left to fight with?

I imagined a triumphant upbringing
of my self before my old self,
standing tall and taking no shit,
but here I am chock full of trouble,
wading inside a lonely pool of confusion.

What lengths must the heart
achieve to withstand a new semblance?
Where is the safe harbor hidden?

Tastes that last and tortured thoughts
that forego any avenue of originality
transpire to cause me strife in this
hour of an evening now measured in sadness.

Sensory perception from across a small
universe reaches out to me and asks if
I'm alright. I might be broken beyond my
own belief, but I will last the eve;
carry myself into tomorrow somehow and stand.

Robot looks into the mirror:
Sees reflection, greenish blue
Hues, with a belly ripened
From some age and loss
Of the inner workings he used to abide.

Day by day,
That bot sits somewhere inside,
Trying to remember what made
Him tick, the honed refinement
Of a concentrated measure
Of the world for which he's made.

Factory life. Day starts early,
wades through monotony,
Ends in saturation and short circuit.
What once was a brilliant machine
Of golden glow is now a piece
Of metal, rust and mold,
Daring nothing, rattle bolt and
Sawdust resignation, optics,
Movement, throat.

Coop

Let me just say:
It never pleased me more
Than to please you four.
Lump in throat,
Thinking about every note
We bounced off one another.
Dare I say
That I'll never find that again.
But I've got so much stock,
You could call me
A majority shareholder
In the worth of that magic.
Timing and life;
Well, it is what it is.
Maybe I spoiled the fruit
Prematurely. Maybe I killed
The essence before it truly began.
I'm sad but not regretful.
I've got such stuff
As sweet memory at my grasp.
You are all so loved by me.

I feel my pride shatter
For all that's before me
In this waking.
I do not know
Anything

Anymore.

When a heart aches
Without a reason

What does that say?

My past is pulp.
My future is fog.
My present is
Unbalanced.

I long for that carefree tyrant
Of good nature.
He walked off into woods
And left this lonely child
Afraid and shivering.

Was it a good departure?
Will the boy grow up again?

I stay in this box a while,
Because it's too hard to embrace
Simplicity and warmth,
Like I don't want it,
Like I don't deserve.

Where is the road this time
That will take me peaceful,
Purposeful,
Without such unsure passing?

I long for this.

Lips like saccharine
Scale an expanse of frosty
Memory's recumbent status
On a Sunday alone in a bar.
I keep fogging my lungs for
Company of self destruction
To anticipate some reality
That might stop me cold,
Like the sweat from this fresh
Bottle of beer.
The first time in months that
I've been on my two wheeled
Machine. The wind was strong;
Forcing me in directions I've not gone
In so many years it's hard to remember.
Some habits are old. They beckon
You back like a favored friend
And ask subtly, "do you recall? "
I do. But these visions are skewed
By all the new, newly forgotten,
And hard to remember fractions
Of what I used to be here
In this place.

Some choose to carve a path
Through life's journey. Some
See it as a road to traverse.
Some let it roll them like a wheel
Down an awkward hill,
And still others lie in wait,
Watching a picture show before
Departure. I do not know of
Which I'm classified. I only know
That whatever I'm in feels
Like a dream in many ways.
When will I awake?

Smoke morning air the color of
Sun soaked pavement on dead highways.
Deep green and burnt brown,
The only lasting shades throughout
A bleak and saturated winter.
A Lincoln prominence on every
Young man's face. Obscure is trend
Is stale in an hour
Is commonplace.
So informed by low-lit faces in
Every corner of every building.
Little glowing faces searching
For constant connection,
Not in the face before them.
Feels so hollow.
Seems so sad. Like this dreary
Morning I've awaken to,
Buried in my own futile device.

Wind me down like bicycle gears,
Pull my weight to a speeding stop
And find out that the world still spins
Regardless of my motion.
Take me out of me and filter it through
A hue different than this black and blue
Expansion I've raised myself on all this
Time.

Branches shiver in the cold night of
Winter's summit. Find me out on a limb
Working to the beat of this chill I
Feel closing in on me quickly. Brutal
Instrument to feed the heart sick
Longing for a place to call home.
Travel anywhere in the world or do any
Deed worth mentioning but it won't
Suffice to fix the speed of this
Momentum. Salvation is within;
No exterior can wield such results.
Light inside, it screams at me to open
My eyes and pour it out from my fingers.
I'm trying! Stars collapsing unto
Themselves never felt this presence
Nor pressure to feed such feelings
As those of lost children coping with
A winding wood of never-ending
Paths that yield no way out.
The animals close in and we aren't
Ready to be slain by mediocrity or
The causally incomplete.

Before the madhouse
It was noise, drive, write, and do some shit.
Slam, slam and slip and dive,
And congregate to stripped-down rhythm,
Strident, headstrong, full of it
Which is that thing of ignorant grace.

Middles are always long.
Some great purge of place, or solo,
Find and follow, rest, repeat,
Appreciated value for the seemingly concrete,
Can't jump too hard, turns out the ground was hollow,
From the get-go. I stopped; no rhythm.

Convalescing in the silence.
We are a lonely people in this house.
Big spells so trigger some big head
Full to the brim thinking.
Arrested in motion. Maybe it's the snow.
And to make up my mind
Three bits at a time, look at what has passed...
Theorize, embrace, revise, relate.

Deep inside there's still some fraction of a voice I used to hear spinning all that talk about a bright-light future. But all this shotgun speak really gets to me. We're all each other as we pass. For the love of anything, you have to know yourself by now. Dilated eyes of something seen and wanted much, and many, many feelings scattered like specks of red comet dust
Encapsulate the view perfectly strange.

AK North

You young son of a bitch.
I remember the day after you
Got that mark that's still not healed
On your nose. You have style;
You never waver in the way
You spend your while.
I'd pick any day to play along.
Laughing, you were always laughing.
Looked for the best place
To park your thoughts.
Costly a deal it's been
Watching time go by without
Sharing a drink, or a warm talk.
It's been a rough one far away.
Never felt defeat so much
As I've felt these days.
Used to know a secret about this place.
Now I don't know shit.
I wander aimless along old roads
Or hide away in quiet rooms
To kill the time. I shop for steel tip
Darts online because I once
Had some fun playing fucking darts.
Darts, mi amigo, it's quite sad.
Not shit compared to the times we had.
Brief, too brief it all was.
First the latch came loose,
Then the coyote stormed the coop.

Been a lark all my damned life.
Waver to the serious nature,
Constant giver to the happy and serene;
Perpetual loafer to the easy ways.
My days are numbered in that game.

Might have to find out something big.
Possibly I'm bade to get at the grit
Of some great feat surmounting
My life with speed. I can no longer ignore
Plain facts: the comeback story
Of my life.

Stuck in a secret love inside this broken old town I used to tramp about.
Not the same since my youth left me.
Found out how growing up can grab you and hold you to certain standards. We cling to that which we feel the most love.
I think I was always born to be an outsider. Took me a lot of changes to know this. Took some brave execution of my heart to push certain standards away. But I'm not ungrateful for the outcomes.
However bitter the wine the effect is so suited to be the same. I'm destructive. Drunk on the abyss of moments like this. Kids used to play about but the kids grow up and wonder why it had to change. I wonder how it changed so fast, because that was just a moment ago. And in a moment this too will pass and become a different outcome, again and again.

Legs get cold if you don't stretch them. Hearts get cold if you forget them. Friends get weary if you don't call them.
I might be lonely in the end. But I'll always pretend.

Spun round dizzy from the whirling years
That landed me back in the falling leaves
Of long Falls. How do I pick myself up,
And sort through this confusion I've
Come to feel about myself and everyone?
I'm worried about a heart,
Worried of my own,
And to what extent and what capacity
They will or won't unfold.
Sailed out of serious water to the calm,
But I looked down and the depths were
Greater than I'd ever seen.
If this ship capsizes I'm sure to sink;
Lose myself completely in the abyss
Of heavy seas that I can't understand.

I come from simple folk. We work hard,
Tend to each other in rough, direct manners. 

Never was I given to extremes
In any circumstance; never will be.
I go sweet and easy and hope for a life
That finds that pace and rhythm with me.
Too many hard truths been thrown at me.
Too many ups and downs, cold beds,
Cold love and monumental sacrifice
To bear for the sake of others. It gets hard sometimes...
So what am I to do now? Can I be the lifeboat and the sinking ship
At the same time? I don't know. 

Oh God I just don't know if I can take it again.

Lonely; I'm afraid again of this life I'm in.
I'm trying to be still and quiet. I don't want to pray, I want to do it myself.
God is there, no doubt, but right now
He needs me to stand on my own. I don't want a crutch, want to hold myself up.
Where to be? How to be? Who holds
Rightful claim to this heart of mine?
Whoever it is it must be declared. I'm
Tired of chasing ideals; want to be wanted exactly as I am. No deals, no reformations, no alterations. 

I am wholly what I want to be, plus or minus my own complications, and I'm tired of that not being what somebody wishes to see.

I want to simply be and be simple and that's not finding any part of me so I will crumble momentarily.

Maybe I'm not what you were after, after all.
Maybe it was sweet and simple while it lasted.
You start to learn the details,
See the creases up close and wonder,
"Is it the vision I want to see before me?"

Distance of physical,
Distant tonight and wondering if it's really right.
Can't help but feel a little helpless.
Can't stop my mind from brewing madness
In the ever-expanding future before me.

I could be simpler. Could fall down lightly
On the bed of a familiar house,
Tend to my mind and make myself right.
Spend the procession of years in
A quiet place and retreat from chances.

I might just run my heart down, like this.
It's all I've ever been good at doing.
Because I'm better at pushing away,
No one gets to see how much I struggle
With a given day. Easier to turn away.

Turn away, don't turn away. Stand up straight,
Don't fall for this. Come to me, stop breaking me down.
Stop caring, please stay. Are you running? Why
Am I running? What is this? Who am I to you?
What is this I feel? I'm scared. I'm scarred.