Armchair Philosophies

Southern Crush

04 Hobo Blues

banjo man plays a lick better than he sings, old hound can't tell

japan fans made from newspaper blues. Flower dress starched, just below the knee, propped along side the corner market barefoot and middle of June, sandy roads spread for miles, sweat beads like harmonica sliding from just behind the ear... "this heat hot, sho nuf." Her hand falls a tick left of his, tap that finger enough to make him know that water ain't neva gonna warm up

Crumblin blue corner piece shoves off from the side of his arm. Georgia tango winds round 'em to the river... catfish and crawdads bound to make momma's gumbo liiive. 

that boy sits dreamin in banyan

sounds stick like clay when day shines on, still ain't seen no popsicle man

gotta get bouillon for twilight sets, "Jimmy you got my dime?" Velvet black side slick cheek, rolls two nickels toward the crest of that sour tree. 

"betcha my dime, I knows a thang you don't." He stretches all six of that pack,

"betcha my dime," she says, "you knows all the thangs I don't." 

her leg sways from the bottom limb

 June beats down 'til she falls asleep down some cool water dark and hot on some sand colored backs 

In The Presence of Royalty...

What is the one defining moment one is no longer a victim, passed the survivor bit and begins cycling encouraging thoughts of striving into life? I had a conversation with a friend of mine tonight, in which I lashed and ranted a bit about my sadness and current difficulty. He asked if I do affirmations, "of course, I love them." I knew he was getting somewhere I just had to keep listening.  He continued on about the film pertaining to the confined life of Mr. Nelson Mandela during his 27 years of imprisonment. According to his account, Mandela repeated a certain phrase while being confined to a cell barely large enough to lay straight down in, nearly smaller than the width of an arm span. During this horrific time of his life, there was still a very free power pressing forth from his spirit, "I am in control of my destiny, I am the creator of my future."
With a beautiful and confident companion by his side, who fought for her husband everyday, he did not, would not allow himself to become victim. For to make a fall like that, would sure be damaging to more than one continent. Mr. Nelson Mandela, would be considered a survivor by many people who need to relate to him, but I believe though it may have seemed he was surviving, in his mind, was a world of difference, where he choice his kingdom everyday and with his queen by his side, sharing his story, spreading the truth, he was striving and he never gave up.
What an honour it is to be a very small, yet powerfully able person in this life today.
Earlier, I had it with people, "give me my island with animals and infants to raise happily, I will do it, but give me not one human!" Until this evening, when a true friend found the time to speak with me about a man with far greater devotion and humility than most, I put my tongue to rest and chose to open my heart. I heard about Mr. Mandela through glimpses on America's pop television, I remember when he was freed. I knew it was a time to remember. People began hoping next would be Peltier.
There are times that circumstances of life play over and over like there is no stop or erase button. There are people who judge and lie and steal hearts and souls of men, but there is also choice. Choice. Choice. I am choosing to open the box I have been putting my hurt into, I am going to slowly pull out the red clothes and black gloves to the bottom, where I will find a little slip of paper that will read, "I am in control of my destiny, I am the creator of my future." And perhaps the my grand wall will began to slowly chip away and my love will no longer fear.

Wado.

between two people...

When something right happens, do sparks fly, do light bulbs brighten up and what is it about the time after the sparks flew to a dull glimmer in the back of the yard or the bulb breaks all over the kitchen floor? Is there still something right? 

What would it be if life - as it had been shown to me - didn't bring out a thin residue of theatrical passion? A thick reminder that no matter what, 'I will still appear as if I love you.' This misleading and too dramatized proclamation presses against the back of my eyes imprinting the disillusionment into all the hugs and smiles I receive. Giving me reason to keep a distance. What would it be like to feel real? To feel that no matter what, 'I'm here for you.' could be honestly spoken and received? 

I think when the light hit the floor, it got caught in the linoleum tile somewhere between the squashed lima bean and coffee stain - that sense of belonging. I've chased it into stores and wondered if that old bellhop had seen it, yeah, I've cried for it and I really did think it could be coming through the wind chime. If Elvis can still hang in the Jungle Room and Lincoln for some reason won't leave the Denver Theatre why can't that ominous creeping sense of belonging be comforting me through the soft clammer of singing winds?