With production help from madefortomorrow, I finished another project! Nova has been so great to work with. I’m learning that nothing will be flawless (on my end) and projects take on their own life; ending differently than you expected. At the end of the day, I just want to create and be proud to make art. Cheers!
Month: February 2017
You have your mother’s
And glistening chrome
A band of dark and light
A rim full of brightness
Slick, sharp tongues lapping
Yeah, the night wishes
to be so dark and brooding
and have that mysterious octane
The jade blisters
into the brown
and all the chrome can do is bleed
A see-through membrane
A pool of gelatine and liquid
The glowing orb, behind, the soul sits
I’d give up all my green
And trade some black for brown
If I could just steal your shine
This town is just a suitcase
My soul speaks
Like the wind without the rush
You can only hear it
If you close your eyes
Go ahead, close your eyes
Big and black
is just a suitcase
Maybe my voice
falls silent on the walls
or maybe it echoes through it all
Maybe my voice
Is like the catcher’s call
Or maybe it echoes through it all
That great echo
down the hall
since the fall
Robert Frost – Birches
Earth – Made for Tomorrow
When we used to sit by the rotary phone
(Pulls fancy stationery out)
Pens a chicken scratch letter.
It starts, “I promised I would write you…”
But “promised” is misspelled.
It’s pretty much downhill from there.
He’s no romantic.
He barely knows his times tables.
But you were the prettiest girl at summer camp.
And he doesn’t want to lose you.
His best line is, “You’re a real swell dancer.”
And you giggle a bit and remember.
You think you’ll keep him.
Even if you’re a foot taller.
He signs it, “All the best, Ace.”
Which is what you called him,
When he missed the archery target by 10 feet.
Hold on to these never ending years,
Hearts held together by scotch tape
And friendships forged in blood.
When every day is new,
And every night is forever.
Hope – Produced by Made for Tomorrow
In this current season of political chaos and personal strife, I have felt uneasy; like there is little I can do to help. In the middle of all the swirling negativity, this is my prayer.
Whitewashed and whistling
down empty corridors made of stone
Abandoned like a falling star
that falls into a vacuum
The great, prolific painter
Never picked up her brush
Afraid of falling too deep in love
and became the artist who never was
I’m wearing my dad’s shoes now and giving him advice. Or is it his necktie? I don’t know for sure. Boys will become fathers and fathers will become boys. Mothers will cry to their sons for hours on the telephone and sons will cover up the receiver so their mothers don’t hear them crying. Because now they’re the man.
Sons will leave long pauses in conversations. Thinking of chess boards. They will look right past you, through you, to the house where they grew up. They will be distant.
They will have trouble sleeping. They will realize some things about marriage. Mostly, it is choosing to love.
Sons will fumble through prepared speeches basically written on note cards to their fathers. They will say things like, “I hope you know…” and “I’ve been thinking…” and “For now…”
I hope you know I can’t bear to hear my mother cry like that. I will die before I let that happen again.
I’ve been thinking that you probably feel like you’re under a microscope. I know it will feel forced and awkward. Nothing you do will feel right.
For now, you got to get back to even. For now, you have to learn to be a man.
For now…I guess I’ll have to do.