What’s Donne Is Done

What’s Donne is Done

 

John Donne is done.

 

Perhaps

buried alive

a poet 

who didn’t

quite

know it.

 

The denouement 

rock 

flawed

headstone

to be made known

where he lie

yet in all fiction

we unearth

clods of truth.

 

The bell’s final peal

tolled for he.

 

Pavlov’s coffin:

measured 

in dog years.

Schroedinger’s casket:

nine lives.

 

Alone, we all must

answer half-hearted riddles

dig our own holes

with the rest

a dirt nap

spooning 

Mistress Death

the other half of the coin

such is life.IMG_20200701_140650

Palaver Jaw

The summer solstice

perches

atop the highest

spot

in the sky.

Scavenger

spies

its carrion crawl

across the horizon

of the porch.

Zorched

in the heat

the months tumble by, dry

husks.

Empty days

quarantining

against the unseen, 

enemy

such is age.
The deliberate 

forgetfulness

playing games

with growing shadows

as our days 

linger 

longer.

 

We rock here, 

spittle

dripping 

from our chins,

the curvature

teetering back and forth

between

past 

and present,

a see-saw

for us old-timers

set

in our ways

from remembering

why we came out here in the first place.

The Tangled Interwebs We Weave

I am but an insect
toiling away
at social media
a fly

ho
     ver
ing

about the desecrated bodies
a spoiled
movable feast
they’ve laid out for us
in the heat of the moment
the day
whatever is
the latest drama
they can cook up.

Caught in this kitchen
unable to stand the heat
thmp
thmp
thmp
against a window
the pane but a screen
yet the mesh suffocating
circulated air of
heavy
breathing pleading
for an escape
asking the same masters
for answers
with productivity apps
and fitness trackers
winging it, buzzed
just enough to feel good about ourselves
flitting to another pile of shit.

 

Man Voyage VI: New England

Always such a nice time with my partner-in-crime.

The Aging Cynic

In 2016 I was winding down Man Voyage IV with my best pal and Echo & Sway comrade, Jared A. Conti AKA The Oracular Beard in the upper reaches of New York’s Finger Lakes.  We were chatting at length on the last stop of our three day beer & brewery pilgrimage with a knowledgeable server at Genesee’s Thirsty Pug Craft Beer Market when he wholeheartedly recommended, nay commanded us where to go next: Vermont.  

His claims that Vermont breweries were churning out some of the best beers in the country weren’t entirely unfamiliar to us.  Any craft beer drinker worth his/her weight in IBUs knows The Alchemist Brewery’s Heady Topper is one of the most highly rated & sought after IPAs on the market, and it more than lived up to the hype when a friend gifted us a few cans years ago.  My wife & I received a…

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Illinois, by India LaPlace

This is some good stuff here.

Silent Motorist Media

Illinois

by India LaPlace

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We drove through Illinois once.
Actually, we were driving home to Utah,
From Huntsville, Alabama.
You were leaving me.
Not leaving me, really.
That wasn’t fair.
You were being deployed to South Korea.
I had to wait it out until the army said that I could come too.
I told everybody how sad I was,
How much I would miss you.
My heart was aching,
It had never felt so heavy
And I wanted to tear it out of my chest.
But it was aching because I knew I wasn’t in love
And I didn’t know how to leave.

This was real.
Legal.
And I had made a mistake when I signed those papers.

I was nearly four in the morning when we finally stopped.
The hotel was shitty,
But we were exhausted.
You always talked about how you could drive for hours on a road…

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TE&S on ‘On Lock’ Podcast

Not only does my band have a CD release and 10-year anniversary on 2/17, but we now have a website!
Check out this really great interview by one of my good buddies.

The Echo & Sway

Last week we were guests on Ryan Douglas Rose’s ‘On Lock’ podcast, discussing our past 10 years, the upcoming album release (including a track by track breakdown of the whole record), plans for the future and much more.  Listen below!

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Sweetness Follows

This is one nostalgic jaunt

I can no longer

make connection to–

the roads have changed

and there are

more pressing matters

upon which to attend.

 

THEN

 

At four and three, respectively,

keeping our eyes peeled

the Tipton/Grazierville exit

Bland’s Park (how much fun could it be?)

the amusement park rides by

now given in to

corporate branding,

much like my past.

 

Stories related in circles

as if on an endless track

gander past geese,

biting the hand that feeds them.

Cafeteria and library

are side hustles of your grandmama,

as is getting your peeper caught

in the zipper of your footie pajamas

and the Incredible Hulk

standing in for Jesus on the cross.

 

Heroic, indeed.

 

LATER

 

Following these low roads

keeping tabs running, open

to the nagging voices:

past the TYRONE of a booming black man,

the Armaghhhh…of Joseph’s dying words,

 

long, lonely drive with jaws wired shut,

the shhhhhh of the lisp and roads beneath you,

riding partners of Mitties and Pearl.

 

I never was a cat person.

 

LATER STILL.
THE NOW.

 

Even if his ears bother him,

the inclination, the pressing need

listening, little man

smitten by what I’ve written

of ancient shipping systems

a train in the distance

carting new dreams to these way stations

smile curved up like a horseshoe

at the crossroads. Still

making deals with the devil

nailed above the door.

 

Good luck with that.

 

INTERIM.

OVER, UNDER, AND THROUGH.

 

Yet, it always spins back to you.

 

I pine for what we

once had, if only

because I know it was

nothing.

I long to understand

what these songs meant to you,

us, the tracks missing

love letter liner notes

teased in disappearing ink.

 

Sun-dappled memories,

a magnetic menagerie

of Ouijiac proportions

ghosting in the gaslit paths

never getting close enough to touch

intestines, spools

pooled about my feet,

lay bare by the pencil eraser.

Spirits from beyond

these lyrics that won’t die.

 

Dear you,

remember me forever.

Tilting at Propellers

20170508_134135

traveling back and forth

between the people that i love

not knowing where i belong any longer

no signs from above or

below

and it would mean the world to me

as to where I’m meant to be

I’d like to know

 

the sun goes down

and the clouds roll in

it’s getting dark now

could this be the end?

rain begins to fall

it comes down in sheets

when ever will the sun shine again

and show its face to me?

these wings lift me higher and higher

farther and farther off the ground

I can’t seem to say a word

from me there is no sound