Poetry from RJ LeClair: Part II

Mr. Surgeon General

Mr. Surgeon General

What are you holding in your hand?

Is it a perfect escape from anything

If not then I’m turning away my head

I found detours from the dead end paths

They come 20 in a pack

And perfectly placed in harmony

As I pour the whiskey back

Hey, I swear I heard you say something

Boxed in letters on the back

But I can’t escape the stagnant taste

Burning slow and rolled tight to stay in tact

Man the routines can hinder

One to eat and one to sleep

Someone said this is addiction

And my efforts are obsolete

Damn, you were right, I’m a coroner

Or preparing myself for death

Some kind of cowboy killer

I’ll walk the line if you lay the track

You’re fucking right I’m addicted

Skip ahead, put a bullet in my neck

Breaths keep getting shorter

Bringing me closer to the great sunset

Old friend you seem to know everything

But I’m naïve, a sucker, whatever works

Looks like my stay here is up now

Make sure my sleep is comfortable in the earth

Colors are dull and deteriorating

Except the red glow at the end of the line

My apologies, I didn’t listen

Ironic thought I was just killing time

Untitled Finale

I’m walking through the doors

Bad shadow on my back

But fear never leads my roaming

Guess I’m looking for something

Am I lying to myself

That I might be going…

I’ve been gone

For so long

Traveling lost

And steering wrong

Salvation so much different in my mind

The walls in system creaking

Everyday they have been mocking me

The indifference subtly sinking in

Seems their spell had sold for free

It always spawns

A question or thought

Think I might be self- detaching

But I’ve been gone

For so long

Traveling lost

And steering wrong

A vacant body searching for a mind

And a mind in question looking for the time

The Virus Part One

A bleak estate

Far off in the wood

Shown light

To the distant dawn

One flame

Drew its sight

To the core

And forever

The struggle’s show

Bread on

And the creatures

Create wakes

For all of time

An echo

In the web

Of the universe

And vague rests the garden

For mans’ pretense

The god’s knowledge

To take for their own

There always

In the stray earth

Lay a light

To battle dark

And a swarm to blur the light

Until diminished

To dusk

And night

Something different stirs

And unwavering notion

Volunteering death unto its passing by

A cycle complete and

A virus in motion

Their tapestries meant to collide

So hide in the ground

In the sky or the ocean

Vacate your chosen place to reside

Mechanical things with a menacing devotion

And a devastating appetite

Some brighter that the light

Born again everyday

Some darker than the shadow

That followed behind

The radiant and absent

Display mocking shapes

On the willingness

To sacrifice

And so,

The virus marches vigilant

Our structure holds dense

The idea of our true
paradise to adore

Watch us harvesting the etheric dissonance

And creating the longing for more

The Virus Part Two

Thought I told you, kid

That the sun only sets in the west

When we tell it to

And you better be a good boy

Better feed the dogs

Or they’re gonna come for you

Remove your beastly ways, kid

Remove your innate will

Throw on your best rage

And we’ll make it possible

I see you

Drinkin’ down booze

Fortunately you can choose it

Boy, you can’t affect change

“Your puppets could never keep it tame”

Do you accuse the wrongful men in suits?

With the halos on their heads

Fire your shots, as you will

And in shot you may hope that we

Don’t fire back

So find the peace and love please

And stay out of the way

See your episodic nerves

They’ll make it easy

Did you hear the news?

They’re coming into your house

With bats

Pipes

And nooses

This all came too soon

Wait for the chemicals to prove it

So When the earth gives discretion

I’m gonna ride it out to you

When the wind carries off my questions

I’m gonna ride until the riding’s through

To see you speak over all of creation

With a spirit a thousand times

As high as mine

Bearing witness

To the end

Of human crime

Truckload of Guitars

I’m getting behind the wheel

And heading down south

With a truckload of guitars

Life is picking to breathe

And fingering speech

I aim to haunt your halls and cars

With a mind stained in blues

And setting low

I let ‘em pack on the battle tunes

Now I can’t stop the notes from bleeding out

To say a change is coming soon

Always hearing what I have to say

And never having a doubt

If a man in blue comes to take me down

At least my six-string will hear me out

Some say tomorrow is a day away

But everyday feels the same when it starts

The pain from the lack of change and the trying to say it

With a truckload of guitars

Well I’m a stumbling punk,

Drunk on dumb luck,

But I can play a melody

If the turnstile man won’t let me in,

My six-string will listen to me

Got a few good friends, from way back when,

The only rowdy crowd I keep around

Singing that I speak in tongues

And you understand

And together we’re ever free

If the air falls silent now

If the laws ban everything

I know the music will live on, but…

There’s an unkind boast

From an unholy ghost

That spreads from coast to coast

The laugh that I sweep right under the rug

The American lunacy

And hovering there,

In stagnant air, the mock from their own regime

But the people all laughed, entertained

And continued the catatonic melody

Saving my bones from the cynicism,

A temporary blur of my doubt.

If a man in blue comes to take me there,

At least a whistle could hear me out.

I’ll still remember the songs because

Everyday feels the same when it starts.

The pain from a lack of change and the trying to say it

With a truckload of guitars

Prose from Stan Yellow

Find Stan's blog here

Explode

Footworn and weary souls

Coasting through tunnels of trees
Towards distant horizon lines
Floating in boxes of tin and dreams

Under us, the river of relativity
Above us, sky and impossible heights
Destinations known and unknown
The past forgotten and forlorn

We live and die and burn away
Burn bright, extinguish, but never flicker
Become supernova, explode the stars
Consume life in the back draft


The Golden Hour

As I stare out over the town of sleeping people, I know what is truly meant by the coming of the morning sun. The men, women, and children are asleep and at peace for now. But what chance is there for peace in the minds of men throughout our daily lives? When the golden hour comes they will awaken and be born again into a world that they are all part of but many will never know. They will rush off to jobs and school, worry about bills and saving for a vacation down the line, and some may even fall in love. The dreams of their sleep will be forgotten and they will plan for their futures. But how many will stop to think about their day? How many will not figuratively, but literally stop to smell the flowers that they will rush past? To appreciate the gifts of life and love that are all around us? The way the morning dew refreshes the earth and the sun nourishes us with indifference to our trifles and struggles. Give me liberty, happiness, depression, and anger, but never give me apathy.


Written Long Ago (No. 1)

She dominates my thoughts night and day. Like a yellow bird she flies into my dreams at night. Oh my graceful, unattainable Daisy. My Lolita. Every symbol of an intoxicating, overwhelming desire. Not the desire to become physical with, but much more than that. The desire to simply know what goes on behind those eyes. To hear those thoughts. To hold her just to feel her heartbeat against yours. If only she knew what a smile from her can do to raise from me any trace of sadness. How her ignorance or disregard of my attempts to impress her can make me uneasy till we next speak, sometimes as much as a week apart. Like a beautiful butterfly she dances around my thoughts, stopping at times and landing to jump start my mind and heart. And then she is off again fluttering around in every which direction but visible in the field the whole time. And just when I feel as though she has gone on to a more beautiful field, she lands on my back.


The Vast Ocean

The boy looked out into the ocean as he had so many nights before. And like so many nights before the boy was at the beach looking out over the ocean because he didn’t belong anywhere else. Not that the boy particularly belonged at the beach but often in times of stress he would be soothed by the vast expanse of an ocean he may never cross. You see this particular boy was plagued by the way things were from much too young of an age. Growing up with the understanding of an adult of the way that people are, the boy never really was able to get along with the other children. Adults would often call him mature but let’s call him what he really was, robbed of the innocence of youth. He was taught that life is in fact not fair. He was taught not to trust others and also at the same time to listen to all authority. These things all meshed together to make questions of belonging and happiness almost impossible to answer to the boy. How do you tell someone that has never been taught to love people that others could in turn love him for the way he was? The boy took off his shoes and felt the sand in between his toes like so many others had before. He could feel the gentle swaying of the waves ahead of him. He knew the smell and taste of the ocean and let it fill his lungs as he had so many times before. And then he calmly walked into the water and sunk beneath the rising moon.

"Feel My Heart" by Timur Aydin

"When You're Dancing Her Dance

You Don't Stand A Chance

Her Grip Of Romance

Makes You Fall"

Poetry from Mikhail Brandon

Guitar Heroin

everyone who means anything to me
all of the gods i've ever known to be
my musicians strung out—a lifeless heap!
piles of bodies scattered around my front seat

but they're ready to play
ready to be loaded into the dropper
and injected straight into my bloodstream
to burn away the pain - these strings become my veins


The Right Groove

i’m a needle
and life is a vinyl record.

my days are spent
trying to find the right groove.

i watch him jump headlong into the water
and paddle forward on his board
into the deep part of the ocean
feeling the rhythm of the ocean
as the current passes through him

i want to know that moment
when he instinctively leaps up
and lets himself become part of something bigger
even for a fleeting moment

the rest is just noise.


Refrain

(an ode to jeff buckley, damien rice, elliot smith, ryan adams, etc.)

at night
in your bed
with the lights off
in your favorite pajamas
you play those wonderfully sad songs
that you can crawl inside when no one else is around

but... if...
life is just a beautifully sad song
the melody and rhythm echoes in your mind
pain is short but the night is long

because,
nothing has ever really changed
sooner or later those chords are repeated
thoughts are just rearranged

so,
why waste my time telling me your sad story?
there may different verses but always the same refrain
flashes of light but no real glory


Harmony

even if we are singing the same words
and running through the same chorus
our voices cradle them just a bit differently
weaving through the empty spaces we never knew were there
so when we sing them together
they create sounds we could never hear alone


Defeat

the rain drips down on the glistening street
stained by water and dirt, but not by feet
his head leans back on the car seat, defeat
the cigarette stream gives the night its heat

once a boy whose words would shimmer
now just a vagrant, a poet, a sinner
he closes his eyes so the lights grow dimmer
better to hear the cigarette simmer

there’s a choir—a voice that he once used to sing
with notes that soared to the ears of kings
but now,
the wax drips down his miserable wings
rushing from open wounds like springs

mikhail.brandon@gmail.com

Read

Poetry from RJ LeClair: Part I

Explanation

Deeply cursing care drives downward through the hellish tide
We watch and conjure colors bold enough to bury burdens
Already too mature to die
Alas, the grays slide across the sky insatiable
And we blame roses for the seeds we can’t omit beneath our skin
Nostalgias that we sever drifting further everyday
From the children we once loved futures bright and far away
Fear burns holes in stepping-stones
Lie down or turn your aim
Indulge in endless sleep
Destroy the map and never laugh
For ever-steady mountains will leave you powerless to match
Voices in pollution hold you entranced upon the setting sun
Be gone now, will delightful dark concur
That we are free to hold the smoking gun
And we wear our anxieties like a second skin
From toe to head
Alas, like snakes we cannot shed


Mountain Thinking

Part one- Traveling
Hard pressed and gravity bound
Some fabrication of wood and metal
Glides fluent
Riding the magnet
Such currents subject their direction and diversion
To naturally occurring chaos
And so chaos would in turn
Separate the earthed white current
From its friction-escaped voyager
Thus falls another man
On another creation
Part two- Gathering
Shock will veto pain
Vice versa
The narrator rises to his feet
Only to voluntarily fall again
Some ignore and keep moving
Some bow to the mighty
Now alone, gazing past any immediate distraction,
He distresses the amazing flaw of established statures.
Only willingness may implement the artificial
Earth has company
Company overlooks earth
Part three- Observing
Cold breaths kiss his cheek
Their unsettled paths navigate
Leaving crystal flakes stranded
Wrapping branches
White had landed
Mummy trees wave to their passing solace
Great blue for a distance
Then swallowed in fertile landscape
The miles unmeasured and vague
Essentially weathered
A billion year old stage
Questions only spawn questions
Part four- Questioning
Where does wind undress its various strands?
And break to the stable atmospheric abyss
When do the solid earth and gaseous heavens coincide?
And question impossibilities
Why have I forgotten nature?
Which way is the horizon?
How carelessly do oceanic tides linger?
When do their titans take our structure?
Who writes the clichés?
(If a tree falls in the woods)
Surely, the underlying subtleties of truth will tell
Part five- Arriving
Ascending to his feet
An instinctual forgery taunts
That the others are waiting
A sign reads
“Meet me back
At the bottom of the world”
Questions only spawn questions
He’d rather not
Floating gracious on descent
His platform tracking the angular plane
On route belied a vengeful pilot.
His mountain thinking left unchained
And still struck with human bias.
Bottom looking
Not so impressive.
But…
A cycle’s rebirth with every distraction


WAR POEM MR3

dripping in silence
runs red through the floor
the blood that don't come easy
in the daily race for more
so they tell you softly
you just don't fit the mold
ans son you'll either die tryin
or give up when your bones are old
cross the line to this side
forget the loves you've made
the tempest on horizon
has got you 3 feet in the grave
when i was a boy they told me
that i would pay my dreams with pain
another strong and misguided child
go on and pack your things away
something therapeutic
about living in a lie
oh son when you're called to conviction
know they'd love to see your hanging pride
welcome to the world my son
in us you can confide
but there's too many reasons
too many ways
and not enough to lose
to ever die for you
so good to rid that burden
now an empty space in chest you have
that shit you call your soul
it won't mean much when you're shot down in Baghdad
cast the ominous shadow
cast it far over our heads
cast it long to the eastern horizon
let it rain of our sharp bayonets
cast a coin out into nothing
repay all the ones you debt
now go on and take your toll
may god rest your soul
and may only love sell a soldier to death


Moonshine

When the moonshine is done
I shine bright
Provided light from the sun.
Morning, you wakers
You’ll beg hours away
Before setting motion
To this day
Crossing me from dream to thought
Eyes that of my country
Blue
White
Bloodshot red
When the moonshine starts
It is housed in me
A demon conscience
Tells me who to be
What to eat
Who to love
Lies to excrete
Future deeds
When to drink
What to wear, if anything
No, this is far past pleasure
This is insanity.
When the moonshine is gone
I won’t miss it
I won’t know
Might make it home
Stumbling careless and needless
On to the gallows
I am ready
I am hollow
Seamless, the memory spares me one night
The moonshine is gone
And the sun shall provide no light.


Born in the Radiance

I bet you were born in the radiance of a million suns or more
The pinks and blues that encompassed you were the ones you were searching for
With a little luck, baby, at least it could have been warm
Now I’ve skeletons knocking on my closet doors
Serpents in the sky that shine to guide me on my way
With a little luck their words won’t be poisonous today
I got paintings of the world trapped behind my eyes
Chemicals to accentuate the lining in the sky
With a little luck tonight I won’t get so fucked up I die
A little luck will come and a lot more will be needed to save me
I’ve somersaults to carry me when I’m head over heels
Barricades to stop me. Alcohol to help me heal
Tear the future out and everything seems less real
Now I’m so deep in my skin that I can feel my pulse
Fumbling over my words, less often I speak before I choke
Can you feel it tonight, baby, can you feel my ghost
I had flowers that bloomed this morning in my heart
To help me let go of anxiety and hold on for dear life
Let the will in my fingers allow me to hold on tight
Walk the stepping stones on and on until the end of the line

What is Creativity?

All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. -Pablo Picasso



Creativity is a trait that transcends all professions, ages, and cultures. From the Chauvet Cave drawings circa 30,000 B.C to the iPhones and Blackberries of today, every major human advancement in art, philosophy, and design has begun with the creativity of an individual or the pooled effort of a group.


To better understand this idea, it is easier to take the focus off of the milestones in the span of human history and focus on the individual. Everyday, we make decisions that stray slightly off the beaten path; taking a new way to work or adding a new ingredient to a tried and true recipe. This accounts for our own creativity, though it's not quite comparable to the work of the Sistine Chapel. This doesn't mean that we as individuals aren't as able as the self-proclaimed painters and musicians in the world; the inherent talent is not necessarily the problem.

Picasso alludes to it in his quote, but by examining the way we behaved as children, we may find ourselves at our creative peaks. Many of the dreams that we created for ourselves (becoming a firefighter or a professional musician) may have evolved (or devolved) into becoming the manager of a company. The love of building toys out of legos or of drawing self-portraits may be lost to more "mature" activities. Most likely, we've found our true calling outside of building legos, but by approaching these careers with the same sense as we would when we were younger, we may be able to bring something truly fresh to what we're working on.

Aegri Somina

This song makes me happy despite it's somber tone. Though I imagined rainfall, here's the ocean: