Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Where the sky meets the sea

Just like the old ones.
I'm back to this slate
Numb from the free novocaine
Thanks, doc.
The mountains are blissful
It's like they're smoking
as the mist and clouds and fog
rise from nature's stacks.
That fog. It was the only reprieve in
South Carolina. There is much of it in
California -- the newest play life has taken.
But that fog still exists.
Leaving everything glistening.
Somehow fog and cool nights
and a mist of rain
brings me back to 2008 or '09.
I don't know why.
But there was magic then.
Have I lost the magic?
Am I numb to it now?
I refuse to believe it was temporary.
And I know it wasn't all for naught.
I know the magic, the inspiration is still
circulating through my veins. Just like
the first prose or set of musings.
Maybe all it takes it a little fog to set the mood.
It's sad how clear things are when there's fog.
And it smells so good; so fresh and vibrant.
The vapor of life. The ether of inspiration.
My home is a million miles away.
A church.
A newspaper.
A smoky bar.
A marquee.
The marquee. Dazzling.
The days grow shorter.
My return? Painfully far from imminent.
But breathlessly eminent.

It's Monterey. It's famous.
And as I look at it from this hill
I don't see Monterey.
The view of the ocean and the beach
strikes a heavy chord
and a blessed memory
stored away.
A platoon of sailors running around.
An image of an island.
Reminding me of that painted backdrop.
That image.
"Where the sky meets the sea.
"Here am I, your special island."

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Carousel at Lincoln Center

You can spend the next 2 and 1/2 hours doing anything.
Mine as well spending it elevating and aspiring to new inspiration.

Watch Rodgers & Hammerstein's Carousel on PBS. See more from pbs.

Friday, April 19, 2013

The generation of inspiration

We are the generation of inspiration.
We are the creation of dedication.
We are the makers of what's greatest.
We are the cats at 3 a.m. that keep the moonlight safe.
We are the thunderstorms.
We are the believers that know it won't end this way.
We are the believers that know it won't end.
We are the aging who will never grow old.
We are the views of the sky when that most stars are visible.
We are the meteor showers of modernity.
We are the surprise of history.
We are the excitement in activity.
We are the juxtapose of God's love.
We are the chances worth taking.
We are the shooting stars the come at the right time.
We are the respected of the future.
We are the needle spinning the vinyl.
We are the moustache above the smile.
We are the ink pouring from the fountain.
We are the season of what's better than existence.
We are the indelible ones.
We are the junctures of method.
We are the fourth day of the week.
We are the awakening during a tragic time in the Land of Liberty.
We are the empowerment of hope.
We are the other words for art.

Friday, April 5, 2013

Monday, November 5, 2012

Half decade

A stone cold frosty night
In a sporty yellow tiburon
Carried all my fright
Of a love story: 'Once upon'

A tepid kiss we connected
On high school love-hut stages
Our artistic was reflected
Acting through the summery phases

Of glory in the bright limelight
And learning from writings old
Of striving for 'getting it right'
Always being loved, never feeling sold

But at last we thought we lost
Our blushing pop connection
Yet still, even mirrors looked to us
to find their love reflection.

So know that in your soul,
what we had was more than gold
That someday we'll go out
and ride the rousting Roundabout
For that is what I treasure
Five years from our fifth of November.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

The New Century.

For years they believed.
And finally, seeing was believing.
He couldn't time travel to see it
in its heyday. He wished he could.
But he took a mental picture.
Because, someday, someone like him or her
will look back — a century from now
and wonder what those nights
must have been like.
It was a different world back then.
They had cars on wheels.
And computers.
And the first black president.
And only men and women could marry.
And everyone thought the world
would end in December, because of
an ancient Mayan calendar.
But it was only the beginning.
The new century, the 2000s,
was still in its infancy.
For years before they feared how
art would survive through the
next decade.
But there were no more 'next decades'
It was a new century.
A glistening century.
A time a change.
There were still 88 years left.
Those nights were magic.
Many thought the era in which people
went to theaters died with the last century.
But it didn't.
It was alive.
And it was only the beginning.