Few Words

A new job is like an air freshener

The one you hang on your rear-view mirror

A nice aroma for a passing moment but before you know

You forget it’s there

And for a while that job is novel

You meet the team and your new desk

But gradually it all fades to background

The week is over and you can’t remember it

And it’s all the same

Every day

What a cruel ritual

What a cruel ritual

I miss when I’d stay up ‘till 3am

The adrenaline of writing something new

Now there’s not a single day in the week with the space

I know I’m just a brick in your suitcase

Occupying space that you could use

For something far more beneficial

Like an extra pair of shoes

You tell me this weight isn’t heavy

You’re more than happy to carry me

But we both know your strength will falter

And I’ll be discarded on the street

And I can think of so many options

That would weigh far less on you

So tell me why am I in your suitcase

Riding along with you?

You tell me you care

But I don’t know if that’s the way you feel

Or if you’re just trying to let me down easy

I always lack the words to articulate what I’m trying to say in a way that you’d relate to

And I’m no good at speaking--no, I never make connections at the speed or frequency that’s necessary.

So I’m pacing in circles again

Maybe this time I’ll think of something new

Cause my thoughts go stale when they leave my head

I guess I’m full of useless sentiments

I wish that all of my emotions would flow freely down this page, as they do within my mind.

But lava falls into the sea, hardens into rock and lets off steam--so my thoughts lose poignancy.  

And I’m pacing in circles again

Maybe this time I’ll think of something new

But my words all fail when they leave my head

I promise we’d be friends if I could formulate a sentence

Or ask you a question

But I’m just too dense

This didn’t happen the way I wanted it

I like to think of the way it could have been,

Walking around in a haze thinking that I should be somewhere better

And I keep spacing out on you when you’re talking

Though I know you hate it when I ask you what you said

And I’m trying to be present but these pathways are well-traveled

It’s a complicated habit to break.

Things didn’t fall into place like I wanted them

I didn’t anticipate these impediments

Keeping me running in place thinking that I should be somewhere better

And I keep spacing out on you when you’re talking

Though I know you hate it when I ask you what you said

And I keep trying to be present and be with you in the moment

But I’m throwing all these memories away

Oh I spend all of my time imagining a place I’d rather be

Hello reader: Today, May 11th 2018, my drummer Anthony and I officially made plans to begin recording our first album.  We’ve been playing music together for a year now, and have a lot of material, but none of it has been finalized.  It’s always felt like we’ve been working toward something, but I wasn’t quite sure what it was.  When I began thinking seriously about an album, I realized that this is what we’ve been working for.

We are artists not just to create, not just to perform, not just to grow, but to put all of ourselves into a project and then release it into the world.  The moment an album leaves the studio and becomes accessible to the public, it becomes external and self-contained: only then is the music finished.  Recording is truly the last stage of the creative process, and in over a decade of writing music I’ve never done it before!

I’m entering this new stage with overwhelming excitement and a good deal of fear, because I want this music to be immaculate.  I want it to take a life of its own and exist outside of my critical eye.  But can it?

I’m playing scales

When my fingers slip and fail

To produce the desired sound.

They play a chord instead,

Beautiful but incorrect:

That’s how all these notes were found.

Though I’ll smile,

And play this song for a while,

I’ll play that moment on rewind.

Cause I don’t know

Where my life would go

If I’d composed a different line.

The ups and downs

To this stumbled-upon sound

Make my head begin to sway.

Cause luck’s a maze

A collection of mistakes

We only think turned out okay.

The best events,

And the worst to happen yet,

Simply help us see.

The cruelty

Of finding agency

The blue

Irises of her eyes

Look so alive;

Life is behind them.

“Let go”

Takes its time in our minds.

Yet as she goes,

She lingers, a ghost.

The wall

Is so white, is so plain.

I could stare at it now;

Its stillness is sane.

I can’t leave

The sullen stares at nowhere,

So filled with pain,

Too hard to bear. 

 No!

Mother dear is a child,

So suddenly

Lost in the wild.

I’ll try

But cannot heal, cannot run.

Words that I know

I’m at a rap concert.  An announcer on the stage calls to Usher, “Shout some advice to these incredible fans!”  Usher pauses for a moment and then yells, “Pick up women!”  The audience cheer.  Looking around I notice that Kendrick Lamar and Childish Gambino are there as well, joined by a mystery third guy with weird hair.

I wish I could afford to go to a concert like this, I think to myself.  

Then, Hillary Clinton gets into a helicopter surrounded by bodyguards and takes off.  The helicopter is a lego helicopter.  And the martini glasses at the bar are made of legos.  Is this a lego animated short?  

I get into a black SUV with a 70-year-old man with Alzheimer's and his wife.  We drive through the snowstorm, pursued by black pickup trucks trying to run us into the river.  Finally we reach a house and break in.  One of the people in the house stabs the wife with a salad fork and she tumbles down the stairs.  

I turn to the 70-year-old with Alzheimer's, who’s feeling frustrated by his deteriorating memory, and say “Alzheimer’s works in three stages, sort of like cancer.   I think you’re still in the first stage—you’re slightly impaired and you can’t draw a clock but you can still function fairly well.  I’m impressed that you’re still this good at acting.

“Shit!  I broke the carton of milk,” my mom shouts, handing me two sheets of glass, slick with water.  Sure enough, the corner of the milk carton is sliced off and milk is spraying everywhere.  So she turns the carton upside down and puts it back in the freezer.  

“Mom?  Why are you doing that?”  I ask.  

“Because the water will stop the milk from spilling,” she replies.  Then she takes the scrambled eggs out of the pan and throws them at the pantry, covering the floor and wall with clumps of eggs.  

“Mom!  What the fuck are you doing!?”  I scream.

“Why don’t you try cleaning it up, then!?

I clean up all the eggs and wipe up the milk in the freezer, and when everything is finally spotless, I notice that the kitchen is designed like a high school biology class.  The entire room is lined with black countertops and wooden cabinets, with sinks every few feet.

“Why are there so many sinks?”  I ask my girlfriend Sam.  

“Probably because it’s cheaper to have sinks than just countertop,” she replies. 

“No, that doesn’t make any sense.”  

We get into the car and drive to a motel so we can wait out the storm.  So we’re driving through Jersey City with the windows rolled down and it’s a beautiful night, and we come to an intersection.  Sam turns left toward the motel, but now my dad is driving so he turns around and goes back through the light.  

“What are you doing?  The motel was right there?”  I ask, irritated.

“I’m just trying to get more shade,” he responds matter-of-factly.  

This guitar is the key to the future

I wish I knew how it works

This guitar is the fountain of youth

I wish I knew how it works

This guitar is the ultimate muse

I wish I knew how it works

This guitar is how I got you

You’re life is a narrative that’s already written

And you’re just living it each day

Not ever truly making your own decisions

You’re not the one who has a say

And it’s so hard to see

Who wrote your life in ink

But it’s not you

You’ve got freedom

But you’ll do

What they want from you

You worked your ass off for years just to make money

And you woke up yesterday asking why

I’ve got a piece of wood with strings that reminds me

I just want to play some songs before I die

And it’s so hard to see

Who wrote your life in ink

But it’s not you

You’ve got freedom

But you’ll do

What they want from you

I went to school

And then to college

To get a job

To pay my debt

Went back to school

To make more money

And repay debt

And repay debt

And get a wife

And have a kid

And buy a house

And pay for that

And pay for life

But it’s all shit

When you’re only told

This is how you live

So in a few years when we’re all crying

About the dreams we’ve sacrificed

I’ve got a piece of wood with strings that reminds me

I went to school

And then to college

To get a job

To pay my debt

Went back to school

To make more money

And repay debt

And repay debt

And get a wife

And have a kid

And buy a house

And pay for that

And pay for life

But it’s all shit

When you’re only told

You worked your ass off for years just to make money

And you woke up yesterday asking why

I’ve got a piece of wood with strings that reminds me

Tonight the things I love don’t inspire me

I’m made bored by things I consider fun

Maybe it’s the wrong time for anything 

In my infinite wisdom

I’ve made a commitment

To write something new every day

When the time isn’t present

Or I’m out of the mindset

I wish it were possible

To see where the day would go

Upon waking up you’d know

What to expect

Instead you know nothing

Until the moment it happens

If it’s laughter or sadness

You get what you get

And there’s no going back

To the place that you started at

Thought your day was on track

You know nothing anymore

It’s a volatile tide

That knocks you off your stride

No wisdom inside

To handle what’s in store.

No lighthouse to light the way