Tryin' my Luck

The best you could choose,

Maybe a little too good,

Without much to lose,
Leave and know you should

I know I was wrong
Maybe it was timing

Shouldn't sing you a song,
Couldn't just be priming

But through our remarks
Well, I saw sparks

Too dark, and too new,
It isn't quite late enough,

Sometimes early is as bad as late
Even summoned from another state,

A storm is brewing in your future,
No more vacation destination

This is the last poem for a while, I promise
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Sometimes seen, but usually heard
An oft mutual click snap

But with legs moving opposed
Now unmoving
Working against futility

Hat art trades risk ended dues

With the occasional whimper,
Or maybe a drop of whine
I'll claim so selfish

Cars are rear ended

Fast food cannot feed
A hunger this profound
to use an inappropriate tool
Apologizing still tomorrow

Hold it in front of me
A navy blew this ocean
To borrow from a friend

For unmarked creatures knock
Yet, outside, understanding

Close your sketchbook,

The new day is here,

We relieve you of your day's troubles,

 

Spent your day searching,

Love can't be found,

Night comes

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Radiant red:
Burning fires of our desires,

Endless oceans of smooth silk,

Sweetest of breezes, softest of song,

Oh that great lure of occupation:
wishing to be there,
those hypnotic magnets with their sensual sway,

Drawing in my eyes,
Wishing touch was a possibility,

To those drops of heaven,

So elusive; emblazoned endearment:
to catch and hold for momentary paradise,
A greater portrait is created from union,
A greater portrait of you,
perfect you,
and you your transcendent beauty on such model display,
Right in front of me,
Just out of reach

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Rearing up against me
Red hill, like a thorn in my side - ceaseless
attacks, white warriors fight for me,
Bloody outpour,
The battlefield swells red and white;

Hill's defeat!
Return to dormancy!
A warriors remorse:
the scars of the unlucky are forever marked

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I found a feather today:
it was you;

You breathed wind's whim,
Flying lightly,
without the weight of our lost innocence;

Whispering on the winds,
all I ever hear,

All about me I see,

Throughout the day;

Missing you is a thorn sitting forever in my mind

Illustrious breeze,
Why is it we dance so?
Our world now,
Green colours the best virtue,

we play, as one

the Sun is high and smooth trees sway,
Cool shade is sweet wind under smooth giant,
In serene calm, life passes

 

Valentine's day is something invented by greeting-card companies to make money.
If I hear someone say that one more time, I'm going to punch them in the face (not really).

 

Every year, when February rolls around, people start to harbor their anger, and they prepare for the all-mighty beating they will unleash upon poor ol' St. Valentine. What is there to like? You have to buy someone something if you're lucky enough to have someone to buy for, if not, it's a salt-on-the-wound reminder of your ever-present loneliness. Who even likes chocolate anyways?

I mean, seriously, who wants to celebrate love? Who wants to give gifts these days? Who wants to spend time with people they care about? That's for losers, and that's why I'm officially boycotting Christmas! Oops, I mean Valentine's day.

The list of reasons people hate Valentine's day is as shallow as a kiddy-pool. You don't have to buy something expensive, it's just like Christmas, just do something thoughtful. Make a gift, make a card, be spontaneous, be romantic, and if that's a burden, maybe you shouldn't be in a relationship. And if you aren't in a relationship, you're going to be bitter, and resentful toward those who are?

And remember, Valentine's day as a tradition goes back over 1,500 years. It wasn't invented by greeting-card companies, so celebrate the love, and if you aren't in a relationship, think about past moments of happiness with loved-ones, and remember to cherish the love that will come. 

And most of all, don't be sour, be sweet.

 

On November 28th, Incubus released their latest album, Light Grenades, with only one single out on the market - Anna Molly. When the impending release of a new album was announced, I was excited, as were a lot of Incubus fans, but it doesn't seem to have lasted very long.

The majority of people I've discussed the album with, have seemingly all decided the album is a disappointment; too much pop, a lot of weak singles and poorly arranged. And this is where I come in. Previous Incubus albums have yielded ridiculously creative and catchy songs such as You Would Be a Hot Dancer, Certain Shade of Green, Drive, and a bevy of other songs too numerous to mention. A common knock on Light Grenades is the individual weakness of songs, with Anna Molly, Dig and Love Hurts the only strong singles. Dig and Love Hurts are too commercial says popular thought, reducing the album to essentially one worthy tune.

Incubus' glorious history of gracing albums with a handful of catchy singles has come back to haunt them. And I love their previous albums. Fungus Amongus and S.C.I.E.N.C.E were both great albums, with excellent transition while not sacrificing the flow or integrity of the whole. Make Yourself, considered by some their most pop influenced album, held a myriad of varied songs, but not going far enough as to clutter, and distance the whole of the album. Morning View followed, and was seemingly constructed in series of segueing groups of jingles, usually flowing from mood to mood. A Crow Left of the Murder came next, as a collection of political protest anthems, while staying true to Incubus' creative funktastic and mellow crooning history. Each of these albums were great in their own way, with meaningful lyrics and beautiful lyrics, haunting the minds of many, while riding high on the chart.

But that's from where the trouble stems. Light Grenades hit people expecting similarly constructed albums of interesting songs, perhaps a few venturing experiments, and general satisfaction. However, this album was forged with different tools. Incubus has created an album of, not punching rhythmic songs, but a flowing concept unmatched by any previous work. With visual album work mirroring their musical foray, the album, if appreciated properly, comes across as a mature single entity. Examining each song on an individual basis is an exercise in futility, when the true strength of the album lies in it's whole. Like a chain, each link is seemingly unspectacular, but with the collective strength to gap great distances. That isn't to say the tracks are weak on their own, just not what the general public expected.

 

So while Incubus should be applauded for taking a risk and publishing an album or artistic mirth, they are hailed as a tapped-dry well of creativity, for failing to stick to their guns.

 

Well I say bravo. Bravo in putting the guns down, and fighting a new battle in a new way. Bravo for not sticking with what works, but having the necessary conviction to try the uncertain. Bravo.

Hi,
I've had some feedback on previous things I've written here, and I appreciate everyone taking the time to read what I write. This next one is another short (short) story, but it didn't really turn out how I'd imagined when it came to me. Anyways, here it is, please feel free to comment.

 

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Oh go lay brick.

My thighs hurt, but it's a good hurt. And that's it, so don't go gettin' all "deeper meaning", and dumping cal on my mind. It won't work.

 

The smooth worn leather of my right glove will continue to glide up the dusty old bannister, and there's nothing you can do.

But seriously, shut up.
I might be breathing heavily, but this heavy breathing serves to lighten the burden. The great red burden of society.
And one by one, I'll knock you out.

 

But right now, I'm wishing I'd've spent more time on the treadmill. The cold pounding of my boots on the concrete steps is far slower than the pounding of my heart, and they're all that accompany me as I gaze out of the passing windows at all the double parked cars. C'mon, seriously now, learn to use the horrorshow signal lights on your car.

 

Actually, scratch that, it won't matter in a second. Well, in eight minutes if we're playing the symantic game (and I know you like to). I'd like to wait for the bell, but with how I feel now (the dynamite in my chest) I don't know if I'll make it. Am I really this outta shape?

 

I guess if I can see the top (quite near) I guess not. A couple haunting thuds and I'll be there, sans trenchcoat and briefcase, because that's just corny. No matted black, no polished silver. Besides, I like this 1980's windbreaker, and I don't care about the bright orange and blue. Adidas makes good shit, what can I say?

 

Well I'm here, the top, and my blood-exhausted hands can finally hold cold clicking carbon-steel. But seriously, does no one ever clean this place? Fuck.

 

You know, that poodle in the distance has nothing to do with me, or this story. The poodle isn't in my way, or anyone elses, it doesn't add anything to the scenery, and it doesn't even bark in spite of me. Regardless, I'm irritated.

 

And seriously, shut up.

 

And Busker, c'mon, I'm so impressed with your chord mastery, and predictable choice of tree, but no one cares about music snobs. So as I affix my eyepiece, I'll line you up in my mind. Stupid earthtone jacket - gotta have a collar - and your careful facial hair and ponytail. Yum Yum to the familiar sugar-salad taste of my preferred aspirin. Did I mention my headache?

 

You know the problem's I don't care, I just don't.

 

So I've just gotta get the magazine outta my pocket and I'll help you out. Alright, the jerk from the shop first. No one likes a cheat, so don't be an asshole too. Someone's special, someone's son, someone's delegate, someone's dream, but that's just my problem - I don't care, so go lay brick. And you, Mr. Guitar, you're next.

 

Magazine is in, bolt is drawn, and I'm ready to go. So with a steady pop pop pop I calmly exhale, and did I mention my headache? I'll take the jogger to impress; nice crimson jacket. And Mr. Rich-White-Prep-Rapper, you come too, 'cause your clothes are too big, and your music too loud.

 

But you, with the dyed red shoulder-length, you're the worst, and don't think I've forgotten you. Interloping, introverted, inward idealizing, but you got grace and charm, and don't forget the terrific ass. But you ignore too much, and helping to help yourself isn't helping at all, so that's it, for now at least. You've got yourself I nice lead-red souvenir.

 

And seriously, shut up. And lay brick while you're at it.

 

You know, I was someone's special, someone's son, someone's delegate, and someone's dream, but this is my special dream, and did I mention my headache?

Hey everyone,

here are a few poems I wrote the other night, and I'm posting them against my better judgment. Personally, I think my poetry sucks, and I'm not saying that to warrant countless comments offering encouragement and praise. Actually, I don't mind the first poem, but I'm not big on the second.

 

So anyways, I've been working on a short story for a while now, which explains the great time gap since my last blog entry. It's been a difficult story to write, seeing as how it has great significance and meaning to me. I'm writing all of this, assuming that someone actually checks my MSN Space, which I doubt.

Anyways, without for ado (about nothing) I present two poems to tide my roaring masses over.

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You may push and take, and fight and pry,

If you've come to assume, then you might find,
Nights here are too cold to go gently into,

So our wall of spite and will, is what you aim through,

But you ain't gettin' in, 'cause I can hunt, and I can trap,

and we came here for better, so there's no goin' back,

We're feisty, an' we're clever, and we've learned some local ways,

So dig in, and we'll fester, and we'll itch at you for days,
Learn - don't be cocky, or arrogant, or mean or rude,

'cause we'll show you, more'n once, what we can do

 

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There is no thicker material of which I can speak,

and because your arms weigh you down so clumsily,

Even if you'd fancy the dirt and the draft,

I know you'd push aside my branches, and tread upon my moss

 

but just because I'd smelled them out, and you provided the virtue,

Ceremony may still be a requirement, bootstraps and tassels et all.

 

and when undercooked food and underclothed overdressiing chase you,

we might step in, and draw, and clean and claw to save our hall

 

I suppose I should have read it sooner in ivory nerves that glimmer,

but tarps and drapes, who'd served to serve, obscured and blocked,

not to be attributed pro patria; I boomed and blasted in your shine

and in the end, if red and lost, we're run through and tossed,

 

I fought for you,
I fought for truth,
and I fought for the good of us now due