Soloist (day 347)

Soloists have a hard time understanding the meaning of the unity
The connection with others that amplifies the experience
Perhaps it’s also an ego thing: uninterupted, in command
Or maybe it was a result of a childhood
No parents to love by, no siblings to care for

But soloists also understand a much deeper commitment to the cause
A rooted desire to conquer the tasks and ignore/conuquer all obstacles
That run headlong into the path of resistance
Perhaps it’s nothing of the sort, just mere coincidence that
Strong minded individuals had no support structure
For their childhood fantasies and nightmares

In the end, it is neither the soloist nor the socialist
Who stands up tall at the end of the match
It is neither the mother nor the father who take on the blame
Or the brother or the sister who have left you out of the game
It is the soloist who must take on the blame
Who must reach deep inside and answer only to themselves

Questions on my mind
Make the game worth
The questions on my mind

And the questions on my mind
Prove the answer to the riddle
Of questions on my mind

Relate to the soloist who has gone ahead and led the way
That there was a mixup in the game plan, that the troupes have all turned
Away from the diamonds, away from the booty,
More towards the inspiration, rallied against the ugly mascot
They have turned down the flags, and silenced the horns
Ignited the fires and paraded far away

Sands (day 344)

There will be no more when the sands of time drop their last kernel into the forbearing sea of thought
Amongst the gallows only the riddled few remain at their wits and cry out for more against the heat
Soon, too, shall man kind seek out the blissful revenge of what has eluded their existence
With bombs and conquerors and their unrelenting performance of celebrated efforts
The last drop shall remain frozen in the air like the memories of y’or
Without much hope for the removal of sinful elegance captured in the mind of the youth
Who strive for their lovers without concepts of legacy, without understanding of respect
But who knocks there, if not the newest hero of the day, with flashing armor and manicured demeanor
I shall present this final hour like the news of a landing, or the disappearance of a breed
And all those around shall mourn like a lover, lost with their thoughts and passive listlessness
And I shall sigh with eternal sadness that was thought to have died long ago; persevered none-the-less
Like them in their time and forgetful of mind, one kernel shall remain grasping at hope and sustain

Airplanes and Tunnels (day 343)

The listful waves roll smooth here now
As the cold seeks out the exposed arms
The wind, it reminds us of the time of year
To which we submit, recursively forever more

We wonder aloud of what shall become of us
Two birds that dare to dream together
A callused palm that rest a while
A sore leg that cries a little

With airplanes and tunnels awaiting fate
The dungeons of space will cry their state
And turnpikes will collect their due toll
We both shall gain together, so much more

With night skies they wake
With cold nights they shake
The morning dew from beneath their brow
A land, begone, ones future riddle

On My Breath (day 341)

Perhaps it was lost that night I lay awake
Stupid with drunk on my breath
I saw what I have never been able to explain
Where the answers are to questions that have never been asked

Then, and only then, I was lost
Amongst my familiar things I was lost
Like the cold sun or the free bird
Before I knew what had happened
The lights had turned out and the morning was to early

I did spend the next 5 days stumbling
There was no equal for time
But there were counterparts that played the role pretty good
However lost my heart was that night

Without a word the silence ended
Out from nowhere the claws began to scratch
Reaching for the little spaces within my armor
To leave me a better man

Endless Grin (day 335)

Pulling fast at me the endless grin
The lover runs from deep within
Tomorrow dies with tonight’s sin
Yesterday whithered with the sacred fin

An aging man that cried before
Grabs his bat and settles the score
Never tried to sacrifice more
Always dread and painfully sore

Left for the vultures
That enjoy malady of sculptures
The dead and beaten tenures
Release a cry from moldy dentures

When at last the sin does remain
Gathered round in unearthed vain
Lay before the many slain
Walk; today remain plain

Remember? (day 333)

Remember me? The boy of y’or
The boy who used to sing to himself as he wandered down the block
Tripping up each step to deliver the paper
Remember those early mornings when I’d swing on by?
To the tune of a rusty old wheel
Spread across your driveway like the memory that remains

Do you still think of then?
I do
It comes back clearly on the days I’m alone
Like looking up at a headlight as snow’s coming down
Always remember that, but it’s never quite as clear

The house is sold now
It’s not quite the same going back
It’s almost at the point where I forget the address
I don’t think I can remember the phone; that’s ok
I still remember the road there
And all the forts we built in the forested backyard

Port of San Francisco (day 329)

The year was 1655 and the ivory coloured walls of Pier 1 sat soaked in sun, waiting for the next shipment of pacific salmon and giant tuna to steam into the harbour.

Winter had been long and the patrons anxiously awaited the burning smell of the smokers that would soon be as active as Johnny’s brothel, the cheapest joint in town.

The doors scarcely had a moment of rest, as they sat glistening in the bright sunlight that was disturbed at every random moment one of the hungry linesmen got a call.

But none of the folks seemed to care one bit, as they hurried along on their usual ways, that the ambient energy of the scene had just shifted from blue to green.

Many of the men seemed to grow and inch or two with anticipation, a look upon their faces that spoke a thousand days of hunger, that glint in their eye.

The loud horn from a distance blared and reminded sailors of old, nearly forgotten stories of y’or.

Wives waited impatiently with children in anticipation of the success of the trip, who really knew these days which each passing oar that combed the streets.

Who really believed in the word of mouth anyways when it all turned out the same anyways?

Change really wasn’t common along these streets, same people, same horses, same carts, and the same grievances.

All the same except this months catch: halibut, salmon, tuna.. you know, the usual shit.

This was the situation, as we walked into the doors at the Port of San Francisco.

Sun (day 328)

I have wandered these busy streets
With nothing but the friends in my head
I’ve screamed out loud
At the top of my lungs
And only the birds do seem to respond
A ghost has come and taken my brother
It’s swept him away from my life
But then, in good faith
Placed back in my path
A soldier of fortune
Upon which I rest
If fills up my smile
It shades in my hair
It lingers around as I walk
Today I smile
Because I am alive
I am a soldier in the mail