The glass was neither half-empty nor half-full,
It was just empty, or rather it would have been.
Not so long ago, the glass would’ve been empty,
Not so long ago, it would’ve been cold, but not cold enough,
Not so long ago, the silence would’ve been deafening.
But now everything is different,
Maybe not physically, but…
The room presents itself so eloquently and tastefully as a picture,
In a way that no artist could bring to the canvas.
The room is dark, other than a warm stove light, dimly setting the scene.
The hour is late, the air is still…
There was a boy
Who was as old as he thought he was.
In a room,
As colorful as he saw it as.
There was no doubt in his mind,
The room was green.
Green like a forest,
Green like a frog,
Green like a lime,
Green like a… no… most definitely green like a frog.
He was excited to know the room was green!
His mom was not so excited.
“Son”, she said, “Quit pretending like you don’t know what color this room is!
Adults don’t pretend, and you’ll be grown before you know it.”
The boy was confused,
Sitting alone, the static washes by,
Blissfully unaware of the world outside.
Nature on the TV, society out of frame,
The world falls to chaos, with all of us to blame.
The glass refills, the cigarette in amber blaze,
We are all drawn to violence, like moths to the flame.
There are those of us who are hateful,
Malignant, contempt, and cold with malaise.
And those of us who are ignorant,
Uneducated and Uninformed, all the same.
We try to fight for freedom,
We try to fight the pain,
We try to fight the tyranny,
But we’ve all gone insane.
Carcinogens, Death Sticks, Coffin Nails
The Cigarettes live in a black cardboard home
Their neighbors are a cheap lighter, running desperately low on fuel,
And a small library of books.
Their place is by the books.
Writers are supposed to smoke.
The cigarettes are moved from their home once every few days,
Depleting each time by one, or maybe two.
Eventually they will be no more, a problem for another time.
The lighter comes along for the ride, to get some fresh air.
The flint strikes and creates a spark,
Lighting the butane into a beautiful, pale orange,
Growing up in a small Texas town in the great plains, it was not uncommon to hear disparaging remarks towards art and artists. Non-blue-collar jobs, with the exception of doctors, lawyers, and teachers, are treated with a sort of distanced disgust; as if art was a used tissue they were reluctant to throw into the garbage. And no art has more of a negative connotation in this area than the dreaded Modern Art.
However, this mindset is far from limited to rural Texas. …
Whether listening to the pop chart hits on the way home, collecting the most obscure records possible, or learning an instrument and composing, music effects everyone in a big way; music has no entry age, no prerequisite requirements, and no need for an understanding of theory to enjoy. It cannot be touched, but it touches so many people. In many ways, music is the glue that holds the world together; a unit of culture, a language, and a beautiful art everybody enjoys.
On paper, music may be a reasonably simple concept, a series of rhythmic frequencies that resonate to create…