9 September 2007
Rigamarole in Soho
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Shapes silhouetted against a starry sky on a black Friday night
Caught between up and down, air filled with musk and fright.
But strung up to stars in a cosmic safety net
Hand of God firmly held, no need to fret.
The rosewood neck, inlaid stones from an oft climbed monolith
Fingers down and up the strings, smooth in an oft played riff.
Like a fluttery friend whose charm runs the scales
Runs you off your line, bumping along the rails.
Precariously sliding toward an edge of abysmal shame
Oblivious to it all, secure in freeze frame.
Bouncing from its squared edges and tight lines
Like a creaky ol' stagecoach coming undone before it's time.
The unspoken more potent than wheels spinning in his head
Could Haves and Would Haves, better off unsaid.
Still he shouts to the world, "Stop the madness, it's just LOVE!"
The words float off into silence like a lonesome dove.
Landing shoulder splat on a benched couple in a woodsy park
"Goddamn, Martha, that came from over yonder, outta the dark!"
A bird, a plane? Hell no, just another damn stain
Aint no big thaing, let's get to the train, 'cause it's a looking like rain!
Honey, if you had half a brain, you'd know that train won't remain. Getting wet is just part of the ride.
You a right, Luvaman, lil' dribble drabble no reason to hide.
A melt, a thaw, an ice age cometh to an end here tonight
So betta fill up yo plate with every last little bite o' delight!
And stand your place in the never ending night
Staying true to the phase "we gotta fight the good fight".
Erecting the statue to the eternal hero within
Full of grace, full of sin.
Entirely human to your pitiful, powerful, malignant, indignant soul
Feeling like a troll but ready to roll, cream in the bowl served down in Soho, keep my side clear of rigmarole!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Liquid Simplicity
April 2007
LIQUID SIMPLICITY
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
Liquidity is a near constant for me,
Seathing flow of grain and peace and sweat and love.
fluid down the face, spilling from the strings, moving target, truth.
I've sought it in the tepid streams of my rapid pulse,
felt in the darkness, calming perfection.
In the palms of another, cupped in anticipation,
Strength and certainty of the engine leaving the station,
The invitation to go as strong as the weight of staying
The desire to do nothing versus the burn to keep playing.
Fretting over all that courses through my tangled finger tips
Sure of the ache in my belly and the tequila that put it there.
And the hand that wields the glass, bottle, neck and string.
Trusting the hand and the ache, and the flow, open and free.
In the gut, like the harmonics perfect pitch from belly deep
Indicative of the peace I seek.
And find inside, not out,
That's what it's all about.
And found in the hollow recesses of hardwood and the softest heart assessed
Where flesh and floor meet, oft that's where it all settles,
To the grounded and ground, planted firm, upright and simple.
-----
The simple man pulls the threads to finds the unraveling begin,
String through fingers, unsure of what he might win.
The sin is in his thoughts, actions seem for naught,
Filled to the brim with all he's bought, against the very premiss he'd been taught.
Shadows, my friend, that's where you find truth and touch,
Pliable, ready, emptied of so very much.
Yet full of something yet unrealized; steely in sight,
Third eye not blind, all-knowing, certain of what is attainable sans spite.
But the seer sees only the scene, actors and stage,
What lays behind the curtain, or on the next page.
Orange the rage that settles the audience as curtain draws,
Clear the first note on the violin as dies down the applause.
And in steps the simple man, simple heart, simple smile, but not so simple part,
"God damn, that was quite a fart!"
Smell radiates, seeps and spills, evacuate cries the crowd!
Then up steps the woman in a shroud and demands, "Be Still!"
"Your money paid, our toils laid, take your damn seats!"
Somewhere a soul screams out in the street,
Penatrating the brick and mortar into the scene it finds
A crowd looking under the rows for nickels, quarters, dimes.
LIQUID SIMPLICITY
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
Liquidity is a near constant for me,
Seathing flow of grain and peace and sweat and love.
fluid down the face, spilling from the strings, moving target, truth.
I've sought it in the tepid streams of my rapid pulse,
felt in the darkness, calming perfection.
In the palms of another, cupped in anticipation,
Strength and certainty of the engine leaving the station,
The invitation to go as strong as the weight of staying
The desire to do nothing versus the burn to keep playing.
Fretting over all that courses through my tangled finger tips
Sure of the ache in my belly and the tequila that put it there.
And the hand that wields the glass, bottle, neck and string.
Trusting the hand and the ache, and the flow, open and free.
In the gut, like the harmonics perfect pitch from belly deep
Indicative of the peace I seek.
And find inside, not out,
That's what it's all about.
And found in the hollow recesses of hardwood and the softest heart assessed
Where flesh and floor meet, oft that's where it all settles,
To the grounded and ground, planted firm, upright and simple.
-----
The simple man pulls the threads to finds the unraveling begin,
String through fingers, unsure of what he might win.
The sin is in his thoughts, actions seem for naught,
Filled to the brim with all he's bought, against the very premiss he'd been taught.
Shadows, my friend, that's where you find truth and touch,
Pliable, ready, emptied of so very much.
Yet full of something yet unrealized; steely in sight,
Third eye not blind, all-knowing, certain of what is attainable sans spite.
But the seer sees only the scene, actors and stage,
What lays behind the curtain, or on the next page.
Orange the rage that settles the audience as curtain draws,
Clear the first note on the violin as dies down the applause.
And in steps the simple man, simple heart, simple smile, but not so simple part,
"God damn, that was quite a fart!"
Smell radiates, seeps and spills, evacuate cries the crowd!
Then up steps the woman in a shroud and demands, "Be Still!"
"Your money paid, our toils laid, take your damn seats!"
Somewhere a soul screams out in the street,
Penatrating the brick and mortar into the scene it finds
A crowd looking under the rows for nickels, quarters, dimes.
Waking to ABAB
January 2007
Waking to ABAB
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Sunrise in the valley, red-chested robins bounce here and there,
The echoes of light and the unrelenting will of time.
Unconcerned with it all, me sitting by the window in my chair.
Plucking shadowing blessings from strands of sunshine.
Gentle, soothing hum from the box, faintest stream of steam rising 'bove forest-green mug.
The tug of memory wafting in silence around my head.
Milkbone sugerplums dance in my little pug's head, snoring, fast asleep on his rug.
Dreams for all dreamers true, in waking and sleep deeply wed.
A paw's twitch, anxious and taught, naught for the adventures he spies,
Whilst maiden fair and true, stirs yonder in ye ol' sleigh bed.
To the day brings charm and rue, delivered from starry, starry skies,
"Oh lovely siren, share your mysteries and pleasures with me, woeful creature", me thinks I said.
And thus day begin in whim, with mystery in her breathe we taste,
Filled with butterflies and hope am I, for seed and dreams and joys unbound,
Drawn from slate endless and clena, our yesterdays gently erased
The day's purpose now clear, for what was lost in the dark, cold night has come 'round.
Waking to ABAB
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Sunrise in the valley, red-chested robins bounce here and there,
The echoes of light and the unrelenting will of time.
Unconcerned with it all, me sitting by the window in my chair.
Plucking shadowing blessings from strands of sunshine.
Gentle, soothing hum from the box, faintest stream of steam rising 'bove forest-green mug.
The tug of memory wafting in silence around my head.
Milkbone sugerplums dance in my little pug's head, snoring, fast asleep on his rug.
Dreams for all dreamers true, in waking and sleep deeply wed.
A paw's twitch, anxious and taught, naught for the adventures he spies,
Whilst maiden fair and true, stirs yonder in ye ol' sleigh bed.
To the day brings charm and rue, delivered from starry, starry skies,
"Oh lovely siren, share your mysteries and pleasures with me, woeful creature", me thinks I said.
And thus day begin in whim, with mystery in her breathe we taste,
Filled with butterflies and hope am I, for seed and dreams and joys unbound,
Drawn from slate endless and clena, our yesterdays gently erased
The day's purpose now clear, for what was lost in the dark, cold night has come 'round.
Boa Constrict Her
14 January, 2007
Boa Constrict Her
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
"For Sale" she says, "Ignore the cracks, they're just surface."
He thought he noticed her snicker as she reassured him.
Sinister bitch. Who does she think I am?
She'd noticed his fly was down as he'd approached her in the car park. Might be a Sucker, she'd thought. Delicious.
The dollars haven't come easy in the cold season.
Many of the regulars had said, "Fuck it", and gone to Florida by now.
She could wear less, wear more. Hell, she could swallow. It just didn't matter this time of year.
The last guy hadn't taken fifteen minutes to shell out the cash and be on his way. Just then, the other shoe dropped.
A customer. But not just any customer.
He was completely shaved, wore black eye-liner beneath dark sunglasses, and was drapped in a long, down overcoat and faux feather boa. Lime green.
I think you know what I want as he peered over the tops of the dark glasses
"Hey pal, I was talking to the lady first!" the Sucker protested.
"No, I was here first. Before you, before her, before this," looking all around him. "Before that," pointing straight down.
"Bastard", she whispered.
Coming is one thing, but coming back. It's been a helluva long time, to say the least.
"Look, I don't give a shit what kinda drama you two got goin' on. I gotta get this deal done TODAY." He sneered at the queer and grabbed her arm as he finished his sentence.
The audience leaned in. They love confrontation, fireworks, assertive lead characters, and blood. Especially blood.
He stared for a long while at the Sucker and then gave the slightest of smirks. "No problem", he dismissed. “I can wait.”
They sat back, aghast. At first with relief, then with frustration, then with elation as he walked away with the confidence of a leopard.
"So...", she said, gathering her composure again, "where were we?"
Lights dim, the thick curtain comes down and the audience begins to buzz and growl.
"That's bullshit", someone yells from the balcony.
"That's ART," a woman fires back.
From somewhere backstage a shot rings out.
Followed by a shriek and a limp body falling between gap in the curtain.
A crimson pool began to form beneath the Sucker's head.
Audience members in mid stride, mid sentence, mid life, SILENCED! All eyes drawn to the front of the stage.
The feather boa floated out between the curtains from an unseen hand and dropped across the deadman's chest.
From the"balcony, a first voice rips the silence. "No, baby...THAT'S fuckin art!"
Someone in the front row threw a dozen roses on stage, and a thunderous applause filled the hall; Opening Night was over.
Boa Constrict Her
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
"For Sale" she says, "Ignore the cracks, they're just surface."
He thought he noticed her snicker as she reassured him.
Sinister bitch. Who does she think I am?
She'd noticed his fly was down as he'd approached her in the car park. Might be a Sucker, she'd thought. Delicious.
The dollars haven't come easy in the cold season.
Many of the regulars had said, "Fuck it", and gone to Florida by now.
She could wear less, wear more. Hell, she could swallow. It just didn't matter this time of year.
The last guy hadn't taken fifteen minutes to shell out the cash and be on his way. Just then, the other shoe dropped.
A customer. But not just any customer.
He was completely shaved, wore black eye-liner beneath dark sunglasses, and was drapped in a long, down overcoat and faux feather boa. Lime green.
I think you know what I want as he peered over the tops of the dark glasses
"Hey pal, I was talking to the lady first!" the Sucker protested.
"No, I was here first. Before you, before her, before this," looking all around him. "Before that," pointing straight down.
"Bastard", she whispered.
Coming is one thing, but coming back. It's been a helluva long time, to say the least.
"Look, I don't give a shit what kinda drama you two got goin' on. I gotta get this deal done TODAY." He sneered at the queer and grabbed her arm as he finished his sentence.
The audience leaned in. They love confrontation, fireworks, assertive lead characters, and blood. Especially blood.
He stared for a long while at the Sucker and then gave the slightest of smirks. "No problem", he dismissed. “I can wait.”
They sat back, aghast. At first with relief, then with frustration, then with elation as he walked away with the confidence of a leopard.
"So...", she said, gathering her composure again, "where were we?"
Lights dim, the thick curtain comes down and the audience begins to buzz and growl.
"That's bullshit", someone yells from the balcony.
"That's ART," a woman fires back.
From somewhere backstage a shot rings out.
Followed by a shriek and a limp body falling between gap in the curtain.
A crimson pool began to form beneath the Sucker's head.
Audience members in mid stride, mid sentence, mid life, SILENCED! All eyes drawn to the front of the stage.
The feather boa floated out between the curtains from an unseen hand and dropped across the deadman's chest.
From the"balcony, a first voice rips the silence. "No, baby...THAT'S fuckin art!"
Someone in the front row threw a dozen roses on stage, and a thunderous applause filled the hall; Opening Night was over.
Free Stylin' with Cousin Mel
30 July 2006
Freestylin’ With Cousin Mel
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
Stripes blessed by zebras and homeless cats
Sun beating down from above, gotta get me my hat.
And glasses, squinting is too much strain,
Happy to be out and about cruising d'town after all that damn rain.
The puddles muddle my brain like Cheese Whiz,
Haven't felt this free since getting myself outta that theatre after Les Miz.
Pitter patter back out to the streets, yellow signs
I make my way down the lane, knowing we all hiding crimes, some aweful, some Benign.
Some chill, some fly, some meant for you, some meant for me,
Thinking 'bout it all, I just know I wanna see, wanna be, wanna take it time to time to the extreme.
Then, like a breeze, she sneaks up on me from behind and whispers in my ear,
"Why don't you hush your lovamouth and get me another beer?" (and don't sneer).
Or career, your path makes no sense to me - no rhyme, no reason,
We been sitting here talking, thinking, eating and drinking all season,
Time to cut the niceties, all the spice and tea we been dining on, get to the point,
Jab me with your style, with your quick wit with you I'll anoint
We be rocking this joint all the way to manana, sitting in the sauna, no need for Marijuana, we got the beat.
Neat heat bosom babe, get this mother fucker moving in the big ol back seat.
Step aside Meat, 'cause I'm bringing the heat all the way from the boiler to this lonely ol' street.
Till deep sleep slips to slimy gutter and momma's got no more treat.
On the 'morrow we won't be feeling no sorrow, didn't borrow not a one,
Not a ton, be no fun to wallow in this for long else she'll be singing till oblivion.
Headin' on down the road, from west to east, time for a feast, get me some peanut butter and jelly and a loaf,
A pinch of salt for spice, nice peppa for to melt the ice, pickled herring, a little daring, and just an ounce of proof
Ain't no spoof that if you don't have the truth, or at least a little vermouth to cut the taste, gonna be a waste and pretty soon you won't have no roof.
Be homeless again, wasted cats, and feeling a bit aloof.
For you know it you'll be eatin' saltines and sipping cheap suds, clueless,
Blues-less songs sung in dark halls and cries from her loose lips
Take a few more sips, not enough tips in the jar to make it very far, but what the hell, don't mind the smell, so show don't tell, and it'll all be swell (for Cousin Mel).
Freestylin’ With Cousin Mel
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
Stripes blessed by zebras and homeless cats
Sun beating down from above, gotta get me my hat.
And glasses, squinting is too much strain,
Happy to be out and about cruising d'town after all that damn rain.
The puddles muddle my brain like Cheese Whiz,
Haven't felt this free since getting myself outta that theatre after Les Miz.
Pitter patter back out to the streets, yellow signs
I make my way down the lane, knowing we all hiding crimes, some aweful, some Benign.
Some chill, some fly, some meant for you, some meant for me,
Thinking 'bout it all, I just know I wanna see, wanna be, wanna take it time to time to the extreme.
Then, like a breeze, she sneaks up on me from behind and whispers in my ear,
"Why don't you hush your lovamouth and get me another beer?" (and don't sneer).
Or career, your path makes no sense to me - no rhyme, no reason,
We been sitting here talking, thinking, eating and drinking all season,
Time to cut the niceties, all the spice and tea we been dining on, get to the point,
Jab me with your style, with your quick wit with you I'll anoint
We be rocking this joint all the way to manana, sitting in the sauna, no need for Marijuana, we got the beat.
Neat heat bosom babe, get this mother fucker moving in the big ol back seat.
Step aside Meat, 'cause I'm bringing the heat all the way from the boiler to this lonely ol' street.
Till deep sleep slips to slimy gutter and momma's got no more treat.
On the 'morrow we won't be feeling no sorrow, didn't borrow not a one,
Not a ton, be no fun to wallow in this for long else she'll be singing till oblivion.
Headin' on down the road, from west to east, time for a feast, get me some peanut butter and jelly and a loaf,
A pinch of salt for spice, nice peppa for to melt the ice, pickled herring, a little daring, and just an ounce of proof
Ain't no spoof that if you don't have the truth, or at least a little vermouth to cut the taste, gonna be a waste and pretty soon you won't have no roof.
Be homeless again, wasted cats, and feeling a bit aloof.
For you know it you'll be eatin' saltines and sipping cheap suds, clueless,
Blues-less songs sung in dark halls and cries from her loose lips
Take a few more sips, not enough tips in the jar to make it very far, but what the hell, don't mind the smell, so show don't tell, and it'll all be swell (for Cousin Mel).
Musings
July 2006
Musings Alternately There, and NOT!
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
My mood shifted from bright to a quickly graying blah,
Slipping into a murky brown puddle, thick as soup.
"Whoops" is what came to mind, thinking she musta been seeing red as the evening waned,
And the orange slip of the sun pulled up over her head
Curbside prophet sitting under the greenery on the corner winked at me as I made the final turn: "It'll be ok."
"Trust you instincts- pure and white." And he turned his back to me.
As he shifted, coulda swarn he had one blue eye, one green...pretty mean.
It stirred my past, whipped me into blended marble swirl of the deepest blues
I scratched my noggin, short cropped, red goin' salty, smirked to myself, splash of fiery yellow spilled over the roof as I walked in the door.
Welcomed by the sound of crimson nails, sharp and hard, scratching the hardwood floor.
When'd the dog paint his toes red?
In the hope of a raging hump with the small grey poodle just next door.
Cheeks pink and rosey with a little thought a lovin', he was, is...good for him, them.
"It's in the air, tonight," in love, in warm rosé places beneath the bright moon.
Funny how that balance comes so natural, 'tween the beige sands and bluegreen, white-capped, perfect surf when me 'n the sea see it the same.
When blood flows like river to ocean blue, the heart of all that is me and her both
Creating that synchronicity of pure crystal clear, void the rainbow, yellows to purples all.
Scooping a prism of color in hands that hold the planets like small green-glass marbles
Stirring it all up just right, like a rich-red gazpacho, made from scratch.
Dripping hot from cool, pink lips to stain his pale chin
Perfectly light and delicious, spot on in the sweltering heat of late July.
I could hardly wish for more, my soul, my yellow belly full and round
Not a worry in the world, in my hazel gaze, everything just perfecto, what I crave, not a thing.
What benevolent grey god dispatches so many shades from his deep set eyes?
The same that created the mint chocolate chip, lime green and yummy, balled up high in my bowl.
You can know a child's joy by the stains on his otherwise white t-shirt. His history revealed.
Dark brown, scabs on both knees, above the buckled shoes, below her salmon Sunday school dress,
Secrets she'd not reveal to even her black robed priest in prayer or shout
Lessons learned from scripture and scrapping, tumbled from her skyblue skateboard two weeks earlier,
Pain she'll pass on with a rising of another yellow day.
Musings Alternately There, and NOT!
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
My mood shifted from bright to a quickly graying blah,
Slipping into a murky brown puddle, thick as soup.
"Whoops" is what came to mind, thinking she musta been seeing red as the evening waned,
And the orange slip of the sun pulled up over her head
Curbside prophet sitting under the greenery on the corner winked at me as I made the final turn: "It'll be ok."
"Trust you instincts- pure and white." And he turned his back to me.
As he shifted, coulda swarn he had one blue eye, one green...pretty mean.
It stirred my past, whipped me into blended marble swirl of the deepest blues
I scratched my noggin, short cropped, red goin' salty, smirked to myself, splash of fiery yellow spilled over the roof as I walked in the door.
Welcomed by the sound of crimson nails, sharp and hard, scratching the hardwood floor.
When'd the dog paint his toes red?
In the hope of a raging hump with the small grey poodle just next door.
Cheeks pink and rosey with a little thought a lovin', he was, is...good for him, them.
"It's in the air, tonight," in love, in warm rosé places beneath the bright moon.
Funny how that balance comes so natural, 'tween the beige sands and bluegreen, white-capped, perfect surf when me 'n the sea see it the same.
When blood flows like river to ocean blue, the heart of all that is me and her both
Creating that synchronicity of pure crystal clear, void the rainbow, yellows to purples all.
Scooping a prism of color in hands that hold the planets like small green-glass marbles
Stirring it all up just right, like a rich-red gazpacho, made from scratch.
Dripping hot from cool, pink lips to stain his pale chin
Perfectly light and delicious, spot on in the sweltering heat of late July.
I could hardly wish for more, my soul, my yellow belly full and round
Not a worry in the world, in my hazel gaze, everything just perfecto, what I crave, not a thing.
What benevolent grey god dispatches so many shades from his deep set eyes?
The same that created the mint chocolate chip, lime green and yummy, balled up high in my bowl.
You can know a child's joy by the stains on his otherwise white t-shirt. His history revealed.
Dark brown, scabs on both knees, above the buckled shoes, below her salmon Sunday school dress,
Secrets she'd not reveal to even her black robed priest in prayer or shout
Lessons learned from scripture and scrapping, tumbled from her skyblue skateboard two weeks earlier,
Pain she'll pass on with a rising of another yellow day.
The Riddle
15 July 2006
The Riddle
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
My hands reach out with clipped fingers, clutching wildly, grabbing nothing but self consciousness
The certainty I had only a moment ago slipped through my clumsy hands like a brooktrout not ready to be caught.
The primal hunter no more, no longer the with spear or wielding steel
Again and again I become prey, shivering and alone, lost in the woods I thought I knew well.
From wood to wind, soil to dust, shouts to shallow breath,
The granite become sandstone, its content uncertain.
But for me the digging goes on, the hope of unearthing the magic potion entombed for so long.
At my best I claw back the dirt, deeper to the cool dark moistness, knowing that this time “X" marks the spot.
Discovering nothing of the earth, but of the spot deeper in my own red belly
Hollow and aching, the warm and fuzzies of yesterday leaving me only a dim riddle to ponder.
Toppled towers, empires, and a prophet's desire to make me history's fool
"Puzzle me this", he chided with a smirk, sage become specter, my face slowly becomes sanguine with disbelief.
A crowd gathers to see this spectacle
Inside looking out, my skin begins to itch.
I scratch, cutting myself deep, hoping to bleed all that is wise and knowing
And the chuckles and hoots begin.
Self-dismemberment, a public stoning with not a rock
Trait of trust, rock to dust, my confidence falls away and the din grows.
"Death!"
Cowering, shuddering, bloody and bruised, she glimpses up at me, her pained eyes asking "Why?"
This was not fate, this was self-inflicted- an unconscious, numbed, deaf and dumbed decision to carry this slab of stone on my back so long
It was suppose to get lighter with time, this fucking ache was fabled to only last a while.
If only I could read between the lines, solve this riddle or sneak out undercover of a starless sky
The ancient text says that we all face these same mountains that rise up before me, that we only need pause and center to move them.
Not with plow or plunder, not with might or muster
But pen to paper, lyric to tune, love to life can we best fumble along through the darkness, smiling.
The patter of my bare feet as I pick up the pace again, and internal rhythm.
Patience as my tempo evens out, my soles' calluses protect me from pebble and thorn, and I'm no longer torn.
I breathe
Finding certainty and purpose again, with me all along.
The Riddle
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
My hands reach out with clipped fingers, clutching wildly, grabbing nothing but self consciousness
The certainty I had only a moment ago slipped through my clumsy hands like a brooktrout not ready to be caught.
The primal hunter no more, no longer the with spear or wielding steel
Again and again I become prey, shivering and alone, lost in the woods I thought I knew well.
From wood to wind, soil to dust, shouts to shallow breath,
The granite become sandstone, its content uncertain.
But for me the digging goes on, the hope of unearthing the magic potion entombed for so long.
At my best I claw back the dirt, deeper to the cool dark moistness, knowing that this time “X" marks the spot.
Discovering nothing of the earth, but of the spot deeper in my own red belly
Hollow and aching, the warm and fuzzies of yesterday leaving me only a dim riddle to ponder.
Toppled towers, empires, and a prophet's desire to make me history's fool
"Puzzle me this", he chided with a smirk, sage become specter, my face slowly becomes sanguine with disbelief.
A crowd gathers to see this spectacle
Inside looking out, my skin begins to itch.
I scratch, cutting myself deep, hoping to bleed all that is wise and knowing
And the chuckles and hoots begin.
Self-dismemberment, a public stoning with not a rock
Trait of trust, rock to dust, my confidence falls away and the din grows.
"Death!"
Cowering, shuddering, bloody and bruised, she glimpses up at me, her pained eyes asking "Why?"
This was not fate, this was self-inflicted- an unconscious, numbed, deaf and dumbed decision to carry this slab of stone on my back so long
It was suppose to get lighter with time, this fucking ache was fabled to only last a while.
If only I could read between the lines, solve this riddle or sneak out undercover of a starless sky
The ancient text says that we all face these same mountains that rise up before me, that we only need pause and center to move them.
Not with plow or plunder, not with might or muster
But pen to paper, lyric to tune, love to life can we best fumble along through the darkness, smiling.
The patter of my bare feet as I pick up the pace again, and internal rhythm.
Patience as my tempo evens out, my soles' calluses protect me from pebble and thorn, and I'm no longer torn.
I breathe
Finding certainty and purpose again, with me all along.
Mixed Company
June 2006
“Mixed Company”
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
Lost in the moment, only a blank stare remains.
mine- bewildered, pleased and curious,
lines run deep and long, betraying jumbled years
Others, smooth as tree-ripened fruit, sweet intrigue
The twinkle, spark says it all.
The heat from a pancake grill singes even more curiosity
panting at my feet, warm canine breath.
An anxious lick, your meandering eyes wander into the crowd
An islander's frizzy beard drips with syrup, yesterday's pleasure.
Filter of the earth- roasted chili peppers, cider and sweat wafting into and out of his grizzled thoughts
It ended in shouts, screams unexpected.
Ecstasy- goddamn, fucking, mind-blowing- ecstasy
Her eyes, serene, scan the front page.
But the distractions are almost too much to bear
Bear down, read the line again, can it be, inconceivable.
You call that news! I'll show you news, man!
Unaware the young man is, lost in music and thought.
Lost is a good place to be, like divorce or death
Expected or otherwise, a fresh start is certain, welcome.
Hold on, wait! Reborn at my age? Am I ready?
Or not, it really is the only option.
A fresh peach, fuzzy, firm, bright and sweet my soul
Bite happily, the nectar sticky sweet, drop on my chin.
Runs between my whiskers, her legs, their sordid desires
A wink, reminder that pleasure is a want universal.
Like a thin summer top or teva lines,
A gentle, approving smile, gleaming white or coffee stained,
A smile you feel right down to your pulsating bones
The throb, ache that beckons you return,
To a place of your birth- sticky sweet conception and oozing with hope that this feeling never ends.
“Mixed Company”
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
Lost in the moment, only a blank stare remains.
mine- bewildered, pleased and curious,
lines run deep and long, betraying jumbled years
Others, smooth as tree-ripened fruit, sweet intrigue
The twinkle, spark says it all.
The heat from a pancake grill singes even more curiosity
panting at my feet, warm canine breath.
An anxious lick, your meandering eyes wander into the crowd
An islander's frizzy beard drips with syrup, yesterday's pleasure.
Filter of the earth- roasted chili peppers, cider and sweat wafting into and out of his grizzled thoughts
It ended in shouts, screams unexpected.
Ecstasy- goddamn, fucking, mind-blowing- ecstasy
Her eyes, serene, scan the front page.
But the distractions are almost too much to bear
Bear down, read the line again, can it be, inconceivable.
You call that news! I'll show you news, man!
Unaware the young man is, lost in music and thought.
Lost is a good place to be, like divorce or death
Expected or otherwise, a fresh start is certain, welcome.
Hold on, wait! Reborn at my age? Am I ready?
Or not, it really is the only option.
A fresh peach, fuzzy, firm, bright and sweet my soul
Bite happily, the nectar sticky sweet, drop on my chin.
Runs between my whiskers, her legs, their sordid desires
A wink, reminder that pleasure is a want universal.
Like a thin summer top or teva lines,
A gentle, approving smile, gleaming white or coffee stained,
A smile you feel right down to your pulsating bones
The throb, ache that beckons you return,
To a place of your birth- sticky sweet conception and oozing with hope that this feeling never ends.
Ride
June 2006
RIDE
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
A space between coming and going, light and dark
An inch, a mile wide, bathed in the knowing gaze of a sage, smudged by the dirty hands of a blind cripple groping for truth.
He clenches the past like a child, but knows his stand lies beyond
Around the bend in the road, over the grassy knoll, the massive wall that rises before him, a hundred feet high and ten deep.
Impenetrable to lesser men.
At his best he can see every move played out, as before his pawn shifts from its home square, through to checkmate,
From a knightly oracle to a fated vision he's seen a thousand times. And only now
Does he realize he's been on the wrong path for countless days, the quest demanding that he start anew to find the proper way.
Frost had warned him of the path well trodden, of well manicured and well mannered ways
Only now does he realize all the footprints are pointing the opposite direction, shoes warn backward to confuse, confound, create the inner chaos that now swirls in his mind.
"Why! Oh why", he shouts to the silence of the wind. His voice is all that he can be sure of and even then it comes with nothing but questions
"There's the rub," he recalls reading.
Again, the past, the goddamn past! He can't shake it
and yet the thousand times he's found himself in this circumstance offer a glimmer, a fleck of silent calm in the cacophony,
Just enough to cling to as he begins to climbs this massive wall
The calm knowing melts over his mind, like a scoop of vanilla in the mid-day sun.
Only to be licked off by the sage's midwife with breasts like thunder and horse straddling legs
As she gallops off licking her lips, our hero is reminded of the timeless lesson, "Sometimes all you can do is hold on tight with both hands and enjoy the ride."
Reminded, of course, of the lithesome form of Meryl Streep upon a thundering herd of appaloosa. Ride indeed!
Somewhere in the darkness he hears the faintest of sounds, somewhere "Mustang Sally" is playing on an old, crackling radio; he has to chuckle to himself as he continues his climb.
Laughter and hope, sex and sin, gravel and silky smooth skin, his past and his future, scars and gentle kiss that heals even the deepest wounds
The falls don't really even hurt anymore, it's the notion he sometimes has that he should be having an easier time of it by now that fucks him up.
It is when he lets go, when he trusts, himself, his fears fall away, tumbling and shattering below him
And over time that's become enough to fortify him during the journey, nearly two score that he's trod this earth.
Now, feeling more like the earth than the steps that trod upon it
Solid, nourished, timeless, dirt that never dies.
Soil that sops up the rain, feeds the seeds, encases the roots and seeps deep into the cracks of the blind cripple groping for truth
And if one took a moment to look closely, behind his wayfarers, they might catch the wink of the eye-less socket,
A toothless chuckle
Better to be on the journey called life than food for worms buried deep in the solid, timeless dirt.
RIDE
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
A space between coming and going, light and dark
An inch, a mile wide, bathed in the knowing gaze of a sage, smudged by the dirty hands of a blind cripple groping for truth.
He clenches the past like a child, but knows his stand lies beyond
Around the bend in the road, over the grassy knoll, the massive wall that rises before him, a hundred feet high and ten deep.
Impenetrable to lesser men.
At his best he can see every move played out, as before his pawn shifts from its home square, through to checkmate,
From a knightly oracle to a fated vision he's seen a thousand times. And only now
Does he realize he's been on the wrong path for countless days, the quest demanding that he start anew to find the proper way.
Frost had warned him of the path well trodden, of well manicured and well mannered ways
Only now does he realize all the footprints are pointing the opposite direction, shoes warn backward to confuse, confound, create the inner chaos that now swirls in his mind.
"Why! Oh why", he shouts to the silence of the wind. His voice is all that he can be sure of and even then it comes with nothing but questions
"There's the rub," he recalls reading.
Again, the past, the goddamn past! He can't shake it
and yet the thousand times he's found himself in this circumstance offer a glimmer, a fleck of silent calm in the cacophony,
Just enough to cling to as he begins to climbs this massive wall
The calm knowing melts over his mind, like a scoop of vanilla in the mid-day sun.
Only to be licked off by the sage's midwife with breasts like thunder and horse straddling legs
As she gallops off licking her lips, our hero is reminded of the timeless lesson, "Sometimes all you can do is hold on tight with both hands and enjoy the ride."
Reminded, of course, of the lithesome form of Meryl Streep upon a thundering herd of appaloosa. Ride indeed!
Somewhere in the darkness he hears the faintest of sounds, somewhere "Mustang Sally" is playing on an old, crackling radio; he has to chuckle to himself as he continues his climb.
Laughter and hope, sex and sin, gravel and silky smooth skin, his past and his future, scars and gentle kiss that heals even the deepest wounds
The falls don't really even hurt anymore, it's the notion he sometimes has that he should be having an easier time of it by now that fucks him up.
It is when he lets go, when he trusts, himself, his fears fall away, tumbling and shattering below him
And over time that's become enough to fortify him during the journey, nearly two score that he's trod this earth.
Now, feeling more like the earth than the steps that trod upon it
Solid, nourished, timeless, dirt that never dies.
Soil that sops up the rain, feeds the seeds, encases the roots and seeps deep into the cracks of the blind cripple groping for truth
And if one took a moment to look closely, behind his wayfarers, they might catch the wink of the eye-less socket,
A toothless chuckle
Better to be on the journey called life than food for worms buried deep in the solid, timeless dirt.
Unharbored
May 2006
UNHARBORED
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
One of life's most fundamental truths, always two sides to the same coin,
A coin tossed into thin air with hope, anticipation, and expectation.
Secretly we know that even it comes up what we've called, that may not end up as we'd hope.
We fool ourselves in what we know and what we can control- a coin, a clock, a life immaculate
In a moment's time we can rise and fall, from wise sage to village idiot,
But we accept that in either state we are loved just the same.
Somehow that can make all the difference, that simple, vast, wondrous, baffling, mysterious thing we call "love".
Hence the paradox enters, like a slice of light through a baffled window shade
For there is no other place as fertile, welcoming, nurturing, than the safe harbor paradox finds in love,
A mooring that fastens the sorrow to the joy, the cut to the cure.
It's BECAUSE I love you that I have to hurt you so deeply, repeatedly. Can't you see that?
Not only see it- taste it, feel it, hate it and need it.
It is for the very REASON that we don't want to be a warring society that we must have better, bigger weapons of mass murder, more than any one else.
And follow the guns and tanks with money and bandages- "I'm sorry," we say. So sorry.
We meant well. We wanted to do right. We wanted to make the world a safer place. We THOUGHT we were acting according to the best decisions, best judgment. Yea.
But our motives are contrived and controlled by our own dueling souls in the hands of heaven and hell, both
No wonder it's the devil on one shoulder, the angel on the other, both whispering truths and wisdom, whispering vapored poison, both meaning well, wanting to do right.
It is from this safe harbor, we must venture to sea- the treacherous, bountiful sea- with angels and devils our conscience crew.
The good captain pushing the doubt and questions and uncertainty from his mind, that his hand may be steady on the ship's wheel.
Stern he is, trusting self, centered twixt the fiery flames and cool breeze of his winged guide
For he knows that his inner compass will not fail him when night has fallen and the moon is new.
He IS the sea, the salt, the moon and the faded stars. He IS the voyage!
This he knows, save when the doubt seeps into his mind, through the crevasses he's spent a lifetime sealing.
Then sealed they be- a self contained cargo that is his very savior come the heaviest of seas.
And yet cargo that can rot and fester and contaminate and confuse, causing the very vessel in which it rides to crash upon unseen jagged rock.
And thus upon this rock set a new course. One that begins with survival- a swim to shore, a quest for food, a seeking of shelter, and a hope for love.
A course unimagined a moment earlier, then becomes our sole focus. Clarity to see and trust in the basics: survival, hope, love.
Like a wide-eyed child whose very motions are nature herself: wind, sea, a surfaced innocence with unseen, wicked potential
We need only be a one-trick pony to live a good life: the trick of keeping the essence of the child alive within, even as our bodies age, our skin leathers, our ideas & memories become stained.
And cry at the top of our lungs- "I am alive!" So goddamn alive I can hardly stand it sometimes, but so willing to live it with wide-eyes and crevasses both.
UNHARBORED
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
One of life's most fundamental truths, always two sides to the same coin,
A coin tossed into thin air with hope, anticipation, and expectation.
Secretly we know that even it comes up what we've called, that may not end up as we'd hope.
We fool ourselves in what we know and what we can control- a coin, a clock, a life immaculate
In a moment's time we can rise and fall, from wise sage to village idiot,
But we accept that in either state we are loved just the same.
Somehow that can make all the difference, that simple, vast, wondrous, baffling, mysterious thing we call "love".
Hence the paradox enters, like a slice of light through a baffled window shade
For there is no other place as fertile, welcoming, nurturing, than the safe harbor paradox finds in love,
A mooring that fastens the sorrow to the joy, the cut to the cure.
It's BECAUSE I love you that I have to hurt you so deeply, repeatedly. Can't you see that?
Not only see it- taste it, feel it, hate it and need it.
It is for the very REASON that we don't want to be a warring society that we must have better, bigger weapons of mass murder, more than any one else.
And follow the guns and tanks with money and bandages- "I'm sorry," we say. So sorry.
We meant well. We wanted to do right. We wanted to make the world a safer place. We THOUGHT we were acting according to the best decisions, best judgment. Yea.
But our motives are contrived and controlled by our own dueling souls in the hands of heaven and hell, both
No wonder it's the devil on one shoulder, the angel on the other, both whispering truths and wisdom, whispering vapored poison, both meaning well, wanting to do right.
It is from this safe harbor, we must venture to sea- the treacherous, bountiful sea- with angels and devils our conscience crew.
The good captain pushing the doubt and questions and uncertainty from his mind, that his hand may be steady on the ship's wheel.
Stern he is, trusting self, centered twixt the fiery flames and cool breeze of his winged guide
For he knows that his inner compass will not fail him when night has fallen and the moon is new.
He IS the sea, the salt, the moon and the faded stars. He IS the voyage!
This he knows, save when the doubt seeps into his mind, through the crevasses he's spent a lifetime sealing.
Then sealed they be- a self contained cargo that is his very savior come the heaviest of seas.
And yet cargo that can rot and fester and contaminate and confuse, causing the very vessel in which it rides to crash upon unseen jagged rock.
And thus upon this rock set a new course. One that begins with survival- a swim to shore, a quest for food, a seeking of shelter, and a hope for love.
A course unimagined a moment earlier, then becomes our sole focus. Clarity to see and trust in the basics: survival, hope, love.
Like a wide-eyed child whose very motions are nature herself: wind, sea, a surfaced innocence with unseen, wicked potential
We need only be a one-trick pony to live a good life: the trick of keeping the essence of the child alive within, even as our bodies age, our skin leathers, our ideas & memories become stained.
And cry at the top of our lungs- "I am alive!" So goddamn alive I can hardly stand it sometimes, but so willing to live it with wide-eyes and crevasses both.
Memorial
July 2006
Memorial
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
-Peddling down the street today I saw an American flag flying in front of the house with the forest green trim,
-A flag I've loved, I've loathed, I've honored and questioned. So much in woven into those simple stripes.
-Lots of different reasons to have that colorful cloth unfurled on the front porch today,
-An argumentative tapestry that necessitates the conversation without fear.
-And after all, what is there to fear at the end of the day?
-Much depends on your relationship to that flag, how it cloaks you or cuts you, how it shelters you body or drapes you en memorium
-Whether you know how to properly fold it, raise it, lower it, love it, or not.
-The light is on it today, but tonight the light may dim and the penalties are stiff for the unschooled,
-Punishments meted out by those who think they know best, know what's right, who rest comfortably in the shade of that colorful banner.
-The tedious balance of honoring those of our past and our present, those romantic heroes who vices have dropped away in between the pages of tattered text and PBS specials
-Muting the voice screaming inside, demanding to be heard, recognition of the crimes committed - being committed today - manipulating our warriors down a path washed in rhetoric and blood.
-Committed? A star spangled sanitarium of warriors whose mouths suckle the green teat of dollars and nonsense
-Whether the flag be red, white, blue or red and gold or black and green, or any of a hundred other variants, we have allowed the fever of nationalism and alleged common purpose spur us on.
-What would our founders say? Those who tilled soil, who struck gold, who killed Apache, signed declarations, and pondered the future
-Who found their way in the world beyond, before the glare of cameras and hum of audio tape, before the twenty-four hour news cycle, when criticism wasn't so multidimensional.
-Whose ignorance was matched by their bravery, their obstacles matched by their oblivion, whose vision, "at whatever cost" instilled into our leaders still
-Though those men today seem only to have arrogance to match the accounts they manage, the buttons they can push that would end the world.
-Not an earned privilege, but one swindled from the pockets of poverty, and fed to the hungry by an illegitimate father.
-And though many of our fore where fathers illegitimate, they seemed to have something more...respectable, maybe? back then, more honorable, beneath their dusted wigs.
-At the very least, more excusable their tainted flight. So much wealth unshared, so much potential unrealized, so many unfed, and so many clipped wings- flights unflown in the shadow of that Goddamn flag. Anger, without rationality, I know.
-But if the words written on that bleached, ancient parchment be true, anger we need harness if we're to change our course, honor the best ideas that began this great experiment.
- My own internal revolution battled, the horses turned loose and the steel hammered to unsheathed will. Harness me tonight?
-Or let me run unfettered, unguided, free to determine direction as I speed forward, regardless of who gets in the way.
A natural course, a migratory path- water unimpeded by stone walls. I will not be broken on these plains.
But will they remember me after I've crossed over, footprints long ago blown away, long a faded memory?
Or the millions of others uncelebrated for their unrealized American Dreams?
Which is probably why I tipped my riding cap to the flag flying on the porch this morning as I peddled by,
And remember I bear responsibility for that flag, for this leadership, for those failures, and these hopes that we are never done, never!
Memorial
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
-Peddling down the street today I saw an American flag flying in front of the house with the forest green trim,
-A flag I've loved, I've loathed, I've honored and questioned. So much in woven into those simple stripes.
-Lots of different reasons to have that colorful cloth unfurled on the front porch today,
-An argumentative tapestry that necessitates the conversation without fear.
-And after all, what is there to fear at the end of the day?
-Much depends on your relationship to that flag, how it cloaks you or cuts you, how it shelters you body or drapes you en memorium
-Whether you know how to properly fold it, raise it, lower it, love it, or not.
-The light is on it today, but tonight the light may dim and the penalties are stiff for the unschooled,
-Punishments meted out by those who think they know best, know what's right, who rest comfortably in the shade of that colorful banner.
-The tedious balance of honoring those of our past and our present, those romantic heroes who vices have dropped away in between the pages of tattered text and PBS specials
-Muting the voice screaming inside, demanding to be heard, recognition of the crimes committed - being committed today - manipulating our warriors down a path washed in rhetoric and blood.
-Committed? A star spangled sanitarium of warriors whose mouths suckle the green teat of dollars and nonsense
-Whether the flag be red, white, blue or red and gold or black and green, or any of a hundred other variants, we have allowed the fever of nationalism and alleged common purpose spur us on.
-What would our founders say? Those who tilled soil, who struck gold, who killed Apache, signed declarations, and pondered the future
-Who found their way in the world beyond, before the glare of cameras and hum of audio tape, before the twenty-four hour news cycle, when criticism wasn't so multidimensional.
-Whose ignorance was matched by their bravery, their obstacles matched by their oblivion, whose vision, "at whatever cost" instilled into our leaders still
-Though those men today seem only to have arrogance to match the accounts they manage, the buttons they can push that would end the world.
-Not an earned privilege, but one swindled from the pockets of poverty, and fed to the hungry by an illegitimate father.
-And though many of our fore where fathers illegitimate, they seemed to have something more...respectable, maybe? back then, more honorable, beneath their dusted wigs.
-At the very least, more excusable their tainted flight. So much wealth unshared, so much potential unrealized, so many unfed, and so many clipped wings- flights unflown in the shadow of that Goddamn flag. Anger, without rationality, I know.
-But if the words written on that bleached, ancient parchment be true, anger we need harness if we're to change our course, honor the best ideas that began this great experiment.
- My own internal revolution battled, the horses turned loose and the steel hammered to unsheathed will. Harness me tonight?
-Or let me run unfettered, unguided, free to determine direction as I speed forward, regardless of who gets in the way.
A natural course, a migratory path- water unimpeded by stone walls. I will not be broken on these plains.
But will they remember me after I've crossed over, footprints long ago blown away, long a faded memory?
Or the millions of others uncelebrated for their unrealized American Dreams?
Which is probably why I tipped my riding cap to the flag flying on the porch this morning as I peddled by,
And remember I bear responsibility for that flag, for this leadership, for those failures, and these hopes that we are never done, never!
By the Drop
11 June 2006
“By The Drop”
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Light filters through the blind, the purple flowers sway outside my window, I feel an easy assurance about the day.
And the warm air buckles at the opening door to the aroma of lattes and ginger tea
Music from the other room drifts down the hall,
creeps around the corner to couples and single sitters on comfy couches
There's a fig tree dancing above me and I wonder if the fruit's any good.
If it’s the deep, soulful nourishment or just the amped up shot that sustains me for the moment.
Cards sitting on my desk remind me of feelings I'd rather not feel, long tucked away as lessons learned.
The written history, like the stacks of NY Times by the door, forever etched into me
Those stories, those thoughts, from a year or two back, and more than twenty too, all collected and make up who I am today, right now.
And who I will be when I stand and return the scorching heat or cool of an open refrigerator.
An old business card reminds me of a jovial, deal-making, easy-smiling, big bear of a man, transitory friend, colleague really, temporary acquaintance, maybe nothing more, maybe
100 degrees. 6 degrees separated from warm, anxious not-so-strangers entering in my shop this Sunday morning.
Some make their order, take a moment, take their breakfast, beverage, and depart, while others linger, like the dogs sharing their company with me as the music continues to play.
They lap up conversation, words, sweet aroma of a partner they've walked with for most of the better part of their lives. Chicago horns enter the conversation.
And the piano drones on, shifting the mood from promise to subtle dread, I feel my pulse quicken and my grip tighten as I try to hold on,
My colorful, engaged palate in sharp contrast to the olive and tan earth tones and tile that hardens moment by moment, eternally.
The coffee in my cup nearly gone, lingering at the bottom, and on my tongue, a thin film of slightly sour taste, I pull my teeth over the surface to wipe it clean, and go back for a refill.
Full, empty, full again- life cycles and the whir of machines blending ingredients from places I've never seen and will never know.
Map of the world wrapped around the container and my mind, often drifting off to those far away places, far away peoples, temporary feelings I wish I could contain.
But I know containing is temporary, spilling out like a careless cup of tea or a tidal wave surging through the once dry land.
I surround myself all the time with images and things and sounds that will keep it constant, like Knopfler, a picture of Vaughan or Syd, a dictionary, a glass of pens, that dog asleep in the corner
"won nepo skcubrats" captures my attention. Perspective shifting with new angles, emotions shaped with every changing song.
The dust on the blinds and a whine from another room remind me of things I need to do, but the strumming six string keeps me seated.
Give me the beat, drifts Dobie, I wanna get lost in your rock n roll. I can think of no better place to be right now. Lost. Perfectly Lost.
Looking at The Dome on the wall I recall that feeling I first had, the first time on top, there was no better place to be at that time.
Atop a mountain, on top of your game, above a beautiful, vulnerable woman- knowing down is also a good way to go, too, like glacial water and bare feet.
Like the flowers in the garden that come back every spring, knowing that going up and coming down is part of life, inevitable, nearly automatic, wisdom I keep forgetting.
I'll never let you forget for your mind is my mind, you hopes my hope, your life mine, and yours.
Living life by the drop is ok, Stevie reminds me, because though we come in and leave alone, we're together lots in between.
I tilt the cup one more time, spill the last drop down my throat. My inner voice shouts across the shop and out into the blazing heat one more time, "Refill, please!"
“By The Drop”
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Light filters through the blind, the purple flowers sway outside my window, I feel an easy assurance about the day.
And the warm air buckles at the opening door to the aroma of lattes and ginger tea
Music from the other room drifts down the hall,
creeps around the corner to couples and single sitters on comfy couches
There's a fig tree dancing above me and I wonder if the fruit's any good.
If it’s the deep, soulful nourishment or just the amped up shot that sustains me for the moment.
Cards sitting on my desk remind me of feelings I'd rather not feel, long tucked away as lessons learned.
The written history, like the stacks of NY Times by the door, forever etched into me
Those stories, those thoughts, from a year or two back, and more than twenty too, all collected and make up who I am today, right now.
And who I will be when I stand and return the scorching heat or cool of an open refrigerator.
An old business card reminds me of a jovial, deal-making, easy-smiling, big bear of a man, transitory friend, colleague really, temporary acquaintance, maybe nothing more, maybe
100 degrees. 6 degrees separated from warm, anxious not-so-strangers entering in my shop this Sunday morning.
Some make their order, take a moment, take their breakfast, beverage, and depart, while others linger, like the dogs sharing their company with me as the music continues to play.
They lap up conversation, words, sweet aroma of a partner they've walked with for most of the better part of their lives. Chicago horns enter the conversation.
And the piano drones on, shifting the mood from promise to subtle dread, I feel my pulse quicken and my grip tighten as I try to hold on,
My colorful, engaged palate in sharp contrast to the olive and tan earth tones and tile that hardens moment by moment, eternally.
The coffee in my cup nearly gone, lingering at the bottom, and on my tongue, a thin film of slightly sour taste, I pull my teeth over the surface to wipe it clean, and go back for a refill.
Full, empty, full again- life cycles and the whir of machines blending ingredients from places I've never seen and will never know.
Map of the world wrapped around the container and my mind, often drifting off to those far away places, far away peoples, temporary feelings I wish I could contain.
But I know containing is temporary, spilling out like a careless cup of tea or a tidal wave surging through the once dry land.
I surround myself all the time with images and things and sounds that will keep it constant, like Knopfler, a picture of Vaughan or Syd, a dictionary, a glass of pens, that dog asleep in the corner
"won nepo skcubrats" captures my attention. Perspective shifting with new angles, emotions shaped with every changing song.
The dust on the blinds and a whine from another room remind me of things I need to do, but the strumming six string keeps me seated.
Give me the beat, drifts Dobie, I wanna get lost in your rock n roll. I can think of no better place to be right now. Lost. Perfectly Lost.
Looking at The Dome on the wall I recall that feeling I first had, the first time on top, there was no better place to be at that time.
Atop a mountain, on top of your game, above a beautiful, vulnerable woman- knowing down is also a good way to go, too, like glacial water and bare feet.
Like the flowers in the garden that come back every spring, knowing that going up and coming down is part of life, inevitable, nearly automatic, wisdom I keep forgetting.
I'll never let you forget for your mind is my mind, you hopes my hope, your life mine, and yours.
Living life by the drop is ok, Stevie reminds me, because though we come in and leave alone, we're together lots in between.
I tilt the cup one more time, spill the last drop down my throat. My inner voice shouts across the shop and out into the blazing heat one more time, "Refill, please!"
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