The clacking of metal as components are slid into place,
The precision machining of the parts would make a novice go nuts,
But this isn't my first rodeo,
Using the buttstock to hammer out a pin that has a tendency to stick,
Then the feedtray cover is freed.

The components are checked up on,
Scraped free of carbon if any is found,
With a homemade tool that works better than any you could purchase.

CLP is applied lightly,
An old rag used to clean up any excess liquid.

With the same amount of precision and care is used to assemble her,
Piece by piece,
A symphony of moving parts and deft finger movements.

Functions check complete,
This Lady is ready to dance.

Some say it's thicker than tar,
Others say it tastes like turpentine,
To the first I'd say that rumor is stretched too far,
And to the second I'd say it tastes quite fine.

As long as you do it right.

I'll even give you the recipe:
- A *** of water
- Coffee grounds (1/2 cup-3/4 cups)
-A non-tattered boot sock (it'll take a little while to find a good one)

Step 1: Pour coffee grounds into sock and tie it off.
Step 2: Bring *** of water to a rolling boil
Step 3: Steep sock and leave it in ***.
Step 4: Remove *** from heat source.
Step 5: Wait 5 minutes then serve.

That's it,
That's all there is to it,
The magic behind it all,
Add or subtract time as preferred,
Cheaper then a coffee machine,
Once the right sock is found.

It is an odd thing to learn,
So off the wall and profound.

Are you brave enough to try?

Their first gig,
Where they were headliners as opposed to being the opening act.

It had been a couple of months since they had formed,
And a couple of times they had almost lost their way.
But find their sound they did,
Improving all the while,
They had transformed into a solid opening band,
But no more,
It was their turn to shine.

5 minutes out,
The jitters were settling in,
The Frontman took a swig from his luke warm beer,
Trying to calm his shaky nerves.

The Bassist in the Drummer shared an amused look,
For they had been there before.

It was time,
The stage lights for the place burning bright,
And it is here that they tear into their first song with gusto.
Heartrendingly honest and raw,
For the Frontman it was a releasing of demons,
That held him back in the past,
Their hooks in our protagonist's flesh being ripped free,
The weight being lifted from his shoulders

The Frontman was finally set free.

They traveled together,
The passionate group of three,
They stop at a bar to catch their breath.

The Bassist was quiet quiet and aloof,
His lack of words offset by the weight of each one,
On the rare occasion when he'd throw in his two cents,
His sound was emotional and true,
He spoke without speaking,
With tired eyes,
And a half crooked smile.
He drank a Guinness from a clean pint glass.


Next was the Drummer,
Bobbing his head to a tempo only he could hear,
His sound and energy was like a locomotive engine when he gained momentum,
He would play through a ten minute intermission if let to his own devices.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk,
Darting to and fro,
His expression of a not-quite-there-frown,
More of a look of constant boredom.
He drank some pale beer that was probably half watered down to start with from a dingy glass.

And at last we have the Man,
Who was now the Frontman,
With a well-worn guitar,
He was dedicated, but haunted by the fear of failure,
But fear can still be used to fuel a sound,
Adding an edge of importance to his words,
His eyes are closed, however, to better concentrate on the sound coming from the old and battered jukebox,
A blank face is his,
Indecipherable to even those who knew him best,
He drank a bottle of something local,
From a bottle,
With just a pinch of salt.

I must talk quick,
For I'm unsure as to when this feeling I'm having shall fade.

An inner monologue of sorts,
Much like that of Johnny Depp as he plays  the role of Hunter S. Thompson in the film "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"

How far,
Dear Reader,
Would you go to stick to your core beliefs?
Even if that means being Cold, Alone, and Abandoned for the Wolves,
Excommunicated and Exiled?
How strong is your faith in your ideals,
Reader?

Hopefully most of you won't ever have to go to such lengths,
But to those who do,
You unfortunate individuals,
I wish you good luck and Godspeed.
Been there before,
And I don't relish ever going back to that.

But if you weather the storm,
I'll be there at the finish line,
With a bottle of water and a change of clothes.

As the Old King stared out upon his lands,
As the crops burn,
The village set ablaze,
His keep being ransacked,
His line  being ended.

The Old King reflects on it,
On his decisions as the invaders closed in.
Was it because he got too greedy?
Or perhaps he'd been too harsh,
Too violent in his actions,
To haste to lay down the law when there had been an alternative.

The Invaders they gotten into the room,
The rasp of a dagger as it's drawn.
Not too long now.

The Old King reflected on his family, Surely slaughtered by now.
Did they cry out for him to protect them,
As the sword blades and axe heads descended upon their heads?
He had failed them.

The Old King,
Who once stood tall,
Towering over anyone who would try to cow him,
Now stood with shoulders stooped,
An old sword,
Predating time immemorial,
Was held loosely in his grip.
The Assassins stepped closer.

One last glance,
As if to burn the sight of his dying Kingdom into his brain.
He was ready.

The Old King stood tall once more,
Taking the last chance he would ever get to do so.
His grip tightened,
The ancient leather creaking in his grip.
The Old King turned,
Sword held high,
Rushing to meet his executioner

The young man stepped off the bus,
Pack of clothes on his back,
Guitar case in hand.

He decided to forge his own path,
In this place were so many had failed before,
Just another individual in the City of Angels.
His chuck's scraped the pavement as he spun around,
Trying to take it all in.

Quickly he found the city was but gilded, It's thin layer of gold covering the lead core underneath.

It got to the point where the young man had almost given up hope.

But steadfast he marched on, Accumulating like-minded individuals, And soon they stood shoulder-to-shoulder.

Ready to take the World by storm.

When the young man arrived into town,
his throat was very dry,
So he wandered into the closest bar.

It was dark and dingy,
But at the same time vibrant and alive, For a band played in the back.

Just a few younger individuals,
Vibrant and lively,
Rocking as if playing for sold out Stadium,
Instead of a bar of six.

It was then that the young man had his idea,
Notes rushing to him like cascade,
And the realization that music was where he was happiest,
It's what fill the hole in his heart.

He left the bar, knowing what he had to do,
His passion was reignited,
The flames fanned.

A goal now set,
Young man went to the bus station and continued West.

The desert was hot,
The boys feet ached,
His legs protested,
The sweat stung his eyes.

The young man stumbled,
The heat waves of the road throwing up a curious pattern.

It was then that the young man spotted it,
Just beyond the next hill.

He stood up,
Wiping the sweat from his brow and forged on.

The cedar had become an iron oak.

When he arrived though,
If only in fleeting flashes,
But still it was there,
When the instrument was in the young man's hand,
It calmed the storm that raged behind his eyes.

The pain dulls over the years,
As the boy becomes a young man,
And the young man decides to follow his dreams,
He runs away,
With only a guitar in his hand,
A backpack of clothes,
And his car,
He rides out West,
Like the pioneers who came before,
A musical gold rush.

As a youth grows,
Taller and taller,
Like The Cedars of my youth,
But also rougher and rougher.

To those who have known him from before can recognize him,
But to others he is a shadow of his former self.

There is however,
One thing,
That has ever remain the same.
With the instruments in his hands,
his eyes soften,
the creases easy bit,
The weight is lifted from his shoulders, And even a smile can be seen.
As he hears from the Allfathers of the Waves, Summoners of the sound.

Crash!!!!
As a boy regains consciousness,
All the boy can see is the blood mixing into the muddy water,
As the rain begins to fall.
The boy scrambles are round  the twisted wreck of the car,
From which he had been thrown from,
To find the one he loved in terrible condition.

The boy begs her to wake up, but she refuses to open her eyes,
A small trickle of blood crawling up her forehead,
As she hangs lifeless from her seatbelt.

Driving down the road,
Going much too fast,
One hand on the wheel,
The other around the shoulders of the girl he was with.

They love each other,
At least they think they do,
Their adolescence making them believe that they'll beat the odds.

A turn arrives just as the boy looks away, And suddenly they're airborne,
Just as soon as they're in the air however,
The forces of the world take hold as the car comes down hard.

The boys has aged,
On the cusp of becoming a man,
Old enough to drive but not old enough to vote.

The child has improved in eight years,
The sound comes vibrant from the boy, Although it is still a hair twangy,
And the timing off just a bit.

He has passion,
Though,
Which makes the imperfections that much better.
The sound Echoes in on itself when it bounces off the cement walls,
And the closed wooden door of the garage.

All of the boy's work producing an emotional and raw sound,
Which flails about,
Enticing others to do the same.

It's Christmas time,
A young boy unwraps a large gift,
And sees the object inside,
It has a basic color scheme,
It's strings beautiful and bright.

The boy strums his small hand across,
Summoning sound from the hollow instrument,
It's a cheap thing,
Just in case the guitar is abandoned by the boy,
But alas a bond is formed,
And the boy's life is set into motion.

Motivation seemed to be a big issue for me as a kid,
Only what had me interested would get me more actively pay attention,
But when it happened I was like a dog with a bone,
Hard pressed to give it up,
My motivation burning brightly.

But such motivation could be a double edged blade,
For flames that burn the brightest are also those that are very short lived.

It makes me wonder about you, dear reader,
Is your motivation slow and steady?

Or perhaps your like me,
Brilliant but fleeting,
The experience of discovery and newness of an activity being your real drive?

To the former,
Take a chance and be more aggressive in your actions,
May this advice bring more wind into your sails.

To the latter,
Pump the break for a second,
Take in the scenery so to speak,
Be amazed in the factors that went into shaping the events around you,
You may discover something you may have missed otherwise.

And to those I've previously left out,
Don't worry,
And wipe away that pout,
I was saving for the best for last.

You tightrope walkers,
Tiptoeing the razors edge,
Follow your gut,
For it hasn't led you astray yet.

Carry on my fellow travelers,
Your pioneering efforts haven't gone in vain,
Blaze the trails,
Climb the mountains,
And ride the rapids.

It's like slow motion,
Much like a train derailing,
You can't bring yourself to look away,
As the fist flies toward your face.

As soon as the foreign limb makes contact  with your cheek,
It seems like someone pressed the fast forward button,
Because you seem to retaliate immediately,
Over and over,
As more blows are returned to your head and sides.

You throw your weight forward,
Catching them off balance as they were on their heels,
Wrapping them up around the midsection in a picture perfect tackle.

You both go flying out the front door and into the street,
Both struggling to your feet,
Both you and your opponent's friends pull each other apart,
And make haste to leave before the cops arrive.

Where would you be,
If you were the perfect you that you could be for a day?
What would you do?

Would you try and give your life the theoretical "boost" so to speak?
Maybe by getting ahead of a backlog you've been trying to get past at work,
Or by making an important life choice.

Maybe you'd go and try something new,
To see the viability of possible choices.

Or maybe you'd not change a thing,
For you've been the best you that you could be the whole time.

Sometimes funny,
Sometimes terrifying,
Sometimes mysterious,
Something nice.

Something remembered,
Something forgotten,
Something changed,
Something repeated.

Wake up.

Take a breath,
A deep, lung filling breath,
Exhale,
And realize that you are one breath closer to the end of your time here on this planet.
To some there is a life after this,
At least I hope so,
And to others we are just an ember dying in the air,
Just a second or two of existence in the grand scheme of it all,
And all we have left to mark our time is by the deeds we've committed,
Our mark on history.

I had a dream,
Where I was on top of a mountain,
Staring at the sunset, and its effect on the shadows in the valley,
An older man was there,
We hadn't needed words,
For we already knew what the other had to say.

I've been traveling,
Trying to return to my roots,
So return I did,
Returned to the woods,
That carpet the mountains of the Appalachian.

Up the mountains I climbed,
An old rifle slung across my back,
Boonie cap keeping eyes free from the harsh glare of the sun as it filters through the canopy above
Trying to find on the mountain that I've been lacking in the North..

Wildlife is active all around,
A breeze is flowing up the mountain,
Whisking the settling heat up and past the peak,
My footfalls soft and sure.
I come across old trails I haven't seen in years,
Mostly washed away and rendered impassible.
On the eastern face I find the remnants of a forest fire.
The field that once held nothing but cinders littered with healthy saplings,
Already taller than I,
New deer trails and bedding areas,
The old ones I discover to be abandoned and the new roost of varmint.

It finally strikes me,
As I descend off of the old mountain,
The truth of what it was I lacked,
I fell into the trap that ensnare many a men down in the South.

The trap that the Mountains lay,
From the Adirondacks to the Allegheny,
Of being a timeless place,
Where you are unplugged from the rest of the world,
And everything is simpler,
It's a trap that had not chains to wrap around arms and legs,
But to encase around the mind.

It is easier to leave than last time,
For I know I shall return,
To this little retreat,
In the Daniel Boone National Forest.

I stare,
The outsider looking in.

******* comment,
Or a practiced defence?

Cigarette slowly shrinking,
Ember glowing bright.

Out of options,
Out of time.

Walls closing in,
Creeping like vines.

Shotglass is full,
unlike the bottle.

It was a new day,
As I suited up for battle,
A new campaign,
Something sure to leave the uninitiated rattled.

A polo shirt to defend against the piercing stares of haughty individuals,
A thermos of coffee,
To brain the sandman with when he arrived with reinforcements mid morning,
Neatly combed hair to camouflage myself as just another drone,
Plucking away and invisible to predators.

As I sit down at my desk
I take a look out the window at the rain,
And imagine I was out in it,
For the rain is much more enjoyable.

But fear not,
I still have my secret weapon,
Devastating to the enemies of fun.
A power so great it will ensure that I will never fully succumb to the forces of drudgery.


I raise my pantleg a bit to take a peek at my crazy socks,
Instantly making my day better

Fleetwood Mac is on the radio inside as I look up at the morning sky,
In the east,
The sky is a mixtures of light pinks, blues, and gold,
The moon still shining brightly in the morning sky.

I take a drag off my Winston,
It's taste stale lingering on my tongue,
But a small price of smoking them all night.
My eyes are burning and my joints ache,
Getting older *****.

Click
         Clack
                                  Click
                  Click
  Click

The butterfly knife handle is smooth against my palm,
Worn down through years of ownership and use.

Click
                 Clack
         Click
                                  Click
   Clack

Curtis Stirgers is telling me the story of Poor Ol' John,
My mind is at peace,
And my thoughts are clear.

  Click                    
                    Click
                                       Clack
                            Click
                                      Clack

I can see the flashes of steel,
Sending off glints of light out in the darkened room,
I'm mostly zoned out,
A quasi-zen state in this dance of blade and flesh,
A Balisong Ballet.


Click
         Clack
                                  Click
                  Click
  Click

A ring of flaked green surrounded by an ocean of blueish grey,
Pupils like a lake,
You could almost see the thoughts like fish,
Swimming around just below the surface,
Their outlines making the lake glimmer in the light of the sun.

Waylon Jennings is twanging over the airwaves,
Asking me if I bore witness to the events unfolding between him and the Apple of his eye.

I can hear it though,
He's got a load of chew in,
And I'm jealous.

Quitting *****,
Doesn't matter if it is good for you or not,
It just *****.

Memories come rushing back in when I smell that minty tobacco.

A "graduation gift" from our Drill Sergeants,
Just offering us some if we wanted it,
Seeing as we were no longer recruits,
But honest to god infantryman,
The jolt of nicotine directly to the mouth after 4 months of nothing,
The head buzz hit me like a sledgehammer,
But thankfully enough I'm not alone.

Another memory,
I'm trying to get the taste of bile out of my mouth, as we're dumping our gear after a long ruck,
The blood seeping through the heels of my boots,
A familiar blue tin is offered to me by my team leader,
I nod to him in thanks,
As I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

A more painful one,
The lingering taste of midrange bourbon,
Mixing in with the harsh bite of  *****,
Toasting to friends lost.

The present time gently brings me back to my chair as the song fades out.

Yes Mr. Jennings, I can see what she's doing to you,
I'm where you're at right now.

Sanibel's white sands
Tideline shown by seashells
Refreshing gulf breeze

My brain is suddenly alight like fireworks,
A thousand ideas spawning from thin air,
Things I've forgotten ten times over come back in a flash,
Birthday dates,
Phone numbers of old coworkers,
Names of films.

I need to find paper,
Need to write this down before I forget.
My phone rings,
I answer it,
It's a Telemarketer,
CLICK!

The paper before me lies mostly blank,
The only words written are as follows:
--------------------------------------------------------­-------
                                   Glass stopper
            Canada!      
                                  Pe
      Colin Hay                             black garlic


       ()**()
         /l l/
----------------------------------------------------------------­
          ^ Above is my best text translation of a doodled elephant head.

I'm about to scream,
Because I can't remember for the life for me as to why I wrote them,
It's all dialogue with no context.
A paper of hieroglyphs and me without a Rosetta Stone.

***
   ***
       ***
           ***
               ***
                   ***

Aqualung is hitting me with blows from the guitar,
His watery breathing ragged as the percussion from his drums penetrates my  brain like nails.

Then,
What is this?
An acoustic guitar, Anderson, and a gentle bass lays me down,
Easing me down from the sudden hurricane when the old sod starts.

Then the last of the lyrics,
Anderson is begging Aqualung to remember him,
Desperation evident in his voice,
As the old man passes,
Rattling out one last haggard breath.

I remember the stars,
One warm summer's night,
When I went on a camping trip with friends,
We were out in the middle of nowhere,
But more importantly,
I remember you.

You were an old friend of a mutual acquaintance,
The one who organized the whole trip,
And you were from out of town.

You were something else,
Nothing but curious eyes and dangerous smiles,
And a wit like nothing else.

As we took to the canoes,
I learned you liked the same beer as me,
Which no one else on the trip did,
You would furrow your brows when you were trying to recall details from a story
And you liked to laugh at my jokes.

By the first evening,
We had become fast friends,
I let you pillage from my beer,
The kind I brought because it was my favorite,
Inside jokes already formed and nicknames were just around the bend

You sat beside me at the campfire that night,
Shoulder to shoulder,
For warmth we both reason,
It was chilly,
Our friends gave us knowing stares that
We ignored,
Suddenly finding a patch of dirt or the fire very interesting.

I remember talking with you after everyone went to sleep,
Still on the log,
The dying embers our only real measure of time.

In the morning,
You were unnaturally energetic,
You say you're always like this in the mornings,
The dawn setting your hair ablaze.

We're back in the boats,
And both of us are silent,
It's not awkward,
But comfortable.

We reach the end,
And on the bus back to get to our cars,
Soon followed by us all getting back to our cars and saying our goodbyes.

I don't mean to save you for last,
At least I don't think,
And then you're in front of me.

We chat just a little bit,
Delaying what we both know must happen,
Last night we both realized we would probably never see each other again,
You being from out of town,
We were delaying saying goodbye.

You give me this look I swear I could have known for years,
And promptly attack me with a hug,
Giving me a very warm and inviting kiss.

Then you were gone,
Driving down the road,
And out of my life.

I remember the stars,
One warm summer's night,
When I went on a camping trip with friends,
We were out in the middle of nowhere,
But more importantly,
I remember you.

I'm just laying here in bed,
Ian Anderson is explaining to me through my headphones,
Of how alone I could be,
If I made the choice of going my own way,
But that I would find what I am looking for.

Sometimes I feel like my life is this canyon,
with a river in the bottom of it,
And that I'm on a raft,
Paddling along.

And in this canyon,
From my raft,
I can see those who have been my mentors,
Up at the tops of the canyon,
Calling out to me if they see rapids ahead.

So far they've been pretty good about it,
Not saying there haven't been rough patches,
A couple of close calls,
But I'm still in one piece.
I know that up ahead though,
There's whole lotta rough stuff,
And my lookouts aren'tt going to be of much use.
So it'll be just me against whatever's up ahead,
With nothing to rely on but my own wit.
It'll be like the bad 'ol days.

What kind of person are you?
Are you the kind of person who pulls the first smoke out of a pack,
Only to put it back into the pack upside down,
Dubbing it the "Lucky Smoke".

Maybe you're the kinda person who says they're into Johnny Cash,
But didn't even know Cash started out singing Gospel.

Could you be the kinda person to be able to have their nose broken,
Only to smile because you've finally come across something that's a challenge?

Perhaps you have a secret talent,
One you think you're not good enough at to show anyone,
But trust me, if people knew about it I know they'd be surprised.

Perhaps you feel like you've been dumped straight into the gutter,
By either those you trusted,
Or by those you never expected to betray you.

Whoever you are,
If you're feeling alone, trapped, or like the walls are closing in,
Come take a seat,
Let me tell you a tale or two,
Let's listen to a record or three,
And maybe I can ease your mind for a little bit,
In this smoky room of mine.

Speaking of the Man in Black,
Cash is playing the role of a dying man,
Who is begging his friend to do something, anything to save him.
His words like weights upon one's shoulders.

I sit here,
Fingers aching,
Smudged in ink,
From when I changed the ribbon,
My right knee decides,
At this very moment,
To make its regular bout of grinding pain known to me,
Yay.


Heloise Tunstall-Behrens and Luisa Gerstei are making my heart shatter,
From over 3,700 miles away.
These sirens are begging the listener to Sing them to sleep,
Because they've gone and lost the mindset,
To dream seamlessly.

Their club has swelled by one,
I say to myself as I light a smoke,
It's about to be a long night.

My knee starts complaining once more,
The old injury settling down after I massage the ailment.

Now the trickling of a xylophone is tapping out of the wires,
Gentally accompanied by a guitar and the girls,
They're warning the listener of their past transgressions,
It's gentle tone,
Lulling you into hearing,
Before your brain can register the lyrics,
However,
They're whisked away by the xylophone,
What was a steady trickle has swelled into a quick stream,
They're now telling the listener to use them up,
Because that's what they're expecting anyway.
Seems like a tale of escaping from something bad to me.

Is this why I write?
To escape?

Or is it to bring you into my world,
If only for a bit?

Eddie Vedder's voice is the one singing on the song,
But the words were written by Otis Redding,
When he was out experiencing the world,
Contemplating his future after R&B.

You ever had experiences like that?
Where all the curtains are pulled away,
And you realize you need to plan your next step.

Have you planned yours?

When my Grandfather passed away in April,
I was down there with him,
Making dinner for the two of us,
We'd watch jeopardy and the news,
While eating a Drumstick ice cream.
Whilst driving him to the doctors or shuffleboard league,
He'd tell me tales of when he was in the military,
And all the various hijinks him and his lifelong friend P.E. would get into.
He also had some last minute advice when he elected to be moved into hospice.

It was just a little over two years since my Grandmother passed,
When Grandpa decided to go to the next great adventure

He had some words that he was very sure couldn't wait.
I talked with him for hours that night,
Until he finally nodded off.
My sister and mother arrived the next morning,
And I left on a flight back to Ohio by noon.
We talked that morning,
For what he knew would be the last time.
He thought it would be best for me to head back up to Ohio.
He didn't want me to see him get any weaker.
He told me to live my life with as few regrets as possible, and that he loved me.

That was always a big thing for him.
He always said he couldn't ever remember his father ever telling him he loved him,
And that he tried to tell his kids and grandkids how much he loved them.
He would always be aware of what sports season was currently happening for his grandchildren,
And what their placing was.

He would get into these fits of laughter when he was trying to explain to something finny,
Where he couldn't even get any words out,
He'd be giggling too hard.

He was one of those people that when he was born,
God went and broke the mould.

Of the things I inherited, one of them was a typewriter.
Oddly enough,
It was about as technically advanced as he got,
Besides using the computer to play solitaire.
I remember when we'd go and visit in the summers,
On weeklong trips,
And I'd spend as much time as I could on that typewriter.
I'd start out with elaborate visions of a great novel or screenplay,
But by week's end they'd be short stories that were of ok quality for whatever age I'd be at the time.
What I never thought about is what happened to them when my family would  go back to Ohio,
I never thought my Grandpa would ever read them,
Let alone keep them.
So imagine my surprise when I come across a box labeled stories.

I miss you Grandpa

When I was little,
Behind the backyard of my childhood home,
Separated by a field and a couple of rows of trees,
There was a factory,
Not a big one, just a small one,
That liked to operate at night.
The window of my old bedroom faced out  towards the backyard,
And by extension,
The factory.

I use to lie awake at night,
After I crept over to my window and pushed it as open as it would go,
I'd just listen to the sounds of the factory,
And imagine it were different things,

When I was 6 I'd imagine it was some sort of 100 foot tall beast of mystery,
Maybe walking on 6 legs, each 75 feet long,
Lumbering nearby like a gentle giant,
When I was 10,
It was a spaceship,
Destined to take me to a galaxy far, far away,
When I was 13,
It was a crowd cheering me on as I scored a touchdown.

It was relaxing,
It was southing,
Familiar and safe.

But one day the banging and muffled crashes of steel stopped,
Apparently the city finally cited the factory for noise violations,
And all heavy operations were to be halted by 8 pm.

I suddenly no longer had my monster behind the house,
No spaceship to take me to a galaxy far, far away,
No crowd cheering my name.

From here on out I'd have to go exploring to find monsters,
I'd have to build a spaceship if I wanted to go far, far away,
I'd have to put in the work so people would cheer out my name.

6 poems today,
Wanted to see what I could come up with,
Are they rough...yes,
Are some of them short and to the point... Also yes,
But the emotion still rings true.
3% battery...
2% left...
1%...
Goodnight

Gravity must be especially heavy on my exact spot,
For I feel like I'm glued to my seat,
I found a record,
Ridiculously pristine,
It's of some symphonic orchestra,
And it's made my eyes water a bit.

I don't know what prompted it,
I just felt my face after listening to it to realize that my eyes were quite damp.

The piano piece was heartbreaking,
Clearly an excellent conductor,
I can't find any real labels on it,
And it appears to be very old.

10%... Not long to go

The bugs have overwhelmed my deet defence,
So I've retreated behind the screen door,
Smoking by the doorway, leaning back in a chair,
Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks, and Christine McVie are haunting me with their words,
To never break the chain...
My eyes feel like there's grit in them,
I drink a glass of water to rehydrate a bit,
To counteract the cigarette's sting,
Of 2 packs smoked when I should have only smoked one.
I feel like a record player, and my table belt is just slightly off kilter,
Making me so my rounds just a little too fast,
Just fast enough to be noticeable and an annoyance.
13% battery left,
How many more can I do?

Sitting out here in the porch,
Listening to Tool,
My phone is fast dying,
Probably best that I allow it,
It's good for it long term,
To every once in a while just let it run
Completely out if juice.

Is that true for humans too?

When asked what ruck marches are like,
And I'm talking about those legendary light infantry ruck marches,
This is how I explain it:

Take your bedroom,
And try to shove it all into a military issue ruck sack,
Feeling impossible yet?
If so, you are on the right track.
If not, keep adding things to said rucksack until it does feel impossible.

You take a certain kind of baby powder and apply it to your neck, feet, groin, basically anywhere that's going to chafe (i.e. your entire body by the end)
Wrap your heels up, but not too much, because it's going to have to come off anyway,
after your heels start to bleed.

Put on your 2nd best pair of socks on,
Your best pair is for when you need a morale boost.

Put on your body armor,
But for the love of God don't use your inner elastic stap,
You won't be able to breath.

MAKE SURE YOU HYDRATE!!!
nuff said

Ensure you have all your kit and put it on the scale

...

98 pounds.
So add in body armor and your weapon, as well as ammunition and a carton of smokes,
You're looking at a cool 130 lbs (59 Kg),
More so if your a machine gunner, ammo bearer, or anti-armor specialists,
Which I usually was,
So I'd say add an extra 20 pounds (9 Kg)  to be safe.

Now you're all strapped up,
Your kit isn't slipping,
And nothing is pinching,
Take that unwieldy, difficult to disengage from silhouette,
And go on a 20 mile foot movement,
With expectation that you are going to get ambushed.

That's what a ruck is like.

Am I going insane?
Or do I hear a track playing in the background of Led Zeppelin's "Babe I'm going to leave you"?
Around the 1:42 mark,
Hiding right below the guitar,
Playing whisper soft,
Plant is crying out something,
Something too soft to decipher.

I hope I'm not hearing things

They say that the stairway to heaven is long and precarious, and some say it never ends.

I can't remember who first told me that,
And I can't find any reference to it,
Believe me I've looked.

Robert plan is informing me of the woman now,
After being led in by the acoustic guitar and flutes,
Foolish woman,
Learning at the very last minute,
That her life was a waste and her hoards of wealth mean nothing to her now.

Plant says that this song can have as many meanings as stars in the sky.

Nice thoughts to start a run to.

The same four notes haunt me,
Like the ghosts lost to the sea,
             Da
                                        Dah
                  ­  Doo
***            

Floyd flexing their synth might,
Their system tried and true,
Music to get lost in space to,
At least until I hit the Darkside of the Moon.

I sit here.
Contemplating it all,
Of the difficulties and obstacles that one must encounter,
When in the pursuit of making a concept album.

So many parts must go into it,
To tell a proper narrative,
With lyrics written well enough to not just sound like spoken word.
Rush is a master of this technique,
To be able to make such an easily understood story,
All one has to listen to do is listen to the lyrics,
Acknowledge the musical cues,
Maybe is given a few lines of backstory,
And is at least a little bit smart,
They are told quite a touching tale.

Pink Floyd does it well,
Telling tales of oppression,
Of goodbyes to friends,

The Who do it multiple times,
From a young London man,
Besiged by nostalgia for the bad old days,
To the telling of a deaf, dumb, and blind kid,
And his struggles as he goes through life.

Green Day seems to have done it most recently (in the proper format) with some success,
The struggles of their "Jesus of Suburbia",
A story of anger, love, rejection, and suicide.

It seems like most time the protagonist of concept albums always get the end of the stick,
Why is that?
That the underdog can't ever seem to catch a break?
Death is his end destination,
No ifs, ands, or buts about it,
That or they are placed in a situation where death is preferable,
Because all hope is lost?
Or if they're caught on the cusp of the unknown,
Which can be quite as bad.

So here's to you, you lunatics,
You rebels of causes untold,
You'll live in these story's forever,
Your vinyl Valhalla victorious and verbose.

Anthony Kedis is rolling like a runaway train,
His voice carrying too much momentum to be stopped,
He just keeps rolling down a track of guitar solos.
It's unusually hot here,
As I wipe sweat from my brow.

My bottle of water is sweating on the table,
My eyes are stinging from the heat and perspiration from my forehead.

Flea is laying it out hard,
His slaps on the bass with specific design.
It's almost time to go to bed,
Got to get back into a rhythm.

I envy the men who can smoke yet run like an Olympic athlete,
I really do.
The best I can do is operate a machine gun or a rocket launcher,
With a fat *** of dip in my jaw.