Byline: Blue Eruption
Optimism and oxygen erupt across oceans blue.
Anxious heads concerned with creeps shooting up take cheap shots while parading around making remarks about art as article. Despite the spite a positive presence pervades.
Dissolving the boundaries of earth, sky, fire, water, smoke and ash isn't for everyone and sometimes you've just got to run with it then be done with it. I can only try to kill it then move on, leaving others to explain how the newspaper said the murderer fled.
I smoke dope while my guitars sit wounded in suburban garages. Broken strings and half kept promises hold up any holes keeping me from being whole. It's not much of a revolution but as a refuge, there's no holding back.
There's never enough commission and always another mission missing the better part of my love. Still, a growing consolation for our mortality thru the relish of the gift of life pits us against deities of chance and choice who wonder what such a non-entity like you or me has in his or her heart.
But people who know everything can learn nothing and time wounds old heels. So be advised and do your best to ensure that some spooky voodoo may not come down on you. Play a long game knowing talent is not its own reward and success will lose you more friends than failure.
For the moment freedom and gasoline are contemptuous bedfellows and starting to act like drinking buddies from way back. Political parties parlay accordingly with one side acknowledging the correlation and the other side in denial.
I disregard all the jingoism, preferring to spin Django and listen intently to gypsy guitars caressing the night and dream about finding ways to make the most urgent noise necessary.
Blue eruptions of beauty blast past into the present. And all the oxygen and optimism in the world can't replace you.
Sitting there.
Reading this.
And thinking.
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