Coils prosper in hushed verses. The filament . . .a constant plead, of voids, fucking and smoke. Worlds planted, graves unmarked, lost to the ether. Found to the sunburst. The flame dances alone, because its partner always dies. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZN-IV9yH7g
It was June of '86 when I hopped a plane for Port Richey, Florida. My former girlfriend had moved out of New York months earlier and I was in chase despite the fact we weren't in love with each other. Ours was the kind of relationship that wasn't interested with being in love. Cliches kicked… Continue reading Turntable
Before we get started, I should warn you, this post is sports heavy. You might want to sit this one out if that's not your thing. Oh, but wait . . sports isn't really about sports any longer, I forgot. So umm . . if sports is your thing, you might want to sit this one out.… Continue reading Speaking Of . . .
When Freddie Mercury sang a song, it was as if he was telling the grim reaper to give him just a little more time. He didn't much care about leaving too soon, but he just wanted to make the song count. He used to say he didn't concern himself with things like mortality. To his… Continue reading Sunday Morning Post
From the time I was in grade school, I had come to understand the world around me in monochromatic equations. I borrowed on this hopelessness as a different way of learning the world; and in so doing, my jaded sensibilities would introduce me to books and girls and music. Books were an escape to places the… Continue reading The Value of Original Thought
Where does inspiration come from? I mean . . other than commercials and hallucinogens. Welp, I guess it depends on where you're sitting. An idea is the composite of its metaphysical values swimming through a wilderness with no particular place to go until the feral seedlings plant themselves into a grip of ink that gives… Continue reading Sorryless Sunday Morning
It's the end (or beginning) of another week, as summer loses its grip and the leaves swim in caramel and fire. Shorts turns into sweaters and apples into pumpkins and the sky goes thick with slumber. Music is different inside the fall; tethered to its annual rites rather than a fresh new bundle served up… Continue reading Sorryless Sunday Morning