31.3.14

looking for a calexico song to play along with.... i found this.




The Glowing Heart of the World

by Brian Andrew Laird


Arizona six-sixty-six, south in the early light,
Painted desert, streaks of dying night—
Copper-ribboned sands
Empty haunted lands
In the rear-view.

Heading back to the place you gave me,
The past you saved for me,
Where the San Pedro runs
Through cottonwoods
To empty canyons.

I'm going to the glowing heart of the world.

I'm wearing Johnny Ringo's boots
And Kirker's hat,
Got a headache like Mangas Coloradas
Staring out at the Willcox flats.

I'm wandering in the desert
Wishing I were old
Remembering when you were with me
At the glowing heart of the world.

I was a boy when you brought me here,
I looked up at your eyes, but saw no fear.
We waited for the storm to come
So we could smell the rain.

You said, look at this great dry and wrinkled land
Where rivers run, then run to sand —

Here is the glowing heart of the world.
This is the glowing heart of the world.

I'm driving to where I met you,
To the desert where I left you
Memories like bones, white as ash,
Sifting down into sun-bleached sand,
Becoming part
Of the glowing heart
Of the world.




29.3.14

drawn guitars til double lined.

woke up, believer. the sound of a caustic sea. chased shadows with warmer backs, followed footsteps. "fell into it, like a dreamer." taken from everywhere. reoccuring inspiration, mounting. some soft tune hums from below. thru the wooden floor a familiar voice backed by some strumming. tim would walk 500 miles. crept out and earlier, thru the rain and divided invisibility, tried my tired hands at handling.  the roads soaked, the truck. soaked and so on. caught a quick glimpse of summer two thousand two. eased back a few tears and kept it going. trucks are for driving, hoods are for hiding. i wish these walls to be and you were hospitable. i found these walls to be and i was honestly...

of death and the monument.

the clock struck some wandering time zone. not a single hour or even one of those wasteful and meaningless minutes. it was just calm and then fielded. felt, left, folded, it was too cold to cry. taken from everywhere. one written book, buried along with fifty thousand imaginations. to pull it out and finish the last forty pages, slap a title, and pull the trigger. good bye utter and distinct world say hello to anew.  so safely cynical down a dusted and dirty road. find then and make it last all nite.

my morning commute exists in a pair of running shoes. the scent of the lavender picked this morning. stolen and moonlit, the hike, still honest i just aint got wings. all have scribbled down destinations, all have moaned at the grace found once forgotten, gimme two steps forward. call it tomorrow, call it and theres steps being made. its fucking known. corners being turned and pages swept under the rug, pressed on like kens worth. beating down the two laner, blistering under the heat. middle day, forecasted and swing just to sway.

unearthed some past. got lucky, babe. to write of death is the beginning of that aforementioned accommodation. fill in the blank, fill in the box. a life of mash. tyrants and their tyranny. breakdown, logged and on one.

asked and fled. honest as ill ever be. no one will ask and thats okay. you know? i know.

26.3.14

"this might be my favorite song i ever wrote." written in 4/4 time.

"And if what you seek ain’t free then steal it
If it ain’t necessity you don’t need it" tim barry

snaked and roostered

come calling good meandering. the weight, the other spelling and leave. the cold, between toes and the snore of ever kicks one awake. definitive to sway. abosulte the solution.

bent to the river

rite of passage and a mosaic of snapshots. taken from everywhere. that last album, left and leaving. so many miles that make up amongst every memory every morning. destination bangor maine.  one nylon strung guitar. this down pour, static and hissed.

21.3.14

written in 4 4 time

the good morning and there simply isnt enough time so keep up with your step but finish last. ritualistic beginnings with some cup or tea. begin again.

18.3.14

post kettleman city

the moon pulled the sierras never felt so orange. a distinct feeling of awakens at a 1/4 past forever. the then and when was once. the road, beaten down and disguised as a grey, looks as if snow from ahead. in mirrors and collapsed. the midwest, the middle west is fast asleep as should i. still pounding. 90 miles an hour, "so tough" and i pulled over to finish the horah. a mile off the interstate to share the rising with the beginning of another night, so dark and snow capped maybe. id sit upon the hood of my truck, back pressed against glass in the shiver of the cooling coming down off the mountains, galloping over the foothills. lindsay california and lake success, the ever edged western grace. jack called it a piece of tea and tonight it was just that. all glowing a brownish orange, like the color of ever harvest moon you've ever seen. big encompassed by the tips of the mountains. up thru past shadowed and behind strung out slivers of thickly thick clouds, the chunk rose abruptly and my eyes felt it more than ever. a heavy step to carry the weight of simple natural. the mornings not far behind and I'm an here already. old men in suspenders, with canes and broken wings. a sling defined a crack, a fracture, a fall. who was there and who will be.

4.3.14

encountered and encompassing

and there it goes. wind blown and all over the place. what the fuck is on my shoes. stepped in shit, wiped it off and kept on. the horizon from here, clovis, is glowing at half past 6. its till early in the year for a 5am wake up call. the grey light, suits me well. fitted and found a fortune.  a quick discussion of death, or two of them in one day brought back memories of where i was, recently and found by friends in the middle of the street. word spreads like wild fire. the bad news. i ripped my handlebars out of the top tree and dropped them mid flight. a broken wrist. tomorrow i fly to portland and sleep in another bed suited for two. that old sign that hung above the door way at 131 center st. santa cruz california. "begin again" and i have.

2.3.14

death comes ripping.

6/19/1979. coldwater michigan. born.
6/19/2007. mesa az mutliple sclerosis diagnosis. diseased on my 28th birthday.
11/29/2007. tempe az moto wreck. front flipped over the bars at 45 miles an hour.
6/6/2010. rocky mountain national park lightning strike. spit taste like burnt hair for 2 days.
3/2/2013. oakland moto wreck. 96 foot long front flip over the bars at 50 miles an hour.

life wont wait.
lee.





27.2.14

whatever the name of this song is could be the title.

came in blazing. two halves, saturated and in an outward sorta way. victim to all of lifes dreamers. a girl i thought a woman. schools in session and ive been out for every finger on both hands. the clock struck gold and a northern wind blew in, feverishly, openly, and well, words were shared. sometimes, sunrise, the moon and silver, two strictly and stricken strikes. round two. next week. open arms. an abrupt and awkwardly enunciated hi.

otis redding. rock me baby. the sweet twang of that old guitar.

20.2.14

belden ca

one of those books you write everytime you hit the road. weve got a damn fine family.

19.2.14

…right there and she was…

8am. just left steves old house in sac. old because he's moving out of there and into his rv. fucking golden. wednesday as usual, typically not though. sacramento, talking heads playing on the radio in this cafe. elmhurst district of sac. a clear head is keeping me from writing as much as i like. at a stand still with the paper I'm in the midst of. 41 pages deep right now and been there for a week. clear head is a good thing of sorts, more light. work is keeping me too damn busy to do anything else. san jose yesterday for work, sf to check storage unit for new, trader joes and a bar with a friend named trouble. lots of words. just so you can hear yourself say… packed up at the storage unit earlier, peeled off for sac at 8pm and to steves by ten after a roadside dinner, interstate 80 goes back to the land.

not as cryptic as the fog of war has lifted. blocked from visual communiqué. a laughable love turned violet. a darkened red and lost at …see, it all works out. appreciate what was and follow your ring fingers, "forward motion" ive passed you on every dirty street.

she just sat down in front of me, navy sweatered and grey skirted, a burned scar dresses the back of her leg. a smile in passing, always as ever. and your name? veronica.

14.2.14

your encrypted seach

is so beautiful.

for a while.

this was always for me.

13.2.14

as if nothing happened

january fifth when a little light walked back in the room. undercover. the meaning of a good friend and where ya been, damn it? out and living. i couldnt argue with a smile or two thousand two.

leaving felt good, destination around the corner and cheered a "shorter" cheer. inspiration from everywhere and half full on wine. this very instant a cover all from a story about the 50s. one lost and beyond anything tangible, just a fucked up memory of mother, my sister.

12.2.14

deafened and dearest

life aint half bad. forward motion darlin.