Grateful…

We have moved on to the second phase of CD creation. The music part is easy, labor intensive and time consuming for sure, but we are musicians. It is what we do. CD production, on the other hand, different beast. The process moves from auditory to visual, and that is just not my strength. It is these moments that I realize how truly fortunate I am to have an amazing supporting cast, and they are all more than willing to help us.

Yesterday I contacted Scott Church to see if we could use one of his photos for the cover. In true SM fashion I reached out via Twitter. Here is his response:

To put this into context, Scott is famous. Dude travels all over the word conducting Photography Workshops, his art is hung in amazing galleries, he has 5 or 6 books to his credit, and photography is how he makes a living. He could have easily said no or charged me an exorbitant fee to use an image or lifted a fine art nose and not even responded, but this is the same Scott that was in the Gulf with me onboard the U.S.S. Tarawa, the same Scott that took me to my first coffeehouse and was there to support me the first time I did a poetry reading, the same Scott that gave me my first Kerouac.

But it doesn’t stop there…Corey Woodruff, former bandmate of mine and up-and-coming photographer. When we needed band photos, Corey stepped in, planned the shoot, and captured some amazing moments.

We certainly cannot forget Stephanie Tolle. Not only did she create our first logo and all of the images for our tour posters, she has also taken the best videos of the band and shot the coolest live images of us:

You’d think I would be done at this point, but NO! Enright’s girlfriend, Amanda is constantly helping us create fun and fresh handbills.

And it would be impossible to forget Nathan Hutchison who did the layout and design for my last 4 CDs.

Moments like these make me realize how truly fortunate I am.

Although I am not skilled in the visual arts, I am hopeful I can still make you see things, enjoy:

waking with manufactured images
creating a water ballet in grey matter

merging ancient images with modern stills
forming the movie that greeted cognition with smiles

embracing the sensation of you in my chest
breathing in unison as it was meant to be

Forget

I wrote last night. After some bar hopping and too many cocktails my newly sober mind was awake on the top down drive from downtown St. Louis to my little oasis in the Pete. For those that follow my blog (sincerely thank you if you do, ya’ll don’t comment much, but I watch my numbers, and as they increase it makes me feel like I am connecting with people, even if you choose to remain faceless) I am hoping that you can see a difference in the writing.

For the past several weeks my inspiration well has been dry and the muse was off seducing some other simple minded fool, eyes all glistening from sap and perceived love. In the desire to continually create, I have been borrowing inspiration and compelling the words to come out and play. Not last night, last night she was with me, fingers through hair, softly whispered lies of love. She impelled the words, made them keep me up until 3:00 when I could embrace the final line. She is a flirt, a whore, and as unfaithful as a barnyard bitch, but I love when she visits me.

I sincerely hope you enjoy:

Forget

Shot out of city like prisoner escaping pen
40/64 on-ramp final barbed fence before freedom
And freedom snake slithers above intoxicated dreams dripping from drunken lips
Inebriated breakups and breaking bottles now faint…distant
Delicate sounds embrace my mind
And all I want is to feel wind dry my body damp from thick air
And Summer’s sunshine kiss
All I want is to forget
The night
The day
The week
The Green Dragon sparring with the Captain
The moments between when I fell in love with you
And when I realized you would never love me
The time spent in dreams of your head on my belly
Its rise and fall closing tired eyes
My fingers found in soft strands hiding your nape
Its tender presence reserved for candlelight and whispered wants
But I can’t take my mind off of you

Before I close out, I have to mention the Pledge drive one more time. We are SO close, 70% of the way there, but we are running out of time. We only have 11 days to hit that mark or it was all for not. So please take a moment to pledge if you have not. Remember, you are not just giving us money, you are getting something for each level you pledge, whether you are just pre-ordering a CD (or multiple CDs, they will make awesome stocking stuffers, birthday gifts, anniversary presents...okay maybe not anniversary presents, but...) or signing up to roadtrip with the band, introduce us at a show, have us play at your house, etc. Also, there are TONS of exclusives that have been posted to the Pledge site, 22 updates total with 10 videos, 2 photos, 4 tracks, and lots of lyrics. AND, once we hit our target 25% of everything we raise goes to the American Cancer Society. So help us complete this awesome CD and give back to a great organization.

Kimbo Does Modern Dance

This post needs to be prefaced with I have been sick all week, which means my sleeping patterns are jacked, I am not getting full R.E.M. sleep because I keep being woken up by my inability to breathe, and this weekend I am watching my roommates dogs which further complicates the sleeping arrangements, as they prefer to sleep wherever the humans are, ergo my bed...but wait that is not comfortable, let me jump down and chill on the floor, no wait maybe if I go back up he'll forget I was just up there and pet me, wait was that a sound...is my real master home, let me sniff under this door, loudly, for about 15 minutes to see if I can smell Jeff. This cyclical movement continued for a good 2 hours, until finally both dogs were in bed with me, Jazz at my feet and Blu laying like we were an item.

Around 3:27 my eyes cracked open, not sure if it was the inability to breathe or the need to release the 8 glasses of water a day, but I had these vivid images sitting on my occipital lobe, well I assume that is where they were, possibly in transition from the suprachiasmatic nucleus, who knows. The point is I was dreaming. I have been blessed with rock like sleeping patterns (and a fair amount of sleep deprivation), so I rarely remember my dreams. However, this was right there and lucid. The room was this poorly lit dance studio I remember from Lindenwood, the dancers were three faceless females and Kimbo Slice, yeah like UFC fighter, backyard brawler, Kimbo. They were working on a piece that was choreographed to poem I was reading. I kept finishing the poem before the movement was done, so I was trying to explain to Kimbo that he was like the kick drum, and I should be following him, not him trying to follow me. That's about the moment when consciousness kicked in.

Alright for this weeks poetry the assignment came from another The Absinthe Road post. We were to create something based on a song or instrument or something musical that inspires us, so I took a line from my favorite song, 3am by Edwin McCain and I went with it.

I'm awake and my heart is still dreaming

And my heart
My heart dreams two dreams
One
Great id inspired fantasy
Packed amphitheater
Sweat stings eyes
Blurs vision
Blue wash on stage
As floods hit sea of bodies
Bonded by movement and moment
Final chord strummed
And picks passed out to faint declarations of love
Then shuffled off to buses with waiting engines
For a night of road hum and restless sleep
Eyes opened to Groundhog Day
Another venue
Another adoring audience
Another moment of Self-Actualization
Two
You
You who wakes me with Eskimo kisses and sticky fingers
Whose “Daddy” I could distinguish in a ocean of voices
You who looks like your mother but has my intense eyes
You who sings before conversational skills have been achieved
And dances with complete freedom at the slightest sound of music
Crawls into my chair wanting nothing more than to be beside me
Begs for stories before bed
Fighting sleep to hear me do the Queen’s voice
Your giggles rock you to sleep
Tucked in I return to my big boy bed
Kiss your mother sweetly
Seek peace behind God given veils
Eyes open to Groundhog Day
Eskimo kisses
Sticky Fingers
“Daddy it’s time to play”

Hope everyone had a great week...

Balance...

Realistically I would write everyday if I had the time and inspiration, but I don't so I don't. And even though I am always incredibly busy, it is really the inspiration that is holding me back. As a young poet, my mind was clear and starving. Now a thought has to complete an obstacle course of commitments, responsibilities, and what if's before it can even become a seed. Luckily for me, and you, since you are reading this, I have The Absinthe Road. As long as Karen is providing sparks, I should be able to ignite and produce some poetry for you. I just need that push, that word that will get my mind moving in a non-life direction. That being said, if anyone reading this would like me to write on a specific subject or based on a word or phrase or wants to "inspire" me, please leave comment suggestions. I am happy to attempt. I am not saying these pushed poems will always be the best, but at least they are something. Which brings me to:

Balance

He
swings from ape branches
thick hands
expanded chest
grunts orders
booming voice
cold eyes
provides fear and security

hE
floats through forest
light feet
haloed head
sings salutations
hushed phrases
soft smiles
brings comfort and closeness

HE
offers order to chaos
hands and chest
denote dominance
while sweet word and smile
signify seduction
masculine
feminine

This concept of balance is something very meaningful to me because I feel like it is how I live me life, choir boy with football pads. It seems that I have always lived in multiple worlds, both skater and jock, partier and nerd, but even more intensely than the cliques we filter through to touch various portions of our soul, as a man in 2010 life is pure confusion.

There is a Grimm fairytale called Iron Hans which Robert Bly later used as inspiration for Iron John: A Book About Men. Essentially, everyday we grow farther away from our nature. It is as if we are in a continual state of cognitive dissonance because our real and ideal are always in conflict, always using the silver tongue of seduction to submit when our animal brains are kicking in a sympathetic nervous systems which is telling us to fight. We swallow rage for a soft tongue and smile.

So, you are going to become sick of seeing this, but until the end of the Pledge or we hit our goal, it is going to be on every post. It is just that important to my band, So Much Closer. Remember, once we hit our goal 25% of everything we raise goes to the American Cancer Society.



Also, for those that do not know, our drummer, Patrick Enright, has offered to Karaoke any song and do any dance for people that pledge. We video them and put them on YouTube for the world to see. Here is PE doing "Never Gonna Give You Up."

Unhook the Stars

Life is chaos.

I think that pretty much sums up the last couple of months for me and provides an explanation of why I have neglected you. As you know my band, So Much Closer, went down to Denton, TX to do some recording and play a few shows. We were able to capture 9 tunes at the Echo Lab and are now in post production: final mixes, mastering, CD art, researching duplication, etc. Just when I thought things would settle down a bit from all the focus on making the trip happen, things just got busier.

Still, on today, off all days, I thought it was important to write. Those that know me know I was raised by my mom, and as a result I am, well, a momma's boy. I do not see this as a negative. I embrace it, that sensitive heart on sleeve mentality is what made me who I am, is responsible for the eyes that see the world in a way that allows me to paint pictures in words. Although the skill set may have come from my father who is a poet, the eyes are all my mother's. Mom, if you are reading, sincerely, thank you for everything, and Happy Mother's Day.

You know, I have been very fortunate to surround myself with extremely inspiring people. I know writers, photographers, dancers, musicians, painters, heck one of my newest friends even makes quilts. I think creativity attracts creativity. Well, one of my old friends, high-school friends, Karen, recently started a new blog called The Absinthe Road. This blog is dedicated to forcing creation, and for your poem today, I took the bait. What is interesting about this method of writing, forced subject writing, is it often reveals things that I am not conscious of. Although I call myself a momma's boy and try to embrace sensitivity, the reality is he had his ass kicked by life and love and divorce and unfulfilled desires and lack of vindication and.... It is just so incredibly hard to chase a dream your entire life and never catch it. Inevitably, over the years, I have hardened.

Unhook the Stars

I remember when I lived heart on edge
Exposed
Like infant taking bath for first time
Redfaced
As mothers and mother’s mothers smiled
Whispered words of comfort to calm frightened cries

Now heart is locked away
Deep beneath battle scars from wars lost
The stars it once danced with at midnight
Trapped and tangled
Heavy heart’s gravitational pull
Creating black hole of sadness and solitude

I want to unhook the stars
Release them to join midnight moon
Sparkling down upon bare chest in movement
No longer afraid
No longer red faced and crying
Once again alive

Now, I don't want you to think I am depressed or anything, I am not. I didn't even realize I was feeling these things until I put pen to paper. It is therapy. But I do miss him, the momma's boy.

Before I get out of here, I would be remiss if I did not mention our Pledge Music efforts. For those that do not know making a CD is really expensive. Having done 3 solo, 2 with EKe, and 1 with Whiskey Daydream, I can tell you every time it causes debt. I moved into my house in 2001, and I have wanted to replace the carpet every year I have lived here, and every year I push it back because I am paying off a CD. This time we are trying to be smart about it. Rather than pawn guitars, sell amps, and load up the credit card, we are offering all of our supporters an opportunity to help us. There are several levels you can donate at from $10, which gets you access to all the exclusive content we are posting on the Pledge site (videos, rough mixes of songs, etc.) and a digital download of the CD when it is done, to $600 which gets access to exclusive content, a signed copy of the CD when it is done AND a fully electric house concert anywhere in the continental US. Yes, we will actually drive to your house and put on a show for you and as many people as you want to invite...wedding, graduation party, reception of some sort...whatever the event, we'll play it for $600. We actually have a song that we have left untitled, and we will let you name it for $300. Seriously, there are a lot of opportunities to fit every budget. Please take a moment to check out our pledge site.



That is all I have for now. I sincerely hope all the Mother's are feeling appreciated and loved because you are!

Poetry in Response...

In past blogs we have talked about the muse, my muse, and how she guides my pen. Through the years, I have learned to force her participation as sometimes she gets distracted and forgets that I still need to write. One of the tools I developed is called poetry in response. It is based on the concept of a Renga which is a series of Haiku between 2 writers, except “In Response” I do not force a form. When MySpace was the thriving center of Social Networking life, I created a group called Poetry in Response and we would do this dance with strangers. It was beautiful. However, the dance is always better with someone that knows how to move.

My friend Caroline and I go way back, met while I was home from A-School before I was shipped overseas, Became pen pals painting pictures of the life that neither could see. As should be expected, crushes grew and then dissipated when life provided new direction, only to be actualized some 15 years later and then smashed by separation, she in California and I in Misery. Still, we are bound by words, and that is something we will always share.

Caroline getting ready to watch me play and write of course:


Recently Caroline has been dealing with some things, so she stripped down and put it on paper. Since I have been feeling the need to write, I took her words as inspiration and wrote a response. With Poetry in Response it is important to understand that it does not have to be a literal continuance of the plot line. It may be a phrase, a word; could be anything from one poem inspiring the other.

Here is her piece:

The strange split
of the man
with two faces:
one turned towards
me
love absolute
unquestioned --
and the other
turned away
my existence
unknown:
so shameful
it is unknowable
until I
become two --
the believer:
gazing upon
all that I want
and the realist:
seeing all
that I cannot have...

And my response:

And I know my two faces
One:
stoic
chiseled
as if formed from marble of ancestors living in a different reality.
He stood silent
dry eyed
at the news of last grandma’s passing
shrugs shoulders at death
as if his understanding of life cycles is too advanced for tears.
The other:
his mother’s son
with wet cheeks and glassy eyes
shutters every time a fictional character learns of love
as if the surprise of love is so overwhelming emotions cannot be controlled.
The same self
stoic self
regains composure with knowledge of negative news
as if pain is expected.

Tracing Fissures

In my line of work, I have the opportunity to meet a lot of cool people. Some are just SM acquaintances that I follow because they have interesting things to say, but others I will actually get to physically meet, like Rachel and Chris. They are my absolute favorite couple. I love reading their Tweets and Rachel's blog because they give me hope. Their relationship is a shining example of what all marriages should be and what I dream of having, again. When I was in Birmingham last October, we made it a point to meet-up, and I absolutely loved being able to witness love they have for each other.

This week, I was able to connect with a fellow writer, Rebecca, who was kind enough to share some of her work with me. This is often a hazardous situation because you never really know what you are going to get. Most of the time, sadly, writers are not as good as they think they are, and they are looking to me for validation. Not wanting to destroy anyone's dreams, I'll respond with comments like, "Oh, that was nice" or "interesting." But Rebecca is getting her Master's in Writing, so I figured the risk was worth the reward, and it was. What she sent me were these amazing vignettes of Creative Non-Fiction. I was entranced, hanging on each word in anticipation of the next. It left me wanting more and my mind dreaming its deep poet dream.

What Rebecca is great at, like my friend Rob Woerther, is painting her past. I was able to share those moments with her, see them, hear them, smell them, feel them. This is an area that I struggle with. I always write in the now or in dreams of what I want my now to be, but I want to write my past, want to celebrate the parents that helped me become the man that I am today, the friends, the lovers who have left their stamps on my personality.

Heading home from a Valentine's Day Sucks party at Vinnie and Julie's, these words started building. When I got home I jotted down some themes on my phone and then I flushed them out this morning. The title comes from my process. Unlike my dad who is a great Crafter or words, I trace the fissures, meaning where I start I may not end, but rather than fight the words to stay within the lines, ensure the trees are brown trunked and green leaved, I let them be what they are because what I love about my poetry is it is the purest look into my mind.

Tracing Fissures

Memory
Fragmented
More auditory than visual
My father’s lecture tone like verbal Tia Chi
Slow
Calm
Powerful
And with furrowed brow and eyes tracking left
Trying to scrape sounds out of parietal lobe fissures
I am exhausted
I cannot hear his laughter
My mother’s laughter like sunshine breaking through morning fog
The first thing I hear when I think of her
Followed by the way she ends judgment with “well”
Slight pitch elevation towards the end
Spoken ellipses
There is more
She doesn’t say it
The moment left unresolved
Tell me I made a bad decision
Tell me my actions are unhealthy
Tell me I am screwing up my life
Tell me how to be a better person
Just pass the final judgment
Because when I am left to judge myself
I am a murderer
Able to look past any redeeming quality I may have
Find myself in the pit
Deliver blows like Spartacus delivered to the dregs of society as he fought to save her
And I remember the tongues of lost lovers
The way one phrase
With varied inflection
Could mean 4 things
And in the larval stage
The months spent cocooned by sheets
Between interruptions of hot kisses and fingernails in flesh
I would try to learn these tonal differences
Like learning a new dialect
Each one adorning me with a new name
A bitch marking her territory
As if the one my mother had provided for me was not good enough
Sometimes many names
With each one comes a new set of meanings
Sweetie far different than Baby
Sweetie reserved for tender moments like Valentine’s Day morning
When the sacrificial Teddy Bear has been delivered

“Oh, thank you sweetie”

But he is not allowed in bed when aromatics are flickering
Still controlled by a Victorian ideal blurring the lines between love and sex
It is Baby that reaps the benefits of the sacrifice

“Ooh Baby, yeah right there...yes Baby”

Whispered softy with a lobe nibble
As the conversation grows deeper Baby becomes Beast
Then
At the climactic close
With the 3rd $15 Target lamp laying broken bedside
It comes full circle

“Yes Eric!”

“Yes Eric!”

“YES!”