Oscar the Grouch eats an ice cream sandwhich. A hymn in the style of Tom Waits.

My life blows on by
like terrestrial garbage minus meaningful graffiti
Is that your hand upon my thigh,
or are you trying to tell the time by
the way I twitch?

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Don't you take that tone with me son.
haven't you heard by now?
that you're the only one
with the real keys,
the real (expletive deleted) keys.

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Have you ever heard the saddest song?
It's the one that no one hears
though it's played the loudest by
Nursing home ladies in knee boots and silk stockings

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

I dream about your teeth weekly
they stare and spit while you sit and knit
still Oscar the grouch eats ice cream sandwiches
and he spits out the pits.

She Is For The Weak and Wise

SHE is for the weak and wise.

HER, no clever coy disguise.
My sense of safety risks no rise

From SHE or HER colorless eyes.

It wasn't SHE who, all alone,
Ensnared my heart to forge HER throne.
SHE did not shatter all I'd known,

But MEGHANN splintered hope like bone.

I did not throw myself at SHE
Just to recoil instantly.
SHE uttered no heart-scouring plea,

But ANNIE bore the tragedy.

HER kiss was not the sweetest grace

That my naive young lips would taste.

Not HER green eyes did thoughts displace,

But I was lost in KALI's face.

SHE is for the weak and wise.

In dreams of HER no danger lies,

But through a name, lips, hands and eyes

Real hurts and hopes I realize.

I was listening to Bull Black Nova off the latest Wilco album on the way to church this afternoon, and I was struck at how little instrumentation there is at times in that song. This got me thinking about what I was going to blog about (These days most things are becoming fodder for blogging, only I never remember what my thoughts were when actually I sit down to write).

Most people can't verbalize what makes music good. They can't tell you why they like it. They'll say, "It's got a good beat" or "the melody is really catchy". This is, of course, very true. And their inability to ascertain any more distinct reasons than that is no fault of theirs. I understand that there can only be a certain amount of nerdy people in the world who love to think about what makes music good...if we were to tip the balance, we would awaken the dark god of music snobbery and soon wars would be fought over which Death Cab for Cutie album is the best (it's Transatlanticism) not about world's remaining natural resources.

Here's what I'm mulling over. What makes music sound good, disregarding personal taste or genre? Ok, I'm not going to even attempt to come up with a totally unbiased and complete list. I'm simply going to focus on the absence of sound.

Initially, silence is the reason we like sound. The ability to string differing sonic pitches together in a pleasing way was perhaps God's greatest gift to us. That and Jesus. He's pretty great too.

But I would suggest that the use of silence or an absence of sound within a song is often what really draws us. Dynamic, crescendo, and decrescendo are what makes a song interesting to listen to. A couple of years ago a crew from Vineyard Music National paid us a visit and lead a workshop on worship leading. To illustrate the point that musicians on a worship team should listen to each other and consider how what they are doing is fitting into whatever sound the team is trying to create, the VM team began to all play as hard as they could for the entirety of a song, all playing at 100% volume, no change between chorus and verse. It was exhausting to listen to one song like that, let alone an entire set. After two songs of that, I would be done. I would lose interest, and become disengaged--I'm talking purely in a musical sense here.

When the quiet part of the song comes I find I'm drawn in more, I'm grabbed and I want to listen for what instruments are playing and how they will gather momentum again. When I talk about doing this with my weekend worship teams I'll call it "giving the song room to breath". It's a chance for the listeners to take a collective sigh. And this principle is true whether you are playing with an entire orchestra or playing solo at a coffee shop. We do not need to fill up the all the sonic space with sound. When a band or artist does that I find myself very bored with their sound.

I think I could write more but I am already late, so I will end with this. When creating music learning to musically edit yourself is worthwhile.

Runner Sled Sonnet

How long I pause upon that lofty hill

Until my courage summoning I give a kick

And swim out from the slow into the quick

Runners hum and bite, deck sings, snow spits and fills

Mittons, glasses fog, a quickly wiped spectacle

Lean hard! shift, scrape rocks and sticks,

A sudden jolt and brief flight nearly flicks

Our hero, but for my grip and steely will.




Freedom! In that moment pure

Danger married to delight, and laughter

Bubbles out, I fly across the fen

It is such heady wine and sure

Enough, The ditch! road flying under, and after

Coming to a rest, hoist my steed, and climb again.

Old Poem

Here are the titles, here are the stories, here are the woes and misfortunes of the life that loathes and respects the solitude of souls...

Here are the porings, the loves the lusts and happenings, here are the darknesses represented in happinesses, the smiles the glimpses and the lapses...

Here are the broken, here are the thought to be healed and forged and tap dances, here are the feelings, here are the thoughts and emotions of the emotionless forgetfulness of lost friends, and new brothers...

Here is to long lengths, and extreme measures, here is to wash outs and walk ons, here is to pain and plain view disdain, here is to men of valor forgotten by opinions, and the women who stood at their side thought to be slaves, but never happier and proud to be the reinforcement for an army that would of never made it without them...

Here is my soul, here is my spirit, here is my mind and all kinds of lost hurt, here is the love that no one has seen, and no one will, here is to imperfection, and how it pisses me off, here is to my demeanor, and the way I walk, here is to pride and the way it destroys all men, until their redemption or as I call it their compensation...

This is what I see when I look down, a foot, now leave it alone...

This is what I see when I look up, a face, a case of mystery laced by my doubt and distributed by my bull shit and love to see people who are happy, and lost in their misery coming out of pain, only because I did that once and I wish I could do it every day until I die, for that was the day I fell in and out of love...

When I look at my left hand I see a person I do not know, and am not sure if I want to be...

When I look at my right hand, I see one corrupted by a world I knew nothing of until I was taken out of it, I’m not a victim, I am the perpetrator, I am the prosecutor and the remnant left behind by the sin that filled me, how could I ever be the perfection that was asked of me, I don’t think I could ever be what he asks me to be, from on high, I’ve always felt perpetually out of place and never at home, and they say that’s because this isn’t my home, and I ask should that debilitate me...

When I look at my heart it is a weak one, its one that the father shunned for its very nature is death, and I use it with my every breathe, but to no avail for by His power I deny it, but I still soak in the presence of what I will be until the day I die, which is that sinner, and that lie...

I am not something special, that he died as I still was a betrayer, and the only Love I have comes from a man, that I have never seen, and wont until he awakens my heart and makes it strong eternally by his uttered word, it is his command I wait for, everything from my fingers to my core...

Late.
I worked at a summer camp on the construction crew. I don't really construct much. My boss was a guy who had made millions as a private contractor. He reminded us from time to time that we'd never make it in the industry- if we weren't working for a christian summer camp.
One morning he decided that we'd been late too often. We being Spev, Myself, Burley and Ben. He decided that he would start the truck at 6:59 and put it into drive at 7am sharp. The first morning we were early. The second morning found Ben and Burley running after the truck. Really this whole post could be about Burley- his name was a true oxymoron. At 5'10, 130 lbs Burley was anything but. He was not strong. He was not technically skilled. He was not big. He wore a fisherman's hat, sunblock everywhere and those clip on glasses that are designed to shade your eyes or be used as paddles if you find yourself mid-lake without one.

This post is not about Burley. It's about comparison.

I always thought I was fine if I was better than the guy next to me. I wasn't that late if I was there at 7:03 as long as Burley and Ben were there at 7:05 or 7:20 as often the case was. My boss leveled the field. He put the truck into drive at 7am. If you were late you were late- not a little less late than so-and-so. Check yourself. It's only you. It's only me.

So, I write this, at 12:43. Trying to catch the truck.

Just Take Me Home Already

You know better than I do how quickly we could be through all this.

So why? Why let me waddle around in shit? What kind of parent are You?

Just grab my wrist, slap it hard, and make me get into the cosmic minivan.

Ground me. Send me to bed without dinner. Whatever.

Just take me home already.

I know You're patient.

In fact, that's the problem; I'm growing to despise Your patience.

But I suppose You'll be patient about that, too.

Remember when You knew my left knee wouldn't carry me

So You fixed it?

Just like that?

Well can't You just do it again?

I mean, it's basically the same thing.

Somewhere in my head my joints don't work right.

They're rusted out hinges. They're bent.

They stick; I want to do right by You but my hinges stick.

I want to quit shoving my nasty hands into those piles of filth.

I get coffee grounds under my fingernails.

I get used tissues and feminine products stuck to the backs of my hands.

I get bits of busted light bulbs embedded in my forearms.

I get to the bottom. I touch it a couple times. I look around a little.

Then I retrieve my hand and lick it.

I grimace and decide not to do it again.

I feel sick for a day.

I write about it online, like I'm determined to change it.

But I can't.

But You can!

Look, You know I hate this.

I know You hate this.

Can't that be enough?