open mic

I don't like the notion of self-made rules-the assertion of being better than someone else based on a scoring system you've created. Having rules generates a circular timesuck of: wrongdoing, guilt, repentance, re-dedication, wrongdoing, double guilt, etc. People become so obsessed with a conflict they've created, and perhaps it's the need of conquest, the need of heroism, or maybe we are just self-involved to the point of psychosis.

I do believe in positive guidelines though. Example being-my mantra of only spending time with people who can legitimately inspire me. Life is too short to hang out with shades of grey.

Last night I watched one of my exceptional friends play guitar and sing at an open mic night. All the acts that preceded him were pleasant to listen to, but lacking any aspect that rose above the artistic doldrums. A lot of light strumming, a lot of lyricism reminiscent of high school dance dilemmas, and overtly-emotive singing plagued each set. My compadre, Zach, got up, and he whispered into the mic, inaudibly. He wasn't up there for the viewers, that was obvious as the first note was struck. His face removed itself from the world around him, and sank into the murk of his soul. He drew everyone in; not because of showmanship, but for his blunt honesty. His world-weary delivery was haunting to the point of discomfort. He forced everyone to feel his misery, he broke through the reality tv playing on the screens behind me, broke through the commodified coffee drinks, the harlots with ruby red lipstick, and the heathens rolling their eyes.

Maybe that's what true art is-making everyone shut up for a second.

lucid in America

I have three days left of my two-week notice; upon my arrival to the Capitol today, I was taken aback by the dreamlike aura created by the gloomy clouds and carefree slow-moving people. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, listened to the jazzy Kaputt album by Destroyer, and wrote this poem-

lucid in America,
lazy, loose,
ladies of marble, hearts of stone,
the clouds are gathering,
the trees sparse,
coarse winds cool, collide,
realign the telephone lines,
smoke exits the nostrils in good time,
three-piece suits,
hard handshakes,
heydays and hollidays both end in headaches,
lucid, loose, tight as a feather,
riding the Times and drinking empty cups,
full and flavored, gentle, gentle,
the melody is quaint,
but the melody will play,
sing easy, kissing the graves,
the skeletons are lonely, ask them to stay,
brief and brittle, the remnants of the middle,
quake and make me realize the end has and always
will be nigh,
egotripping brothers and daughters at pearly gates,
walking crates half in dismay, half soaked in rays,
interlaced, tracing barefoot on interstates,
humming with the meadowlarks, humming at the dark,
sometimes we're art,
mostly we're stark,
dancing and dying at once,
trival yet trying, the beauty we're still buying,
lucid, free, and easy,
knowingly drifting the pains, the plains
of America.