The music is very beautiful. Reggae. Fluid Vibrations sway the crowd while bar maids man buckets of beer.
Rasta Brotha’s sell swag to fans while new community members shake old locals hands. This is a night brighter than most fridays in this artists’ cove by the dam. There is music that everyone is ready to pay for, in a place where music is usually free, it takes a hot degree of radical tunes to glue a crowd together.
The weather is clear, the road is alright and it’s a night to be Erie. Vibes run through this motley crew of mountain dudes and their ladies. It’s a maze of bodies in this mountain town bar, it’s a far cry from a Monday night.
These walls hold history, the stage lay before me and I see musical history being made upon it’s planks. It’s held musical heavyweights and those on their way to melodic history. These walls have absorbs songs from way long ago, older than most of those who occupy this place. The space was recently cleaned in need of a benefit function wine reception and silent auction. But this night is busy and vibrantly moving more alive than that function for the preschool. Now the crowd is way cooler, hip and into it, diverse and with cohesive grip, they move smoothly, swaying away a tired week, consciously they seek relief, unconsciously they reach toward Source. Their bodies feel the tingling touch of love. Tropical and warm in November, take your sweater off and stay a while. Groove and smile to your neighbor, buy another beer, try a red stripe, ride the Erie vibe. Take a toke on the porch, then come back inside and ride high upon funky right rasta jives. Admire Tosh on stage, breathe and sway. Imagine warmer more peaceful days, where the best thing to do is sing to Jah, chill beach side, sit rasta style. These boys take their groove to the road, instrumental load and situational consequence. They work the late night. I am sure it requires some driving, and some times when they are left to their own devices. It is an adventurers life on the road, it’s long open highway waiting to be explored.
Adoring fans, and best laid plans. Celestial guidance, reliance on talent. Challenge that life, imagine a daily revival causing crowds to loudly stir and whir with excitement. This is not a normal Friday. This is Reggae. Get down and get groovy its a blue spectral night, tomorrow is a portal day. I have no where to be but home when the time is right. Enjoying the sight of happy supporters of this tropical art and music that strives to soothe the soul. Be awake and ready to dance close to someone you may not know. The bar is crowed, that crowd is loaded, the band is ready to show it and they are on stage now.
Alcohol will inebriate, but instrumental interlude will satiate thirsty ears weary from top 40 radio and slow tune from light FM.
Musically we sit inside a rainbow of drumming soul, strumming high, linguistically few imitate. Girls slowly ungulate hips and boys hold tight. Each drink takes us further into the night and slow grinding leads to urgency. Aphrodite comes attacking through ear canals. Alcohol loosens bodies, smooth grooving leads to languid undulations under dim lights. Do the boys from this band grind as hard as their shiny haired fans and dreaddy hipster sisters who swear they haven’t heard good songs like this in sooo many moons.
The journalist asks exactly where guys like this stay? In a place like Ned or down the canyon in Boulder where they may keep it cheap with Super8 or LaQuinta, nah they don’t seem like cheapskate. It can’t be too comfortable in inconsistent circumstance. Will this writer get a chance to ask? Damn I slipped in too late.

Unfolding, and I spend far too many hours wishing for sleep in a comfortable bed and almost any bed is comforting when I do not own one of my own.

I am avoiding the inevitable… the trip home bound  calls and I have been too irresponsible for my own good.

The wind is screaming things today and I am still wanting sleep and to allow my dreams to weave magic with this howling outside my window.

I’ve been told I will thrive at anything I stick my mind to.   And for now my thoughts stick to the wind.  As soon as they are there; they are gone.

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Sometimes I find it hard to put my finger on what I REALLY want.

Afraid of serving a cause of a ego maniacal need.

To get what I want, would pertain to success I’ve not been ready for; yet.

But today is a new day, a new reality.

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living, doing being

eating, drinking, entertainment

taking every opportunity

freedom

finding love

loving

making things happen

going with the flow

having faith

being aimless

responsibly reckless

reflection while moving forward

accepting of blessings

unconditionally giving

moments found breathless

letting go

accepting of change

feeding the mind, body, and soul

diving deep

enjoying moments of rest

accepting restlessness

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Goal-less and soulful

sad stories

i’ve  got an earful

some with a humorist twist

my whole world is shifting

conventionality slips from my greasy finger tips

i grow in talent, but i want to cash in these chips

i’m just sick of barely surviving

i’m lying to myself

saying

no one can help the helpless

i’ve just been stressed out at the proposition of asking

there are creative tasks that need blasting

and i am the task master for the job

i have a repertoire of craft

make  you think

make you laugh

but despite the fact I find lacking

this hermit has been in hiding

My life like a glass pipe, blown into perfection at one time.
Detailed color runs through clean glass, a delicate solid; hoping to pass the test of time.
With time comes wear and tear. Exterior beat with heat and elements from the Earth, acting as a hearth for herbs and smoke.
Define my life by a pipe; I just might. A smooth design under swirling pigment as individual as me, yet created by someone I have never seen.
Seems a metaphor for existence.
Tough but fragile. For it while it functions near perfection.
Chips and nicks may break me, but I still function.
Sharp edged cut you, if you do like you want to.
Listen to me, grab carefully or I will cut you.
My pipe and I survive until the time of her life has passed us by.
And now, I find myself with a pile of shattered glass.
Glass coated in resin stinking of time invested into a pipe.
How raw material made what once was intact, ready to act upon request.
But like the best, we all eventually die. Pieces of us live on in sections of glass pipes and bongs.
Like personal kisses, I remember every pair of lips that kissed my pipe.
At night, in dark allies through more than one state of mind.
Passed into hand after hand.
My pride and joy from the Haight.
Couldn’t wait to use her, take her home and admire her.
Watch as I light fire to her.
She glows. She knows my smoke of choice.
Sweet and green. She gleams in the light of a match.
Alive and kicking for only two years.
The tears fell that day when she hit the tile.
All the while, preparing to take me to a higher place.
I knocked the glass to the floor, in one instant, she was no more.
In awe I scooped her up and slid her to a plastic grave.
I save her body on my shelf.
My first one, the best.
Pieces of glass to show homage to the past.
Sections of me built delicately into a new piece of art.
Broken and reborn.
Images torn by time.
Something mine, all the while changing form to fit a new phase.
The rays of hope shine into tomorrow.
No sorrow for broken glass or shattered pasts.
Smile at the chance to begin again.