Masterfade

Here's a cover of Masterfade by Andrew Bird.  The melody and lyrics of this song make it great, even without the violin and whistling solos.  But my version--recorded in my kitchen with my iPhone late one night--pales to the original.

Composed on a Megabus from NYC to Philly

Composed on a Megabus from NYC to Philly

Come home to

Remnants under the bed

Porcelain and woodgrain

Paperbacks and brass

Relapse and relapse

Coalesce and collapse

to the quick tiny spirals

Speculate the maps

Orange overlay splay contract

Spill rhymes in a newel post rap

Finely fabricked aficionadoes 

fastidiously wisecrack 

A drib-drab attack

Autocorrection poetry requires less drafts

Party (2009)

The rooms are drawn dustless, bowls of nuts and ashtrays arranged like museum pieces, sitting cool, ankles crossed until headlights throw shadows of branches over the table.

Through screen door faces strike, alight, catching-up catches fire, conversation blazes then smolders healthy, pauses filled in by worn tones and steady crackle of a fashionable vintage.

The lanes are greased and we're coasting smooth in an evening colony, smiles sphere the proceedings of collecting affirmations and passing plates of savories.

Ferments turn chuckles into brays and the lithe are seen to skip and hang on sweatered shoulders, some have peeled off the perimeter to cradle bottles and study lamp shine.

Susan complains of plastic humidity evaporating from jowls, swimming belly swell, neck around the room, patterns throw up subterfuge in the color of cream and air.

John Chung offers spiced breath with politics, his neighbors intercept syllables but can only grin giddy teeth, the beat will save the moment from being widowed from the interchange.

Phones converse like firefly crickets and turn the porch to shrine, the invisible night into a dark grid where traveling parties flicker.

Chairs invite rovers to unroll scrolls amidst windless chime bottles, the living room is kept afloat by stories, the kitchen stretches like a cat but breaks retracting into silent cud-chewing.

The silver ball bounces bringing peals until reaching a cluster of automatic philosophers, one 

who pockets it to specimen and register with the taxonomists.

Couples trade tired glances while the desperate impassioned make a final push to turn the night into a memory, framed photos shrouded by empties.

In the end the cars prove impatient, the center cannot hold, the rooms regain their corners, the air sloshes lazy and then smooths until the pasty morning.

Apparently

Here's a draft of a brand new song.  The lyrics are philosophical, straightforward, and have a positive resolution.  It's slow-tempoed with a somewhat bluesy delivery.  There are some interesting and unexpected chord changes.  This is just a draft recorded on my phone (the guitar is not even well-tuned) but I think there is some promise here.

November

Here's a seasonal poem I wrote 5 years ago:

November

It came with a new caliber of acceptance.

No one expected change but nothing did

and it had been years of this.

Reminders of mortgages, mortality

still took the spring out of steps,

but leaves turned to be admired, raked

and along with the windows

we weatherproofed our thought-streams

from the penetrating chill.

Shorter days meant less time for daydreaming--

talk turned to heating oil and stew ingredients.

Those pagan songs of summer forgotten,

we made like a family under inherited wool

pulled from the attic.

The brazen brace of a young frost triggered rodent urgency

and the fierce crust of sunlight on the rooftops in the late 

afternoons mostly went unnoticed.

My album recorded at home

In 2008, I was inspired to start writing music and poetry again after not doing so for a bunch of years. A year later the creative juices were still flowing nicely and I decided to challenge myself further and write and record an entire album.  With no plans to go to a recording studio, I knew from the start that this would be a lo-fi affair.  I liked the idea of doing everything myself--writing, singing, playing every instrument, and learning how to record and mix every track using free Audacity software.  It took over a year, and I really enjoyed and got into the experience.  I made copies on CD and gave them to friends and family though, in all, very few people have heard this.  The sound quality is murky but I'm proud of these songs that I recorded on an old laptop in my living room.

Vic Chesnutt

Vic Chesnutt is one of my favorite poet-singers. Here's a short poem I wrote when he died in 2009. And here's me today covering his song "Lucinda Williams" from the 1992 album West of Rome. It's just a crude iPhone recording but I had fun belting this anthem out.

The steel and cloth of a man is what's left.
Bereft.
A wheelchair and clippings.
Woodgrain and shavings.
Clipped wings still can't fly after passing,
can't beat at the honeyed air,
or slice at the earth,
inspire sweet relief or despair.
The gnarl and rail don't come from the casket.
But none of us ask for it.
None of us asked for it.
 

Welcome

On most weekday evenings in my house it's not until about 9:30 or 10:00 that my son is asleep, dishes are done, and lunches for tomorrow are made.  At this point if I don't succumb to watching old Simpsons episodes, I am doing something creative, either in the basement working on songs, curled up on the couch writing lyrics or poetry, or sometimes just reading.  I play out in the neighborhood sometimes, but besides that the fruits of my creative pursuits don't get much exposure.  Hence, this blog.  I don't expect fame outside the walls of my house (my parrot really likes my songs), but recognition is nice and so is the small chance that my work will entertain or inspire.  So here's to a conscious effort to be more open with my art.  I'd be happy to have any comments you care to share.