the collected ambient works, vol. I

Tree songs wailing with wavering wind gusts. Beasts, wild and urbane, relating rhythmically. Bearcats bumping. Kids colliding. Warblers … WARBLING! Meanwhile, pensive poets ponder pristine pentameter. Preposterous! Among the great gathering a tremendous squabble, rabble-rousing alongside reasoned reflecting. Over yonder a proud pile of rock, hardly rocking, not quite resonating, but still wholly riveting. Clouds coalescing, snakes slithering, stars shimmering, even misanthropes menacing. Everything spread thin through space and time, groaning. No thing, notwithstanding. Personal pleas persist— we are the liquor, the language, the lamentation and the luster. Now’s our time to beat upon the collective drum and blow the great horn. Go forth and sound your way.

running and the rhythm

The running and the rhythm. Heaving breath and smooth hot-stepping. Sweat dripping and fiery eyes burning. Thoughts thunk and muscled miles merging. Hauling and hoofing, uphill steadily steaming. The boom-diggity and zoom-zippity. Hell, even the trudge-drudgery and grinding gradually. The move, the groove, the long-lasting loping. The bad mother… flying freely. Heh! Ain’t it funky now?

spare the dramatics and DANCE!

Wise and foolish alike reach birthdays and look back on life lived, both well and not so much, and into the pointless abyss of hopes left unrealized. I’m no exception, but what’s best to say now? A mosquito buzzes around seeking blood. Scotch slides down the throat and imbues with a gutteral, undeniable truth. I was once attached to my mother via the belly button, but I’m nobody’s baby now. { Cheers, Nick Cave. } My face, bearded and weathered after a decent thirty-seven years, is not quite the face of my great-great-grandfather, nor is it the face of some future grandchildren, but these eyes, man, they burn with fucking starfire! Getting old is of little concern when merged cheerfully with the magnificent cosmic frolic. For shit’s sake, spare the dramatics, it’s time to dance.


holiday for hermits (a defense of the Grinch’s early motivations)

Consideration of mountaintops shrouded by wintry mist is a worthwhile endeavor. Retreat into harsh and awe-inspiring environs is our birthright. Don’t tell me I lack empathy in turning away from worldly matters, those clouds of green and red dust left by obnoxious jingles and merrymaking. Heading for the hills is a respectable way forward. Who are you to deem selfish the practice of quietly sitting in poorly insulated huts of poetic solace and bean-fueled contemplation? All around snow falls, within and without, what say you of its effect on mountainous movements? The great matter right before us— gird your shovels and sharpen your pencils! The consequences of your holiday climate are yet to be resolved. Gluttonous ways pale in comparison to the redemptive, holy fortitude of the frozen wilds!

my musical life

I’ve an album in the works, sure to be a huge hit among music-loving cave dwellers. Highlights include “Sweat Forming and Dripping On the Way Up Bear Den Mountain”, introspective and rather comforting in its grandiose reach. There’s “Invaluable Childhood Foolishness”, rich with the maddening bass-nectar of jumping from train trestles and getting blasted in the nuts while wrestling with friends. For good measure I’ve included “Late Night Pre-Vomitus Gurgles”, because most of us can relate to such wanton excess, even if the lyrics are somewhat infantile. My favorite, and hopefully yours too, will be “Rib-Tickling the Void and Hearing the Universe’s Hearty Giggle” since it’s turning into everything I’d imagined it could be. I’ll tour the country playing dank basements underneath the stark light of a single, poorly hung bulb. We’ll dance and sing until falling into involuntary spasms or weeping wildly. We’ll hold nothing back. Tour dates TBA.

shared space, in the pines

“In the pines where the sun never shines and we shiver when the north wind blows.”
— In The Pines (Appalachian Folk Song)

Our shared space hangs heavy. Looking out, mist suspended on mountaintops. All we do is sit and look—always waiting and looking, barely blinking. Forever listening, speaking nothing. My silence stuck in the throat, yours souring the gut. There’ll be no running away or going back to uplifting thoughts. Just looking straight into the longest, saddest folk song ever sung.