Hello, Sweet Mourning.

Hello sweet morning, behind my blinds!

You creep seeking eyes to find

Lying there i stir and toss

To capture dreams before their lost

Cloaked in slumber, soft and warm

I wish away the day's rewards

To lie and wait for two more days

Until the sun dims away

No ring nor bell can stir me so

To want another place to go

And as i slide into my head

I go to where to the neurons lead

A field a home an ocean shore

Where i may dance for hours more

My lighted mind doth oft' construe

A better life than what I knew

Among the sheets I spend my time

Living only half alive

For men of conscience must've shown

One must reap what they have sown

Yet still I rot comfortably posed

While rays doth shine through my window

Spilling in to wake the soul

Who misses what he'll never know.

Sweet Nothings

Let your mind be drenched in your surroundings

So you may drown in its bliss

Do not fade into the sweet fog of banality

Nor grow into anyone or anything

Be the saint who offends the holy

and a sinner who drinks from Poseidon's pond

Soak in the sun and breath on forever

Exhausting only your insights

May your life be a poem and your death a song

Let the soil sing your eulogy

For if there are no words within the earth you lay

Then sing the hymns of backward angels

As the trees whisper your fate to the sky

And the clouds plot their revenge

I ask you simply to drink down a plain

And forget that life ever began

Land of Salt-less Seas

The sun shines not from sky nor ground

but from the souls of youthful men

I splash and toss in summer lakes

to grasp a moment newly found

Near Lake of Huron I lust and pray

and soak in the sounds of bustling life

my skin become the silky night

for the sacred lies in the profane

O' heart of rivers travel low

to meet me in great salt-less seas

and when I see God in the gaps

I walk the seas glazed from the cold

From northern lights to suburb homes

I know no land more home to me

still splash in play til' bones are bare

while masses from the mitten roam

Flee afar to golden lands

ne'er shall you forget your roots

for mind, muscle, blood and bone

forever shall be Michigan grown

Paddling Through the Sun

Two men approach a small beach crevice. The sandy shore is tinted orange from the setting sun. The lake mirrors a pallet of soft oranges, reds and blue mixed together as if splattered onto a piece of glass. They set down their towels, tackle and worms on a white bench and approach a row of canoes racked close to the water. The rack is nestled between a small forest of trees and alongside four sailboats pulled ashore, chained together, and neatly packed away. They each grab an end of one of the hallowed aluminum vessel and drag it forward across the damp sand, placing the stern two-thirds into the lake. One man walks over to a handcrafted rack secured between two trees located behind the canoes and grabs a pair of paddles. He measures the length up to his chin and looks over at the other man, assuming he'd require a larger size.

"Should I put on a life jacket?" the taller man asks.

"Yeah, make sure it fits well though," responds the man by the shore, laying the paddles against the front and back seats of the canoe. He joins the taller man by the long white gate lined with blue, yellow and red life jackets. He quickly tightens his friend's jacket and then his own. The sun is sinking near the tree line, with only about an hour's worth of light left. They hear the cheers of young campers gathered at their weekly campfire. The cheers echo across the still lake, forming small ripples which quickly vanish into its totality. Hearing these cheers the two look at each other and at once become aware of their fleeting opportunity. One looks up at the sky to check the sun's position, grabs the fishing poles and steps into the front of the canoe. The other man grabs the worms and tackle box, places them carefully in the middle of the boat and pushes the rest of the flimsy vessel into the lake.

The boat wobbles for a moment and the taller man braces himself, tensing his shoulders, legs and face.

"Don't worry, Gal," the man calls from the back of the canoe, "it won't flip unless you really want it to!" Gal's expression lightens and he helps paddle them out.

"Yes, 'Zen Master'," he replies with a sly grin growing up the side of his face. His accent curves into a strong upward inflection as if always he were always asking a question. Their boat floats out and cutting through the reflection of the light orange sun on the water, creating a wake that spans beyond the circumference of the sun and vanishes. Though the chants continue from the nearby camp, the voices now seem to be coming from an alien world as if they had launched a rocket rather than a canoe. The chants continue echoing off the trees and ripple through the lake, reverberating off the thin steel plates of the canoe before returning to stillness, blending in with the conversations of the crickets and frogs. The men breathe a sigh of relief and smile into the reddish blue sky.

They paddle out about twenty meters before deciding to cast out. Gal struggles to keep his balance as he turns around for his pole and worm. The man in the back keeps his legs spread to properly distribute his weight.

"Make sure you pinch the worm," he instructs Gal.

"All right...," Gal pinches the worm, eyebrows narrow beneath his thick curly hair, in deep concentration. He takes off a fourth of the worm and throws the remaining torso back into the container. They place their worms on their respective hook and cast out. The faint lectures of their co-counselors can be heard coming from the distant shore, beyond four docks and a row of weeping willow trees. They're handing out merits to the campers for their accomplishments over the past two weeks. The two men in the boat try hard to tune the nearby commotion, keeping themselves in the stratosphere of their own activity.

Their boat slowly rotates clockwise in the water twisting their lines and torsos in various uncomfortable positions. There is no wind, nor wake, but somehow the boat still flows with the movements of the seemingly placid lake. Both adjust their fishing poles accordingly to follow the rotation. The sun slowly sinks behind the trees as if sand sifting through an hour glass. The two look up at the vacant tree line and try to focus their attention on the present moment. Their lines sit undisturbed, without a tug or sign of aquatic interest.

"This is really nice, we should have done this weeks ago," says Gal.

"I agree, but next time we should grab a six pack," they agree and Zen Master lets out a chuckle. He calculates the time their nights off begin, when darkness comes, the changing summer hours and the actuality of something like this ever happening. There's a slim chance. Aware of this, he soaks in the moment, continuing to listen to the subtle creeks and splashes of the wildlife on shore. Zen Master paddles out a little further. Gal fiddles with his line, trying to unwind it from around the end of his pole. Zen Master continues to row forward slowly, smiling as he watches his friend struggle with the line. They both inquire about the lack of mosquitoes, and smile gratefully for the rare evening of tranquility.

Zen Master stares off into the dark water reminiscing about the madness and wonder he'd witnessed over the past month. Long days, loud voices, stubborn kids, and daily trips on the same lake he seeks sanctuary. He considers beer options for the night ahead and weighs the price difference between the local bar and liquor store with the price of "good times" and "potential memories". He then wonders if Gal thinks in Hebrew or English while longing for his fiancé to join him at the bow of the boat. He looks down at his sandy feet, torn shorts and dirt covered legs and remembers how he hated sandy feet just four weeks earlier.

"I don't understand where all the fish are," Gal finally lets out, still fiddling with his line, "you would think coming this far out from the dock we would be able to catch something." His Israeli accent shines through when frustrated.

"Yeah, I see a lot of fishing boats out here during the day," Zen Master replies with a sigh, zapped back into reality.

"Maybe they're all asleep"

"That's a possibility." They are silent for a moment. It is almost dark now and they contemplate turning in. Gal reels in his line and places the pole gently behind his back bracing still from the rocking boat. Zen Master stares off a little longer, not ready to return to the responsibilities and irritancies on shore. He looks towards the beach and imagines the process of sneaking back into a pitch black barn to put away the worms and poles and finally reels in his line. They both pick up the light wooden paddles and begin to row back. The sun they had once cut across in the water was now gone. Only a black blanket of murky water remains. It's only interrupted by the small wake of the boat and the gentle paddling of the two men.

Atonality, Paradox, and Spontaneous Expression

"A good traveller is one who does not know the destination, and a perfect traveller does not know where he came from." Lin Yutang

Do you ever feel that you can never get quite what you wanted to express out and into the world? There's an aching in your spine, the nausea moving through your stomach and clouded thoughts sifting dimply through your mind. Life is strange paradox, we have all the options in the world open yet we don't know which one to choose. It's a paradox of freedom I suppose, to be frozen by the overwhelming abundance of choice. There are so many examples, so many individuals to learn from and to guide us. Yet we sit. We stare. We long.

It seems that creation and art itself is a paradox because in order to authentically express one's self it must come from an absent mind, without intention. The Taoist term is wu-we: to do by not doing. Anything clear and distinct or whenever we have a vision or conviction it seems the outcome is less powerful, at least to ourselves, than unabashed expression. It may be primal instinct, something as civilized as culture may just our urge to thump around on the ground in a socially acceptable way. Another paradox it seems: to lash out because you're unable to lash out. Freud called this neurotic behavior, to express our desires in a way society approves of. Heavy Metal and video games are great examples of neuroses. Instead of a Dionysian and cathartic explosion of our urges, we bury it or try and find that which hits closest to what we would really like to do.

This perspective works well when considering the evolution of western culture of the past two centuries. As man became more and more civilized, his urges for primal expression grew stronger. Capitalists try to develop products to submerge these, to use material possessions as a subterfuge for that which is most natural. As Christianity and guilt's grip loosened the new iron grasp of consumerism swoops in to relieve the forgotten gods and replace them with a new form of diversion. As industrialism developed so did uniformity, blandness and perfectionism. With new technology came new standards. Man began to feel more and more separated from their world, alienated from the dirt under their nails.

When looking at the artistic development of the past few centuries one begins to see the breakdown of artificial barriers and rules while simultaneously more structure and rule began to rise all around. As the ground was paved to roads and skies filled with buildings music and art became freer and looser than before. Composers began rejecting tonality, artists became more and more abstract and social standards began to loosen. Within their constraint man found a way to be free beyond their physical barriers. Neuroses began to evolve. As science developed man was found to be a spec within the whirlwind of the universe leaving him lonelier and in greater despair than ever before. Mankind began its decline into nihilism and has been faced with the paradox of their freedom ever since. Even with God in the picture, more and more paradoxes began to arise.

While we became more civilized externally, internally we remained just as primal. Bigger bullets, bigger bombs, bigger buildings, bigger fires, bigger disasters and yet our hearts remain the same size. Another paradox, how the greater the technology, the greater the wealth, the lower the happiness, and the increase of discontentment (manufactured or not) than ever before. Life itself became a paradox, that meaningless must become our meaning like a phoenix from a flame. Even when the big picture makes all of life seem trivial and pointless, we live on continuing to feel, love and desire. Walking aimlessly in the dark we keep the light in our minds and paint our own canvas.

I've always found the most absurd and chaotic to be the most beautiful, something I find very rare. Somehow in chaos, absurdity and atonality I find harmony. Staring the mess of Jackson Pollack's art I feel for a moment as if the whole world makes sense. All the calculated and formulated art seems so cold and distant. It was as if the artists were missing something or maybe I was missing something; probably a little of both. However, when staring into a smear of paint on the wall, I feel most alive. The same goes with music. When hearing atonal chaotic noise as in a Frank Zappa or Edgard Varese composition I feel as if the world is dancing. Maybe these artists finally caught up with the universe and began to play to the world's tune rather than making it fit into theirs. The music of atonal "avant-garde" artists seems to write music for life that matches the sounds and poetry of the world around us in all its chaotic harmony. Their music and art is closest to pure expression, to a primordial release. It speaks to the heart and mind in ways formulated and civilized culture cannot. There is a very unique emotion to it, an emotion that runs deeper than any other and blankets one's body inside and out.

What's most fascinating in my experience of creating such music and art is that intention can be the biggest hindrance to achieving a potent effect. Like wu-we, creating powerful improvised or spontaneous music, poetry or art one must let go and surrender all will and intention while involved in the creative process. Facilitating this sort of creation becomes a very complex task. Like in Zen, enlightenment or the Zen realization comes when one is relieved of action. To do this is itself hard to explain and even harder to do. This is so because doing is quite the opposite of the intention, and again intention will tarnish the results. Like trying to calm the waves in a pond, the best method is to let it be. You cannot flatten water; to do so would only make the matter worse. Authenticity is much the same. As soon as awareness or intention is brought to the matter, it disappears. You are most yourself when not trying to be yourself, this is when you are most authentic. For a musician, expression is purest when allowed to arise on its own without force or conviction.

These ideas are quite foreign to the Western ideal of things. Work is highly valued and non-action or idleness is looked down upon and a waste of time. Time is given a dollar value and to waste time is to waste money. One must have goals, orientation, and most of all intention. It is no wonder many are walking around feeling hallow, inauthentic, and confused. How can one capture that which can only be capture by not looking for it? Another paradox is that happiness only comes when it is not sought after. This is called the paradox of hedonism. This is not too foreign, just think of all the most compelling and interesting nights of your life. Often they arise when unplanned or arise out of boredom. As soon as an intention is set, the goal is lost. However, it seems counterintuitive to claim life is best lived directionless and without purpose. This is what we consider depression, a state of confusion, despair and lack of direction. It seems we have on our hands another paradox; life is best lived when aimlessly chasing something. Sounds off still.

If our lives are like a Stravinsky composition or a Pollock painting like the Existentialist proposes than how is it we capture our authenticity? We already let go the idea of the aimless life, but is there a way to synthesize the two extremes? To look at the opposite end, a life of rigid rules and strict dogmatic devotion leaves one caged and bored. Routine is the punishment Sisyphus was condemned to, and it is commonly said variety is the spice of life. Too much though may prove too strong for most. Total instability is stressful and begins to turn life into a proverbial whirlpool. However, if we try and mix our lives up it becomes contrived like the middle aged man trying to recapture his youth with hip cloths and a hot rod. So what is the overarching philosophy to be? Can we learn from spontaneous creation?

For me, I feel most at home when writing or performing doing as I am now: making the message up as I go while watching my thoughts and emotions weave themselves through my fingertips and onto the paper or into the air; letting the piece of work take form as it may. Sure, the finished product is not as refined as it could be, but it is as true and real as it gets. It remains authentic so long as intention is kept at a distance (which is hard when intention is the topic at hand). One must facilitate a necessary environment for it to occur without forming any sort of goal, like when opening Microsoft Word or booking a gig, setting up a canvas. One is placing themselves in a context relevant to their mode of expression or catharsis while letting go of a goal. This is very much like meditation where you take position to facilitate non-action.

There must be a way to do the same in life. Possibly to allow for the possibility of happiness and spontaneity without actually seeking it and remaining open to all life has to offer. Like a Pollock piece, one has to take a step back and absorb all the strokes of life. It's in the big picture we are simultaneously lost and found. Could it be the meaning of life is simply to live it, to accept it, and revel in its ambiguity? Is life an end in itself? If so, is seeking meaning, purpose and direction self defeating? Like a guitar solo or poem, maybe authenticity and truth come when we stop trying. Bukowski has two words written on his grave: Don't Try. This is a message to writers looking for inspiration on how to stay inspired. As he so elegantly put it, "A good poem is like a beer shit".

In our society and the collective consciousness, being "put together" and holding a clear and distinct understanding are held in high esteem, but maybe being lost isn't so bad. It always seemed to me that the ones who appear to have their lives together that are the lost ones and while the rest end up with something beautiful. It seems that life happens whether we want it to or not. We wake up, the sun rises, things happen, we die and life goes on. Change is the way of the world, and trying to grab onto something will only make its departure more painful.

It seems all of life is a paradox, and most of the truths are backwards. This isn't anything new, which is another paradox: that sometimes the oldest and most primitive end up being timeless and sophisticated. As for expression and the irking under my skin I started with, it seems as if I achieved my goal as always, by not meaning to.

The Gilded Age

Created in the mills by fortune seeking men

a terror springs and's set forth to ravage foreign lands

With metal plated scales and breathing smoke and flames

the new monstrosity of progress seeking victims to claim

The countryside is leveled and green turned to gray

while the sky is scorched and starry nights are hidden away

Homes replaced by castles where serfs are shackled in

to have their daily bread, they must work til' dusk begins

What once was God's country and enjoyed by one and all

now becomes property to those within its walls

Magic, tales, and wonder are lost to uniformity and guilt

the once beautiful plains have now been overbuilt

Forests reaching skyward are blackened by coal and soot

while iron giants level lands where holy relics once stood

What was a land of greenery, flourishing and vast

now drowned in concrete spanning high, shameful of its past

The winged form of innovation does not stop at sea

for it flies across to other shores and ravages their peace

While some took to the hills, others sold their souls

and bought a piece of plated steel to turn it into gold

Concrete forests and glimmering lights shine well on man's mistrust

their fear of darkness in and out lies deep inside the iron's rust

while wise men watch and shake their heads, pleading to the sky

"Why must we burn our gardens to make room for empty lives?"

O' sorrow to the foolish creatures for unleashing such a beast

No weapon can ever stop it's path for it feeds on desire and human greed

It's gilded body shines too brightly into mankind's mind

where the pious are corrupted and third eyed man's gone blind.

Mother will not stand for such a monster on her skin

the cancer which has taken hold will pay deeply for their sins

though once man was part of nature, balanced and in check

now faced to pay the piper with the only thing they've left.

The Wanderer

Across the river cloaked in brown

tall stature old and gray.

A light does shine upon his face

a traveler on his way.

The trees do glow a vivid green

and reflect upon his presence

the wise old man with staff in hand

seeks his way to heaven.

Let not be told the tales that passed

for the future is so dim

His mind acute and sense sharp

to what many may seem grim.

Over the pebbles water flows

and guides the way down stream

He follows where the forces guide

while the warm air he calmly breathes.

Two men approach and look across

blades upon the sides.

They seeks the devil walking near

with vengeance on their minds.

One man raises his sights

to look across the bay.

The other follows swiftly

as they swarm upon their pray.

As trampling hooves gallop forth

across the shallow flow

the gray old man walks calmly

moving with the wind's blow.

As surely he should be alarmed

shortly trampled underfoot

Instead he turns to face them

with a calm and charming look.

His staff is raised and shines

and the hills do tremble forth.

The branches fall asunder

knocking the riders off.

They fall feet from the sorcerer

who looks upon their plight

while the horses quickly calm

and prance to his side.

The kings they beg for mercy

as they came to find a man

who's said to've caused a plunder

and cursed their torched land.

He gave a gaze and smoked his wooden pipe

with a twinkle in his eye.

He said to return to their land

and all will be revitalized.

The hill then swarmed a warm breeze

and carried him away

before the men could thank him

he'd gone upon his way.

Be not quick to judge

the strangers and the odd

they may seem to be demons

when really sent by gods.