The Post With No Name

Sitting here remembering when
Songs carrying me gently away
To places of my dreams

Sing to me of angels
Talk to me of love
Cry of innocence lost

Just sixteen
A boy in a man's body
Her age  twenty three

After midnight
Full moon in the sky
Spoke it was right

Lips caressing mine
Fingers entwined in fingers
She showed me the way

Saturday night sitting alone as Dylan screams out songs of love, words stinging in their simplicity, condemning in their familiarity as the reflection in the mirror nods as if to say, "Been there, done that, and have the scars to prove the pain."  Years pass by, bodies and attitudes softening with age, our needs, hopes, dreams,  like those of a child grow simpler, visions of conquering the world giving way to hopes of not growing old alone, dreaming of someone there to hold our hand as we face our destiny, someone smiling at us, whispering "It's all going to be OK" in the darkness of our waning nights.

Reach forward

Fall back

One question God

Why?

Reach forward

Fall back

The freight train hurtling through the night, it's waling forlorn whistle screaming, steel wheels throwing sparks into the silent blackness of my mind.  I awaken terrified in time to see the hall light go off, knowing soon I will hear the creek of stairs.  Trembling, I roll over; seek the comfort of the nightmare from which I awoke, searching for its solace awaiting my fate. 

One question God
Why?

Flash forward

Flash back

Bare naked ladies...a band, an orgy...cannot remember which, the memory a kaleidoscope of photo emulsion images scattered across the floor of my mind, or is that plural, as in more than one, numerous mini me's demanding to be heard.  There is order in chaos, solace in order, everything having place, everything in its place.

"If you could have one thing, what would it be?"

"Safe."

"Really?"

"really"

"WOW, that's intense."

Uncomfortable silence, "and a Bentley.  A classic Bentley.  Anything from say a 1956 too a 1962, those were great years."

"Bentley's a good choice, they made some great cars back then.  Want another beer?"

"sure"

Somethings are best kept secret, or spoken about in code, words with double meanings, phrases that speak a truth to you no one else has to endure.  Secrets unhealthy, yet we as men are expected to keep our past a secret. 

One question God
Why?

The clock moves quickly towards eleven...think a beer would go nicely with Bob Seger.  Any one got some night moves?

One icy cold Saranac "Lake Effect Lager"...the simple pleasure of indulgence.

In escaping our past we run towards a future that seems always to be one step ahead.

When I need to think, clear my head, I go for a long walk in the woods, so perhaps more than anything else, I fear losing my legs.

Who remembers King Crimson, the "Court of the Crimson King"?  21st Century Schizoid Man screaming out his pain as you peel away the layers, like an onion in the rain; you realize he is just like you and me.  Well except for the names and a few other changes when you talk about me the stories the same one...OMG...using Neil Diamond lyrics to draw a parallel to King Crimson...there is a stretch, albeit a somewhat accurate one.

Intellect is just insanity with a pedigree...diploma anyone?

Political Correctness has shelved some of the best jokes I have ever heard.

First time I heard the term "Metro Sexual", thought it meant you had done it on the train...you probably have to be a New Yorker to get that joke.

Free Association may be a mental exercise, but perhaps it should more aptly be a Civil Right.  That one goes out to all my friends in the "Occupy Movement".

When listening to music on your IPod, remember to chose random play to avoid "The Sounds of Silence"...a cold beer on the house to everyone that got the Simon and Garfunkel reference there.

I still have more writing to do, but it will wait.