the fang gang

wrote this while sitting around during a DRACULA rehearsal on sunday. DRACULA (the musical) opens Sept 11th at Theatre Three.

nosferatu

teeth
bare them
blood barren
night-tremor stalk
walking lonely teeth
sharp to stab its victim

random thoughts

we should not worry about getting into heaven; that is for the future. if we live a good, reverent life now, what need have we for worry?

-----

such friendliness and good feelings cannot be replicated anywhere but at a hippie concert, and it is here optimistic ideas about a utopian world are born: such acceptance, such fellowship, such commonality.

to nothing

where are we going showing the slowing of the tides the rides the sides of the barn are torn are tarnished silvered in the gold light of the sun gleaming seemingly incessantly a mess of photons and protons and turn-ons and shut-offs and switches the witches of the valley into the barley barely battered in the beach blankets of the west wind.

midnight blues

i don't live in rocky point anymore, but tonight this poem i wrote back in january popped into my head. thought i'd share.
 
A Night in Rocky Point

Couched in suburban anonymity
Through the night's chill
A cooler cat honks his way
Through Parker's land of birds
Feathery music tripping against the stars
Bars of melody
          of soul
A human wind
Briskly blowing into the ears
Hearing blues and reds and greens
Medicine much needed
to warm this aching heart

Far off in France the
Melody sways
Chassés in the ev'ning
But here it's free
It's dance unmetered
          unrhymed
But the rhythm's there
In the freezing air
An aire on the heir of the blues
Thrills to fill this night
Music lifting sunken souls
to flight


31 Jan 10

something new i'm working on

these are the introductory paragraphs to a short story i'm working on. right now it's called "Love Song."

-----

He was a singer of great renown, and when he sang the women sank into their sighs and longing. Long into the night, he'd sing for them his songs of love and loss, but mostly love. Of all the singers of love songs in the world, he was most assuredly the best as I watched him there, and the girls all around, sighing and longing and waiting for him to look their way, which he never did, since his eyes were usually closed or looking at the neck of his guitar or staring far off into another world. Even when he thanked them, he closed his eyes and said it with a small bow of his head, then walked off to rest in whatever room was provided for his resting.

old friend

took a trip to West Hills the other day to show April a spot in the woods. reminded me of this poem i'd written about walking near there, and near where Walt Whitman was born. thoughts?

Walking in Walt Whitman’s Wood on a Warm Winter Day

I.
Standing gazing at the island below
The shopping mall that glitters in his name
Cars that care not on what sacred ground they drive
Above all that
Kissing the sky
Thanking God for the air
Standing tall as giants
Glancing to the west
Viewing taller hills
A world away
At once small again
The roar of traffic in the distance
Reminders of a sick civilisation
Plagued with inequity to divinity
Seemingly striving for serpentine ways