Gratitude (by the legendary Beasties)

"good times gone, but you missed them
what's gone wrong in your system?
things they bounce just like a Spalding,
what'd you think, you miss your calling?
it's so free this kind of feeling,
it's like life, it's so appealing
when you got so much to say

it's called gratitude,

good times gone, but you feed it
hate's grown strong, you feel you need it,
just one thing do you know,
what you think that the world owes you?
what's gonna set you free,
look inside and you'll see,

when you got so much to say,

it's called gratitude."

no. 3

on the no. 3,
there's a guy with no teeth,
reading "The Executioner" close to his nose,
an older man with a lunch bag,
having a feast,
a rather large beauty,
with a rip in her hose,
some people stare intently into their phones,
some people sit quietly alone,
old Asian ladies with grocery boxes,
IPod wearing college foxes,


the no. 3,
rides like the hard truths,
so hard to see,
like this time of changing kingdoms,
and an Arab Spring,
like the doctor telling me,
to switch from coffee to tea,
like when the girls I like,
don't like me,

rock n' roll is my life boat,
in a pop culture sea,

C'est la vie,

on the no.3.

midnight Kinhin

rivers of the mind,
float me out to Wolfe lake,
on the moon stained waves,
where I can sink to the bottom,
and count the ragged bones of dead men,
bind them up in fishing line,
and throw them on the fire light,
made of crackling flames,
like a heart pounding in a dark city night...

...down the hall now,
of Derbyshire Lodge,
following the abbot,
he looks like Old Olie,
but walks too fast to tell,
but I know where we are going,
hard through the thicket,
of the hammering hospital headaches,
I know where we are going,
past an open grave,
past an old empty stage,
up the mountain,
to see the sage,
who will ask you,
to ask yourself,
the unanswerable question...

pulling for a rapture

a dubious eschatology,
taught by mum's and dad's,
tales of a king's watchful eye,
to keep the children,
from eating cookies before supper,
from having dirty thoughts,
from playing hooky,

injections of fear and self-loathing,
cultist fables of a sudden disappearance,
loved ones gone forever in a moment,
others left to die,
should you choose to not believe,

in a tyrant in the sky,

created by weak men,
angry at their fathers,
who yet longed for their love,
no favour from the one on earth,
so they'll make a new one above,

complexes stacked on top of complexes,
landfills of guilt and resentment,
chicken wire of hateful judgement,
bounded and rusty,
years of seclusion and fractured friendships,
have built an impenetrable immunity to truth,
intelligence, education, creativity and authenticity,

a longing,
a hope,
a way out,
from a cruel world,
the same one created...
for you?
by Him?

I'm sorry I'm confused by your fervent proselytizing,

while you bemoan my casual dress and duress

you shout words of sin and redemption,

but I only hear form and emptiness.

scatter

wind torn,
and unkempt,

slip your cast,
of hardened resignation,

dive into the form,

this rigidity,
this anomaly,
this flow,



hold tight,
for the approaching storm,
tides of unknown pain,
squalls of poisonous rain,

scatter the binding dread,
and drink silver rivers,
pulled by the exploding sun,

you should know by now,
there is no tomorrow.

brokenheartist

it's good to keep it tight with brokenheartists,
fifty bucks a month,
open early to late,
jump ropes,
heavy bags,
worn canvas,
kettle bells,

it's good to break a sweat with brokenheartists,
in a rusty gym,
where ghosts wait between shafts of sunlight,
dust flies and flickers off broken mirrors,

I used to love a brokenheartist,
but she hated her daddy,

sparring hard to the foot-work rhythm,
when the bell rang,
she would catch her breath,
we'd sit together in the dark,
sometimes she'd be crying,
there was no consolation,
packing up,
I would leave and shut the lights,
and she would fly away,
to sleep quietly,
with the pigeons,
in the rafters,

see you in the morning brokenheartist.

please

please furious sun

burn out our lying hearts

set us free

new blood through old veins

to sit in the dark,
to swallow the humid wind,
to face the unknown,
or recall where you have been,
to build a set of beliefs,
or to see through them,
beautiful souls tangled in a twist of sin,

to go deeper,
is to go beyond
to be without,
is to go within,
to loosen,
to listen,
to open,
to overcome yourself,
is to begin.

wherever

"I'm so sad," she said,
"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked,
"I just need to escape...leave myself, y,'know?" she replied,
"Why are we so alone?" he asked himself under his breath,
"There's others here but I feel like I'm behind glass...and I want to break through..." she stated,
"Maybe you need to move out of yourself, touch the pain...your strong enough to do that," he replied,
"I don't know..." she said quietly,
"Look," he said pointing at the night sky,"the stars...contingent, apparitions of what was...like the spirit they eventually leave no trace."
"Where should I start?" she asked,
"You can start where we are...between the grit and the grace," he replied,
"so wherever?" she asked,
"Wherever," he replied.

hang back

didn't stay long for Ben Harper,
The Roots were enough for me tonight,
they gave me what I was missing,
what I needed,
rawest of funk, soul and blues,
amongst the weed clouds,
white stars,
city scape,
sandals,
dreadlocks,
and titty bouncing tank tops,

together but different we are,

the illusion of unity,

the reality of interdependence,

changing chords,
changing thoughts,
Questlove breaks the chain,
with heavenly hits on the piccolo snare,
I hang back and let the bass vibrate my supper,
and watch drunken boys try for drunken kisses,
from their distracted texting girls.

low souls

the void always itches,
a nagging lack,
the trembling voice of cold streets and colder people,

a failed economy,

a failed environment,

a failed church,

a failed community of empty minds,
wasting breath on useless conversation,
and silly superstitions,
trying to ward off their narcissistic fear of unrealized entitlement,
drilled into their modern western minds since childhood,
by "parental units,"

seems like everyone gets married,
and moves into a bubble,
everyone gets divorced from their friends,
to be with their spouses,
but,
there is still a community...

of low souls,

they live where the nights are lonely,
and the days are worse,
wading through leftover lives,
broken hearts and insane lovers,
they continue to breathe,
create and build with what's been discarded,
and continue to fellowship and grow,
with those whom the Almighty, Vengeful and Jealous God has withheld his blessing.

transcender

wind worn and rain chipped,

a body covered in a million cuts,

aching and burning with unrelenting swelling,

buckling hard against the midnight sun,

the mind becomes twisted, torn and begins to bleed,

the soul is an empty room,

at the end of an endless hallway,

echoing with lonely screams,

stop.

listen.

watch.

- break it open -

feel the body start to move,

the mind start to clear,

the soul begin to laugh,

now drive harder to where you can give without receiving,
you don't notice the heavier burden,

and the heart explodes in the four directions.

between the documents

clustered paper mountains,
swallowed boredom counts the hours,
hundred miles up,
suspended earth turns in galactic magic,
infinite miles out,
time was an idea

lines on the brow

oh youth,
I've grown older,
lines on my brow,
a prisoner of time,
I've lost the Now,
structured by externals,
a figure in the window,
a shadow on the wall,
an empty face at the shopping mall,

oh youth,
don't destroy,
but, rather, create
don't break down,
but, rather, rebuild
don't resign,
but, rather, engage

inject me...
infuse me...
energize me...
animate me...

help me remember...

the way that transcends all ways,
where what dies does not end,
for someday you too will be old,
but we will meet then,
and we will all be young again.

through

hollow grey births a whipping wind,
cigarette butts and grocery bags,

I'm just trying to make it through the day,

overzealous case wants to fall in love again,
with empowered sluts and bearded hags,

I'm just trying to make it through the day,

Apple phone ring tone app finds implants for a clone's ass,
dropped coins in rusty ruts make the hands on the clock sag,

when you ask, I'll say 'I'm doing OK,"

but I barely made it through the day.

by-product

by-product

tend your investments,

straighten your tie,

make loud guffaws of fake laughter,

get to know that guy,

by-product

get yourself on the board,

win the award,

win the resentful approval,

reach, grab, hold, hoard

by-product

you never did anything,

the puzzle pieces were already laid out for you,

you just put them in the right hole,

you never chose you,

by-product

you'll never fit in

there's nowhere to fit,

you've been everywhere,

but you've never really been

by-product

you don't appreciate

the food that touches your lips,

the emptiness, the wandering, the darkest moment,

the damp valleys and icy tips,

life's quiet, unrecognized, underestimated finds,

like the sun shooting through the blinds.

some pain

some pain never goes away,

intrinsic,

contingent,

immediate,

felt with the nerves,

and heart,

it aches through the night,

and walks miles in the cold,

to ease the pain of another,

the roller coaster climbs,

then lets loose,

some feel joy,

while others watch,

some pain is wisdom,

is self-knowledge,

is noble,

some pain,

helps us swallow vanity,

to help us live,

it is righteousness,

it is our own,

it lets us know the other,

and it will be our salvation,

and someday, will give us peace.

gusher

I hate when the bass is weak,
I hate when there's only wine and no beer,
Who has only wine and no beer?
Who does that?
I hate pretentious hipsters,
I hate when Christians gush over Jesus,
I hate broken glass on the rug,
I hate "smartphones,"
I hate when the drums are weak,
I hate "dating,"
I hate last second exit signs,
I hate formula TV,
I hate "leaders,"
I hate weddings,
I hate when the moon is hidden by clouds,
I hate that Christians think that Jesus would have liked gushers,

I hate the endless nights...

I really hate those fucking endless nights.

the holy

on a Monday,
I try to remember,
to forget everything,
to accept here and now,
that the breath is the anchor,

to know,
the self beyond the body,
before the heart is clothed,
before I hide my soul,
that there's no inner,
that there's no outer,
to move beyond the darkness,
to stop having this violence,
this tossing and turning,
this fretting and fighting,

this static coming through...
this hectic static coming through...
this panic coming through...

to understand,

that what is concealed,

is truly naked,

that what is meaningless,

is truly sacred.

damp

I'm sort of stock,
like a pick up line,
in a night club,
like a hipster sipping Pabst Blue,
like a cliche with a condom in it's pocket,
but you're like rain,
always falling,
in May,
grinding on my nerves,
keeping everything damp.