–
This is a poem that I wanted to write if I were to move to Chicago. I do not see me living there at any point in my life as I have aspirations that cannot be fulfilled in the wonderful windy city. So here it is…Chicago
–
I am one of you
Adhering to the droning call
Of the El clamoring on rusted tracks
Echoing through slim walls
And decrepit cinder block exteriors
Sound waves rumble through cracked wooden floors
Off arched doorways and into my ears
–
I am one of you
Adorning the Transit Authority with wrinkled dollar bills
Fumbled out of pockets full of lint and crumbs
Into hand frozen from wind rustled streets
Faces frozen eyes wondering for the next train
Enjoying the warmth of the train car
Handling homeless and trying to be generous
–
I am one of you
Creeping into storefronts to make my nose recover
From delayed busses and off kilter schedules
Sitting proud in my seat
Kindly nodding to the gentlemen and the lady next to me
Waiting for the next stop
The next opportunity
To start a conversation to ask how you are doing
–
I am one of you
Illuminated under the city lights
Crawling from my small abode in the height of 8 stories
Crackling heaters with old fashioned glory
In the stream of young lust hoping for a midnight story
Passionately taking every moment as it comes
Letting the others pass as they go
–
I am one of you
Saluting the 6 star banner
Waving in baby blue and red
With honor and dignity it waves
Gently
From the buildings overhead
–
I am one of you
With hope for a better future than today
Trying to make things better than yesterday
Shootings, violence, and challenges
The city faces everyday
Only change will then come
When the people have the pride to say
–
“I am Chicago”
We are all busy
Too fucking busy
To
Care
–
Unfortunately
It is not alright
Its very easy to see what is going on
The music world has a case of gluttony
Supply and demand
Has crippled every last musicians hand
–
No more venues to play
There is a new price in town
A way called pay to play
It’s no longer about music friends
–
I must know at least 100+ musicians
Me being included in the big mix
A mix of everyone
Fighting everyone
Pushing anyone
Lower and lower
Until we have reached a new low
Below the impossible line of zero
Now we must pay
Out of our own dusty pockets
To create music for people to enjoy
How did this folly become the one
That I rely on as a means to be employed
–
But the venues enjoy the high chair
Bib wrapped around their necks
With a golden spoon in their mouth
Fuck what music used to be about
–
Its about the bottom line now
And it seems if you commit to this profession
You are bound to lose
Bound by something you did not choose
–
So I ask every musician do not play for free
Do not pay or even a shitty guarantee
Because if one falls for the silly trick
The rest of us will be doomed by silliness
–
In a world that has the x graph pushing us down
Rather than go lower push back and don’t give ground
We have to be an alliance
Of strong resolve
In a desperate attempt
This deficit we can solve
–
The challenge of the modern musician is ever daunting
Full of empty bars and feedback so haunting
We only have each other in the end
So stick it to the man asking you to pay
And this is what you say
–
I am a musician of hard work and dedication
Your cheap bar provides my weary eyes no medication
For what music creates there is no other sensation
So throughout all the nation
We will not play for free
This is just the way it must be
Smell the Open Road
Gas tanks filled with spring water
After an evening rain
Burnt oil
Mixed with crisp dry grass
Exhaust, rubber, and leaves
Animal carcasses and skunks
A breeze off the mountain
The clatter of a loose strut
The smell of day old coffee
Cigarettes burnt and discarded
This is what the open road
Means
The smell of the iron factories
On the southern belt of lake Michigan
Bellowing smoke into the pale virgin air
Blowing through vents
Uninvited and black
The water air carries it slowly into the sky
As tires burn
Coal burns
Into the morning sky
To the mountains north of New York
The cities production
To leave the consumer with a knife and fork
These days on the road
Go long and slow
The smell of semi barreling down the road
Reminds me of black soot wrapped in burnt grass
With a wind swept freshness
This is the open road
And what it means to me
A Cup of Songwriting 