This is the first part of a series of songs chronicling sections of my life.
At this point, I was stuck in liminal space searching for a handle. Hedonism or the spirit. I didn't know who to love or what. I was drifting--writhing in stiffening self-castigation with arms a’stretch looking for gravity’s grace. We've all been in this muck and had this shit on our shoes. It was never unique and it will continue to occur. All I hope is that these songs evoke the feeling of this time so you can understand or remember. The brittleness and hope, and the desire for something greater in this dense fog of uncertainty to pluck you out and transfigure you whole.

Both of these songs are based on poems that are listed below. The song "Tempest" in particular was originally the length of the entire poem but was shortened because..who got time for that? So I included it here for context and whoever wants to sing the whole thing--because I don't.


Intro:
Chained to a wire near the bird laden river of Sisyphus’ stone
A parched positioned acrobat stagnant on limbo’s thread
Where eden’s leaves tantalize overhead
With Shiva’s dance of changing visage begging to be fed

At the bank, nesting Robbins squawk in flame’s birth
while resting in a rusted body shell’s damp berth
Where bushes aflame for gliding mortal moths
To ensnare those bidding on lamb’s blood troths

Now the ant hills start and the mandolins chime
For there will you find children lost in the recesses of time:
Within the metallic chiming of modern knells
Or in the wood spattered rhythm of Dionysus’ spells

Tempest:
Ribbon adorned weasels scamper by but never quantified
While emitting contrived cackles aimed at God’s cruel jest with a snide
Solomon stews, in austere red and blue, with his lustrous wit
Grasping the reigns of the ornate carriage that sits
Just before the turnpike that blocks a babylonian path
That crawls with troglodytic cowboys of wild east wrath
That secure owned jewels and fled virgins of Crete
Desired by Solomon and his entire demon fleet

With one road given and no mother in sight
He hurls his chart to Shrimp Boy—ridin’ shotgun—with his regal might
Abrogating in dismay over this unanticipated plight
All the while, I lie in the trunk wrapped in a tear soaked flag
Hearing Ray’s voice, “You think you can take this stag?”

Am I going to make it through this night?
Inconspicuous decisions muddle the pane of foresight
though the tempest is of a different kind
God, I hope to see home one last time

Throwing his clout with a gaze of levity towards all hostile foes
Who relent in alcoves to reappear next season with vigor and mind
At the villains’ descent, I spring out as the ghost of Friday arose
And catch the keys to carve the road and unwind

Unsheathed and propelled for the sea
Where isolation’s muse sits atop an ice cap seeking revival
Christ kindly complies drifting to endow will in perpetuity
Gaily they jump to potential mantled earth
only to be sullied by the enemy of survival

Air is made thin but sweet by Mara’s phlegmatic countenance
He presents the dividing path to lotus buffet or abstinence
I scan Shallot’s green mug seeing skittering notes of awe’s consonance
The Galilean shepherds himself right, but I never had much continence

Landing in Polyphemus’ frying pan after tumbling from the sky
Swimming in grease and ichor, floats the prone figures for mince pie
First, Nosferatu emerges anew like a swan in a ballet
Shrieking, “Tomorrow’s lost in your desire for pleasure and play”

Am I going to make it through this night?
Inconspicuous decisions muddle the pane of foresight
though the tempest is of a different kind
God, I hope to see home one last time

Flying with reinvigorated demonic drift
Unseen by blind mountains that would punish if not swift
Into the carnal fire of beguiling bosoms
That purr incessantly for foreign wisdoms
Where I will lie evermore with the tombstone blues
And wonder who’s responsible for me not seeing the clues

Hey Hey Mr. Dylan I wrote you a song
Dancing fire across the American novel for fun
I’m sure you’ve heard this too much before
But I’m writing to you to understand your war
Where you traveled with Baez and your merry band
On a road well traveled where I plan to land
Hoping to not get consumed by the jungle

Am I going to make it through this night?
Inconspicuous decisions muddle the pane of foresight
though the tempest is of a different kind
God, I hope to see home one last time