Is it my hands that make you smile?
These hands that which take the past and shove it away.

For both of us,
we were not only just two broken soldiers wondering
(though we might have been)
I'd like to believe that these strange occurrences have more meaning.

Wonderers we were
pacing back and forth round' a thin line.
And along the shores of our lives where the thin line was about to break,
we found the shells that mended our hearts and blew open the waves.

The waves raced back to us,
and the seagulls sang that day.

I cannot say if the waves have a reason
for swaying this way and that
or if my dreams mean anything more
than a series of days filled with mindless chitter chat

I have wasted much time on many a things;
many precious hours questioning;
wondering if I loved enough or ever loved at all;
dust to ashes (from them) many things fell;
I wanted to be perfect rather than understood or good
but change is always lurking if you're in the right mood

I have wasted much time on many a things
(so they say)
never too late to get it back on such a torpid Saturday.

A rare gem she was
always high as a kite
stroking away at her hair
questioning the meaning of life.

If only I could have saved her
or known what she wanted on that very hour
then maybe she wouldn't have wilted away that winter
with the rest of the great sunflowers.

I'm afraid to fall asleep without things,
like answers before the sunrise
or the meaning of our lives painted across the sky.
Yet my eyes close and the room turns blue.
This empty body next to somebody


Hearts weren't made to bend this way.
Just one cocktail on the hour to help me say,
(words I expected to hear from two)

But only in dreams do we exist
the way I would have liked it to

They play their hearts like gamblers on November days.

They grow their mustaches long to ride along the whiskey waves.

And never will they ever say no to their next drink,

because they gotta soak it in and boast away the stink

to flee from all the malicious thoughts they sought after

week by week.

Clear the fog

The fog is the dream so it seems
The dream is the reality we have created-
the creation of our very lives in which we choose to live in.
But we are so far (do remember)
from being bounded by these chains.
We can transcend
and cleanse and cleanse again and again

Then when all is said and done ( after hours )
like that of once a broken flower
the fabler shall set us free
infinitely through the dusty streets in which we sleep.



(photograph from a still image of the Whiskey Folk Ramblers music video that I just recently starred in)

"Watch what you say, the devil is listening
He's got ears that you wouldn't believe
And brother once you go to him
It's your soul you can never, never retrieve

These blood red eyes
Don't see so good
But what's worse is if they could
Would I change my ways? "
- Black Keys