Friday, December 28, 2007

Friday Night at the El Adobe

Its cold tonight at the old ranch house, a dark intentioned and ill mannered wind trying to insert itself into every crack and crevice. I'm doing my usual thing when the weather is foul, and the muse feels pent by the surroundings and the afflicting chest cold: Being a vegetable in front of the computer. In my browsing of one of the 'net forums I participate in I settled in to read the most recent posts in a favorite thread; all about cigars. One poster was commenting about his recent first experience with a fine cigar - Settled into his basement "man room" with a good buddy, sipping glasses of Gentleman Jack and puffing away on Romeo y Julieta's - and it brought back memories of, and a fervent desire for, some of my favorite Friday nights over the past five months.
Gathering with friends to go get excellent green chili cheese burgers, and then retiring to a friends apartment to break out the fine liquor, good beer, and excellent cigars. Sitting outside, smoking, often with a glass of something tasty in hand, enjoying the company and conversation of dear friends in the cool late summer, autumn and early winter darkness.
Thinking of this my mouth went wet for the smooth taste of good bourbon, and the billowing, rich, flavor of a strong cigar, and my heart cried for the company of my friends. To be with those who understand, those who share, those with whom I am communal in virtue and in vice - Good company, over good food, good drink and the shared pleasure of cigars is something beyond compare.
In lieu there of, I'm going to wrap myself up with a good blanket, a hearty dose of cough syrup and a book in hopes of finding my way to sleep and fighting this demon out of my lungs. Really, its so much more miserable now by comparison.
I owe you a toast my friends, next time we circle up and do it all again, for such really is the best in life.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

What is sky?

They tell us about rain
water, they say, that falls from the sky
and washes the dust away
Eyes turned high, we see the rock overhead
and ask, what is sky?
The newcomers try to explain
rock dust filling their foolish mouths
smothering their lies
until they speak in the same
mumbling tongue as us
filled with dust and dry
She was one of them
but lied with her body
that never turned grey
She spoke with her hips
each swing of the pick, rock into dust
and her clean clean skin
never dirtied or touched
Her mouth kept shut, she watched
not as we watched
Cool blue eyes turned back up the shaft
Where we had forgotten how to turn and walk
she looked
Her pick rang as it fell and danced on the floor
her feet raised dust that never clung
and she ran
Into the darkness behind
We trembled as she disappeared back into myth
and turning back said just another lie
The ring of picks resumed
filling ore cars behind, unsent and waiting to be called
Our grey bodies thrown into the rock
coughing blood turned grey already deep inside
Then first one hammer fell silent
then another
then all
Down the shaft she came
and she glistened as she walked
The never dirty skin shining with droplets
Workclothes torn and soaked to her skin
Her clean clean skin
We circled and stared
a hand reaching out then another
and another
We touched the wetness, the cool dream
soft on our fingertips, her water, her skin
She smiled to see us reach
until a hand was pulled away
the rock dust stuck to her
As each touched and pulled back
tears begin to well in her eyes
but stuck to dust and dried
She turned grey to our touch
And her sadness rang in the first pick-fall
as she cut again into the rock
her own flesh
and so far from the rain
Eyes to the rock above we all heard her
What is sky?

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Tom Waits Waltzing Matilda live 1977

Music... placeholder, more than anything else, for now. Yay for the Google empire and how far it reaches...