Monday, December 31, 2018

Running Away With Me Again


Timing is everything, 
Particularly in dreams.

Each of us is a sponge:
Absorbing, capturing, wiping away;
Then rinsing with exercise,
Or a shower,
Or a confession
To remove the stains.

Ah, but they remain

Until we sleep.
Then, and not as often
As one might like,
The vast cavern
That holds secrets
Hidden to the heart
Pulls back the curtain
In patterns and scenes that
Redefine measured random.

Or maybe it’s just my imagination —
Running away with me again.

Sometimes the path
Is paved with billboards
Offering options,
Portals with levers.
Which century?
What location?
What does it mean
That we have this choice?

The future lurks with the past:
Just out of touch.
Slouching near a street light
With a 40s smoke
And a Raymond Chandler sneer,
Someone who resembles Robert Mitchum
Inhales the vision
Of a sultry beacon
In a skin-clutching, 
Flaming dahlia number
Perhaps two sizes small
And about a hundred times too perfect.

He offers her a light, and she replies
with Camel-influenced resonance,
"It's going to be a bumpy night."

Some say they trust in the universe.
Others find comfort in ideals.
History sheds some light,
But not everyone reads these days.

Around the corner
It’s 1969.
A couple in tie-dyed bell bottoms and
Wild hair wave at a kid on a scooter
With an iPhone 10 who
Gets a text from his grandparents,
Hippies from way back when.

Just whose imagination
Was running away again?

Hip-hop Hamilton
Might be
Cultured Stones,
Which might be
The Marx Brothers
On Wall Street.

Whatever gets you through
Makes you more complete.
Peanut butter finds chocolate;
Basil embraces ginger.
But where is Mary Ann?
Still on the island,
Working the phones
Screening calls from 8 zillion guys
Somewhere on the path from junior high
To a motel room with purpose.

Bigger pictures
Come in widescreen,
As do the fantasies
Of the moment.
The clock ticks toward
A brand new year;
A brand new start.
Maybe one that finds
Truth and ethics back in favor;
Maybe one that
Pulls an abrupt halt
To this reign of charlatan terror.
Can I get an amen?

Or is it just my imagination —
Running away with me again?










Wednesday, December 26, 2018

So, you want to be a rock and roll star

Then listen now to what I say
Just get an electric guitar
And take some time and learn how to play
And when your hair's combed right and your pants fit tight
It's gonna be all right


Advice from The Byrds, as snarky today as it was in 1967. The point being is that while becoming a music sensation might be considered simple, nothing could be more distant from the truth. And truth, these days, is up for grabs, and thus when one has the chance to observe honesty, to breathe it, to enjoy it, allow it to resonate, well ... don't think twice.

The evolution of a young person to rock stardom is one of the many themes that fuel SPRINGSTEEN ON BROADWAY, a show that Ruth (my wife) and I witnessed Christmas night, 2018, courtesy of Netflix.

We were mesmerized. Uncommonly so actually ... for two hours and thirty-some minutes that we didn't move, didn't make a sound, as if to not disturb the performance.

Envy does not come close to the emotion I have about those who witnessed Springsteen's show live in the theatre. Where I would have had the option to clap, tap my foot to music familiar yet quite often deeper, more resonant versions of that familiar, and laugh, and most certainly acknowledge the need to wipe my eyes from time to time to time to time.

I'm certain those in attendance began the evening with anticipation of the tangibly sublime, but soon were transported into the rarest of realms — a shared journey into the mystic.

Even those of us who witnessed this performance via TV, it was clear we were in the company of a legendary performer, one who has crafted a sellable, enduring product and yet remained so true to himself. At first I felt guilty about the cynicism, a default response engendered from the past two long years in the war on facts, compassion and ethics. Still stinging from the latest of the current administration's self-inflicted world-wide disasters, I did not want what I sensed were budding Norman Rockwell sensations to beam me from the grim malaise of now and into a far better place.

But as Bruce Springsteen shared his life's path, skepticism fell by the wayside, and I believed what I felt to be true actually was true. I know Springsteen was not seeking absolution, but what transpired arrived at the intersection of where memory lane embraces confession.

Springsteen's profound love for his parents, Clarence Clemmons, Patty Scialfa, and ultimately his life becomes a tangible force that elevates as it transfixes.

It is remarkable.

If you are already a Netflix subscriber, the "cost" of admission is free ... all that will be taken is time, but even that is at a discount as I'm certain the 153 minutes are the most limber and energetic 153 minutes one can choose to encounter.

Below are three reviews, one dated early in the run, one near the end, and one about the recording.

Consider all of this the water. Up to you if you drink.







Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Back In The U.S.S.R. (Don't know how lucky you are, boy)




This is not shocking. Most reasonable people look at Trump and see him for what he is ... a con-man, career criminal, who opens his mouth or uses his thumbs for one purpose — to sell an idea, that is more often than not a lie.

The pathetic, and again not shocking aspect of this, is how many of Trump's supporters either don't care that their hero is a dissembling crook or don't know because they have one source of media — FOX NEWS.  

Fox News has long been a cheerleader for the GOP. But with Trump, that organization has veered from the sidelines and into the game itself. Sean Hannity, for instance, might as well have a desk in the White House. Every time the phrase "fake news" is used, those muttering those words are trying to reassure their base that the "lies" that such organizations as The Washington Post, The New York Times, CNN, and The New Yorker are revealing in their daily, non-stop stories about the corruption of Trump, his family, and ultimately, his enablers in Congress, such as notably Mitch McConnell and Lindsey Graham,  that those stories are not true.

But reasonable people see the picture for what it is.

Trump defends the Saudi prince, and the first question, considering the evidence compiled, is why.

MONEY.

Meanwhile, the GOP continues its Icarus-fall from reality because it has been torched by an Orange Sun. Climate change, immigration insensitivity and brutality, voter fraud, guns, racist demonstrations,  and highly questionable tax breaks are just a few of the ploys that these enablers have endorsed. They will do anything and everything to keep power.

Trump's ties to authoritarian louts, such as Putin, Kim Jong-un and Mohammad Bin Salman Al Saud are not just appalling; they are the symptoms, if not acts, of treason.

So to paraphrase a time-worn query:


ASK NOT WHAT YOUR COUNTRY CAN DO FOR YOU. 

ASK WHICH COUNTRY IS YOUR DADDY.