the best songwriting you've never heard
after his third beer, the old records came out. all the best are worn thin from late night listening sessions years ago, eleven college kids crammed in a small room, cigarette smoke, empty beer cans, loud conversations about politics, breakfast cereal, and music: pulling out “after the gold rush” to prove that neil young’s voice is more expressive than nilsson’s.
Continue reading “monday cover #1: neil young: don’t let it bring you down”
sally mccarthy bathes her daughter in a shallow tub on the kitchen table. the baby fusses but stops short of crying.
as she sponges her tiny hands, sally marvels at the soft palms, just starting to prune. and her uncle carter’s voice speaks up in her memory.
“i don’t see what all the fuss is about. if i was jesus, i would have begged to be crucified.”
for matt margolin.
we played music together for many years. back then, he was one of my closest friends. and though we hadn’t seen much of each other this past decade, i always thought of him with great fondness.
staring at the floor. frozen.
scuffed wood once elegant, now dulled by years of water spraying from the kitchen sink.
it’s the eighth floor at liberty lane.
frozen. looking down. familiar.
elliott came from a family that spent their lives propping up the walls, keeping the ceiling in place. his father drinking and laughing and screaming and occasionally hitting.
he paid too much for the green day tickets, but it was worth it. now they’re tucked inside the gift-wrapped book of gary larson cartoons.
it took him a week of horse-trading to convince his ex to let james spend his birthday away from her.
charlotte woke up crying. her father sits at the end of the couch.
his voice is soft, his breath is sweet. the party is quieting down, but there are still adults talking downstairs.
charlotte is seven. she dreamt that the house was on fire.
cheever street, late afternoon. a muffled roar pulses from a garage near the end of the block. from outside the clamor is hard to recognize, but the roar demands attention.
more than one neighbor watches their clock for the agreed upon curfew of six pm to arrive, when they can call to complain. why they ever agreed to tolerate the racket is a mystery to each. he used to be such a nice boy.
Continue reading “monday song #43: i’m in love with everyone”
james lives on fenton street down the block from the empty lot that once held the 7-11. a firehouse is going up slowly.
he’s a teenager, but you’d only know it from the library books in his backpack:
salinger, the autobiography of malcolm x, arthur c clarke. his looks would place him in elementary school, his placement test would have him in high school. but he’s trapped in the middle world, the boiling limbo of junior high.
darkness attracts light.
the contrast can be thrilling.
but it’s always and forever darkness.
and over time, the light gets tired of doing all the work.