Tag Archives: mass media

Hanging on Dreams

I know you want me to say
I love you in some tired cliche:
forever in a bright pink bow
with Hallmark lines I ought to know;
and when I speak, some hidden strings
should start to play. It should be Spring;
then as the moonlight filters through
the clouds, you’ll know that I love you.

Well, our life isn’t like TV,
and that Prince Charming isn’t me:
a handsome, careless perfect fool
who’s crown is missing just your jewel,
and when I speak, the words I choose
may be too rough, and be misused;
but when you hear, you’ll understand
that I deserve to be your man.

That’s all that I have, not anything more
If that’s not enough, I’ll walk out that door
’cause if me pretending is what you long for
it’s not me you’re after; and all that’s in store
is no happy ending, no fairy tale glow,
just holding to dreams, when we ought to let go.

I know you want me to be
more like your girlhood fantasy:
forever on a big white horse
prepared to face some dragon’s force;
and when I come back from the wars
your love alone will soothe my sores;
then we will break the magic spell
that made the past a living hell.

Well, our life’s not a storybook;
no golden apples can be shook
from that old tree in our front yard,
the future’s certain to be hard.
But this I promise you, my dear:
It’s not loneliness you should fear;
‘Cause I’ll be here to see it through:
to me, that’s saying I love you.

That’s all that I have, not anything more
If that’s not enough, I’ll walk out that door
’cause if me pretending is what you long for
it’s not me you’re after; and all that’s in store
is no happy ending, no fairy tale glow,
just holding to dreams, when we ought to let go.

03 JAN 2005

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New Orleans

Dear America:

The day after Katrina passed by New Orleans
and the reporters at the Royal Sonesta Hotel
on Bourbon Street,
in the goddamn sacred French Quarter,
were saying “New Orleans has been spared”
I knew it would come to this.

The day I heard the levees at the river and the lake
had been breeched, leaving New Orleans East
and the Ninth Ward
underwater,
I knew there would a Convention Center horrowshow,
the elderly and infirm,
the HIV-positive
and countless streams of self-medicated
mentally disturbed
wading through miles of toxic shit
and the garbage from under the streets
of the Quarter.

I knew it would become a race issue
for people outside New Orleans.
People who don’t know what it’s like
to live in a mixed white black neighborhood
that is also middle class.

People who aren’t privileged to understand,
just by driving down three blocks on St. Bernard Avenue, say,
that there are only four kinds of people in this world:
rich people,
poor people,
people pretending to be rich
and people pretending not to be poor.

In other words:
the haves,
the have-nots,
and the have-credits.

What good is sending people back to Covington,
to Metairie, to Harahan … to the freaking CBD?

Without the Ninth Ward, without the poverty that
birthed jazz, without those
underprivileged, undereducated, underemployed,
underwater souls
who would care about the City that Care Forgot?

The great boot of Louisiana is now a dirty sock.
With its great expanse of money-making Democratic blue
washed out
and only the tired elastic red left at the top.

I’m tired. And I’ve lost my home.

And Mayor Nagin,
nothing you can do can bring it back.
‘Cause unless it’s exactly the same,
it won’t be New Orleans.

26 SEP 2005

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Stupid War

The first draft of this song dates from 1975, when I was ten years old. I subsequently revised it in about 1985.

I read in the papers ’bout the war today:
we’re going to die from an overdose of moral decay.
Whether you’re down and out and hopeless, or you’re fueled by sin and greed,
seems you can’t join the human race until you’ve proven you can bleed.

It’s an overthrow by apathy, and by hypocrisy;
you don’t have to learn to live, just watch it on TV.
Once you’ve proven you know nothing, you can think you know it all;
you can keep up with the Joneses when their bridges start to fall.

We were all born into battle; there’s no need to enlist anymore,
doesn’t matter who we’re fighting, it’s just another stupid war.

I saw it on the news: we’re all going to Hell,
but I’ve seen the new fall previews, so I guess it’s just as well.
If you need a buck to give a damn, throw your money in the trash;
remember, God will pick your pocket if he really needs the cash.

It’s an overdose of oversight, we’re overrun by vanity
you don’t have to learn to take responsibility
Once you’ve focused on your enemy, your mission is half done
you can laugh at all the losers who have got much smaller guns

It’s supposed to make some difference that our side has something worth fighting for
but it really doesn’t matter, because it’s another stupid war.

I saw it on a billboard: they’ve put Heaven up for lease;
twelve forgivens for a dollar if you buy eight more, at least.
If you’ve given up on trying, or are still going for the win,
know pretending to be stupid is the only cardinal sin.

And I don’t remember just what we’re supposed to be fighting for
but it doesn’t really matter, it’s just another stupid war.

1975, 1985

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A School of Truth

The world is full of empty headed fools —
their courses set by half truths and whole lies —
who trust their leaders, and obey the rules,
and bow to every bright new flag that flies.

To cry “Alas!” that there are such as these
is pointless waste of energy and time.
One might as well imagine every breeze
a hurricane, each pole a desert clime.

Each seeks a level suited to their stage,
and to expect the masses to react
against their nature’s book (line, verse and page)
is to deny both illusion and fact.

In such a world, it’s difficult to keep
from thinking that some doom is close at hand.
A wise observer oft can only weep,
while knowing their tears, few will understand.

And yet, despite the cruel and senseless scenes
that seem to dominate the nightly news
(where gloried ends achieved by any means
are often praised as righteous, sacred views)

some things still retain power, and unscarred,
escape vain rhetoric’s ensnaring noose.
Despite how it may read on the cue card,
truth cannot be perverted for misuse.

Some may abuse it, twist it, change white black,
by their perversion cast it into doubt,
but some part of it, pure and strong, fights back;
and in the darkest hour, it will out.

The trick is finding what truth is in you,
that inner core that no one can corrupt.
Against that strength, no matter what they do,
all lies must end, and lying tongues, shut up.

With that accomplished, even mindless fools
may start to overcome their empty state.
A shame they don’t teach that technique in schools;
perhaps we should, before it is too late.

22 JAN 2005

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Mixed Messages

You’d better not pout, you’d better not cry
You’d better be good — I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.
He sees you when you’re sleeping
He knows when you’re awake
He knows if you’ve been bad or good —
so be good, for goodness’ sake.

I just today realized the problem with the commercialization of Christmas. The point of the above song is that IF you’re good, you will be rewarded. Conversely, if you’re BAD, your actions will be noted, and your stocking will be shorted accordingly.

Yet, at the same time, we are admonished to “be good, for goodness’ sake”.

If we apply logic to this, that’s the same as saying “art for art’s sake” — or that art is worth making simply because art is worthwhile.

That means that the song is saying that being good is its own reward. That it is the right thing to do. That’s why one does it.

NOT FOR THE REWARD, or because someone is watching who’ll provide some payoff.

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Blues for Elijiah/Fallen Angels

For some reason, sitting out under the carport this morning in the rain made me think of a period during 1991 when I wrote about 30 songs in the course of 36 hours. It was a very strange Peter Gabriel meets Van Morrison kind of weekend … just me, the computer terminal and the digital piano.

Blues for Elijiah

Ravenous, we turned our backs on civilized pursuits
in suits of woven rags and skins, exposed to elemental change;
No human chatter breaking forth, no spewing after-thoughts
of imperfect internal combustion.

Blinded by the word of the immortal beast of broadcast,
scarlet-eyed, star-struck, in cathode-ray imposed myopia,
we foolishly believed that we had found the new Messiah
and we called to him by name, Blessed Technology.

Cloven-hooved, through clover fields, we chased the dream inconceivable
Thinking we could make believe and make it more believable

Turn away from your television
Turn away from your radio
There are more things in Earth and Heaven
Than you’ll ever know

Words are only words if they hold no other meaning
Symbolized interpretation of an unseen imagery:
The silence shouts out deafening; cover up your ears
or you might hear something important.

Hungry now, and rooting through the leftovers of history,
power ties no longer bind, yet cut off circulation.
Do you still believe that you have found the reasons for your presence?
Do you still hold fast to dreams that have no meaning?

Turn away from your newspaper
Turn away from your bulletin board
There are so many things escaping your attention
There are more rivers left to ford

With all your money, can you still pay attention?
Will all your bridges tumble into the sea?
With how much credit can you purchase my affection?
Will you be frightened if I love you for free?

Turn away from your television
Turn away from your radio
Listen to the music playing out in the courtyard
They’re playing verses you should know

Turn away from your radio
Turn away from your magazine
There are things happening that are much more important
There are still wonders you’ve not seen

26 JUL 91

Fallen Angels

A monster’s out walking the streets tonight
Devouring the city, cobblestone by cobblestone
A soul without mercy; and you know
pity is a lonely word, small and forgettable

Silent in mute screaming agony
Following the gutters down and out to the sea;
otherwise, without purpose, directionless,
void of apparent course.

Searching for fallen angels
Fitting them with dragons’ wings
‘Cause if this play falls on its face
We’ll have to think of something

The monster in his guise, so human,
licks his lips, mastiff-inspired,
the scent of life, animal
caged words, primitive and sophisticated.

Alone in schizophrenic company
Following the sound of life around the corner;
no intentions, only expectations
of disappointment in the shadows

Searching for fallen angels
Fitting them with dragons’ scales
‘Cause we’ll need more cannon fodder
When self-preserving instinct fails

A monster is stalking the city tonight
Devouring the pavement like lines
on a printed page, without mercy or pity,
which are lonely words, small and
easily forgotten

Searching for fallen angels
Fitting them with dragons’ hearts
‘Cause we’ll need all our energy
Once the floor show starts.

26 JUL 91

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Random Thought

There is only one thought
that is scarier to the industrialist
than “Workers of the World Unite”.

It is “Want What You Have”.

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