Palms are Heavy
Critics at the front
hold salad bowls at the ready
“Who the hell is he to be giving the
‘self love’ schpiel?”
(An apology issued)
(For all the annotations and meta-tastical appropriations,)
(but not for targets unknowingly hit by the marks.)
Here i go
This is my shot
to not be a pretentious little snot.
And it’s probably the only one I’ve got.
Fuck all that good guy humble to be here shit.
This is deeper than that.
This is that chest thumping
underground neon light hand raising
This is a toast for me, the douchebag that I coulda, shoula, maybe totally woulda been
You say the history of this upside-down clown has been written
in his Spotify year in review
tellin him that ol’ summertime sadness
started back in the spring
But it goes deeper than that, too.
This is a story about a boy
Burbank hailing, San Francisco sailing
Pushing the car forward through the automatic zone
Steering through the sneers imprinted in
the dead ended two-way mirrors
Tattooed pigeon-toed boys yell from the scaffolds
That no one’s supposed like you at 23
But nostalgia be damned,
If a lack on the spreadsheet can be compensated with
that lack of compromise,
if I’ve stood where others potentially could
at the reasonable point of enslavement
on the drawbridge between folding sweaters at Abercrombie
and scrubbing toilets for techies
if that in this dim light is my sparkliest achievement
give me the Glory.
Past being numb
Philtering my Soul,
Into that cross in the form of a ruler,
to stack against flame headed kids from the Hills and balding MFA’s from Alaska.
tired of running
tired of chasing
those long haired Girls
dragging me into the swamp with their uncertainty
In the A block of Alcratraz Wei Wei
down under I’ve done my time
Goddamn I’ve done my time
Now it is my time
Every day in the rapture of my namesake
This is 2.0 here
The Reneissance, no longer eminent, landed.
A 5 Act revival story
Dropping a debut Kane style
Striking back against the empire
Rising up with the Eye of the Tiger
Rocking and Rolling on the Stairway to Heaven
all the while getting Lost in the world of this Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy
And should that stick ever get stuck in reverse,
I know I can go to my high school reunion
and maybe I can’t make em all go through security clearance
But it’ll be real cuz I know I am who I think I Am
At pulpit of the temple,
I stand with that suit stitched out of adamantium scars
Cementing my ankles
Practicing the art of stillness
In the harrowing time of un-realness
Because we’ve never ever done it for a throne
that reciprocation comes from giving
those pints of blood back to the City
Holding our hands on the wound
one garage show at a time
Let our selfless gestures,
These Paris sized bottles,
packages delivered at dusk
speak for themselves.
See there’s more to this heart, your heart, any heart,
than the ceiling that holds us
more than your collective flattened history
more than a checklist of hurts
more than the measuring tape you take to yourself to another
Your endless access isn’t freedom
Its paranoia locked in a steamroom.
And even if everybody looks at you crazy,
with that gorilla glued heart in its golden cage
you’ll see me wince rage, rage right through them,
And as seasons change,
There’s no softening, no waiting
Dog Days melt into the effervescent fog.
I’m Not the moon,
the summer breeze
the sails at half mast in the storm.
I am the night,
Dancing, dancing, with the dirty rain.
Emerging from the void
will full powers colored blue,
I discard old masters, build alters to the New:
The Sublime, the Tangible, The Immaterial, The Subversive, The Empathetic
And so at long last, Rise
Rise so Far
that if you Fall
You don’t at all.
That if you’re stripped of those badges
The flannels, the friends, the family, the playlists, the books, the dashboard, the films, the ideas, the garage, the lovers, the highways, the words…
What’ll be left?