Northwest Me

Monk, Buddha, The Great Horned One.
Free. The Water meets sour’d trees
Now green again. Awake from the summer burn.
Walking the Earth The Great Mother made fresh.
New Apples ready to taste.
East wind harvest’d for thee.
“Too busy. I’ll get to it.”
How thoughtful the wind was to dump the fruit.
Fill the bags.
Don’t let them rot.
Cinnamon & Sugar, Nutmeg & Spice. Crusted to a crisp..
Taste on the tongue melts with vanilla creamed over with ice.
Forest. Young Buck & his Doe bride we meet.
“Mornin'” as we pass.

The Rat Race… Not for me.
Here, you can have it.


Insomnia Sucks But Music is Still Thy Savior

Another sleepless night so I wander down to the office to listen to some music, write… and stare. I found this video from 96′ and was immediately slammed back in time. This was at the height of my band then. We were on the radio, doing bigger clubs but still sticky small ones too, no ones drug or booze addictions had gotten too out of hand yet, we were still alive inside but beginning to show the aches and scars… It was a very trippy time. It was right around this time that I met the girl of my dreams and I was lucky enough for her to dig me too. Me a snot nosed punk, waving the flag of DIY and not giving a fuck. Her? Beautiful, sweet, so smart and ready to take on the world.

The band and I were to play a show at this Ballroom on a Saturday night. Sounds fancy but it wasn’t really. Big? Yes, but very seedy and very Rock N’ Roll. Being it Friday, we didn’t have rehearsal (we never rehearsed the day before a show. When we did the shows were always a train wreck) we decided to wander down to the venue, have some drinks and promote a bit. We were never too good to promote. It was a 24/7 thang. The late night air was so thick with heat and the street seemed to have turned back to tar as we were walking through the parking lot. Over to the left, behind the venue was a tour bus and roadies hustling about. The Marquee said ” D Generation.” I had their first album and totally dug them but the other guys didn’t really know them yet. I was, and still am, a music junkie and always looking for new stuff. I would spend hours scouring record stores for new art and I’d also snag this magazine called NME that would have CD samplers in them. That’s where I first heard D Generation and I was pretty stoked that they were going to be playing.

As we walked in (we never paid to get in anywhere and the drinks were either free for the first round or at least half off. Just a sample of the perks ya get when you make other people money) we made a beeline to the bar to order drinks. I sat at the end of the bar and next to me is this tender, lanky gentleman in a leather jacket with this black, corn rolled, dreaded or something mop of a hair-do. He leans over and says, “These your bands flyers? Can I have one? Fuck, these are rad. You do these?”

“Yeah. We play tomorrow.. wait… you’re Jesse? (singer of D Generation)”

“Yep. That’s cool you guys came out.”

“We actually didn’t know until we got here. Buy you a drink?”

“Man, our promoter sucks. Yeah, sure! Thanks.”

We went on to bullshit and drink for a couple of hours while the opening bands played. Met the rest of the band and we all ended up really drunk. I mean… Holy shit drunk… I started making fun of them because they had to play and that they smelled funny and a whole slew of jokes… These guys had the thickest New York accents and the drunker they got the harder it was to understand.

I could go on for awhile so I’ll chill now. It was a hell of a night. These guys went on and blew the roof off the joint. A solid packed house too and they nailed everything. Total shame they never made it huge. They went on to do two more albums before they broke up. Jesse went on to do 3 solo albums (a couple of them produced by Ryan Adams) and made his mark.

Anyway, I’m still not tired so I’m going to go listen to some more music.

Thanks for reading and enjoy the video.

Cheers ~

Here it Comes Again

There have been many articles on depression, anxiety and suicide lately. Some have gotten it right while others have completely missed the mark. These topics are hard to explain it seems. Either the article is very long winded and riddled with sciency (ha) mumbo jumbo or just… Weird and lacking any love and understanding what so ever.  Mental health is largely ignored in this country (I would imagine in others as well).  All one needs to do is walk down any city in America and get a good glimpse of one of Americas failures.  For some they only have to look in their family or worse.. The mirror to fully understand. Yet, it’s still a stigma.

In walks poetry, music or any art form really. For me, poetry and song have always been a way for me to explain… well, anything. I wrote a poem today and my muse decided it should be a song. I agreed and wrote the chords and sang the words. I do hope to find the means to record soon. Anyway, it’s my hope that people can look through the painful words and try to grasp an understanding of these topics. Be kind to yourself and others. We have no idea what others are going through when we pass them on the streets. Maybe a smile instead of a dirty look, or word, can bring someone some relief for a moment.

As always, thanks for reading. Cheers!


I’m trying to tell the truth
Without making everyone so mad
I really don’t feel so good
The walls are closing in… And it feels like I’m going to die

Here… Here it comes again
Here it comes again
Here it comes again
Here it comes again

Everything hurts so bad
Pulling muscles in my sleep
Sometimes I forget to breathe
And all I want to do is cry

Here… Here it comes again
Here it comes again
Here it comes again
Here it comes again

Rage and then I feel ashamed
Telling stories in therapy
Really takes a lot of gas
And I really can’t be bothered

Did I touch on everything
The guilt has made me so sick
Sorry I brought you so much pain
I’m sick of this and everything

Here… here it comes again
Here it comes again
Here it comes again
Here it comes again


© Carlson, 2014



The mere thought of being successful frightens the demons awake and with a fist punch to the throat kick starts anxieties tremor show.
The mere thought of being unsuccessful breeds an anguish in the bones that will drive the ragged to the grave.
Always misunderstood. Born too late while still too soon with a rootless soul. A lonely ferrel kid learning to be an adult.
A D.I.Y. nothing man. Unmarketable talents and a wealth of knowledge from the streets to share. And no pay.
In regards to money. But… Richer then most though. Bride, kids, dog, house, health… and a deep pit of hate, rage, anger, suffering and loneliness.
Not at them.  At… Everyone else.

The forest.
The trees.
The weights.
The pen.
The paper.
The tears.
The rage.
The pain.
The humor.
The guilt.
The running… Physically and mentally. Like a mad monkey that never stops.
The chatter.  That never stops.
The cranium stadium is full. Loud crowds grow and everyone talks at the same time. No focus except the thought of a bat.
Swinging wildly. It’s madness. This was learned and used for safety. But still madness nonetheless.
No one was there.
Now there is and all that can be said is “sorry…”

A closet full of pain, a bed, thoughts, anger, resentment, hatred and clothes that belonged to someone else.
Lights out at 7pm. Sent to the streets by 4:30am. Left to roam until school. Not much to do at 15.
These are moments that make kids who they are. It’s wise to be careful and unselfish with kids. Or they will hate you.
In humor a great mask is worn. With weights one can build a great suit of armor.
With a heart full of words, and a wisp of a pen one can create something from nothing.
Make some sense from nothing.
Perhaps turn someone from nothing?

Born into this? Fine then. Let it burn.


© Carlson, 2014

360… No Child Left

The cane swishes the dirt at his feet in tiny little circles.
A breeze begins to blow through the tiny blades of grass which pierce his ears like sirens screaming through a dead New York alley.
The chills of laughter ring through the meadow that’s filled with rusty swings, razor blades and tainted syringes.
But the crows still sing. Always the crows. Forever the crows. “These are good friends.”
He taps the mound of dirt and slashes trough the ants now limp carcass with the cane he had carved himself decades ago. “You’re now free.”
A loud crowd begins to grow while sitting in the waiting room that’s inside his head. “So much chatter.” But can’t hear the words; just sounds of voices and pain.
A child’s pain. His pain. The child that never grew. They never do. They stay cowering in the corner where we leave them. The child never forgiven by thee.
The old mans face fills with tired tears.
Heavy breathing, loud heart and quiet whimpers.
“I’m sorry… Had I loved you more I would of grown… I would’ve cared… I could’ve REALLY loved and lived… I’m afraid of death therefore afraid of life… It’s so loud now. Forgive me for I forgive you.”
The child smiles, he smiles, they are thee. But never free.
He stands. Waves to the crows to follow and he heads back. He’ll find his way back tomorrow, and repeat, having forgotten he was there… Everyday, for years since she passed.
He walks, humming a sickening tune. He wipes away the tears with his sleeve and begins to breath again and sings,
“I’m the worlds forgotten boy…”


© Carlson, 2014

With Each Breath…

Damp midnight air kissing the upper lip,
The tip of the nose, then caressing the breasts with each slow inhale and exhale.
Then nothing.

Ivory and crossed.
Hips creased but not tight.
Slight chill to the spine as thoughts rise,
Then crash violently hurting the spirit.
Then nothing. Only to start over. And over… again.

Fingers clinching the dirt.
Pure hate warming with love.
Same…ness. Whole…ness… Not dead.
Stabbing the middle of awake and asleep.
Then nothing. But pain… again… Breathe.

Soft. Hurt. Alive. But soul dead.
In. Then out. Hot breath warming the cool night air.
Watching the smoky swirls touch the trees then off to the stars.
The cold moon grows, then spreads it’s legs across the lake gently searching for warmth.
Then nothing. In. Then out. Again…

The mind.
Calm. Then violent while the eyes hunt.
In. Then out. Pounding to a soft dull ache with each wheeze. Then calm.
The aroma of love smacks the lips.
At peace.
With nothing. Again… Over and over.


© Carlson, 2014




Her hand reaches for his while the other hand wipes the tears from her cheek.
They walk.
He can hear her little heart break with each slow methodical step.
She stops.
Sits on a rock while slowly kicking the grass and dirt in tiny little circles.
She sighs and says:
“Daddy? You see that flower over there? No, the red and yellow one with black speckles and the white swirls. I wanna be like the flower. Ya know why? Because the flower just is. There is no better or not. The flower isn’t even concerned that it’s a flower. It just is. The flower and I are a lot alike. I remember you telling me that when I was younger and not so sad. Now; it’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow always hurts. Never, it seems, is it ok to just be today. No more. Today is now. Here. With you. I like the flower.”

© Carlson, 2014