Waltz away

I waltzed tonight with cold tattered feet on burnt bricks. My triangle styles poured out without hesitation. Wind brought the scent of country accents while pressing on with poise. Smoke and shooting stars masked the highway's passing cars.


There is no escaping what we see. I came into this world and all I got was me. I guarantee I won't leave deceived. When they help me to the sky - I'm going to be relieved. That's one good deed that I'm entitled to. If it wasn't for this world, I'd have nothing to do. I'm grateful to the few - the proud - who don't just stand in crowds - don't come up deaf from the sounds - they waltz away the night til' it makes them sick.
 

We are not termites.

The comfortable life of a termite starts as it hatches itself into a warm pile of sawdust. It immediately arrives in an environment that provides and protects. The bed providing safe entry also acts as a sufficient and preferred sustenance.

Not only is it engulfed in a nutrient-rich wooden encasing, it is also oblivious to the world that speeds around its life's walls. It has no obligations to the earth other than eating, procreating, and existing. From day one, it embarks on a journey that is relatively short and full of nothing but satisfaction.

Then one unsuspecting day...

The termite takes a wrong turn while devouring his landscape. It pops out of the trim lining a bathroom floor. It rests on a foreign plane, a surface its never felt. The ceramic tile is bitter cold on its back. As it flips to its' stomach and regains its composure, it darts for the wall while frantically recalling the safe embrace of its wooden haven. As a joyous rejoice quietly clatters from its many legs, it is quickly silenced by an opaque shadow cast from above. The rubber sole of a house wife's slipper greets the surprisingly significant creature prior to his delectable destination. The life of the termite has ended, but it has taken the necessary actions to ensure the security and sustainability of its species. It has lived a life of comfort, luxury, and fulfillment.

We should all be so lucky.

Think Farming

Millions of mind-sets

One flash at a time

Each one with a voice

Far different from mine

Knowing is believing

And fiction is fleeting

Growing means weeding

New thought plants I’m seeding

Strolling the rows

Of the soy bean synapse

Reinventing ideas

To prevent a relapse

But I’m stuck in this field

Overwhelmed by the yield

Ten wheelbarrows wheeled

Out fresh feelings I feel

Carting the harvest

With weight so immense

That lives fall to pieces

When trying to make sense

Of the value at market

For these easy targets

But I’m choosing to park it

So sane thoughts can bargain

These crops are tainted

And don’t pass the test

They’re thrown into compost

Making room for the next

A keen eye knows best

And the product attests

The thought farmer rests

Once he’s debugged these pests

Brass and Bourbon

The Jazz Tones

I’m struggling to visually cut the clouds in a shotgun style lounge. Three crushed velvet smoker jackets stand atop four poorly carpeted pallets in the bars deepest corner pocket. One hand reaches towards an Old Fashioned in an effort to obtain its last ounce of nerve dulling courage. The sheen of his guitar’s pickup illuminates a dimly lit audience. The luster of the sax’s brass shines penetrably, as much now in limbo as it will when wailing and speaking its raucous tongue. The humble drummer will paint syncopation with tattered brushes on translucent skins.

As the artists prepare themselves, patrons sit patiently while taking genuine interest into each other’s lives. The self-disclosing conversation is progressively therapeutic. More often than not, hardships and mundane workweeks find their way into the common playground adults tend to frequent. Such counseling acts in accordance with the thematic approach taken by the ensuing jazz trio.   

Without forewarning, a saxophones’ screaming introduction halts the crowded and noisy room to an abrupt silence. Every eye fixates on this lasting first impression. As the note descends, crashing alloy and electric coiled wire greet it in its depths with accompanying musicality. Three class acts embark on a quest for originality. Odd time signatures and obscure drum fills provide this autonomous ensemble with a meticulously crafted design. The sound is familiar as it incorporates past progressions that stick better than cereal jingles in the back of our minds.  It takes these familiarities and it augments them into its own vernacular. It accumulates personal passions from each artist’s skilled hands and it wears their emotions on its sleeve.

The soothing sounds of jazz music mixed with the coolest cats in nightlife make holes in the wall feel like home. 

 

Mineral Spirits

Rock and Metal Music

In the midst of a down shifted sunrise, a building breeze plays the tips of swaying fields. A fleeting shadow prepares itself and acknowledges the intangible presence of an awoken giant. The open space of this place allows for percussive introductions with no deadening concrete to bounce away precious tones. The spanning fields and lining minerals pay respect to prior tending by carrying the siren song of back broken work horses and calloused craftsman into the lives of the reliably content. Those who truly understand its underlying message embrace the common theme. Introductions resolve and volatile walls of sound find electric catalysts. Every riotous fist impales the air with unexplainable anger. Every thunderous declaration screams in unison as hoarsen voices slowly erode to whispers. Musical militias understand and appreciate why life can change speeds without missing a beat. Constantly taken by surprise, the soldiers inevitably end up finding the rhythm.

To truly understand a band’s genre, you must first begin to understand the fundamental components of the artists influence. A Rock band, although capable of being derived from any social setting, portray these structural layers best by their intentions. For me, Rock and Metal music act as a vehicle. They allow me to both obtain and divulge an articulate voice that could never be used when simply speaking.

Every painful moment – untimely deaths, incarceration, addiction, abuse – takes up space in the back of my dampened subconscious cellar. Stagnant memories wait patiently for limited opportunities to explode from functioning extremities and transmittable sensations. While flying from my fingertips and riding meticulous waves made by vibration, they reach out and connect with every disheartened recollection spewed frantically from life’s desperately formed mosh pit. From the outside in, such acts may appear primitive and barbaric. Self-admittedly, this may hold some truth. But these acts are certainly not mindless. No choreographer could compose such a natural display of uniformity. As heads and shoulders rock in a flawless combative alliance, an exhilarating release takes place indefinable by modern sciences. Something so impeccably lifting – ironically fueled by something so infinitely draining - is my only real world proof of divine inspiration.

Urban Inspiration

Hip-Hop

A lonely street corner occupies the spirits of one man thumping a bucket’s foundation. His fingertip’s charisma produces danceable rhythmic familiarity. His laughter transmits a welcoming embrace. A trumpet blasts with every passing cab’s interrupting horn. Converging street lanes and participating cars conduct the inspiring sirens. The subway shakes the abrasive concrete with low-end moans. A bass line emerges with every scheduled stop. Releasing steam creates the on-stage atmosphere typically reproduced by pyrotechnicians or spirited amateurs. The civilians in the city live their lives at 120 beats per minute. Caffeine fueled schedules dictate the breaks and the hooks. Priorities take precedence, but the beat never stops.

I believe that inspiring sounds are not only found in previous compositions, but also from the environments in which we live. Hip-hop is not only a lyrical consciousness prepared to address social injustice; it is also a direct representation of the physical world in which the spark of inspiration is ignited. Muscle memory mixed with memory recall can be a derivative of the encasing atmosphere unto which we emerged. The finalized product in every situation is a recollection and a representation of recalled instances. Therefore, those with which we interact will ultimately end up in the midst of our inspired creation.

The upbeat tempo of the city mixed with a crashing and screaming urban symphony make for the heart pounding rhythms found in a concrete jungle’s prisoner’s production. Subtract the lyrics from your favorite Big Apple rapper. Listen to the drums with your entire body. Listen for the hi-hat's squealing breaks or the snare drum’s clicking revolver. Prepare yourself to stop short of a fleeting taxicab’s zooming sound. He will alert you with an all-brass jazz ensemble. Know that when you listen to music, you’re not just listening to music. You’re allowing yourself to feel the inspiration of another mind in another culture. You’re cognitively transporting yourself into the cavernous space of another soul’s depths. Embrace that gift with every ounce of respect you’d give to your own inspiration, because for the moment, it is.

 - My thoughts about rock and metal coming next

The manifestation of the lot

My world - a tangible existence that evolves between wiping blinks. My body - forced to mediate between an ongoing external interaction and that which my mind cognitively interprets as its own. I feel the distance every time I embrace my senses and reach towards skewed perceptions. Only then do I encounter constant forces that push against every ounce of strength I'm entitled to. Consider this - in mid air we are motionless. Our flailing limbs guide us towards nothing more than a fit amongst the heavens. With the ground beneath our feet and a stone pressed cold against our fist - we exist.

My reality - glimpses of imagery prescribed to every thought and to every engagement. Worldly understandings escape me. As I stay stagnantly confined inside my tunneled visions, a refusal to guide mental apparitions acts in accordance with the progression of all personal knowledge obtained. My knowing - only the examined and the confronted can reside in storage. All other conceptualizations wait patiently in life's lobby and present themselves as needed.

The manifestation of the lot - every wasted second. My mental state is forced to coexist with a physical world. Doing becomes a personal accomplishment and minds are left backstage with the laborers. At one time in my life, the physical world took precedence. Lately, it seems the opposite - sitting patiently for no sensible communication. I'm hoping that the future brings humbled mediation.

Work Harder

Before the convenience of ipods and Mp3 players, musicians were forced to endure an extensive process of industrial filtration and shameless self-promotion. Typical freshman bands gigged night after night in back alley pool halls for little or no pay to audiences distracted by booze and a smoke filled atmosphere. Through all of the haze, the bands would truly connect with their fans. Not by mass friend requests via an Internet networking site, but by actual human communication and conversation concerning the underlying message of the songs being performed. These bands would then progress to the next level and permanently leave their creative mark on music by documenting the songs on tape. This would allow committed fans to own and become a part of a sound that had previously sparked their own creative spirit. Through word of mouth, endless touring, and album sales, bands would begin to gain popularity amongst credible sources within the music business. This humbling amount of limelight would soon grant these rookie bands the corporate sponsorship and funding necessary to reach greater audiences throughout the world.

This dream of “making it” has been rewritten and the concept of the “starving artist” is slowly beginning to fade as the generation of convenience has began to sacrifice quality for instant gratification. Without the filter of educated, credible, and veteran industry professionals in place, thoughtless and off-pitch vocals backed by distorted, unclear, and disheartening musicality now floods our youth’s dominant information source, the Internet. These networking sites allow anyone with a microphone and a computer to digitally expose their music to an unsuspecting audience of millions. The ease of songwriting mixed with mass exploitation is creating a daunting grey area between quality music produced by committed and inspiring artists and those who have no intentions of producing a product that gives back to the very institution it spawned from.

A Smoldering Fire

Do real artists ever find a tangible purpose in life? Or does constant, continuous abstract thinking melt the mind into a schizophrenic mush? I think the problem rests in the lacking counterbalance between critical thinking and over-analyzing. A free mind is surely one of beauty, but it seems as though our world needs its plumbers. One is forced to wonder what exists in each mind that is so incredibly different from the next? What elixir pours frantically between synapses? What blue print is unfolded only to be created by skilled hands?

A smoldering fire in the desert is one worth consoling. Aiding in its journey - only to be forgotten by those who've never known burning so brilliant. No stagnant replication or vile noise - just dignified and diligent. Starched to be starved and filter out with the rest. The true artist may find times of hunger in the present, but immortality was made for a mini series. An airbrush auction would make us all a little more gray, a little more mundane - but the inevitable has yet to exist. Maybe its time to pick up the blue print and start reading it again. There may have been a mistake.

Riotous Metropolis Overview

The back cover of the book reads:

The cover piece of the collection entitled Riotous Metropolis describes a specific scenario involving a wandering existence and it’s confronting reality. At first glance, it would appear that the short story transpires over the span of a few passing moments. As we strip back the bitter coating, we divulge the underlying components of the situation and their relevancy to a lifetime of hardship.

One man can only draw on that which he has experienced and cognitively obtained as his own. Had prior endeavors led the outsider with a weakened moral compass, he may have felt less inclined to act - but every inspiring interaction, every stimulating emotion, every disheartening memory, and every waking moment led him to his spot – to be confronted with his scenario – to be faced with his decision. By embracing the trembling spirit, he truly shows an appreciation for lesser hands dealt.

The ensuing chapters of Riotous Metropolis identify with the impacting factors of every interaction – our lives’ inevitable journeys, our own self-complexity, the structural constituents of our society, and the relationships that absorb the fist of each and every blunder. The poems and images are intended to depict those specific instances and provide insight as to why our hero was inevitably presented his plight.

P. Lewis Foster

For Pete's Sake

We cannot - we must not change what music once was. Profound and meticulous compositions should now only exist in the archives that contain them. We can only listen with eager ears; we can only interpret with open minds, but must let the resting rhythms exist only in our speakers and not in our workshops. It is our responsibility as musicians to allow all facets of past composition to influence us in the most experiential fashions. We are to absorb every pattern, identify every emotional variation, and allow a fusion of the lot to manifest within our very fingertips.

As the newly comprised energy spreads fluently throughout mind, body, and soul, we are enabled to speak with every individual voice. We speak from each mouth, but transmit only one message. The chaos forms a symphonic wave cast frantically to the masses, or to no one at all. To the barren cement lining every basement - speak the phrases made unattainable by way of radio or television. Scream the song unheard by millions. Every individual, regardless of social familiarity, is equipped with a unique skill set of impacting factors. It is the successful, the passionate, the genuine, the sincere, the committed - who can and will allow such a phenomena to occur internally. To hone, identify, and transmit the finished product is truly a unique and individualistic expression of artistry.

The potential to impact those who have yet to compose exists in the ears of those who chose to listen and in the mouths of those who choose to speak. I vow to those who have yet to pick up the pick - with every voice I will scream as loud as I can until the deafened ears and wandering minds break free of numbness and stagnancy. I will scream until my eyes brighten red with blood and my voice erodes to whispers. I will scream until every daunting gray area is colored. I will scream until the messages of millions of impostors are buried with no chance for escape. My voice, my velocity, my vision, is a gift to those who care to progress. My silence, my discourage, my fist - a separate composition - is given to those who chose to disgrace and defile this gift given so reverently.