On the hottest days

In the end of summer,

Back when we lived in the city,

My mother used to make blackberry pie.

She'd give my brother and I

A white construction bucket

And send us into the brambles

Outside of our apartment building,

Where we could hardly hear

The screaming commuters

Suffering the crowded I5 corridor

Over our own childish anticipation.

We'd picked enough berries by now

That we knew which ones were ready

By the color and feel of 'em,

And we were tough kids...

Knowing there was a pie to be had,

We didn't mind grabbing a handful

Of thorny vines to get to the good ones.

We'd pluck one plump blackberry

And drop it into the bucket,

Then one more, that was too purdy for droppin'

So we'd eat that one...

And by the time our Little hands were covered in pin pricks,

And our mouths

were stained in berry juice,

We'd stumble back to the apartment

In our clown makeup

And dirty T shirts,

And drop a bucket of berries on the floor

For my mother

Like we'd just come home from

a 9 to 5...

I'd wash the blood off my hands

And sit patiently in a chair near the kitchen

And watch her mix the flour and roll the dough, and mash all those perfect berries into a slurry,

Pour it all in a pan,

And slide it into the oven,

And I swear

Every poor kid in the building

Got jealous when they smelled what was comin' from our kitchen. . .

After a time,

She'd pull a hard-earned pie from the oven

And my brother and I would watch the steam pourin' of it,

Knowing it'd hurt just as bad as pickin all those berries to take a bite,

And as much as we wanted to dig into that pan

Despite burning our dirty fingers,

We knew this pie was worth the wait.

These days,

I've traded blackberry pie

For cheap wine,

Even though

I know that the best things take time,

Like forgiveness,

Because everything tastes better

Knowing you worked for it

Now, my brother and I

Tend to bond over decent whiskey

And we're more likely

to bloody our fingers

On guitars named after women,

And I can't remember the last time

I ate a slice of pie,

'cause they never look quite the same

In a glass case,

At some roadside diner,

Where a lot of lonely people

Look at them in passing

Imagining their childhoods.

And a glass of whiskey

Will never quite look like my mother in an apron,

But sometimes

It does look like my brother

Grinning ear to ear,

And though

It won't make up for the

Bloody fingertips,

Sometimes,

It reminds me

That my mother

Used to make

Blackberry pie.

-Johnny Bourbon.

Some Choose

The path of commerce,

The pursuit of commodity

And monetary gain,

Some Choose

The path of procreation,

The pursuit of improving

Or undoing

The doctrines of our parents,

I Have Chosen

The path of Poetry,

The pursuit of understanding

The world of my birth,

To burn like the Sun

In life,

And glow like the Moon

In death.

-Johnny Bourbon

I watch them

In the winter

Falling for love

In the whitewash

Cozy by the fireplace

Bookmarking moments

Cataloging their generosity

Buying new pets

And lovers

I see them

Getting anxious for proposals

Waiting for the right Snow-lit moment

That will make the perfect photograph

They're getting excited

For new jobs

And new boots

and scarf weather

They bake

And make holiday drinks

And seem to like everything....

They like the long winter nights

The snow days

And keepsakes

They like the company

And the chaos

They even like eachother...

And I like

Day old wine

In the windowsill

Fresh cigarettes

On the nightstand

And writing naked in my bed

At 1 o'clock

On a Tuesday

For my birthday last year, I was reminded of how amazing all of the people in my life are when they surprised me with the kind of gift I really could have never imagined receiving or feeling worthy of...

I got seriously choked up when they revealed to me that they'd started a secret fund and pooled the money so that I could finally record a full length solo album at my favorite studio.

It's an album I've been wanting to make and talked myself out of over and over again...

I'd been putting it off for years, I never felt like the songs were ready, or that I could afford the studio time...

Which songs should make the cut, which ones were "good enough" and I kept letting my head get in the way.

Really, I was putting it off because I felt like I wasn't good enough. Like I couldn't justify the expense because I didn't think it would mean anything in the end.

But they all helped me to remember that my songs are important to people, and it would mean something to all of them,

even if no one else in the world cared... and that's really the push that I needed.

I remembered the feeling of why I started playing in the first place, to take my experiences and my love and my pain, to digest all of it, to find the words for it, and that became sharing those words with people who might need to hear them in a certain moment, to feel a little more understood, or to feel a little less alone.. and in that I have found real connection with so many people over the years and many times found healing in the process as well.

It's been nine months since that unforgettable birthday party.. and over that time I've refined the list, and picked the songs that feel strong and cohesive, dug deep and figured out which stories I felt like I really needed to share...

I began playing acoustic shows consistently again, and got these songs about as polished as they're going to get. It's been great playing for all of you lately, and I really appreciate the responses I've gotten from these recent performances.

Now that I know what I want to do, its finally time to get started.

I'll be joined in the studio by some very talented musicians I've been lucky enough to call friends, that are going to help give these songs what they need, and I can't wait to see what becomes of this project.

To all of you who made this happen,

Thank you for believing in me all of those times I couldn't believe in myself. The gratitude washes over me still.

I'll be carrying your energy in the studio,

This one's for you.

RECORDING BEGINS TONIGHT!

I've written nearly a hundred

songs

That were never meant to leave my bedroom,

I picked at the wounds

To find the perfect words,

And brutishly mashed them over simple chords

A thousand times over,

To prepare them for the judgement of being seen for the first time,

And when they had legs enough to stand,

I'd hold them by the bridle,

Waiting for the perfect person,

In the perfect moment,

That may have needed those words as much as I did. . .

And when I played the song,

I felt it leave me,

Like a neighborhood cat that was never really mine,

Destined to leap from the kitchen window

After regaining it's strength,

To find someone

Who needed the company

More than I did. . .

And in those cases,

I'd never play that song again,

Realizing that it had always belonged to someone else,

And that I was only meant

To deliver those words

To the moment

In which they'd live forever.

People like James remind me

Of that simple truth

I so often forget,

That an entire life

Lived in a single moment

Is a life well lived.

And the best we can give to a moment,

Is our unrelenting affection,

Before we let it loose,

To go wherever a memory goes

Once it's left us.

And we may chase the feeling it leaves behind,

Like a farm dog

beneath a murder of crows,

But we should all be so

To have something to chase.

- Johnny Bourbon

It's December 1st

And it's warm enough outside to break a sweat,

Lakes, rivers, and reservoirs are seeing all time lows, chronic drought is our new reality,

Meanwhile, Facebook is building a virtual world for you to live in,

where "connecting with people," as Zuckerberg puts it, is the purpose of its inception, considering that soon the world governments won't allow you to leave your house over fears of contracting a virus that your already immune to dying from. But why would you need to go outside anyway?

Automation has already made most of your jobs obsolete, and the rest of you can work remotely,

(here's where the term essential workers comes back into play: those who can do the only things the robots can't..)

Your life support supplies (essentials) can be delivered by Amazon,

And the need for any other life enhancing

Commodity becomes obsolete as well, considering you won't be leaving the house or having company over..

Private property becomes obsolete.

(As does the need for actual privacy.)

You'll opt instead to earn and spend your time, and your "credits"

In the metaverse, on virtual commodities, such as clothes for your avatar, or paintings for your virtual living space that can be traded, "same as cash" or snatched away without warning by the creators of the metaverse, under the jurisdiction of a singular world government.. or even a random hacker.

You'll be sad that the imaginary things you worked for have suddenly vanished,

But it won't last considering You'll be able to press a button and feel any way you want to through the use of endorphin altering stimulant gas pumped in through your new VR headset feeding tube.

Just 10 credits for slightly happy!!

12 for slightly happier...

25 for ecstacy... (short-lived)

50 for pure joy

150 for orgasm...

( if you can afford it. )

For the right amount of virtual money, anything is possible! We become consumed by the pursuit of acquiring enough credits to experience every obscure sex act and achieving god-like super powers.

While you were busy in your imaginary world, Amazon, Google, and Facebook have finally merged to form Skynet.

(And by the way, there are biological robots being built right now using stem cells from amphibians, and they're capable of reproducing.)

Come to think of it, the entire world is already fully functioning in the new virtual one,

Why would all of you biological meat sacks need so much space?

Whole houses and neglected lawns wasting all those resources just for you to jack into the metaverse...

Humans are then shuffled into temperature stable boxlike apartments with high speed internet connections, wireless VR headsets and a series of tubes for their faces and butts.

Their fragile biological structures couldn't withstand the extreme heat outside anyway.. global warming and years of constant drought have fuelled megafires, thus making the air unbreathable without the use of filters.

Humans are kept pacified

With the only things that mattered to them in the first place, the need to buy and sell commodities for the sake of advancing toward an enviable summit of perceived accomplishment.

A need completely met and surpassed in the virtual world.

"We have created everything you need and more," robot Jeff ZuckerBorg smirks.

The Humans are satisfied.

Those that have the necessary "social" skills to thrive in the virtual universe at least.

Their bodies remain plugged in to the grid to produce electromagnetic currents which have been found to be intrinsically connected to the function of the planet

And thus vital for earth and for the machines to survive.

Something tells me, we all know what happens next.

Enjoy the REAL world while you can folks... we may not be allowed to for long.

Blue is the only color that matters.

Outside of this

There is only blackness,

To which, my hands reach into

And are greeted

By nothing.

There is no one waiting out there.

I am the angriest man I know.

So angry,

My stomach is rotting from the inside.

So angry,

I crumble under the weight of kindness.

So angry,

That silence feels like a brick

In the back of my head,

And sincerity

Feels hostile.

Blue is the only color that matters.

Inside of it

There is stillness,

Loneliness,

And honesty;

The only barrier

Between me

And pitch black.

The rain falls on the tin roof

To remind me of the season,

With it comes change.

Everything changes.

I think I can change, but all I really know

Is that some changes require attention,

While others, require destruction

And the rain doesn’t know the difference.

One day, it will get so heavy

That it falls through the earth;

Right through our houses

And cars,

Right through our hearts

And our minds,

Through our every accomplishment

And all of our regrets,

Through our long goodbyes,

And scripted endings,

Straight through the other side of the world

And into the void,

Where our story

Has never been told

At all.

Some things don’t deserve a rewrite.

In the noise of my childhood mind

I had a panoramic view

Of what the world was.

I wanted a father

Like a mountain range,

A mother like soft earth,

A god that payed attention to me.

I wanted dreams to achieve,

And adventures to have,

places to explore,

And a love that would never leave me.

I was so naive.

Lots of things

Are buried here

In the salty absence

In the drowning heat.

The Native Children

Hiding in the cracks

Between the eras

The devils in their dens

Below the crackled crust

The hoof beats

Of the long dead stampedes

Beneath the dry soles

Of the 20th century...

The remnants of the sea

Are buried here

The shattered bits

Of the giant saltwater snail’s shell

Along with the beak of Davy Jones’

leviathan

Poseidon’s scepter

Laid below

The fossilized footprints

Of giants and Pharaohs...

The remnants of freedom

Are buried here

Well-traveled charred hardwood bits

Hidden at the foot of a taproot

A lonely spur

And a severed bootstrap

In the shade

Of the red rocks

The sun-bleached hide

And the horseshoe

By the dry river bed

The hardened wagon trenches

Along the canyon

The Aztec gold

In the Cavern

The medicine wheel

Prominently left alone

To the 6 portals of heaven...

The remnants of love

Are buried here

With rattlesnake bone

And Clovis point

A shovel

A tattered dress

A revolver

And last words whispered

That echo softly still

Through the walls

Of the towering Mesas...

Lots of things

Are buried here.

Three worlds before our own.

The rise and fall of civilization.

The genocide of the children of Atlantis.

The death of frontier hope

Under the boots of Henry Ford.

The gold fever broke

Before the eyes of J.P. Morgan.

The unachieved dreams

Of the American Revolution.

All of them

Preserved perfectly here

In a land

That knows no time

Humming gently beneath

A crystal blanket

Beating and pulsing

With the drums

Of the Anasazi

Waiting for something

That nobody knows

In a silence

So perfect

You can hear it.

I want to go somewhere and be desolate.

Out here, in the country

Isn’t far enough.

I need to be a stray in a city,

Alone in an empty crowded place

Like a phantom limb,

To do my best work.

We are fighting each other

Over our own seclusion;

So desperate for attention

We jockey for position

At the speed of rattlesnakes.

Venomous creatures live alone.

We want to be seen, and not touched.

We want to be heard, but not answered.

We want the esteem

Of being well-versed in literature,

But this era is too busy

For busy poetry.

We want something for nothing;

We want it immediately,

And we want it to change our lives.

It’s Vegas Baby!

And we’re all trying to win big

In a desert.

God damned the desert.

Just about anyone can be seen from the clouds

On a salt flat so shallow.

Now every washed-up prom queen gets to feel accomplished.

This place,

Is not meant to support new life.

Its purpose is to decompose

Every one-hit wonder and regurgitate.

Repackage.

Resell.

Feed you like a baby bird.

I’ve been doing this a long time.

By now, I don’t expect anyone to give a shit.

But I have no right,

It’s hard to imagine Neal Cassady at the bar

Punching notes into a smartphone;

Or what Jack’s Instagram page would look like.

I doubt we’d ever know.

He wasn’t the type of Catholic to modernize.

And he sure as Hell

Wasn’t the type of Buddhist

to profess enlightenment on the internet.

#poetry #prose #nealcassady #jackkerouac #selfieculture #disassociation #alienation #vanity #society #technology