flower on fire

take me down
sweet sweet rose
shoot your poison up my nose
brown eyed susan when you explode
wrap your thorny fingers around my soul

i want to go deep down to the center of the earth
if i choke i know your honey will quench my thirst
i want to know the secrets of your universe

a blaze of ultraviolet in the smokey sky
and it’s raining may azaleas on the fourth of july
spring fever flash it’s summertime
but it ain’t easy when you’ve got a one track mind

i want to go deep down to the center of the earth
if i choke i know your honey will quench my thirst
i want to know the secrets of your universe

flower on fire
just like the hummingbird
sometimes i see only red
and i want to cross the world for you
flower on fire
you can kill the candlelight
just lead me to your garden party
and I’ll perform tonight for you

hey daisy sniper
you aim for the heart
i’ve got a burning suspicion that mine’s fallen apart.

waltz for the yearning

threw up in the hotel de france in downtown vienna
glass chandeliers in every room
cappucino st. stephen and his cathedral
still spinning round inside my head
the ferris wheel is turning out a waltz for the yearning
but the past just slips away fast so i move slowly on
as a parade heel then slap
one by one they ascend and descend outside the door

dressed all in black
st. james in a bottle at my back
i'm left with the morning and a new song to remember tonight

sleep in peace for we'll still fight
when everyone has gone
just step out into the light
and you'll never ever be alone
and don't forget to remember...
me

Wasted Thoughts

One day,
The 9th Battalion Of The King’s Own Electric Light Infantry said:
We won’t go,
We’re not going to do that anymore.
And the rock throwers and poets said:
What the hell took you so long to see?!
Then both sides spit, shook and went home;
Wondering why nobody ever seems to have the courage to speak out sooner,
To be the first one,
To be loud enough to make sure you are heard.

So many wasted thoughts, ideas, dreams, songs, people ...

Gone forever.

For what?

e-phesians

He was a poet and consummate artist, so he spoke metaphorically. All he said and did was meant to turn everything upside down - left side up. Death becomes life, love becomes the ultimate warfare, words become swords, flowers into bullets. The helmet of salvation is a protection from the wrong things entering into your head, and a way to keep the right things in it. If you take the words at face value, you will miss their point. Even the words 'conquer' and 'pacifist' become hard to define anymore, for only love conquers in the end - much in the same way that water always overcomes rock in the long term. He was indeed a "warrior", but had he been a warrior in the literal sense he would have been, at the most, no more than one of history's great generals and experienced fleeting glory for one particular moment and one for particular tribe. Oh, by the way, there are no chosen people. He saw the bigger picture, brought down a whole corrupt Empire, and dramatically changed the world forever! I defy anybody to prove to me, with his words, that he was anything other than what we would now call liberal... and a pacifist intent on overthrowing the order of things. It can be done. The prideful make him a macho, warrior advocate of violence. That is not only unimaginative, but goes against the very essence of what makes the message so revolutionary. Being unimaginative is a fatal weakness. I say to them, if you can't stomach peace, love, grace, and compassion for all, then start a new religion. Actually, you already have. And isn't it beautiful and fitting that he would have chosen to speak as a poet. With my beautiful and peaceful words I will conquer. What better way to turn the tables on this world? Even from a merely pragmatic standpoint, this is the only real future for everyone in the long run isn't it?

The Sacred Cosmic Music Committee

The sacred cosmic music committee meets in old man bars
In desperate parts of town only lost poets know about
They put their quarters in and press the buttons
Over pint and cig regrets and the greatest love songs never written
When twilight’s thankful tenderloin draws its dirty shades
And there’s no space to contemplate the stars
Except for this invisible dump on Leavenworth
Where the jukebox plays all night long
Coltrane, Suzanne, and the Spiders from Mars.

Fantastic Article That Robots and Bean Counters Will Recoil From

Future Of The American Dream

http://www.thenation.com/doc/20090525/greider/2

The Best Review Ever

Maybe it's a narcissistic thing to do ... but I am posting a review of my own show... because I love the review and the way it was written. And the person who wrote it is a real rock star whom I respect immensely. Dave Middleton of Waxing Poeetics.

MARK LAWRENCE live at Googie’s Lounge, NYC, October 1st 2008
On an almost daily basis, I wonder how up-and-coming singer-songwriters manage to do it these days. You can release your own CD, upload your tracks to the internet, then get in a car with as few people as possible and hit the road, I suppose. Can you be a one-man business in this modern world, selling your own T-shirts and booking your own gigs and driving yourself from town to town? I guess. I’ve often dreamed of getting a CDL and becoming a self-contained trucking & entertainment industry myself, performing my favorite Marty Robbins tunes at truck stops ’round the country after dispatching giant cords of lumber, a pot-bellied pig named Porky my only traveling companion. Joe Six-Packs and Hockey Moms nationwide could band together and order my 8-Track hits comps from K-Tel! Well, a former beauty queen from The Last Frontier can dream, can’t she? Oh, nevermind…


The thing is, all these thoughts just wash right out of my mind when I witness an actual performance by a great singer-songwriter, if only because the magic of a great performance tends to sweep me up into a world where the technical aspect of being a performer no longer matters. Who cares how the magician does the trick, if the illusion is breathtaking enough, right? Well this is how I felt last Wednesday night when I caught a set by Mark Lawrence at Googie’s Lounge, a small cabaret perched above The Living Room on Ludlow Street in lower Manhattan.

Though Mark and his music need no introduction to me, he’s a virtual unknown to most everyone else on this planet. Now, there’s a part of me that’s bothered by this; this gentleman clearly deserves a very wide audience, which he may one day gain. But on the other hand, there’s such a gorgeous, private pleasure in having that one artist or that one album that’s so intimate and special to you that you just can’t bear to share it with anyone else. I have the feeling that no matter how popular Mark Lawrence’s music could get, his songs will always give you that special intimate sensation. He’s just that kinda guy.

Earlier this year, when Mark released his very long-awaited debut CD, Swirl, I mentioned to him and several others that, after just one listen, I could tell it was going to be one of my favorite records of 2008. Now that the year is drawing rapidly to a close, and with many more listens under my belt (and, Momofuku notwithstanding, few other titles of note), I’ve come to the conclusion that this is my #1 favorite release of the year, hands-down. You can hear (and buy) it for yourself, and read a short review by yours truly. See what I mean? This is some seriously well-written stuff; gorgeous melodies that draw you in, with spectacular guitar playing and lush, warm arrangements. All capped, of course, by Mark’s rich tenor and falsetto, part Glenn Tilbrook, part Chris Bell, all his own; an instrument of which I’ve been in awe for some 20 years and counting.

Opening Wednesday night’s set by dedicating Swirl’s “American Beauty Queen” to GOP hopeful Sarah Palin, Mark and his partner-in-sound, Swirl’s co-producer Allen M. Law, reduced the album’s sound to a two-guitar attack that forfeited none of its lushness. In fact, the simpler arrangements brought out more power in the material, accentuating the bossa nova groove of “All Over My Wall,” and exposing the true melancholy behind the lamenting “Supermarket Girl.” By reproducing piano and string parts with electric guitar and reverb, Law provided the perfect bed of atmosphere for Lawrence’s acoustic guitar and voice. No digital backing tracks required. “Play it for me, guitarist,” Mark intoned to Allen away from the mic before a solo, evoking Alex Chilton on Big Star’s Third. I smiled knowingly. And tellingly. And then it all hit me.

While sharing a few short anecdotes between songs, Mark confessed his awareness of how others read his material. He told a story of how someone came up to him once after a show and said, “Y’know, you’re really good, but your songs are so earnest.” It struck me at that point that the very simple honesty and earnestness in Mark’s songs is what really makes them special. I had been wondering how today’s singer-songwriters do it. I was trying to put my finger on it, and he did it for me, right from the stage. No matter how much labor is involved, no matter how many flats one must change or how many truck stops, late-night diners and empty coffeehouses one must endure, when the music is great and the lyrics hit home, it’s all worthwhile. And when the songs take on a life of their own and stay with you, all that work seems like a piece of cake. It’s the intimacy and the honesty that gets you there. And I think anyone who hears Mark Lawrence’s music, on record or in person, will agree.

The Thing About Things

Here’s the thing about things. Things are among the most misunderstood of all things. The thing to remember is, they do not want you to merely collect them like things. They want you to cherish them like they are the most precious thing in existence. Otherwise, things become objectified …just meaningless things to collect more and more of. And this suggests there is something more valuable than things. Which of course there is. That’s the thing! The thing of it is though, even though I may know what the thing is, I still am tempted by other things. I’m pretty sure this is something like the thing Phil and Don were thinking about when they sang “pretty little thing Claudette”. Likewise, precisely Stan's and Jack's ruminations, no doubt, when they created the monstrous Thing. The thing I really want to marvel about though is that, all things considered, most things are beyond our control. And perhaps none of this means a thing. I do know one thing for sure …the thing that can be named is never really the thing.

Dear Empire

What good is your invisible hand, if it can’t pick up the pieces?
What good is your trickle down, when the cups are all broken?
What good is your mercedes, when the roads all have holes?
What good is your mansion, if you have to put a gate around it?
What good are all your things, when they don’t make you happy?
What good is all your money, when it can’t buy you love?
What good is your freedom, if you keep building more jails?
What good is your democracy, if it has to be imposed?
What good is your force, if you have to kill them all?
What good is your empire, when there’s nothing left to defend?

Monastic Period

Don't want to eat
Just want to starve these desires
Don’t want to drink
With any more thieves and liars
Don't want to talk
About things with feeling
Don’t want to smoke
I’ll hit my head on the ceiling
Won't take a seat
Just want to keep on walking
Won't open the door
Could be the Devil knocking.

Cheap Revelation

Paid six dollars for my revelation
Bought my ticket and went inside
A blue lamp sea
Faces I didn't want to be
They really didn't give a shit about me
While my whole life
Was in bed
Waiting for me
Praying for me
Crying for me
To finally come home.

House Cleaning

If people were things
Just lying around
Would you want to be an art book
When house cleaning comes
If people were tunes
Just humming along
Would you want be this love song
When your guitar strums
Maybe God will want you for his coffee table
But nobody here has use anymore
For “pretty pictures in my head”
Maybe the angels will forever be crying for what's been lost
But everybody here is as dry as bones.

what i want

people and things
that are beautifully discordant
pretty disturbing undertones and flaws
like later romantic period
of every dirty sentence john fante might have written
perfume like starfire lillies and pining basil
a good time in the sack
an admittance of the ambiguous nature of truth
conversation that gets to the funk like old iron rusted authors
really saying real things
like the idea that both good and bad
truth and lies
love and hate
real and artificial
all dwell within everyone and everything
in shades of tolstoy gray

a jesus
that is sweaty and real and laughs a lot
speaks in words that inflame constantinian christians
who wish caesar were christ
sings of love like pink punk beatles
strums a guitar like long haired willie
scrawls true manifesto
and accepts you for who you are.


echo chambers

More Cheese

Here’s the thing about cheeseburgers … it’s not that I don’t really like them…. I mean they taste great and are fun to eat. OK! They’re fun. They are like a drug. With fries and all that other shit. They are entertaining in the way that catsup tastes good on everything when you are a kid. It’s not a highbrow/lowbrow thing either. I am sure that I can really let stupid associative things ruin something for me, forever even. For instance, I know this fat gut guy who eats a cheeseburger every damn day for lunch and is pathetically proud about it, even though it’s visibly and invisibly, mentally and audibly killing him. He’s one of those entitlement complex-ed people that never leaves his pudgy padded comfort zone …out of fear .. and a lack of curiosity about the world around him. And Christ, maybe they won't have cheeseburgers in another country. And even if they do, they might use REAL smelly cheese instead of fake Kraft singles. Like everyone should come to him and worship in his little back water enclave, somewhere in the forgotten zone of a dying empire. A McEmpire that puts a cheeseburger in the hands of every child in every formerly culinarily unique country in the world. And, he’s a ditto head who loves Buffett…what a surprise. Like Curious George’s dull-witted, bloated, evil twin monkey from a parallel, even meaner universe. A universe set to Skynnyrd tunes as sung by American Idol winners, where Sarah Palin butts her way into a room full of Nascar frenzied Bud swilling red meat heads and, with a wink that makes you want to lash out severely, asks …"I betcha you guys could use some cheeseburgers about now, couldn’t cha?” And they and their guts bow down…. to the cheese and to the beef. It’s their God given duty to pray for more cheese.




Mr. Mustard

Start A Blog

So I found my tape…the one with the entire 4-track recorded version of East Side Story by Squeeze. I made this in the late 90’s when we lived in Japan. Japan ... a place where you can act like a fool and nobody will call you out on it, even though they are acutely aware of how foolish you are. I loved it there. So I recorded every song with two guitars, a cheap microphone, and a crappy reverb pedal and dubbed it…"Far East Side Story" by Someone Else’s Squeeze. It's one of those ever increasingly rare records where every song is truly great. I'm talking about the original. I made it an exact replica in homage to the Japanese art of copying…but, unlike them, I don’t think I actually improved on the original nor did I intend to. The unbelievably serendipitous part is that a couple of days after I finished it I saw that Tilbrook was playing a solo gig in Tokyo. So I gave the tape to him after the show. Years later in San Francisco he proclaimed it to have been “brilliant”…and why wouldn’t he….they are his songs. Plus, can anyone really be sure what brilliant means?

Anyway, I could have only done this had I lived in Japan, where I had time to do other things besides work myself silly in some mindlessly ambitious American frenzy - which brings me to why I would even have a blog at all. Blogging seems thankfully the opposite of mindless ambition. What's needed now is more reflection and less consumption. Less speed, less work and more time with family and friends. More time to read, write, travel, learn, sing, listen…more time to live. Look where Nike’s stupid “Just Do It” motto has taken us. We shouldn't have done it. “Don’t Just Do It” is a far more enlightened slogan, one that Obama and crew should adopt. The anti-corporate slogan! It'd be my campaign slogan: Don't Just Do It. Think First and Reflect. Don’t just buy that ugly ass gas guzzling SUV, think about whether it is really needed. Think about how all the gas it requires is being bought with the blood of American kids barely out of their teens as well as the deaths of countless innocent men, women and children on the “other side” of the world. If you can’t fit in anything smaller than an SUV, then think about how all the processed crap you are putting in your body is making you too large. Then get out and exercise. Walk down the street and talk to your neighbors. Walk to a café. Café’s are some of the greatest places on earth and we should have way more of them. Have a hot drink and sit and do nothing for awhile…then see what comes to mind. Start a conversation. Turn off the TV. Connect. Play the piano, play the guitar. Record a version of your favorite record! That’s right I still say records…records are way cooler than CD’s. And so, having said that, I am getting ready to convert “Far East Side Story” from analog to digital, where it will end up on a CD. Whaddaya think of that?

Start a blog.

Three 415 Bars

Three 415 Bars

Always someone there worse off than you
Suzie don’t take no shit
The Summer Place is a fine space to hide
When you’re in the middle of it

Naima fills the Geary castle halls
With the questions we contemplate over pints
New York or San Francisco?
Me and Paul from Glasgow

Obscurity’s the price of reflection I say
Those here with me in the mission know it’s true
Sitting here in the make out room
Wishing I was with you.