1994

In 1994, I thought I knew what it was all for.

The Flaming Lips were transcendent.

The summer was pregnant.

With possibilities and hope.

Labia in the sunlight.

Everything felt right.

The generation wasn't labelled.

Punk rock was fabled.

Music had aspirations.

I was filled with inspiration.

Pavement sitting pretty.

Stephen foxy and witty.

'Baby don't you cut your hair.'

'Baby don't you be no square.'

Now music is programmed.

It's all a sham.

Everyone makes their hundred grands.

But there's no future for those with talent.

And the world is off balance.

Only the beautiful sit on the throne.

Bereft of vision but their plans come to fruition.

The rich and famous just want another buck.

Baby they don't give a fuck!

Now it's twenty years gone by.

My how time flies.

I know more but understand less.

I'll bet you can guess

That there is no happy ending.

No one in power has integrity.

Baby it's plain to see

It's all me, me, me.

I wish I didn't care.

I wish I was unaware.

I wish I didn't have this feeling.

That we've already hit the ceiling.

In 1994, I thought I knew what it was all for.

Michigan Spring

She teases like a belle at the ball, declining to dance, even though her eyes say yes.
She is a coquette, hot then cold, inviting then forbidding.
She is the worst flirt, she lures us then spurns us.
But when she twirls her skirts and shows all her charms,
You know she was worth the wait.

There is nothing more beautiful than Michigan Spring.
Winter takes her sweet time, delighting in our suffering.
But when her radiant, lovely sister finally steps out on the dance floor,
We see her for the mirror image of her cold sibling.
The delightful splendor of Michigan Spring.
Michigan Spring is divine but she never comes on time.

There is nothing more majestic than her trees and her fauna.
There is nothing more soothing than her cool breezes.
How to describe the color of her sunsets.
How to explain the grandeur of her great lakes and streams.
The intoxicating song of her birds and her bees.
The grace and elegance of her deer.
Michigan Spring is the best-kept secret.
For some reason I just had to share it.

 Home is where the Heart is

The word love is over-used.

Love is an old sock, with  holes in it.

Love is worn and faded as an old pair of jeans.
Love is by rote. Love is predictable.
Love is saccharine.
Love is a Hallmark card.
Love is contrived and stale.
Love is archaic. 
Love is past its expiration date.

We need a new word for love.

Home is love.

Home is deep down inside you.

But home is also a sphere around you

That draws in what is good for you

(And some of what is bad for you).

From now on when we say we are in love,

We should say 'I'm finally home.'
Home is where the heart is.

New Church

I'm building a new church.
Its foundation is very strong.
But it's dogma hasn't been written yet.
There is only one person who practices my faith.
But he is a true believer.
He is just one man
But if he finds one more believer,
He will have a congregation.
He is a patient man.
He is a strong man.

The new church isn't about morality.
The new church isn't about sin.
Your sins are your own.
Sins don't make you evil.
Sins just prove you're alive.
Everybody sins but what does it matter?
It's ok that we're not perfect.
The new church doesn't judge.
The new church says live and let live.

The new church is radically different.
The new church doesn't care about history.
The new church isn't interested in preaching.
The new church doesn't discriminate.
The new church respects all humans.
(Did I mention it's radically different?)
The new church just wants you to feel good.
Are you ready to join?



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