I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Category: Uncategorised
When does a wave become a wave and when
is it only water When does a thought
become an idea or when is it simply fodder for creations and goals
is it only a dream when is what is
just as it seems
If you know what you know and still can’t see through
do you wait and only wonder if there is more you can do
Where are the signs you have got it all wrong
if you think through the process and it seems too far gone
Who can decide if you can’t see your self
What can you say when there is no one to tell
Does blood in the vein know you exist
will the heart continue beating beyond the eclipse Can August as
we know it ever spill into June
and how can forever feel like it is soon
How could we tell through the sun-drenched illusions
Why would I stop you
from jumping
to conclusions
When does a breath become a sharp gasp and how
will you know if it will be your last
So little is written and so much is said
you can’t pull it together nor find a thread of truth
beyond passion a sole purpose you know
How can you be sure when you say it is so
Do you take words at face value can you
know what they mean
you speak them so often just like it seems
science keeps trying to convince us the sun will get hotter
Will it bring us more waves or
bring us
more water
?
© 2016 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 20, 2016 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
Rhythm and pattern easily obscured, it’s what you feel,
not what is heard. Polyphonic syncopation, bass line
holds the inspiration well before anticipation, a rush of melody pushes
to the fore you hear it again, but never have before.
Rim shot crack
cymbals crash,
the beat is burning, and falls
like ash. It marches and it swings,
like laughter, it is tears.
Emotionally charged, by no means irreverent, it suddenly switches gears.
History more than the future, a time though, never passed.
As definite as prayer,
cool as a sweaty glass. Full moon rising
heroin highs
the music lives on
the player only dies.
Straight up from the psyche, deep down in the core, no matter the decade,
more than less though less is more. Solo piano
full of vigor the notes interpret all you have known.
Time signature changes, on a dime, or rolled up bill, the rhythm method,
it comes from the gut
no matter how it is played or how it is cut. Free form.
It is life, it is living, it is solid, it is forgiving. As simple or as complex as a saxophone riff,
no four-chord progressions. Never boring. Never stiff.
Wholly original, as much as it is copied, and studied, sweated over, with notes cast asunder, improvisation, muddied by emotion
perpetual motion, realization, over and under.
Though practiced it is free, it is glossy, and messed up, so dirty it is clean.
Quietly you dream, completely obsessed. A blue note cries out
to lovers
and all the others,
calmer, smoother sounds, longer linear melodic lines, you don’t listen as much
as you go for a ride. Off the charts,
it’s art and it’s plastered with culture,
a contradiction not comprehensible, it is not responsible
should you dream a life totally possessed.
More about attitude than instrument of choice, the minor keys and major chords create it’s own noise. Structured silence played oh-so-slow in parts of deep reflection, blood rushing through the vein, it steps back then it rises up, triumphantly, again. Again
and again, and again.
Only a genre is to say night is just darkness, or a day is but a year,
it goes down easy with dinner, or a six pack of beer, seedy downtown club
or a scratchy vinyl disc
it comes with a purpose, arrives full of risk. It nourishes the soul from a rhythm, whatever it has, whatever it be
we should all live like jazz.
© 2016 j.g. lewis
Posted on April 13, 2016 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
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Circumstance may take you there, though time
will not wait. Music louder today than yesterday,
its velocity peeling off the walls,
a madness only eighties metal can muster.
Cocksure and belligerent, intended for simple minds
with little reason and less soul.
Barely enough bodies to suck up the sound,
less people and a lesser me. Less alcohol,
shades of last night’s dose amplify the
sounds. Smells like teen spirit, or even my youth.
This bar, once familiar, hosts that wretched stench.
Been here more the last two days, than the past two decades.
The rhythm is the same, the mood the same, it feels the same.
I felt it. For a moment, last night, as some wickedly-fit kid
spit out lyrics of love, regret, or injustice and yearning,
chocking the guitar like he meant it.
The vengeance of the volume did not go unnoticed.
I was here. So was she.
Last night. And back today.
Seen her more the past two days than the last two decades.
Or three. It was nothing then, as nothing goes,
and nothing now.
Nothing changes if nothing changes.
I have. She had. Changed.
The hourglass figure running out
of time. Eyes black as revenge, a voice now bitter.
You can only reminisce so long, then talk about
nothing and how it has changed. The music was loud,
louder than it was. Then.
Music, fashionable as it was before now.
Nothing changes.
ll
We talked, between songs, or shouted
and laughed an unfamiliar laugh. When we could.
Not a lot to do but listen and drink, and curse.
Dance. Or sweat.
This place smelled just like then: beer-stained carpet
and generations of perfume, cheap dope,
hormones, and industrial-strength cleaner.
Dirty
rock and roll.
She came back tonight. Like it was all
she had to do. Like it meant something.
Last night we danced.
Nothing else to do, but drink
and sweat, and dance.
We last danced 33 years ago, she whispered.
Decades ago.
She danced the same, her scent the same, it
wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same.
My T-shirt no longer ripped, or cheap. It stuck to me.
We talked, or shouted.
She moved. Closer. As she did
she whispered, or shouted
to be heard. She had
to be heard.
I knew nothing of
where she had been or what
she had done.
She knew
more about me, than I admitted
I knew
about her.
lll
Decades on.
Heavy eyes, dark shadows like her hair. Like
she always dyed her hair,
before for fashion, now to hide the reality.
The unquiet circling her eyes only hinted
of her time
or her temptations.
She danced, she pressed closer,
ignoring the noise, confronting the noise,
then said
take anything you want from me.
Or something like that.
Or it sounded like that,
or it might have been a song
in my head. It might have been
what I wanted to hear. It was loud.
I couldn’t take. Not from her,
not what I wanted.
Already she had been taken,
too many times.
Taken advantage of, taken
for a ride or for a fool, taken for granted.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
Three decades
takes a lot to forget, more to remember.
I went back tonight. So did she.
The place smelled just like always, stale with time, the rot
of ten-million cigarettes, and carpet soaked with memory.
I have been here more than I care to remember.
Take anything you want.
It takes a lot to forget.
© 2014 j.g. lewis
