Saturday, December 19, 2015

Bloody Mary: The Perfect Musician Drink

Here it're a starving artist and you're playing clubs and such, and 9 times out of 10 you get a free bar tab (at least up to a certain limit). drink beer, because that's what guys drink. Or shots of whatever.

Or you're female and you drink beer, or shots of whatever, or some awesome tasty fruity drink that guys like but never drink in public.

And, nutritionally speaking, it's all "empty" calories: booze and simple sugars. And so you gain a little fat and lose a little muscle mass and who ever really notices for a while, but you sure don't look like a rock god or goddess just descended from Olympus after a while of that, do you?

Enter the Drink Of The Gods: The Bloody Mary.

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Poem Series: CAGED


Liz Fink-Davenport

My heart did something stupid. Disobeyed. I kind of always knew it would. I said "stay", it ran. Head long into the wet fields. In the dark early morning weight. It broke its leash that I had thought was tied so tightly. Rubbed thin and snapped. Here is what happens when you leash up a dangerous, feral pulls and strains and repetitively reaches for something out there. To be let go. You can feed it. Oh yes. And you might pet it. And think "this is tame". And occasionally it does as its told. But then it disobeys. And breaks.

It ran. Without a look in either direction as it bolted across the highway. Hind shanks pumping towards anything. Everything. Anything else. Scents confused because...there is the hint of You. Oh, You. The lie of a You. And then the World. Earth. Moss. Sky. Your breath. Your heat. Your neck. And the pull of stars and moon and the depth of Your eyes. It raced ever deeper and I ran after it. The hope and pull of You. Stop. Stop, dammit. Please. Stop. I'm running and tripping over fallen branches and being cut by limbs and crying out to come back. Come. Back. Don't do this thing.

I hate my heart for the searching. I hate it for the reigning back in I have to do. The hunt. The heeling. Dragging. I am so tired. The kenneling. The fight. The whimpers. A metal gunshot lock and the pacing behind bars. I built a better cage while you were out running, Heart. A higher, stronger, thicker one. Heart, you did this. Made me. Because, what if I lost you? If you ran and when I finally found you, you were damaged. Beaten. Bitten. Less. And you rolled hurt eyes to me and I had not protected you. And you would not forgive me that. Why had I not tied you tighter? I will. Lash you down. Never to run again. Because, look at you. I see blood. And wounds already. I'm glad I found you. I'm glad you are safe. Don't run again. There is no You. That is a lie of a scent of something that is not real. Home is here. This cage. Quiet down now. I hate the sound of your longing. The cries.