I wished I'd written that...

I've said that before, you know.

Yes, I know, others have said that about some of my works, but envy, in moderation, is a common and modest sin...not quite up there with murder, rape and tearing the tag off of mattresses.

Bue what composition brings me to it? Nope, not "Ozymandias of Egypt" by Shelley. Certainly my favourite poem not written by me, I don't envy its creation or creator (okay, he did have the fortune to be married to one of the great ladies of the 19th century, but I have a feeling she and I would not have seen eye to eye on all things...)

No, I'n thinking of a song...


"Brave and Crazy" by Tom Cochrane

Think about the lyrics from my side of the microphone:

"He sat down with his guitar in a distant place
when a man walks up and tells him
'Buddy, there's some things you cannot say'
Well, I'll be damned if you'll tell me
what I can and cannot feel
and I won't be no puppet here
none of your back room deals."

The essence of art is not compromise...it is the jagged, ragged edge where truths are explored, passions unleashed and the canvas of your creation, whether it is actually canvas or stone or the strings of a cithara or the very air itself - is sanctified by your catharsis. I don't think anyone has the right to tell an artist what to do or say or create anymore than they have a right to order the sun to set still in the sky.

"Modern love was invented by minstrels in dark ages
where they used to hunt them down from town to town.
Man what deck are we dealing from here -
When a girl walks up and says
'You've got something we've gotta hear'."

Usually the duration between me hearing that comment - and being asked to leave - you can measure on a stopwatch, but such is life. I work clean, always have...no obscentiy, no vulgarity...just truth. The truth offends more people than anything else you can think or say.

"There's a war here between freedom and the hypocrites
Who will try on all disguises just to see what fits
Truth is the one thing to live, love and die for.
Raise your barbaric screams high above the rooftops of the world."

I don't think I could say that any more precisely.

"He packs his car and picks a course upon a map
Maybe east of Eden or maybe farther west than all of that
Writes down everything he's seen, everything that he feels
Then rips it up it doesn't say enough then throws it is a passing field."

Been there, both metaphorically and in reality (I spent three years in Salinas, California, where John Steinbeck, the author of "East of Eden" was considered a local nuisance...until he was gone). I'm a one-draft poet...if I don't like what I write, I don't re-write...that's like retouching a photograph...which is fine for effect, but not for truth.

And truth IS the one thing to live, love and die for.

Tom, thanks...there are days and nights when your lyrics have gotten me through my own Gethsemanes, my own moment of doubt. Like tonight.

Barbaric screams I offer to the heavens, high above the rooftops of the world...