Setting Fire to Liars

Every so often I let loose the hounds of hell.
They snarl and snap incessantly at my moral mind.
Easy exits emerge through frustration, compelling me to cross altruistic lines.

Compassion and kindness may pour from a proud fountain,
But malevolent thoughts taint these waters without warning.
It can poison the heart of man—pauper, knight, or king.

What should you do when you can’t be loved back?
Rip the past to shreds? Convince your heart that it’s all in your head?
Directing your desires to the track of success and street cred.

Who is the new Boss of America anyway?
These wives want to be John Wayne and their husbands live life questioning.
Universality of self-assurance reigns over compromise, acceptance and everything.

I did all those things they asked me to with a perpetual smile.
Looked out across society’s vast panorama, ready to walk the earth.
I’ll pose as an “X” slacker for now, but am reluctant of Kurt’s flannel shirts.

What can I do but struggle to keep this mind upright?
And adjust my pack’s straps tighter while these people pile up higher.
Feeding on help and insight, setting fire to liars.

RwmG

Reach

When i was real
short, I waited
for the world
to begin.
Many things had yet
to become
opinionated and turned
out. And in
my naivety, I counted
on truth
to be revealed-
joined by revolutions
of excitement,
and an optimist's
grin of infancy
upon a smooth face-
marked by a set
of teeth unstained by
liquids that jitter,
solids that grind,
and gases that relax.

Undiscovered countries
came into view within
the glass of a
telescope swapped for a
kaleidoscope swapped for a
microscope. And
continents of thought
sometimes became
inhibiting or
disheartening or
perplexing or
stressful or
harsh.

But I wondered upon
generalization revelations
and on music-
like the Voice of God-
to quiet the anxious
noise of man
while i slept
thoughtfully
and constructed
an identity comprised of
dreamy distortions and of
hopeful high-hats
and representative of
life-encouraging
musical genres.

Then the Ru'ya came.
And the liminar visions
shook lucid branches.
Out fell good omens and
clairvoyant bifocals
that felt like hypersensitive
translations falling
onto the avenue of
the body.
These ensnarements of existence
unraveled in a slump-
just as the woven web.

I found thought's blessing
to be overwhelmed
by its curse.
Tears of sadness and
of laughter were
indistinguishable to me.
But what is
mankind's vertical
manifest destiny,
if thoughts vanish
at the close of
the day?
Maybe that could
hold some reason for
why I desire new
thought so bad.

And we often see
the blue moon standing
alone, or usually grab
blue garments when
the choice arises.
Pervasive percussive
traditions are climb up
incense sticks that induce
trance. While we religiously
stay up late to dance
and reach
and reach.

RwmG

The Good, the Rad, and the Afterlife

The Good, the Rad, and the Afterlife
by Rich Guerra

I’ve never been one to get excited about spending an evening out anywhere near Boston’s Downtown Crossing. I suppose I have yet to appreciate the ambiguous allure of the area’s club nightlife- a network of overpriced and over crowded spots where groups of status seekers and wealthy collegiate undergrads find themselves in frequent need of another $12 watered down Vodka Tonic to validate their reasoning for catching a cab down to Tremont Street to begin with. When I take the trip from the Allston/Brookline area down to the heart of Boston, I am aching to feel an authentic pulse.

Around midnight, the city blocks surrounding the Good Life are typically quiet and empty. At the corner of Kingston and Bedford, the bar’s upstairs dining room is visibly vacant through large glass doors, locked up at the 11:00 conclusion of weekend dinner hours. The side entrance remains open beneath a bright circular sign marked by the bar’s trademark symbol- a letter “L” slanted to form a 45 degree angle that overlaps a letter “G” in a way meant to look like a rocks glass with a straw tilting out to the right.

Inside, two men converse with a tall woman bartender smiling while she reclines in front of a neat row of liquor bottles. A vacant strip of barstools sits below a row of large flat screen televisions showing unwatched March Madness basketball games. Large impressionist artwork lines the walls of the remarkably clean, well-lit upstairs bar. In the middle of the dining room set off to the right, an elegant grand piano sits silent. I feel a steady rumbling rise from the basement below, as muffled bass-heavy music retreats up a stairway from the Good Life’s lower level-The Afterlife Lounge.

The Afterlife Lounge is where I find my motivation for a night out downtown. Each Tuesday through Saturday night, various local, national, and international DJ’s mix and spin a wide range of music that you would be hard pressed to hear played at a bar or club elsewhere in greater Boston. One night, its’ the deep “WOMP…WOMP” of a mellow Reggae/dub beat, Dubstep, or down tempo Electronica. Other nights the dance floor will explode in a frenzy of Hip-Hop, Funk tracks, or Drum n Bass clicks, scratches, and beats.

I descend one of the two stairways into the basement and am met by the strong and rhythmic voice of the Lounge’s stalwart sound system. Inconspicuous yet powerful speakers span the perimeter of the Lounge, but it’s the two central speakers positioned on either side of the DJ’s work station that make some serious noise. Standing three feet tall, and emitting a booming sound that blows the legs of my pants back and forth- they are the soul of the bar’s sound.

The heart of the Afterlife’s sound lies between these two speakers and beneath a red brick archway. Tonight, resident DJ, Professor Pious, pulls 45 vinyls from his backpack with his left hand to spin upon his duel turntables, while his right hand remains attached almost magnetically to his Apple MacBook Pro. His head pulls back and forth to the beat of his own mixed audio creation, as his red bearded face remains illuminated by the glow of the two metallic laptops surrounding him.

One of the bar’s patrons dances within the archway on the opposite side of the platform where the DJ’s equipment rests. She hops up and down to the fast-paced Electro track that Pious provides, and I watch as she leans over the platform to shake her open palm in Pious’s face. As her wrist moves faster to the beat, he shows that he appreciates her encouragement by cranking up the song’s intensity.

Intimate booths-where flirting couples sit to rest and pick up their drinks-line the red velvet draped wall that wraps around and out from the DJ’s work area. Black books with the words, “Vodka Menu”, embossed in gold lay strewn across the booth’s tables. In addition to the chill music being mixed by the DJ, the Afterlife Lounge’s bar offers 150 frozen vodkas ready to be mixed up by the bartender. Stainless steel freezers line the area above the bar.

Looking around, I notice a group of young neo-hippies with dreaded hair that are smiling wide, kicking their heels out every which way in a funky syncopated dance step. Many who come out for these late nights at the Good Life are not afraid to dance alone, some seem to prefer it. One guy clears a space for himself in front of the archway. He is wearing large black parachute pants, and is in a sort of stance like he was riding a horse. My first thought is to laugh, but after watching him spin around on his hands with a controlled ease, I know he is no joke.

The dance floor seems to cover any space of solid ground available for feet to slide, stomp, and move about. A group of four giddy women dance together, hoping to appeal to a couple of men dressed in business suits. Judging by the dissipating liquor in their frosty martini glasses and the way their knees wobble to the music- these men seem prepared to let loose in the Afterlife.