My Top Ten Films of the Decade

Hey All! It's December 31st, 2009. The decade is almost over. 2010 is just around the corner. Ten years ago I remember thinking to myself; "If I'm not an Indie music icon or a Broadway star or a critically acclaimed film actor by 2010, there's no point in living." Well my friends, it turns out that there are more important things in life than fame, fortune and an entourage. I'm trying to think of them... ah yes; friends and family. I'm grateful for the friends I've made, friends I've betrayed (and vise versa) and even the friends I've lost. No sense in crying over lost opportunities and missed chances. I'm still here aren't I? And that's gotta be better than NOT being here... although I heard somewhere that there's a 1 in 5 chance that we are NOT real. Same odds as a dentist shitting on Trident.

I'm thankful for the connections I've made. I'm saddened by the connections I've lost. But life goes on and you gotta pick your goddamn head up and move on; like a World War I Russian soldier in Siberia - pick up your fallen comrade's rifle and charge! Charge like there's no tomorrow... cuz one day there won't be a tomorrow - so enjoy today.

Wow - so this was supposed to be a quick little top ten films of the decade list and here I've gone and gotten all think-heavy on you.

This list is by no means the word of God - nor is it a list of "The Best films." No, it is simply a list of my personal favorites that for some reason or another have made a lasting impact on me. The order is subject to mood, I've already changed it around a dozen times, so you're gonna have to live with this one. Here Goes...

My Top Ten Films of the Decade: (Directors listed on the right)

1.) There Will Be Blood - Paul Thomas Anderson (name a better film actor than Daniel-Day Lewis. Go ahead. You tried right? And you can't.)

2.) Synecdoche, New York - Charlie Kaufman (Existential delight... and torture.)

3.) Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind - Michel Gondry (No words, just a tear. A long forgotten tear.)

4.) Kill Bill Vol. 1&2 - Quentin Tarantino (It's one movie to me and it's a masterpiece.)

5.) Lord Of the Rings: Return Of The King - Peter Jackson (Gotta give it up to this Epic film that deserves all the awards it ever got. Beautiful.)

6.) The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou - Wes Anderson (Who ze shit is Kingsley Zissou?)

7.) Master and Commander: The Far Side of The World - Peter Weir (Best film ever about life at sea. If you can find me another that's comparable, please let me know.)

8.) The Dark Knight - Christopher Nolan (All you haters out there, get over it.)

9.) No Country For Old Men - Joel/Ethan Coen (And then I woke up)

10.) Gladiator - Ridley Scott (Joaquin Phoenix MAKES this movie. Without someone that diabolically evil to play off of, Crowe would never have won the Oscar for Best Actor.)

Honorable Mention:

A Mighty Wind - Christopher Guest (every person who has one second of screen time in this movie is hilarious)
I've also got to give props to:

A Prairie Home Companion - Robert Altman (I've been listening to Garrison Keilor since before I could form contractions and Altman does his little show justice; the master's last great work in a storied career)

Battlestar Galactica: The Miniseries - Michael Rymer (Even tho it's not a feature film, BSG miniseries gets an honorable mention. At three hours it was shot like a feature film and it's just as compelling as any feature film made in the last decade. All you naysayers out there, watch the whole thing. If you aren't compelled to watch the rest of the four season show's 73 episodes, I will eat my hat. It will be made of California Rolls, but I will eat it.)

Alright guys, there it is, my list of the best of the past decade... I'm sure I've left some of My favorites out as well as yours, but feel free to dish on it and let me know what you think...

_______________________________________________________________________

"Pile up enough tomorrows and you'll find you've collected nothing but a lot of empty yesterdays. I don't know about you, but I'd like to make Today worth remembering."

It's the Most Wonderful Time of The Year!

Hey kids - it's that time of year once again to dust off the red and green shot glasses, down some whiskey and head on over to Ars Nova to catch the second annual Joe Iconis Christmas Spectacular! Honestly, both shows on Saturday December 5th and Sunday December 6th are completely sold out, but you can get in touch with someone involved (i.e. me) and perhaps we'll get your name on a wait list of sorts.

It's sure to be a special night for all who attend. Any show where you get to see Santa and Mrs. Claus work out their marital problems on stage is worth writing home about.

Aside from the that - the world keeps spinning and kids keep grinning. The off-season is upon us and the hot stove is cooking, so that means I have to find something else to do with nights other than watch the Yankee game... What's in the news lately... Hmm... Tiger Woods got busted for cheating on his wife... big deal. There's still a war or two on and our troops are dying. Tyranny and oppression still reign throughout the world and for some reason we give a flying fuck about Tiger Woods and where he sticks his 5-wood. It really grinds my gears folks. It really grinds my gears...

Ya know what else grinds my gears? The fact that I am not very good at Call of Duty. I'm watching my friend here tear it up and I can't get a single shot off without getting knifed from behind by some hole digger in the desert or blown up by mine own grenades.

Now - a new segment that lists persons, events or things that I'm currently diggin' on:

This weeks It List (without any explanation and in no particular order):
David Cone, Admiral Ackbar's cereal, the cool side of the pillow, The Joe Iconis Christmas Spectacular

Soon.. a poem

Farewell

The Continued Search for Inner Truth

Televisions glow in the fake midnight moonlight,
No one turns them off
Rains shoots down from a bleak unforgiving sky, unconcerned with the mud below
The voice on the radio has since grown dim and died
Gray snow falls on shuttered windows
Cracks of sunlight fight to be born, but no rays break through the clouds of nuclear winter
The world fades into darkness
The air thins and the penguins drown
The polar bears cannot find their way home

Delusional Prose

Something's missing here. I'm not sure what exactly. But something's missing.

There's a bit of an emptiness inside, a nothing that's starting to take it's toll on me. Maybe I need a change of locale. Or better yet, i'd love to have that procedure Jim Carrey goes through in Eternal Sunshine that erases memories that cause him anguish... That'd be nice - selective memory deletion. If I didn't dwell so much, I'd be a much more productive person - happier too. But ya know; there's something in my brain that's just triggered to dwell on loss - mull it over untill it's been fully mulled. My brain doesn't stop there though - even after the loss has been fully mulled - this old brain keeps mulling and dwelling over the loss. It's like grinding axel against pavement. The tire's burned away and I'm just grinding it out, trying not to notice the insanely bumpy ride.

I try and block out the bumps and skids and horrific screeching noise in my ears, but it won't go away on it's own. Left with nothing but myself, I remain dissatisfied. What's so wrong with loving external stimuli. What's so wrong with loving something more than you love yourself? I don't know. So I mull this over for a while and come to the conclussion that whatever conclussion I come to; I'll still be stuck with the loss, not feeling any better about it.

Conclusion: Ignorance is bliss?

Shall I continue to ignore the loss? Shall I pretend it doesn't exist, like you do with the proverbial woman who 'done you wrong?'

Can ignorance lead to enlightenment? If I block something out for so long, supress the emotions that these evil thoughts stir up, tell myself over and over again that the problem doesn't exist, will I eventually convince myself it's true? The problem... the loss will always be there, but if I tell myself it doesn't exist enough times, perhaps, in my head, that will make it so. Perhaps delusion is the key to salvation. After all, one man's delusion could most certainly be another man's truth.

So, I'll continue my search for inner truth, with a few delusions along the way. For the moment, I'll delude myself in to thinking that everything is gonna be alright.

Been such a long time...

It's been over a month, so i decided I'd throw up some videos that you can easily get by searching on Youtube, but hopefully you'll com here and pad my site hit count.

Here's me singing The Vagabond at the Joe Iconis Rock and Roll Jamboree at Joe's Pub on July 17th. Enjoy.



A week after the Jamboree I sang for my friend Eric March (who I've been performing with since we were both 11) at the Laurie Beechman Theatre at his show entitled "Eric March presents: Eric and Friends present: 9 New Songs 3 Old Songs and One Cover." It was hilarious. Here are a couple of clips.





See ya'll soon - Oh! I'm in a show on September 6th as part of "Effable Arts" 20-Something 20-Somethings - original songs - lots of attractive damaged people - it's in Manhattan so save the date!!! More info to follow -

keep on keepin' on

Recording "The Goodbye Song" Choir

Hello All. As some of you may know, the aggregate known as the Joe Iconis Rock and Roll Jamboree have been hard at work in the studio recording their debut album. Well, on Saturday, about 30 of the most amazing people ever gathered at Legacy studios to lay down the most glorious set of background vocals ever recorded in history. We have a real special treat for ya'll today that we hope will hold you over until the July 10th and July 17th Jamborees at Joe's Pub. Here's a sneak peak in to the process of recording "The Goodbye Song."


Also, be sure to check us out at Bryant Park at 12:30pm onJuly 9th, when the Rock and Roll Jamboree will take the stage as part of this summer's "Broadway In Bryant Park" series. We know, it's little early for you Jamboree night owl's out there, but rest assured it will rock just as hard. That's all for now - get your Jamboree tickets at www.joespub.com


More soon... we promise

All-Amateur Annapolis Marathon

Hey all, it's been a while. I don't really have anything new to offer you at this moment in time, so I'll offer you something relatively old instead.

Desperate Times Song Book Series: All-Amateur Annapolis Marathon by Gaby Alter

Here's a random video I found online of me singing a song called All-Amateur Annapolis Marathon. It was recorded at the Lincoln Center Library in May as part of John Znidarsic's Songbook Series . The song, written by Gaby Alter; the insanely talented composer of the pop-rock song cycle 29, is one of my absolute favorites to sing. Hope you enjoy it.



More to come soon...

I promise

In A Jam (Intro to Get Out of My Head)

Desperate Times Lyric Series: In A Jam (Intro to Get Out of My Head)
music/lyrics: J. Weiss

IN A JAM (INTRO GET OUT OF MY HEAD)

At times like this when it feels like there’s nothing left to lose
Your soul don’t fit, your shoes too tight – don’t feel like y’got your head screwed right – hysterical pounding voices on the brain – constantly keeping from going insane - waves of noise, bleeding silence loss of poise, can’t balance, can’t breathe, can’t even believe – you could take the lie so far as to forget who you think you are – ain’t as important as what you produce – if it comes out false; I beg you measure my noose, cause I just woke up from a seven year sleep – and I’m figuring out which truths to keep – when I get in a jam don’t know who I am, can’t think of what to say or feel – like I’m programmed wrong, cause I come on too strong - can’t stand the schmooze-workin’ grift in the throng of the big shots and fakes and wannabe theieves who cry, shout and beg for their life on their knees – Cosmic amalgamated annual trust, throws my words out and begs me to bust – but I gotta deny these doomsday feelings, senseless insanity ain’t too appealing –
I haven’t a clue as to your point of view, We’ve got points of view for sale, ale and lifting me out of financial travail
Just these magic voice just these one, two, three
Just these magic voices do I hear, and it's music to my ear

Chasing Aces The Musical! Wins 3rd Prize overall at 2009 NYC 24-Hr Film Race!

We Won!

Chasing Aces, the mini-movie musical I had a part in creating, won prizes for 2nd runner up (3rd overall), Best Original Score (Thanks to my buddy and sometime collaborator Mr. Eric March) and Best Costume Design! Cause, duh, Cowboy Hat + Magician wear + Waldo Shirt + French Beret = Best Costumes! Thanks again to everyone involved in the project. You can go to the official results from this link http://www.filmracing.com/Films/competitions/nyc2009.htm

Here it is for your viewing pleasure again: Chasing Aces

Chasing Aces

Chasing Aces: The Musical from Josh Miller on Vimeo.

Goblins

Desperate Times Prose Series: Volume XII

GOBLINS

Goblins grow in the shadows
I pretend the shadows will protect me,
I implore the shadows to protect me,
But the darkness of the afternoon sun doesn't fool.
Cold impetuous night has come
The demons have arrived.

Guest Poet: Kristyn Brown

Desperate Times Guest Artist Series Volume II: Kristyn Brown
Today on Desperate Times, we feature one the soon to be most well known philosophers on the planet, Miss Kristyn Brown. Currently studying in Belgium to get her Masters degree in Philosophy, she has been gracious enough to share some of her current work with us.


1. How not to cry:

Think only of what you’ve got

Not what is missing

Feel the way you are

Sitting in a coffee shop

Don’t think the word alone

That would be thinking what you’ve not got



Don’t want to talk

Or be satisfied with talking to yourself

You are a great conversationalist anyway

Lucky you, you are now having a great conversation

At least



Think about the sun or the clouds

Or the stool or the hanging photos of Brooklyn Bridge

Or the flashing game machine in the corner

Or the Bruce Springsteen’s voice, the fuzzy speaker in the corner

The racked yellow and blue patio chairs



Think of all the things around you

Make sure they stay in sight

Make sure it is a stool you are sitting on;

How is that game played; When did he write this song;

Who was on the bridge that day; What is he doing right now; Is he warm;

Is he tuffling under the sheets; Is the sailboat wind chime catching the sun

No, no! too far!



Don’t let the stool disappear!



Write a poem

Nothing is ending

You’re just waiting



03/20/09



2. Dear God: Response Requested



Dear God,

[10:00:08 AM] Kristyn Brown says: Please excuse the following blasphemy (I will assume you have because I am not yet aware of any smiting).



I was in Paradise today.

I was supposed to be in Paradise today.

It seemed to be very much like this is what Paradise was to be, or once was.



But was I?

Surely, you would know.



All the bounties, all the riches, radiant flowers with the lofting smells of heaven

Sun- the gavitational, succumbing,

Closing my eyes simply to turn to it

What was that feeling today... of closed eyes, only a thin beating shield between that sun and my mind?

I tried to think it today, but I could not find the words.



Anyway, back to this Paradise thing.

It seemed like,

for all the ancient reasons, for all the scraped paintings and pictures handed down by pallets and brushes;

For all descriptions of release and redemption, for all the forgottenness, the unhistorical, the never has there been of the grinding of everyday axewheels;

The, Oh, how I love the God, the Sun, the Paradise which is all I know!

That, in Paradise, I was.



But something today, even while it was happening something seemed strangely unParadisely; seemed missing.

Not a note from the bird’s harmonious oaths and odes ricocheting off of one another;

Not the perfect hovering of the shallowest pool water upon its depths;

Not a tile missing from the lusciously captured sahara sand smoothed over into perfect squares beneath my feet;

Not any dimming of the Sun because the clouds swept graciously around it like ladies of the court around their queen, careful not to cross the boundary from picturesque to annoyance.



And now the Sun has set and my thoughts, my heart, my feelings recount the day.

This paradise today seems missing something, missing a lime like the Sangria standing vigilant beside me.

And now that the people have gone inside, hiding from the soft chill that runs along behind the Sun, a pigeon sweeps down and rests beside the pool, wetting his beak.

Now, these misbegotten doves, dirty as they are, bathe in the golden fountains and gilded pools.



Was it Paradise I saw today?

Or is this Paradise now?

Surely, you would know.



Love,

Kristyn



[10:30:29 AM] Kristyn Brown says: ps. Sorry for the cigarette ashes I left on the hard, disinterested sahara tiles.



07/04/09



3. I Place the Cards



I place the cards in order

Smoking a cigarette

And the flag ship of my mind sails off

somewhere far beyond this oak table

threes on fours on fives

and queens on kings

kings on aces

I start making a phone call

But would rather not hear the endless ringing

That I know will not stop, there will be no other end

So I put the phone down on the table, still ringing, but not in my ears

And I place the cards

Twos on threes on fours

And fives on sixes

Next Week - audio files!!!!

Desperate Times

Desperate Times Hobo Prose

DESPERATE TIMES
Everything he says, he lies, things he says he lies, He says them just to lie

Won’t let me look him in the eye, look him in the eye, try, he closes off his eyes

His friends are all around, friends they do surround, His friends they all came down

To comfort, say goodbye, a comforting goodbye, never know when he will try again

Cause now they don’t know when, we’ll see you again, won’t see you again

Then his girl comes in, fingers to his chin, then he starts to grin

He needs comfort he needs love, not people up above, not those people up above

But Every word he speaks his false, words he speaks as false, words he speaks are false

He stopped telling time cuase he couldn’t lie, cause he used to lie about telling time

He stopped telling lies, couldn’t find the time, time to tell the tangible lies

Now he’s in desperate times, he’s in desperate times, he’s in desperate times –

Now he's Gotta find a lie, tangible little lie so he can get by -----

He’s been killed off by his peers, with scissorhanded shears, causes him no tears.

He’s shed so many tears, enough to last for years, what else to you really need to know.

Don’t believe he’s fine, Don’t believe his lies, when he says he fine.

He’ll cut you in your sleep, rest of us will weep and we’ll all be here much longer than we’d planned.

If he could have it his way – guess she woulda stayed, guess she would stayed, guess she woulda stayed

But He misses her today, yeah misses her today – days the day she left without saying goodbye

Group Spontaneous Prose

Desperate Times Group Prose Series: Volume I

It was late, about three or four in the morning. We were together for once; the three of us. Jared, Dave and Ben. I seized the moment; ripe with potential, primed for prose I proposed a group spontaneous speak session. We alternated turns speaking - each speaker gave way to the next, the line was continued - the thoughts were circular and I... would like to share the group prose with you:


Possums In The Night

The exit was clearly marked -- orange lights bold letters
Screamed silently, hysterically through fog and thru pills.
The door was within reach.
Tho my intentions had wavered –
I kept my firm resolve
And journeyed onward
and traveled

A possum in the night cries out with moans of fright.
Another day approaches and with it, the danger of the light
The obalisque of dawn.
The shade of slumber – the reaper of souls – the shouldered oneness of eternity slips on silently
And in his wake, we rise to meet a new day
Like a possum in the night

Clawing at terror shrunken reality myths – he struggles up his tree; protecting his best, family, of three.


Epiphany

There were cuts on
Her forearms
Their appearance
Unnoticed,
Dark nothings
In the
Night.

Haunt my soul,
Kill my sight.
To forget these
Visions –
The darkness
Makes it prettier
Inside.

I want to destroy
Myself
That thought I fail
To hide.
No longer inside
But now alive.
It’s so much brighter
Outside.


3 Degrees of Freedom (Tilt, Roll, and Yaw)

Life in a sphere
It’s better out here
An infinite loop
No escape
A dandelion falling
A unicorn calling
For more more she cries
Noone hears
Except for the dolphin
The dolphin hears all
Yet speaks for nooone
Noone sees inside my dreams
Strange
Except for the sleep man who hides from
Eyes of conception
He sees all within
But none without
Many things
Wondrous things
He weilds his power over the dreaming
Fooling us all into consciousness
A shhoting star
An oasis
A chance for respite
Peace
Calm
A tranquil desert
For a moment
The storm arrives without warning
Destruction is its creation
No sooner than it had came
Had it vanished
A midnight fever
A sleeping sickness
A plague of unwaking propagation

The sleep man comes to you at night
Upon his flaming motorcycle
Dreams come to me
But little do I see
I hear your cries
Before you close your eyes
Before I tuck you in
For the last time
Before I tuck you in for the last time
Yo make me say goodbye
I wish that I could cry
Make me want to feel so good
Make me want to have you
Make me feel so good
This feelim inside
Im trying to hide
It gets harder
In need someone in which to confide

The internet gives the mental space
To create a global identity
If you look at capitalism
Took a while
As far as communism
Marxism
It hasn’t happened yet
Global communism
Everyone interconnected
The internet loss of national identity
With the downfall of global banking
Reeals the approach to interdependence
All parts must thrive for the whole to survive

Les Philosophes by Helen Parson

Desperate Times Guest Artist Series Volume I: Helen Parson
Thanks to the wonder of the interweb, I ran into an old friend the other day. An old friend in the sense, that I knew her "when" or "back in the day." Not old friend in the sense that she's an octogenarian. Helen saved my life. Yes, it's true. In addition to saving lives, she's an artist extraordinaire. A student and teacher of the suzuki method of instruction; Helen not only teaches guitar, she writes and plays in her Seattle based band Princess Seismograph aaaaand she draws amazing comics - which are on display here for you, the people to peruse. They are brilliantly drawn and full of absurdly wordlys and Helen's staple whimsical chrimsical charm. A new comic each day for the next week folks... I promise!

Here for your comic reading and viewing pleasure: Les Philosophes






Next up: Group Spontaneous Prose with Jared, Dave and Ben

Chasing Aces The Musical

Aaaand we're back and better than ever with lots to talk about. We've been relatively busy here at Desperate Times, and we relish the opportunity to share some of the fruits of our labor with you; our loyal followers.

Jared was in a movie, a movie musical to be exact. It is very short. It was produced by a great group of people, collectively known as Four Square Productions We wrote, rehearsed, shot, edited and scored this baby in 24 hours. Brainstorming began at ten p.m. Friday night. By 12:30, Eric had written the music and lyrics. We started Recording the scratch track around 1:30 at CBS studios, in the 'Guiding Light' editing room. By about 4 a.m. we had finished recording and headed out to Queens to shoot the outside chase scenes. Around Five a.m. Ben, Damian and I begin running around Queens in the freezing cold rain... Observers would have witnessed a magician running down Woodside blvd, being chased by a frenchman and a cowboy (I play the frenchman) It was freezing, we were exhausted and we had no water... it was a glorious experience, some of the most fun I've ever had. By 8:30 we were fed and setting up for the first interior shot. Shooting went smoothly and by 1 p.m. we had wrapped. We returned to CBS studios by 3:30 to edit and score the film. Aside from an hour of laying down guitar tracks, I was asleep for this period of time on a fake hotel room bed from the set of Guiding Light. By 10 p.m. Saturday we had submitted our film to the 24-hour NYC film race! The screening will be next Saturday at the NYU Cantor Film Center on Washington and University place. The cast and crew were all amazing to work with - we all had a blast churning this baby out. So here she is, without any further ado...

Chasing Aces

Chasing Aces: The Musical from Josh Miller on Vimeo.

Next up... Jared croons at the Wyndham Garden Hotel 4/1,4/2

Weekend Update with USA & Puerto Rico

This is the first straight up "Blog Entry" in a looooong whhile. First thing's first... a show is a coming folks - I promise that all you Desperate Timer folk, rock, acoustic, electri-pop, alterna-funk, prosaic-rock fans that there will be a Desperate Times live performance soon enough. We'll hopefully be playing with Kara Thrace's Secret Death Wish and The Secret Cyclon Club... somewhere in Brooklyn or the village... so please, look for that entry very soon. Leave comments like "Jared, get on this, we want to hear you again since Songs About Real LIfe (co-written with the hilariously talented Eric March) blew the roof off of Ars Nova last November!"

I hear you my children, I hear you. Give it a week and I'll have somethin' cooking that all y'all alterna-freaks and musical theatre punks will want to come see. It'll be one part prose, one part poetry, one part spontaneous rant, a whole lot of conga banging, Piano pounding and Guitar Thrashing... give or take a jews-harp plucking here or there.

I'm currently watching USA take on Puerto Rico in the World Baseball Classic, which not a lot of Americans seem to give a shit about. Well, this American gives a lot of shits about it. Unfortunately we are down 6-1 at the moment in the top of the 5th. Go Jeter!!! More could happen, if we score - there will be a subsequent post... but we must continue.

Baseball Season is around the mother frakking corner and I'm groin-grabbingly excited to walk in to the new Yankee Stadium on opening day and re-proclaim my love for this beautiful ballpark & my loyalty to this awe inspiring team. This is it folks, this is the year we bring a championship home to NEW YORK FRakkin City! She deserves it, I deserve it, and even if A-Rod Doesn't deserve it, we'll let him ride along the victory parade float anyway just so he doesn't feel left out.

Times are tough and tight my friends. I couldn't find two quarters to rub together to get me out of borough today to save my frakking life. Oy - it makes me think there must be some kind of way out of here.

A word on the use of Frak - It's from Battlestar Galactica, the greatest show on television. Haters, give it a try - I guarantee if you watch the 3-hour miniseries and don't like it, it means you're not human and have no business on this planet.

We finally got an update from the good folks at T2R, by way of webmaster Mr. Jason "Sweettooth" Williams that Things 2 Ruin, the incendiary cyclone of Songs by Mr. Joe Iconis should be rearing it's ugly head sooner than you think. This is very exciting news for us here at Desperate Times. Mr. Iconis knows how to write a godsdamn good song... songs about hate and hope, jailbait and whiskey and Desperate fucking times. We eagerly await T2R's New home - so from us here at Desperate Times to ya'll over there at T2R blog - Godspeed and Good hunting.

Everyone else: Let's make some fucking art. If you have a poem or song or scene or picture that you'd like to see on the blog - let me know and i'll throw it up there asap! coming soon: The Fabulously Talented and ultimately adorable helen Parson and her cavalcade of comics.

Till then

Om Mani Pad Me Hum

I am Flight

Desperate Times Prose: Volume XI

I am Flight

Perchance to fly
to soar above the clouds
to slice through the maelstrom of human rage
to rise above the confusion

I pick up my left foot
the ground remains
I pick up my fright foot, it disappears
the ground disappears

I am become the angel of light beholding the glory of eternal futility
I am become a moment in time's pocket
I am flight

I remember, briefly
I must be dreaming
day begins to break and I walk the path between dreams and consciousness.

Consciousness resumes
I can't remember how to fly
In theory, I can recall how it's done,
Lift the left foot - Good
Halfway there now

"Lift the right foot," I tell myself...
Try Harder
...but it is no use, my foot remains firmly planted on the ground...

I recall my dream
I picture myself soaring through the stratosphere
higher and higher, out in to space
I pause and look to contemplate Earth
I see pain and suffering, and beauty; trying so desperately to be noticed
I notice,
I am calm
I am zen
I am flight.

Did I really remember how to fly in my dream?
Or did I just dream that I remembered?

Opening Night

Desperate Times Prose Series: Volume X

Life Is a dress rehearsal
Death, is the real performance



A Note from the author:

You've heard the saying, "Life is not a dress rehearsal" - I disagree
You've heard the saying, "bad dress rehearsal, great opening night" - I completely agree

Desperate Times Goes Global

The chart above shows how many languages our little site here is viewed in. As you can see from the pie chart, Desperate Times has indeed gone global. The page is now being viewed (by a very small percentage of you) in Chinese and German. I wonder if the fresh prose is translated accurately, and if it conveys the same meaning. Either way, you are welcome to read, listen, view and comment in any language. We here at Desperate Times thank you for making us the site we are today. We hope for future growth. In fact, it's my goal to have the fresh prose poetry being read in every continent and dozens of countries across the globe by the end of the year. So tell your friends, professors, classmates, brothers, sisters, savants, hobos, jews, gentiles, wasps, asps, elephants... anybody who has access to a computer.

More to come soon,

Next up:

Featured Artist Series Volume 1: Helen Parson

...till then...

Thanks for reading

-Jared

2/24/09 - Lonesome Hobo's Poetry

From the stolen diary of a Lonesome Hobo lying in Washington Square Park

I am a Lonesome Hobo who threw away his wealth
I squandered love on someone else, forgot about myself

I am the tightrope walker, just before he falls
I looked for my love in the crowd and noticed she was gone

I clothe myself in garbage, material and fake
The tattered shreds reflect my heart, scared in disarray

I cast you in my movie, you said you loved the script
You changed the lines without me knowing, boy do I feel jipped

Today I shoot the camera, I hide behind the lens
I wish that could do or say that which would make amends

Meet me in the park sometime, beneath our fav'rite tree
The place you swore undying love and gave your heart to me

I would sing you a folk song, about life that never ends
But I'd rather share my heart with you, than remain as simply friends.

I'm told I must stop rhyming, that my lines are played and cheap
The most beautiful, profundities, in my mind I'll keep

2/23/09 - Lonesome Hobo's Loneliness

From the stolen diary of a Lonesome Hobo laying in Washington Square Park

Is there anything worse than feeling completely alone?
Solitude has it's benefits, but loneliness is different.
Loneliness is like a slow moving, painful cancer.
I feel the pain tapping the love from my heart, sucking the goodness out of my body.
What do you do to stop it?
How do you bring yourself to go on when everything you do reminds you that life never used to be this painful?
I don't want to deal with the pain. I've been dealing with pain my whole life and I don't need anymore.
I can't sleep.
I can't eat.
I can't feel the way a functioning human being feels.
I'm putting off death as long as I can. When I can't deal with it anymore, then I'll let death take me. As long as I'm around, that's proof that I can take the hurt of desertion, right?
The sleep of the sinful is no rest at all.
I'm being punished for sins no one knows but me.
What was once bright and beautiful, has grown gray and ugly; the sun, the clouds, the sky, the people with whom I walk.
The day holds no providence for me anymore. I'll just sit here and grind my teeth while God plans my next misfortune.
I wonder what my next unfortunate event shall be... I've had enough of them.

I could list them, but my hand is getting tired and my pen is running out of ink.

The rats will keep me warm tonight.

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

Desperate Times Famous Poets Series: Volume I

Here, for your reading and analyzing pleasure, is one of my favorite poems. Taken from Through The Looking Glass by the great Lewis Carroll: Jabberwocky. The poem appears at the end of the first chapter in Carroll's sequel to Alice in Wonderland.

Here's what Alice had to say after reading the poem...

"It seems very pretty," she said when she had finished it, "but it's rather hard to understand!" (You see she didn't like to confess even to herself, that she couldn't make it out at all.) "Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas--only I don't exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something: that's clear, at any rate---"

JABBERWOCKY

JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

What are your thoughts on the work? Please, feel free to post your opinions, and perhaps your thoughts on the poem as it relates to the previous post of prose entitled Over The Meadow And Through The Woods.

Over the Meadow and Through the Woods

Desperate Times Prose: Volume IX

Over The Meadow and Through The Woods
a tale of dreams...

Part One

Reboot. The computer screen flickers, stark black and white shades of infinity. I must get some work done tonight. Altho, my increasingly labored typing tells me I'm tired, I must go on. My fingers get heavier with each keystroke. I begin to drift. Light fades and colors bloom out of reality. The solstice is here. My computer gives birth to a triple moon. Light beams shoot forth and I run for dear life. Fate chases me through rainbow colored space; milky smooth waves pass over and under me. The waves grow fearsome, the claw at my face, shrieking unpronounceable curses. I see the end. I see light. I see peace. I see pain behind me, clear skies up ahead. Eternity slows down, I live life one thirty-second of a second, one frame at a time.

Each passing second fills me with the desire to tumble off in to a puckish green meadow of sleep. I close my eyes and dream myself a field. Unfazed by my feckless exploits, I lay in a puckish green meadow in peace. A raven circles overhead. Even though I know he will do me no harm, I still wonder why he has come to this place. Ravens do not prey. They wait for the nearly dead to expire, that they might feast on carrion. The Ravens can smell death approaching like a sixth sense. Perhaps this Raven smells death on me. Perhaps he has come to warn me. Or perhaps he has simply come to say hello.

I feel alive. I feel awake in this dream, far more so than in the waking. I think the Raven has in all actuality, mistaken me for someone else. I look at him looking at me. I must remind him of something; a previous version of myself maybe. Perhaps I represent the personification of an idea, a unique point of view trapped inside something corporeal, waiting, always, waiting to be unleashed. The ground quakes. There is a tree? There is a tree apparently. The tree simply appeared, I could swear it was not here when I first entered the field. Unnerved, I pick myself up. My overalls are covered in white wash and I lead a red wagon full of misappropriated toys down the path ahead.

Part Two

Sky smiles down upon me as I walk, the way a father smiles upon his son. The wagon seemed to vanish and I am no longer wearing overalls. Clothed in the colors of the forest I walk along the country dirt road. A small yellow creature slightly resembling a Sunday comic strip character follows close behind. The path, once blooming with flowers of every color imaginable, has grown gray and listless. A tree shrub groans in pain. I hear his cries; weary from a long life of being shoved aside and stepped on. A butterfly zooms past me. Frogs of every shape, size and shade begin hopping toward me in perfect synchronization. All of a sudden I am in a packed theatre, surrounded by dreamers and philanthropists from all plains of existence. An usher with six legs, a violin and a rather vegetative complexion ushers me to my seat. A private box has been reserved in my name. I have the best seat in the forest theatre. The lights dim, the curtain lifts, the orchestra readies and before I know it, I’m witnessing an all amphibian musical production of the Lewis Carroll’s Through The Looking Glass. Despite of, or perhaps thanks to the rather fantastical source material, I am startled, scared and downright impressed at how efficiently the frogs’ used dance to progress the plot. The music and lyrics reminded me of Gilbert & Sullivan, Robert Johnson and Elliot Smith. The music soared and pounded and exploded throughout the theatre and through the forest. My spirit had been lifted. So moving were the frogs in their individual roles and as an ensemble, that they had me in tears by the finale. After the performance I had the honor of being invited backstage to meet the creative team.

I told the Frogs how much I appreciated their obvious uncanny understanding of American Musical as a relevant contemporary art form. I complimented them on an all around stellar production and before departing, asked the artistic director if the company would be adapting another classic for next season. The artistic director responded by taking me aside and telling me how they’ve been adapting source material in to musicals for millennia. The artistic director, a yellow tongued, brown spotted frog name Slitherdin said my comments warmed his cold blooded heart and the hearts of his fellow amphibians, but that the company wanted to move in another direction. Next season would feature the frogs production of Richard Wagner’s Die Walküre on ice. Privately I thought that seemed like a bit of a step backward. Publicly I wished Slitherdin and his friends good luck and told them I would do my best to attend next season.

Part Three
The theatre disappears. The forest path lies in front of me. The light fades, my confusion grows. I look to the smiling sky, but the sky smiles no longer. Troubled by a line in the frogs’ production I ask myself; am I dreaming? Or am I merely part of someone else's dream? Were the frogs a figment of my imagination? Am I a figment of theirs? Clouds block my sight and I know what’s happening. It’s happened before and it’s happening again; I know it, I can feel it in my ventricles. My vision is being obscured my melancholy horror.

Part Four
Melancholy Horror had always been completely unpredictable. She took on many forms. There are legends, stories really, of her birth to Celestial parents. Some say she was the daughter of a bastard wolf and an evil sorceress. Some say she lives in all of us, in the deep recesses of the negative heart soul, buried underneath grief; hidden between nightmare and despair. Truth be told, the origins of Melancholy Horror remain largely unknown and highly suspect.

There stands before me a man, cloaked in gray. He carries a giant book in his hand. With a nod of his head, he tells me to follow the path down through the forest to where the wild oak tree forks the road. At the oak tree I take the path on the right. The skies grow darker. Who knew what manner of creature inhabited the forest. I hadn’t exactly taken stock of the patronage at the theatre, but it seemed to me that if my usher had six legs, then there was no telling what Sprites, Jabberwoks, Vernicious K'nids or Flugglecarps lurked in this unknown forest.


I longed to be lying in the puckish green meadow with the Raven comfortably perched on the branch of our mutual friend the redwood tree.

(Next Time: Part Five)

The De-Evolution and Re-Evolution of Current Existence

Desperate Times Prose: Volume VIII

The De-evolution and Re-evolution of Current Existence
as recalled by Jared Weiss

PART I - De-Evolution (Slowly dying Haiku)

1.

Something Brown gets down
In a Flemish kind of way
Leuven keeps movin'

2.

Flowers keep dying
Rain drenched Sunday shuts me in
Board game sales are up

3.

Focusing on wrong
Why not focus on what's right?
Refocusing now

4.

Dream King is calling
The soft meadows, fields of green
protect my slumber

5.

Representing loss
Surreality presents
dashed expectations

6.

Stood up and put out
Let down, drugged up, feeling down
Tie rocks to my leg

7.

Loneliest evening
Shadows creep up white walls
threatening violence

8.

Spend some time thinking
about how you've hurt yourself
Now try something else

9.

Stare at blind poets
On street corners, musicians
struggling to make the scene

10.

Find solace in the cold
From something unfamiliar
Old stories fade

PART II - The Poet's Last Waltz (Re-Evolution)

11.

A blind poet on eighth street curses a traffic cop
The man takes exception to the poet's arrogance but tries not to make a scene
The artist eggs him on with slang graffiti on the walls
While troubadours play sweet love songs on the café sidewalk

12.

The poet composes angry scorn for all the men who've done him wrong
Like the music mechanic of Times Square, who raped his words in to a song
The troubadours hear a voice truth pure, their lonely souls ache no more
"Sacrifice me for difference sake" the poet says – I'll be famous in death for sure

13.

City boy becomes a man as he takes a young girl's arm
She clutches his shoulder in blissful embrace, protecting her from harm
She's shy at first, but he's got a song that speaks of his hunger for love
He takes the guitar from off of his back and plays what he's dreaming of

14.

Entranced in the moment fireworks go off in the summer on the beach
A truth song frightens and inspires a young boy and the world seems just in reach
And all the men who've wronged the poet, show up on the right
To the left of the poet a cop shivers and quakes, not even supposed to be here tonight

15.

The sometime lovers overhear, the poet's song of truth
Reminds her of home and daddy, who moaned and yelled and sipped vermouth
The Markets over crowded with slaves of new found freedom giving way
To the new revolution east village child, down to seize the day

16.

His melancholic horror, evaporates with snow
We get drunk while we wait for the poet to explode, to numb us to the sight
For the poet dances naked in the streets, mind open and willing to flow
The Horizon line grows dim as the junky poet sets up for the night

17.

Sirens wail and bullets fly, Many here about to die
The poet runs through traffic, shouting words fantastic
Lithe as a kitten, the poet seems smitten with dodging through cars all night long
Swiped, now he falters, his game plan he alters, his goal now to sing one last song

18.

He spoke very slow, before he did go
He struggled to open his mouth
With a lift of his arm, ignoring the pain,
he stretched out his hand and began to sing

19.

"Alone she seems to sleep so sweet
As I blow sweet kisses in her ear
She dreams and prays her soul to keep
In the heart of fallen angels... sleep."

20.

Tonight, I saw a poet reborn
He carried scars, deserved scorn
No man alive could break his will
Or drive him to that righteous kill

The End

Smile For Me

Desperate Times Prose: Volume VII

A closed eye reach for my arm to keep you warm
I love nothing more than watching you fall asleep
Your skin, magnetizes my touch
I stroke your cheek
I see you smile
As I hold your face in my hands, I smile
I hold the world in my hands

Your peacefulness amazes me
I'm weary on my feet, but calm within your bed
I've never been the religious type
But even asleep, I see God in your eyes
There's a heavenly glow that surrounds you
Maybe I'm crazy; believing everything I think
But everything I think in this moment feels right

Lying in our blissful cocoon;
I can't help but fall in love with every part of you, all over again
I see perfection in your flaws
I know hope in your smile
I feel love in your unconscious kiss
and I rush to join your euphoric slumber

The Cardigans

Desperate Times Prose: Volume VI

The Cardigans

The Cardigans aren't what they used to be
Their style is weak and they have no substance

The feel, appealing in my youth, does nothing for me now
Wrapped in their embrace, I shiver

Failure to Perform

Desperate Times Prose: Volume V

Consciousness resumes.
I sit in a chair in a pitch black room,
My hands tied behind my back.
I hear approaching footsteps.
A door opens.

*click*

A spotlight blinds my eyes.
It is too abrasive. I must look away.
I hear mumbling as people file in.
It smells like business casual.
I see nothing but the same old panoply of colored darkness.
Specks of light shoot in to my eyes, burning my retinas.
Something inside me wants to scream or kill or perhaps do laundry
But the blacked out visions of melancholy horror continue
The void laughs
The void judges how I sit
I want to get out of this chair, but the footsteps grow louder and I recoil in fear.

The crowd chatter crests, then slowly subsides into a silent hum.
If only I could see through the silence
Footsteps approach in the dark.
An outstretched arm holds an object in the light
My hands are no longer tied.
It seems I am free to go but something compels me to stay

I am handed a guitar
I am handed dumbfoundedness
Out of the void comes a voice that says 'Do It.'
I hold the instrument in my arms and try to play something
I cannot strum, I cannot pick, not even one note
I look up, the void's eyes are fixed upon me
My knees knock in to each other like crazy maniacal chattering teeth

Quiver stuck, have no luck
They await something
I'm supposed to give them something entertaining
I'm supposed to give them something inspiring

I cannot see in front of me
I cannot see in back
I cannot seem to breathe right
My lungs seize up - My head disoriented, tells me I'm too tight to move

There is no guitar anymore
There is no void in front of me
There is only a dimly lit room
My hands are tied behind my back

I hear the sound of approaching footsteps
Fearful anticipation wraps itself around me tight
I know the crowd awaits me,
but I'd rather do laundry instead

Lead Pipe Baby (an election day story)

Desperate Time Prose: Volume IV

I was riding on my pony, spied some natives up ahead
I dismounted good old Betsy, we hid in the river bed
Took out my Smith and Wesson, taking aim I cocked my gun
But there’s something bout a head-shot, really lacks a certain fun

Within my sight I saw three cattle thieves, natives they were not
I could shoot ‘em now or kill ‘em close with a weapon I have got
Cause they’re ain’t no finer way to make a cattle thiever dead
Than with a swiftly sick sadistic, Lead Pipe to the head



Oh,
My Lead Pipe Baby, She’s colder than steel
When I hold her in my arms she makes my skin congeal
Whenever we go out, she makes her presence known (she screams)
Homicidal realtor, find a new cerebral home for me

I climbed aboard Old Betsy, my trusted noble steed
To pick a better spot to hide and place for her to feed,
Cookin’ up an ambush, silence covering my sight
I saw those bastards set up camp and pass out drunk goodnight


I thought I'd - Get em close so they could smell my baby cold as ice
The only - Swift sadistic girl I know who goes for human sacrifice
I walked along the tree-line, slow and steady, pipe in hand
Their slumber upped my pace my lead-pipe slaughter so began

My Lead pipe baby sends me for a whirl
She's my moral compass yeah now all I need's the girl
My Lead pipe baby Raised high above my head
She glistens in the moonlight 'fore she knocks the bastards dead

Oh,
My Lead Pipe Baby, She’s colder than steel
When I hold her in my arms she makes my skin congeal
Whenever we go out, she makes her presence known (she screams)
Homicidal realtor, find a new cerebral home for me

I Was Riding Along Heartbreak Ridge

Desperate Times Prose: Volume III

Heartbreak Ridge

Why you wanna break my heart
Why you wanna lose my trust
Why you wanna throw my love away
Why you wanna let me go

Maybe my touch was too warm
Maybe my lips were too soft
Maybe my heart invaded your space
Maybe my voice wasn't sweet enough

When were the times I was bad
Specifically, why were you sad?
Should I have held you tighter or kissed a little lighter
If I didn’t show then, let me show you now

But no, you’re spilling your secrets to somebody else
And his hand is warm like I used to be warm
But you don’t want my hand anymore
You don't need to be kept warm and all I want to do is keep you warm

It wouldn’t matter if I told you I hate you
Cause you’ve already moved on
It wouldn’t matter, bet that’s what you want to hear,
Give you an excuse to forget me, just forget me,

Cause I’m suffocating under your pillow of affection
If you really knew me you wouldn’t refuse me, you’d know how I feel,
How much I care, how I would share, how I'd change, how I’d do anything,
To see you

Rip these scars from my wrist, before I explode
Set me free, then I’ll be me, make me hate you for not wanting me
I see you happy, see you smile
See you having fun beguiling other guys, other toys, others kill me
Why are you so happy without me – why are you so free – what have I done to kill your spirit, that you must keep away from me

Smoke and Mirrors

Desperate Times Prose: Volume II

Regret Part I

What do you do when you're down and out? When you've been hurt and there's no reason for it; nothing you did. How do you deal with the pain of being hurt without proper cause? You find something, do something, to make you feel deserving of the pain. Who deserves pain? I don't know. If you hurt yourself you deserve pain, it's warranted. But what about when someone you love caused you pain? What can you do? You still love them - nothing inside you has changed - you still want them to be yours - But what can you do? When someone you love hurts you on the deepest level imaginable, where do you go? Who do you trust? A sudden realization, you've devoted yourself to an ideal that doesn't exist anymore. You find yourself grasping at straws, hoping somewhere in that person's eyes you'll find your love reciprocated. But when it's not there what do you do? What do you do? Do you hate them? How could you ever hate them, when you love them still, even after the immense hurt, the gut wrenching four in the morning screams of lonely agony caused by what... an ideal you believed in that doesn't exist? Something like that... SO what do you do? Do you hurt someone else? Do you try and love someone else? If you're still in love, how can you?
You want to break free, but you want to be pain free, guilt free, remorse free. But it's hard to be un-remorseful when you're greatest confidant decides it's time to move on. It's hard not to regret...

Look for more on Regret in our next post.

Till then...

Never give up? We'll try not to.

Miss Placed Affection

Desperate Times Prose: Volume I


When the dust settles on the field of battle, I am left alone. How long has it been since I've seen my love, weeks? Months? Years. I wouldn't have been able to get through the horror without the thought of her waiting for my return. I can see her sitting up by the window in the old rocking chair, knitting me a sweater, pausing every now and then to choke back her tears. This is what I imagine.
In all actuality, my love has probably forgotten me.

Would I were her, I would never give up hope. But hope is in short supply these days. I fear that my love; through with waiting, dissatisfied with my shortcomings as a man, has picked up and left for the coast.

With broken legs and heart I drag myself up the blood-soaked hill, searching for survivors. I am the last man left alive.

A wagon! A horse! I am saved. With great difficulty, I climb up to the driver's seat and strap myself in. My chest heaves, my head sweats, my legs bleed and swell with possible infection. My head feels heavy, my sight grows hazy and my heart; beats; agonizingly.

I can only think of her.

It grows dark, I must nearly be home...

Through hill and valley we travel, through cold winds and torrential downpour, never stopping. After an eternity, we pull up to my farm. My home. My castle. My love.

Legs torn to hell, I pant like a dog as I pull myself to the front door. Memories of my love race through my head, giving me the strength to go on. All I want is to hold her in my arms once more before I die. I call out her name - I hear a commotion. I drag myself upstairs to our room as fast as I can. Finally, I get to the door. I know she is waiting there, as she has always been waiting, full of love, for me. I open the door and there is my love, naked, in the arms of another man, some bastard Confederate soldier. In the arms of the enemy.


My love wears the ravager's gray cap. She screams with ecstasy. I stare in disbelief. Could her love for me have faded away? That quickly, that easily? What could I have done to keep her favor? I suppress my anger and feel a deep sense of misery in my chest. A lump in my lung migrates downward towards my heart. The lump becomes God and as He plunges his mighty hand in to my chest, He rips out my heart before my very eyes. He tears it in two and pauses. I plead, I beg, that I may get the full half, the half with some sense of meaning. God stares for a moment, then returns half a heart to me, empty, lonely, meaningless... Loveless. I can not live with half a heart - half an empty heart at that. I draw my sidearm and put the cold barrel of the gun to my temple. Even after I squeeze the trigger, they go on fucking; ignoring the dead man in the doorway.

I'm left in limbo.

All Along The Watchtower (Battlestar Galactica Style)

Desperate Times Song Book Series: Part V (In Our Ongoing Series)

All Along The Watchtower: Arranged by Bear McCreary

Performed by BSG composer Bear McCreary (conducting/keyboards) and a huge kick-ass awesome band at the BSG concert last April.

My new favorite version of All Along The Watchtower:

Ten Sides Of Chaos (preview)

I'm still trying to resolve the technical difficulties with the media player... Till then, check it out on myspace at www.myspace.com/desperatetimers

In the meantime, I will favor you with a poem taken from my unfinished apocalyptic play entitled 'Ten Sides Of Chaos'

It's a working title. Here's the poem:

My spirit burns with favor for you Lord
Grant me pardon from my longing
And when I’m thru wand’ring
Let angels lift my soul from devastation

Send me solace for my love has flown
Her care diminished not completely gone
Lord, take away my care and hers as well
Free my heart from this terrestrial hell