Sturgill the Bridge

When I discovered Sturgill Simpson, I thought of him as a possible bridge between the stereotypes of rednecks and hippies - a cosmic cowboy seeking nirvana while partying and singing of sin. His tunes range from rockabilly speed country to transcendental ballads, and his voice makes me think of a tight cord with soft ends.

As I explore his lyrics more, I feel we share a wavelength or two. The album Metamodern Sounds of Country Music walks the territory of an emerging soul and moves back and forth between concrete and Bardo. See the lyrics of Just Let Go and Life of Sin for some of what I mean.

That is kind of where I find myself, spending much of my days grounded in work, family, and play while also drifting into intense states of perception. The latter usually occurs during my commutes, and my elevated states are often prompted by On Being podcasts or some other inward-driving stimulus. I, like I believe Sturgill is/was trying to do, am trying to sniff out any poisons in my channels - purify and fortify my code using the many sources available as guides. Like everyone, I find it ain't easy.

The Pirate and The Polka Dot Queen

The toothy pirate and the polka dotted queen

scoffed at the rain this morning.

With loose boots and cold hands

they marched down the muddy trails.

Ahoy they called

or howdy do

to every goose and duck that flew

bending low to watch the streams

that trickle towards the sea.

The In Between Times

20 thousand miles a year

wearing tread to ply my trades.

If I am to be fit for such travel

I must angle for ascent

scan everything

to begin to understand

and ask for a hint

towards connection.

January Ice

I remember winter thaws

and how the puddles froze back over

ice layers shattering under foot.

Cavities exposed

and me stealing glimpses

while bent on destruction.

A Bit to Drill

It takes a keen hand

to create a piece of anything.

Tools are ready and can be forged

to carve notches on a pine

or bend metal to a form.

What forts aren’t built

what bikes unrepaired

what art unmade

when hands never turn a screw

or join two planks together?

Would-be workshops

serve as contraption collections

yearning for sawdust and lacquer

while virtual worlds grow

in the rooms around them.