Writer • Musician
Hidden from the city An outpost, abandoned dry Graffiti on the walls I stand up, I try, to frame the sky at dusk The river running through, The bridge of cobblestone, The lonesome strung-out croon The whole world's waiting From the gaping canyons, high to the European sundowns As the mighty knights they cry: Welcome …
Dear Cal, Man this jazz kick is great. Some album that I’m listening to with Miles Davis and Coltrane. I know they played together a few times before ol’ John blew up and went out on his own, before A Love Supreme and Blue Train. The French, the Parisians in particular have been known to …
Continue reading "Light in the Dark. Impressions and Illuminations in la Ville Lumière"
The story begins with a girl. She looks, casts one glance in the mirror and is gone no sooner than she arrives, her voice but a whisper echoing down the street, leaving the hero alone in the cold night wearing an old pair of boots, a Spanish knife in his pocket, a beat-up guitar strapped …
On the Move, and at Peace By Cal Corso | Reading a book on Albert Einstein and I’m thinking about Vienna, listening to Liszt's transcription for the piano of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Right now I’m in the second movement of the symphony. And yea that sounds about right now, don’t it? I am sort of …
Jude Moonlight's Journal | Last night I went out walking and I heard the distant sound of drums playing late in the night. At first I couldn't quite find where they were coming from but I walked farther down the street and deeper into my neighborhood and I heard the sounds grow louder, so I …
Continue reading "I do feel like playing. Last night I went out walking…"
In the wild cathedral evenings On the St. Petersburg canals Near the church at midnight they call 'Spilt Blood' I met a woman singing a song I knew too well She looked at me Her skin stark white a ghost alone, in the dark of the night She smiled at me Her eyes they gleamed …
If there’s anything that I try and avoid writing about, its writing. That being said, I’ll keep this beginning part short. For starters, I really don’t even think of myself as a writer at all. I’m no Hemingway or Kerouac or Walt Whitman. I don’t know how any of those guys fell into the …
I stopped in a small town somewhere in the desert for a quick breakfast. Then I drove farther north until I reached the last town before the mountains. I stopped there to fill up on gas and get supplies, which consisted mainly of sandwich bread, fruit, two cans of tuna and some peanut butter. Then …
I felt like a thief in the night. Maybe it was guilt, a sense that I was betraying someone, or something. I remember a sign, standing tall on the side of the highway while I was driving through the desert. “Blessed are they,” it said, “Who trust in Him.’ Four years ago, I moved to …
I was standing on a street corner on the outskirts of town Away from some trouble I’d seen come ‘round When I saw an old maiden look my way, and Say “Hey Mr. Moonlight, you're a long way from LA.” Now her hair, it fell funny, and she had teeth of gold She wore on …
When I'm on the move, I write in verse Small poems to most accurately or honestly reflect the things going on around me, and how I feel about those things Often times, most of the time, these poems aren't any good But other times, they turn out alright. Simple. To the point. Just getting the …
The guitar case bears the sacred marks from where you've been Not too far but you've got the scars The stars at night still grin You look out yonder and see bright green Deep in the swamps of mud memory That one summers eve, outside New Orleans long before Yosemite and the mighty Sequoia trees …
My new life in LA was wearing me thin and I decided that I needed to get away. The plan was to drive up to San Francisco and stay there for a few days. I was told that I should take the 1 Highway, that even though it was a longer route, it offered a …
It was early in the morning and I couldn’t see the peaks of the mountains. The mist in the air was cool and no cars drove on Highway 1, also known as the pacific coast highway, in central California. This was a place I’d only heard of but never seen. It lived in my mind …
In the cold, narrow streets of old Santa Fe a secluded, warm cafe I contemplate America how as a boy I never thought once of the name until I saw the desert gazed at the sun rising slow outside Roswell a state road, no other cars drove, I am there, I am here I saw …
Halloween lighter candles Sing soft of the night. Under the eyes of graceful angels They illuminate the highway In the cafes of Montclair Patrons gather round the fire. And they raise a toast to one another Quiet faith, human beauty inspired. And to the mountain, watching, looming And to the stars of its divine crown, …
Ren Michael 