This is pinnacle,—finite.

This is a momentary lapse of reason. This is beyond the first breath taken, one of clarity and utmost importance; when you comprehend anxiety and justify it. You will stand across a human, opposite in so many ways, they have become befitting. Staring into what is supposed to be them, the pupils foreground bloodshot eyes. If you feel at home, then this is that moment.

Now collide.

This moment is the excitement of wanting to come, yet the desire to make a split second last forever. It’s suppression, avoidance of guilt. The things a woman can do to a man.

I have stood on a stage in front of hundreds. With a Fender Mustang molding into my body I expressed my existence to thirsty souls. Their mouths were agape from the desire to simply drown. They we’re so wet with excitement they collapsed on the floor and a sea of one idea flooded the land. I turned to my amp, a 6 foot mecca of human engineering. Coils released audible dissonance and the waves of sound penetrated the pit of standing people. A bead of sweat dripped from nose, onto my hand, and I strummed an open note for texture. C#. The hoard toppled.

I looked over to see Gerald panting on his drum set, sweat raining onto his snare. He stared into his toms, lost in the measurement. Towering over his kick he began to arch back in anticipation. He was anticipating his body for an impact. Every limb would rise into the air and careen down like a dead body with a severed head. The kit would barely survive. The audience dug their jaws into the floorboards.

Nikk collapsed down onto his pedal. He only had a brief period to regain control. He threw his guitar to the side and began twisting nobs on his pedal board, and pulling chords; the chaos actually gave him clarity. The sound waves convulsed in such a way and collided with ferocity. Unimaginable noises and disgusting effects would swell in the air forcing the machine to reset itself. Nikk prayed for the seizure not to end. He stood to face God and began to lift off the ground.

Ryan floated. He didn’t walk. He graced his body towards the back of the house and rested one foot on Gerald’s kick drum. This would be the final time he would drop the mic onto the stage floor. He raised his arms as a martyr. He didn’t beg for forgiveness or for the good Lord to take him away. He embraced the final moment and smiled back as though he himself had defied God. He stretched that smile into Nikk and I, who stood on opposite ends of the stage, then laughed at Gerald. He prepared to catapult.

I turned back into my amp and sunk into the open note. This is the last time I would play this note after five years of hammering it. I thought of my existence. What was it? How could I occupy such space, such dimensions and understand it? I was lost in my own moment. I thought of thinking, then thought of not thinking; what it meant to truly be alive and living. I couldn’t remember the past hour. What kind of man I was before hand or what my intentions were after. Who would I become? What I had planned for myself? I only knew what was.
Christ in his last breath.
My father when he first held me.
The first time I drilled into her.
The moment I didn’t want to give into her, but did.
Every time I saw a dead body.

Lying on my death-bed I will have achieved nothing ever comprehensible. I will ask whoever may be there, next to me, to play this song. Will it be my son? Wife? A simple nurse? I do not know. I do not know if my life will flash before my eyes and I think I would prefer it if it didn’t. It seems pointless to exist for selfish reasons and it’s selfish to desire to exist forever. I will let the song build, and build it will to this point. I anticipate this moment every time, and when it finally arrives I feel only ecstasy;
The THC clouding the brain.
The heroin creeping up the arm.
The focus from cocaine.
The booze numbing the senses.
The feeling of a woman’s skin on mine.
The last note of a song.

When it hits this point in the song, pull the plug. Smash my skull into oblivion. Shoot me in the face or sever my spinal cord from the rest of the body. Do not try to save me, or prolong my vegetable state. Do not welcome me to the machine or encourage immortality. Just let the song play and at 14:08, end my existence. Let that feeling be the last thing I comprehend. I demand it.

On the stage all four of us jump up into the air and we have become that moment. We have built five years of joy, prosperity, hardship, heartache, failure, friendship and success into an hour-long set of hits. We had to relive everything in that moment and in that moment was our immortality. Now we were to make our final statement. The last hit, of the last song, of the last show. Coming down is the hardest part.


To define the first line.

Let us begin to clarify that the Walrus is not a villain.

John Lennon is more than an idol.  Can I be a child who lays on his stomach begging for comfort?  Can the words “aspiration” be the gentle hands only a mother can possess?  They will grace my back, send signals through the spine and systematically syncopate a splendid sleeping pattern.  Let that not be a dream, but a reality.  Let us then begin to understand what John Lennon is.

Beyond his physical state of existence or his conscious grasp of the sensory overload we all endure as sentient beings; let us appreciate the legacy of John Lennon.  Let us begin to understand that his death, his murder, the bullet have now become a holy trinity in my perplexing existence.

I am the Walrus, goo-goo-g’joob.

You cannot live until you die.  You cannot die until you live.  So then logically, I am the Walrus!  Goo-goo-g’fucking-joob.

So the man dies.  He is the first in the pact to perish and he is the first to be named.  To go down in history?  Well down he went.  Down with his guts mingling on the pavement.  His wife holds him while the rest of the world blames her for breaking up their new derived faith in mankind.  Little do they know that she was the snake in the garden.  She made the man act and forever curse the man to rain sweat off his back.  She is neither the eggman or the walrus.

So goo-goo-g’joob all over her paisty chest.

But that does not make me a villain.  The walrus eats too many oysters.  He eats them, but feels bad.  This makes Alice like him.  But then another man tells her what to think, tells her a different side of the story.  Notice the order.  So then Alice changes her mind.  Goo-goo-go fucking figure!  These shoes are not the right shade of orange.  So now she likes the carpenter more.  One wears a suit, the other has bandages over his hand.  One feels bad, the other feels exhausted, full.

But what does Alice know?  This is a man’s world.  But it ain’t nothing…

Alice knows the Walrus.  She knows (well now knows) he hid his truth behind something.  A façade.  Did he have what the carpenter had, or did he have more?

I am the son of a carpenter.  I cried as a baby, my back was scratched to put me to sleep.  Too many blondes tripping down the rabbit hole have scratched my back; besides, I prefer brunettes.  I don’t hide this from the carpenter, the eggman.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.

So I am the son of a carpenter.  He made sure his genetic copy knew John Lennon.  I am the son of a mother who comforts.  She made sure her baby boy fell asleep peacefully.  I am the Walrus.  I am not a villain.  But I have had more than my fill.

And no one will know.

So let them figure this one out mister “give peace a chance.”  Ooh, you’re so cool with your “philosophy” and “philanthropy” and Asian wife.  I’ll find peace.  A piece.  When I sleep and she is scratching my back.