Doing The Work

Doing the work

We first met each other
When we were both doing the work
You were covered in blood
I was up to my mouth in shit

Living within spitting distance
I didn't extend my hand
From time to time
We'd meet at the same impasse

Years pass amazingly
We're still doing the work
Bumping into each other
In a quickly moving current

Almost by chance
In front of the rapids
We enjoy a little picnic together
There on a rock by the bank

When the noise of the world Gets under my silence I bite my lip and think of you

When the noise of the world

Gets under my silence

I bite my lip and think of you

Overrun

overrun

guy reading on his cellphone 

while falling off a cliff

with no time to scream 

between thinking about 

how stupid he is 

and reading about two people 

shot in an argument 

about who pushed first while bleeding to death

 

no time to cry 

thinking of their mothers 

who would come to the funeral 

and what would they wear 

about their cousins 

in Afghanistan and what they did 

no time to ask before 

pulling the trigger 

taking these moments 

into infinity  

on a planet overrun 

with human ingenuity

Our Tiny Bureaucratic Lives

our tiny bureaucratic lives

addicts and scholars
devout readers, philosophers
political leaders and
stoned undergraduates

processing meaninglessness
making it their business
going deep in cabinets
just to understand it

lovers and soldiers
bankers and lawyers
homeless, slumlords
non-profit financial officers

shooting smack drinking vodka
talking early morning hours
to pin the tail on the business
so you don’t have to

how we wish we could just go about it
without the fuss of it

to keep things all automatic
like driving back home

that god would show his hand
and we could all be done with it

and the painters and sculptors
institutionalized mothers

zen masters and muggers
could just take a break from it

processing the meaninglessness
factoring the meaninglessness
it keeps a planet spinning
just by us guessing

More! More!

The woman screams at the departing rider with the large packages, “More! More! Buy more!" She reads the headlines out loud. Where does the line between loneliness and madness dissolve?

Writing Yourself Free

http://youtu.be/2Ca0yH8k6wQ

Space Junk

Space Junk

as if it was yours to own

it was only there to touch 

passing on to someone

who’s going very long

you're needing it now

it's never coming back 

It  must be given away

with no strings attached

missing home

missing warmth

people who loved you

are all gone now

we who never evolved

we who got stuck

our eyes gorging on 

that shiny space junk

Laconia

This man is intermittently rocking against

The thin interior body panel of the bus

My knee feels his every motion

It seems as if he just can't get settled

Something in his life leaves him restless 

He's dressed for contracting labor

His fleece jacket is immaculate his cap

Sports a jungle foliage pattern

Done over in a muted gray and brown color scheme

The label on the adjusting band reads "Yankees"

He coughs the cough of a drywall installer

The outer lobes of his ears seem to have particles blasted into them

He occasionally looks out the window

Then his gaze trails down to his lap

Panavision

Panavision

When we return to our heads
From the outside world
We feel gratitude to life
For its raw materials

Finished as thoughts
Desires, and attitudes
Continuing to work
On what we feel, say, and do

In rare occasions when we connect
With members of our species or sex
What we mostly feel is overload
The pull of a planet around a star

Under the gaze of another's lens
The way back is blocked
We're inside their heads
Without navigable craft, suits, apart

Returned to a moment in 1971

E-lone

E-lone

distance we inhabit 

is close enough to touch

mouse is a rabbit 

making clicking sounds

missed the diagnosis

off by a symptom

a real psychosis

I can’t tell the difference

when I pick up 

where you left off

you’d swear 

we were never gone 

everything 

we ever did wrong 

falls into a puddle 

and bites the dust

three strikes I’m out

no fourth rounds

we can never go back 

all sales final 

yet something moves

something’s still there

and it’s grown up

in the wild

I would never swear  

we were all wet 

but we got to get back

to that pool of sweat

I wouldn’t dare 

to cause you regrets

we just gotta finish

what we left undone

The Trouble with Being Real

the trouble with being real

half of you just aren’t real 

I had some trouble seeing how

but now that I know the trick 

I can get back to where I was

all of you know the deal 

some were dealt gift cards

rest of us are feeling like, “damn

how did my luck run out?”

half of you are just an app,

placeholder, or b-roll stock 

I wanna be just like you-  

being real hasn't panned out

Eternal Adolescence

Eternal Adolescence

I'm jealous of 

food in your mouth

shoes on your feet

pencils in your hand

air you breathe

capturing what you say

holding you too long

living in your 

subconscious 

writing your hums

work, time, money 

conspiring to keep 

you precious 

for all those reasons 

I really don't believe

senselessness

we keep in mind

draining out of our bodies

one touch at a time

adolescence

remains defined

rubbing itself against

the time of our lives

Meet the new people

Meet the new people

They're smaller

using less space

quieter; air diffuses 

their complaints

compost-friendly

excreting green bricks

connecting silently

in habitrails where they live

working smarter

brains in a cloud

running cooler

add coffee and yoga

taking over

without questions for you

except 

"when are you leaving?"

and 

"is there anyway

you could go sooner?"

You Posted

you posted

I just saw that photo 

you posted

and I've got to tell you 

you look terrible 

holding that drink

petting that lion 

skydiving  

in Rio 

with tall tan people 

eating at restaurants 

genitals 

in your mouth

 

without me

It's just 

not 

enough

Writing metacognitively

Something doesn't fall in line when you practice the set; something is off- too depressive. You try changing the sequence; you write several new songs, but you've underestimated your intentions and your second guesses are wrong. Looking over the list compulsively there's only one thing that fits- change the name of the song; the sequence of titles must have a deep fit.

Driverless Cars

driverless cars

in sleeveless dresses

with meatless sandwiches

in driverless cars 

passing empty landscapes 

once there was 

some kind of purpose

now there are only

so many purchases

as we entertain 

ourselves 

contemplating 

greatness

we seem to have 

some kind of crisis

something orange will solve it

swallow a mouthful of blues

Did I tell you already 

You look perfect 

On the Wrong Side of History

On the wrong side of history

they were pulled 

dragging and 

screaming

into the new

their resistance

earned them 

the contempt

of the young

with little patience

or understanding

for what they 

didn't know

they were left

to figure 

everything out

on their own

glancing at them

we could tell

they were

completely wrong

Ignorance and Weaponry

Ignorance and weaponry

hill I die on

fight rages on 

with a pen 

against a gun

joined together

above the neck

the soft spot runs
from heart to head

gonna split

this last crumb

then climb the hill 

any way I can

Language teachers in bed

Language teachers in bed

Run those vowels
Under my skin
Do the exercises
Over again

If we smoke now
You won't remember a thing
I'll have to correct
Everything you say

All the resistance
You gave me in class
Now comes back
In every bite and scratch

The whole thing comes
To a final climax
With a test on the
Future subjunctive

All Along the Orla

All along the Orla

crawled over every inch 
of this thin strip 
through the unlit windows 
where people live

faces reveal 
the boredom and terror
of the same civil 
engineering errors

maybe on the bottom 
maybe on the top
under the stars
all along the Orla 

wrap this night
around our thighs
until our desires 
bleed through our minds 

turn this dance
into a commute from 
Ladeira da Barra 
to Pituba

where red lights 
are faint suggestions
and purple skies
receive ovations 

after the third sip
of the shaman’s ayahuasca 
find yourself stretched 
all along the Orla

Stop Touching Yourself- I Can Help

stop touching yourself-I can help

If that's all 

you know

you could 

always learn more

knowledge 

is free

ignorance 

costs too much

fun comes in 

orgasmic bundles

then gets lost 

under the bed

typing into 

your computer

not the way 

to make it appear

sometimes it comes on 

as nausea 

sometimes 

vertigo

like the outlook 

of a child

looking for 

a place to go

Using it up

using it up

I needed to be angry 

at something

there was enough 

stuff lying around

emotion came over me 

and I was shaking 

most of the 

day long

was it better than 

feeling nothing

I haven’t felt that 

for quite a while

I know too much 

about other people

they just stay

there in mind 

What was yesterday about?

What was yesterday about?

Some pain

A conversation

Sitting down

Lunch

Memories 

Of intimacy

Emergencies

A phone call

Plans

A list

Noises

Of other people

Soft ambitions

Held in check 

By limited 

Self-awareness

The Next Clip is Now

https://youtu.be/0HYjp3LgVKo

Suely Mesquita

5 years ago, I co-authored a book about her songs and writing process. 3 years ago we made some clips and wrote some material together. There's an album in the can that's waiting for her vocals.

A song about a girl named Napoleon

It's Just Been Confirmed

It's Just Been Confirmed

they've been out all month

without a sound 

 

send artists to sketch their locations

gospel singers for prayers and blood

sent to investigate

how we're living now

they missed all deadlines

while eating up funds

rumors of mutinies

amongst the squad

silhouettes of bankers 

ad agency start-ups

while feelings of introverts

and the sensitive have been crushed

It appears as if 

the lost poetry department 

has in fact gone 

AWOL

Everything Unsaid

In the sprawl

In the sprawl

in the sprawl 

cars are sharks

trucks 

don’t stop

through miles

only described as 

nothing 

at all

can’t be home 

bones in holes

everywhere 

you walk

giving off heat

windows smudged

don't got no 

camouflage 

with me there's

time to see

moving patterns 

on the wall

doubts have grown 

wings and arms

what was once banal

now feels hysterical 

The weekend is about rewriting, singing, waiting, editing, finding chord sequences, deleting, and more rewriting

命

inochi samba 現世 サンバ

most you need 

just seconds of

few last more

than a lifetime long

some flavor the night

one leaves a scar

times you just 

vanish with the dawn

waking up to see

if the song holds

believing there's more 

in the way it goes

others can't think

or see your way

randoms will get you 

lots more won't stay

all appearing 

from day to day

as innocent 

animals in pain

The One

The One 

was working on the last one

when the next one had arrived

boss yelled “hurry up” you’d think

we were all dumb and blind

had to get a photograph

at least keep the image in mind

closest I’d come to perfection

now out of sight almost alive

one day I’ll get back to it

one day I’ll get another chance

my only palliative thinking about it

with my hands

I was dreaming of the next one

when the last one lay dying 

gave it all my medicine 

all my income and it barely survived

now I’m here with no one 

and my time’s almost up

without any consolation 

I face a new world on my own 

Spring

https://soundcloud.com/bobgaulke/spring

Listen here

https://bobgaulke.bandcamp.com/album/what-has-civilization-ever-done-for-me

Midnight March

https://youtu.be/lP30lTBfnmU

Suspicious Character

suspicious character

pulled off the line

no one’s buying your alibi

who’s taped up your smile,

suspicious character

bombed the interview

dating to eat for two 

a request to change 

your point of view

on these 

important matters

something in your eyes

makes us nervous

looking outside at the day

without a purpose 

want to make sure you’re safe 

before you hurt us 

it’s how we’re living today

nothing personal 

Fandom

Stories from history

stories from history

everyone was ready 

for a new situation

a spontaneous feeling 

lit up the room

carrying the weight

for several generations 

nobody noticed it drop

until it went boom 

there were no commentators, 

spectators, speculators,

conspiracists;

everyone was a participant

we all got the lift 

took that risk

and the whole of the 

us was better for it 

stepping into that arena 

with hopes on our tongues

some things can only be 

swallowed temporarily 

we took that circle and pulled it

into four dimensions

until it covered our future

As far as we could see

we could laugh about it later

how scared we were to move

As if we had a choice

who was kidding who

we had found our voices

how sweet was the song

hidden in histories

stolen in books

  

Hey NSA

Hey NSA

You're my 

biggest

fan

If I say

"Bin Laden"

"Ted Cruz"

"Jeb Bush"

"Drones"

"Jihad"

or perhaps

"Bob Evans 

Pork Sausage Links"

does the 

alert go off

does my social profile 

get passed around

do you send a 

scarlett jo lookalike

in a leather catsuit 

to neutralize me

could I meet her 

Saturday at 3?

my social security 

number is 572-77-2623

thanks,

bob gaulke 

Bottled

Bottled 

What happened to him

He lost it so completely

As if his early work

Was written by an ex-girlfriend 

As if wearing the same look

Thirty years later 

Could bring anything back

For him, much the less, us

We still read his interviews

For some acknowledgement 

Of the betrayal; his arrogance

Never serves him here

Always promising a return to form

In his case it was never

Youthful energy

That interested

It was wisdom 

Beyond his years

That never returned

Now that he's arrived there

Reading into you

Reading into you

the fonts 

you use

the silences 

in your rhythm 

what you choose 

to forward

the speed 

of your server

brassiere 

color palate

choice of 

yogurt 

hours without signs

working without labels

I can see 

from your selfie

you're completely 

with it

reading into 

your tone

writing on 

silences

touch me 

once

I won't get 

nervous

kiss me 

again

all is 

forgiven 

The Lull

The lull

After the lull

We get back to the hill

The hill we die on

Pulls us on a whim

We travel light

Our friends are there

We're ready to fight

Tooth and nail 

Attacked from all sides

The ground opens up

Taking many of our best minds

And a few of their own

We fight all night 

Then after the lull

We count our blessings

And fight on

Capitalism

Capitalism

Cant find your best friend

Wonder where they've gone

Ask your parents then

Start to look around

Hearing strange noises

Behind a door

You just manage to peek

Inside a key hole

There's little Mary

There's little John

Being devoured naked

With their jewelry on

You try pulling at

Your father's 

Arms

He's too strong

Try begging 

Your mother

Gone deaf

And dumb

Run out of the room

Screaming from your house

Then you feel this hunger

Tearing at your gut

Undead by Paul Buonaguro

Now on sale from Ratstar Press. Amazing- in print after 40 years.

Drug of Choice

Drug of choice

What do you cling to

What's clinging to you

You'll try to take it with you 

Unless it takes you first

Those cookies

That tv

That feeling the world's 

Spinning at your feet

This moment's got me hooked

You're a chemical thing

I feel withdrawal symptoms

When you don't text me

Our conversations

This lighting

The old couple

Down the street 

It all becomes 

Addicting

I'll take the first step

And admit to it

Your Charger

Your Charger

hey mister
can I borrow your charger
my phone’s out 
I live with my mother

and I’ve got
to get to my new job
but I don’t know
the bus stop

and I’ve just met
a lady she could be
my baby (her number's
in the memory)

but mister
do you have a charger
I’m not crazy
I don’t anyone in the city

and I’ve just
got myself together
after months
in a shelter

and this city turns
mean with
any change
in the weather

so mister
I’m gonna buy these donuts
If I could just
plug my phone in

I’ve always come
to your shop
never stole
your stock

and I’ll
come back
for a butter roll
once I get myself
found

The Bronx

The Bronx 

says she’s not racist 

you want to believe her 

you want to sleep with her 

she needs to relax 

can’t do that 

if "everyone grabs her ass"

try to explain to her 

gives you that look

what a naive loser

your erection starts to fade

looking forward 

to that return train

live in the bronx

where people work hard 

all day long without

getting off

people are beautiful

they leave me alone

walking expressways

plates thrown into the park

in pizzarias men confess 

crimes of when they were young 

america battles it out

with everything that’s coming up  

Madge, what's your secret?

Madge, what's your secret?

What's that in the sauce

What makes you water your mouth

How about the sound of a dog

Who's alone in the house

What makes you want to love

In a world full of automatons 

What's holding God above 

Who tells you you got it wrong

Fear, the secret ingredient 

Fear behind every decision

Fear you're paying its rent

Fear's got your money spent 

Haunted by your dreams

You don't know what they mean

Sands of time in the vaseline

Feel lucky you're so fucked

Fear behind every face

Fear of things unsaid 

Fear of what you really meant

Fear will hold your breath

Games

Games

I find it strange

you spend hours

playing games

without learning anything 

you invest hours 

pressing buttons like a slave 

it makes you hungry 

for something 

you'll never attain

maneuvering 

in this world 

is not the same 

the extra dimensions 

aren't levels 

out of reach 

life will kill you

the music's good

but doesn't always rhyme

What's News?

what's news?

in the country of angry commenters 

they've closed all the borders

running out of toilet paper

their flag is an eye for an eye

losing a flight of daughters 

to the nation over the border

they're confident robotics 

will see them through the night

the gross product is vitriol 

shipped in tankers to China 

where it's mixed with cereal

stamped "organic" and sent home 

the country of angry commenters

spends its winters in Florida 

cursing out communists

for digging up ghosts

signing an agreement with India 

comments will now be outsourced 

they're planning their retirement

as statues on the ocean floor

Like Snowden

Like Snowden

blow me away like snowden

tell me everything you know about me

then I’ll take you to an undisclosed location

and we can dick around like cheney 

you present as mild mannered and innocent

but I know what’s lurking 

under that vanilla email address

in a pair of wolford stockings 

you want security you want privacy

yet you post everything you feel 

you’re heading for an identity apocalypse baby 
without Coppola in the chair 

blow me away like Snowden

give me the certainty of the real 

I need to know this madness flirts 

with externals all too willing to deal

keep on writing

keep on writing
follow the line

as it wraps around
everything rubbing

leaving it
shining

take your time
basting it in mind

it comes out thick
smoking honey

keep on writing
stick it in blood

carve your thoughts
into the walls

keep on writing
till you break your arm

then change hands
and do it backwards

be prepared

be prepared

hungry dog eats 
'til it explodes

man destroys a house 
to make his home

students insist 
there’s nothing to learn

bottoms don't fit 
seats twenty years old

be prepared 
don't be scared
it gets close
it gets weird  

will's on a hinge 
swinging on a binge
straight through 
an open door

another question 
strips the system

another section 
gone missing

I was a girl scout 
didn’t merit badges

did the research 
never published

pitched a tent 
settled damages

mangling oaths
under my breast

Insiders and Outsiders

Insiders and Outsiders 

He always kept to himself

What did he do with the money

He had something to express

Why was he always hiding 

He wore many hats 

Got the sense he was playing

Was he ever really himself

Afraid he'd come up empty

After he confessed

We started to see him differently

Yet our warmth came back

When we found how he was suffering

It's all too late I guess

"I'm sorry"'s just too easy

We'll be picking up his mess 

For as long as we're still crawling

Rare

I like it rare 

not too done

precious 

uncommonly put on

would you dare 

leave others out

make something 

by rough hands, untouched

contradictions

are the only things

that interest 

people like us

in situations that'd drive 

most others mad

i'd play the eccentric 

if that's what you'd want

I'd play the skeptic

forever caught holding

his own heart 

too close to your chest

Music is Memory

Music is memory

as unsentimental
as you want to be


you need to touch
an instrument,

two chords,
a melody on a string


is sufficient
to make you delirious

through dreams
and disappointments 


feelings haven't aged
beaten clichés you're holding 


for the return of a
golden age

the radio isn't helping
internet's there to ambush

those things you've been holding 

won't be carried with you

everyone addicted to something

she falls asleep to symphonies

her son haunted by a blank wall 

where he hears traces of feelings

The Sahara Starts Now

there are those moments that seem to be
leading us on the way to civilization collapse

like when the bus drops us off across the street from the mall
and we have to walk across miles of asphalt to get home

dodging SUVs the size of things
that ate our ancestors

and this new sun isn’t the one I knew as a kid
and the faces of people have the same hardness of bedouins

to us it’s a desperate sort of survival/happiness going on

Instagrammar

She lives in photographs

Quite happily

On beaches

At parties

With her family

With attractive young men

If she has a job,

It's just smiling

Out at us from

The comfort

Of our own 

Phones

Sometimes 

I put my phone sideways

When I'm lying down

On my futon

I can zoom in on her

I can see the drink in her hand

And then I can 

Almost hear

The sound of

Distant parties in the night

Against the ocean of my 

Wall to wall carpeting

We're the news

We’re the news

your brand and my brand
got into a fight

my brand is apologizing
your brand is sensitive to perceptions of hostility

my brand is about creating understanding
my brand is making love to your brand

your brand is staring out the window
your brand has a tremendous marketing budget

my brand has close to zero
our brands fight for market share

they're vulnerable to takeovers
your brand pretends not to care

but is susceptible to sudden flowers

He attached himself to my face

He attached himself to my face
It must have been something I said

His lips took out my breath
His hands went behind my chest

There in the middle of the street
While people were passing

Blood drained from my head
My feet did nothing

His tongue was some type of limb
Exploring my teeth

Don't know what it was looking for
The police did nothing

I felt his shortness of breath
He was having some kind of fit

I'd feel guilty if he turned out dead
But in a way he'd deserve it

Confusion, baby

confusion is a word you don't hear much of anymore
everyone's become certain of what they know

fatalism drives harder than science
there’s security in a flood

of apocalyptic images or definitions
of happiness that lean towards perfect

you confuse me with certainties
that I can barely follow

I can only observe outcomes
as a patient customer reaching towards you

with a desire that seems certain
a curious desire to explore the unknown

The tiniest little "no"

Fuck your

Government job

Favorite restaurant 

Smoked Gouda 

Import record collection

Netflix cue

iPad cover

Lawyer girlfriend

Matching tie

Humanitarian vacations

Derivative hobby band

Instagram account

Middle class education

Nostalgia impulses

Gelato selection

Bonuses and promotions

Misplaced hesitations 

You can't make art under these conditions 

Careering

Careering

far too many things 

keep me from you

bartending's stopped

the accounting I do

bus driving weekdays 

deli part-time

counseling Sundays

I’m banking overtime

hammer at the ready

scope in the bag

pen in my pocket

ink runs down my leg

far too many things 

keep me from you

the butchering goes on

farming's ruined

you’re a therapist, naked

policewoman in cuffs

manager and a desk

director yelling cut

puzzle on the phone

prize with a box

 amodel missing instructions

the wind-up without a watch

far too many things

keep me from you

jobs come and go

this desire consumes

G7 | C7 | D7

Em | Am | F | G

Put that shit on vibrate

Believe it or not, there's nothing to do now No one to talk to and absolutely no news Your friends are all working Taking care of loved ones They've temporarily forgotten anything outside Of the here and now (Meaning you) Soon they'll get online Tomorrow they'll like your status  But right now would be a great time To reflect on your madness

Service Dogs

Service dogs

In a city of eight million

A woman rides the train

With her service dog

The dog helps her

With the emotional

Trauma of living

In the world's

Richest city

And feeling like

She's the only one

Without love

Or money

It's Just Not Now

I have these moments 

Where I forget  

What I'm feeling  

On the bus or in the park 

Just for a moment 

Before my life resumes 

I could be 

Anything at all 

Carbon-based  

Outer space dust 

Mixed with water  

The mind wanders far 

Returning to this life 

With a cue

From my memories 

Igniting my brow 

Muscles contract 

Nerves react  

To some indignity  

Pressing on me now 

What was that? 

How should I react? 

Yes, I remember 

This particular “now"

Hero Sandwich

Paid Likes

Paid Likes 

I work hard for the money 

It travels the world 

To a deli in New Delhi 

Near a call center 

So hard for the money 

With Chinese guitars 

In a lonely room 

At an open mic bar 

 I give it away 

To be your friend 

Out of some desire

To take things up a level 

Should practice more 

Find some time 

To work harder for  

These newly paid likes

Lambert & Stamp

...just saw this great docu on the Who and the collaborative creative process that launched the band. Interesting to see how unformed the group was at their conception...and how the parties involved trusted their intuitions, which proved (mostly) correct. Like all artistic successes, there has to not only exist a brilliance, but an ability to communicate it in way that's accessible to a general audience. Lambert and Townshend had the sophistication and the other actors, Daltrey, Entwhistle, Moon, & Stamp, brought the logistics and the muscle. There's a seductive story about the band burning through hundreds of thousands of pounds before reaching any success, which is a tempting incitement to all mini-whos out there to charge up the cards, but for me the bigger story is the importance of collaborating with people that are on your level intellectually and resource-wise, or above.

The Underwear Salesman

Album on bandcamp

Why do some albums take forever?

Why do some albums take forever? I think you keep your inspirations close to your heart whenever you write. You remember how your favorite albums feel as complete as films and as you draw on your own experiences (emotionally if not realistically), you might have a general sense of how things should feel before you even start. Letting the pie bake on the shelf, so to speak, is an important part of the process. In the case of my new album, I had cut tracks with a band, but was not so impressed with the arrangements. The grooves were solid and well-recorded, so they stayed with me like a finished foundation. I tend to push myself into new situations personally and professionally for the sake of some type of plympton-esque experiences that I can use as fodder, or more politely, “stems” for songs. You can be somewhat objective about your own process, as if the goal was to create a mixtape with your own work. You could seek to represent your breadth of ability, or choose to go deeply in one direction. In either case, the window-cooling aspect of the work is important. The silences more important than the notes. You might find yourself hitting some expressions perfectly, or tearing things up and starting over when you cannot triangulate your experience, abilities, and the moods of the chord sequences you’ve created. You might know that you don’t know something and need to hit it from a variety of directions. It’s normal to feel uncertain much of the time. At the same time, if you have some taste, you’ll have known when you’ve hit it and when you’re far off the mark. I've just released an album I've been working on and off on for 13 years. I'm proud of some of it. Most of it, I can stand. I see some areas that definitely need improvement, but you know when it's done. https://bobgaulke.bandcamp.com/

Carolina Caffé

...directs "Fandom", featuring Shandoah Goldman. Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0g0YvGNI3ms

One Life to Live

One life to live how many artists have I met disguised as bankers how many directors droning in front of a monitor how many drinks have I had with middle aged persons imagining a future that never happens the brave die once cowards every morning if you opened your heart and no one cared it would still be there if you sang a song and people talked would you still be there you take measures your mental congress cuts your budgets you die of a billion paper cuts paying dearly for everything you wanted to say yourself with a wallet full of excuses and a generous retirement plan

The Secret to Practicing

If you have a strong aversion to practicing, it might be because your instrument is not sexy enough. You must feel the pull of its shape. You must want to hold it in your hands and play with its strings. Many times, I've pussied out at the last moment, not buying the object of my desire, but some lesser thing. I jab of guilt mixed with shame (that I'm wasting all my money on some fantasy) does me in when I reach for my wallet. So I bring the ugly thing home and resentment sets in. I become a super procrastinator and will go to a store and buy cookies, check email, watch youtube, do everything but what I set the time aside for. Only now at 47 do I realize the error of my ways. Never again. Debt or glory.

So then the question becomes

It's not your voice  

It's not the chords  

It's not your blouse 

Or the choice of moods 

 It's the quality of your thinking 

That sets you apart  

The strength of purpose 

Coming from the heart 

 I can be polite to everyone  

I can force myself to care 

But with you it's effortless 

It takes me somewhere 

 It's not enough to be kind 

I get that from my dog 

It what's on your mind 

That turns me on

Everybody Must Get Paid

The guy behind the counter The seller of marijuana The sound mixer The bartender The cocktail waitress The maker of your dress The rehearsal space owner The six seven bouncer The website designer The social media promoter The software seller The ticket taker The opening band The studio musicians The famous masterer The bagel caterer The music critic's paper The opinion maker The van rental agent Your mother