The Lodge

Eccentric Jazz pours out the front doors of the lodge’s headquarters, a welcoming greeting for lost souls and the weary, that funnels one into a rubble of creativity. Where talented oddballs and memories flourish within the walls of the sanctuary; A refuge hosting an artistically scandalous congregation of dreamers, in syncopation wishing to survive with heads high and crush foul demeanors. Cheering while clashing second-hand glasses over-head, AfroJazz sledgehammers into your ear orifices, burning “incence” impregnates the brain and sedates an anxious state; the lodge has given birth to a plethora of comradery, creative ingenuity and recollections (some worth repeating and most are to be kept locked in the crypt).

It’s the 10th time we’ve punched the annual card and we come together to share the care attained over the years.

Noticing how we’re no longer loud and thinning out…



Fingers are laid on the keyboard and staring at this empty document. Trying to figure out what to write. I realize I have no rhyme, reason and/or type. Simply reiterating everything said in my head, I’m steadily gaining more words on these blank pages. I’m trying to make something out of this, but nothings coming out with substance. Writer’s block sucks. I’m sitting here frustrated because I want to make art, but this stinks worse than Brian’s kale farts. I’m lacking inspiration or something. But I can’t get over the fact that nothing is coming out that I can rap about. This being one of my lamest joints. Compared to the fire I’ve been typing. This B L O C K sucks! Seriously, I wanna write about ANYTHING! But nothing is coming out. Nothing that people can grasp and task each other with trying to find the meaning to my sick and demented arrangement of words. My influences are different and others may find them out of the ordinary. I’m not collegiately trained in the art of wordsmiths. But I’m still trying and there is still hope in sight to give this mic life. I can write for hours about nothing. But would appreciate anything of something. Substance is what I crave and what I promise. I am a slave to my own mental game, of being the best and not fret about wrecking the rest. I detest all the protest against the lyrically genius. Trying to make something out of nothing I’m laughing at how this page is filled yet empty. There’s nothing here today, but maybe tomorrow there’ll be… shit anything.