All posts by rusty

Writing

Blue Vermillion

Audio

I wrote this after a painful season with my daughter. I had spoken too honestly about a relationship I knew would not last, consequently the damage between us became larger than I knew how to repair. One evening I sat in a park waiting to meet her. By the time she arrived, the sun was going down and the air between us felt heavy, sad, and almost impossible to penetrate.
That is where this song lives — not in the details of who was right or wrong, but in the ache of reaching for someone you love and not knowing how to hold them. The sky was carrying its own contradiction that evening: blue sorrow and red-gold light bleeding together. That color became Blue Vermilion.
Because the blues were all over me.

Blue Vermillion
When the mountains were formed in the valley
There was a pain in the earth I’ve been told
Like the more you reach for heaven
The more it tears at your soul
And the light that shines in the morning
Is the same light that comes with the dew
And they call it blue vermilion
Cause the blues get all over you

So I reached out my hand to touch you
I reached as that hot sun went down
And I sat in the shade where I met you
In the shade of a sad willow’s crown
I cried for ten thousand reasons
And I opened my eyes just to see
Why they call these blues vermilion
Because the blue was all over me

Now heaven is mine in the morning
And it’s mine in the nighttime too
Yeah they call this blue vermilion
Because the blue gets all over you
Yeah they call this blue vermilion
Because the blues get all over you

Joanne, Songs

Make It Last

Audio


Getting old with someone sounds romantic — and honestly, it is.

Joanne and I have collected a beautiful pile of moments: dances, road trips, quiet mornings, strange adventures, deep talks, little laughs, and all the ordinary magic that somehow becomes a life.

But “growing old together” has two parts. The together part is lovely. The old part can be a little rude.

This song is about that sweet and stubborn wish to slow the clock down, hold the hand a little longer, and make the moment stay put for once.

Can we make it last?

Let’s make it last.

Make It Last
I’m thinking ’bout my days as I get older
And the questions that I’ve learned from the past
How many days are left for me to hold her
All the memories seem to come and go so fast
Can we make it last?

Or can’t we just make these moments last?
‘Cause there’s days when the sun won’t shine and days that just get older
And there’s days when I have you here with me
These days I call you mine but just around the corner
There’s days when we’ll set my spirit free
Can we make it last?

Or can’t we just make these moments last?
[acoustic guitar continues fingerpicking pattern]
I need my jacket now as it gets colder
All the shivers seem to come on me so fast
These days I call you mine and though we’re getting older
There’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be
Can we make it last?

Or can’t we just make these moments last?
Can we make it last?
Let’s make it last

Chris, Social, Social Musings, Songs, Songwriting Advise

Ribbons, String and glue

Audio

Interesting, I wrote a song on my keyboard about 15 years ago. It was a musical composition no words or lyrics. Then today I was listening to that as I perused some of my old poetry and I decided to drop a poem and the instrumental song into Suno… and the song above is the outcome of that interaction, modeled on my voice. I did a few lyrical edits. It was a fun collision of my thoughts and musicality via a collaboration on Suno. Amazing times we live in.

Ribbons String and Glue
the mythologies that we hold so dear
like ribbons string and glue
bind our thoughts together
held by things we say and do

Off we go Things to do Looking through that lens
To justify Those we screw Scrambling to win
Bound by losses We turn to
Our mythologies again
Off we go Things to do Looking through that lens

we hold our truths self-evident
And keep them close to heart
But the violence deemed irrelevant
is tearing us apart

Off we go Things to do Looking through that lens
To justify Those we screw Scrambling to win
Bound by losses We turn to
Our mythologies again
Off we go Things to do Looking through that lens

we hold our truths self-evident
And keep them close at hand
The harm we deem irrelevant
We’ll never understand… so

Off we go Things to do Looking through that lens
To justify Those we screw Scrambling to win
Bound by losses We turn to
Our mythologies again
Off we go Things to do Looking through that lens

the mythologies that we hold so dear
Like ribbons string and glue
Bind our thoughts together
To absolve the things we do

Here is the original instrumental version:

Songs, Writing

Stranger In A Stranger’s Body

Audio

Help I’ve Been Kidnapped
Aging has a way of changing the terms without asking permission. One day you wake up sore from sleeping, trip over your own feet, and realize you are somehow living inside an older version of the one you remember. This song is my way of laughing at that rude surprise. If you are over forty, you will probably recognize the arrangement.

Stranger In A Stranger’s Body
I woke up this morning in my room
Suffering from a really strange wound
A wound I got while sleeping
In the night dreams that were seeping
Into the wound that I got here in my room

I’m a stranger in a stranger’s body
I used to be a real fine hottie
But now I’ve gotten old
Each evening I get cold
I’m a stranger in a stranger’s body

The other day I’s walking down the street
Suddenly I tripped over my feet
I sat there on the curb
Most deaf-in-ately disturbed
I’m a stranger in a stranger’s body

I’m a stranger in a stranger’s body
I used to be a real fine hottie
But now I’ve gotten old
Each evening I get cold
I’m a stranger in a stranger’s body

You might think that’s the way that it should be
That’s cause you’ve watched too much TV
It’s happening to me
So fast that I can’t see
I’m stuck inside some old man’s body

I’m a stranger in a stranger’s body
I used to be a real fine hottie
But now I’ve gotten old
Each evening I get cold
I’m trapped inside some stranger’s body

Yes now I’ve gotten old
Each evening I get cold
Cause I’m stuck inside some old man’s body

Social Musings, War, Writing

Lap of Luxury

Audio


Circus or Freak Show?

I wrote the first version of this in 2017 watching the circus in D.C. I did not know then that the circus was only the warm-up. The freak show was still on its way.

The smiling man with blood on his shirt and a chainsaw in his hand was something I could never have imagined, then I saw it for real. That wasn’t simply the image the song handed me, it was watching Elon on stage as cold chills ran down my back – this prompted some lyric changes this year.

This one came from dread, plain and simple — the feeling that cruelty had stopped pretending to be decent. It came first for some, then for others, and eventually for all of us.
The view outside my window has not improved.

Lap of Luxury
You’ve been living in the lap of luxury
In the home of the brave
The land of the free but now
Things have changed
He said your country needs just a little surgery
A snip here and there and we’ll do it for free
Then through the door walks a smiling man
With blood on his shirt chainsaw in his hand
So now
Things have changed

Yeah they came for the Mexicans late one night
They ignored the blacks until the time was right
Then they came for the Muslims and they came for the Jews
Next thing they’ll be coming for the Christians too
Things have changed

You’ve been living in the lap of luxury
In the home of the brave and the land of the free but now
Things have changed
You know it just ain’t right
It’ll never be fair
You gave your country to a billionaire
They’ll mark you next
They’ll take your home
They listen to you as you talk on the phone because now
Things have changed

He took your heart and he’ll take your soul
He’ll take the cereal out of your children’s bowl
They warned us this would be hard to keep
But now they’re taking it away while you’re in your sleep because now
Things have changed

You’ve been living in the lap of luxury
The home of the brave
The land of the free but now
Things have changed
You’ve been living in the lap of luxury
The home of the brave
The land of the free but now
Things have changed
Yeah I said now
Things have changed
You know that now
Things have changed

Songs, Writing

Nothing But Hope

Breaking Dawn
This is one of those songs that came to talk to me, not the other way around.
It was 2017 and the world outside was in turmoil and my heart was churning with the circus (even more so as of this writing on April 19th, 2026). But underneath all that noise was another rhythm — quieter, steadier, truer. Not the rhythm of panic. Not the drumbeat of outrage. Rather the faithful beat of my heart that says every new day offers another chance to begin again, if we choose it.

That is what I heard in this song. Yes, the song came to talk to me. So you can let it talk to you too, if you want.

The storm is still there. The fear is still there. The world doesn’t suddenly become simple because the sun comes up. But dawn has always felt like a new birth to me — a daily chance to be reborn without having to explain yesterday first.
I lean on love.

That is what this song is doing. It is choosing hope without denying the storm. Choosing the heart’s rhythm over the world’s panic. Choosing to dance anyway.

Nothing But Hope
The sun starts to risin’
As the moon’s setting low
And a new day’s dawning
As the nighttime lets go
I feel like dancing
Across this pretty sunrise
As the rain starts to fall
And a storm fills our skies

As the new day begins
And the storm rages on
There’s nothing but hope
In this breaking dawn

So if you could gamble
On hope one more time
We might find some answers
In this poet’s rhyme
‘Cause love is the reason
For this pretty sunrise
And life is the answer
To the storm in our skies

As the new day begins
The storm rages on
But there’s nothing but hope
In this breaking dawn

So tell me once again
That our love is strong
We’ll keep on dancing
Until this storm is gone

‘Cause as the new day begins
Our love is so strong
There’s nothing but hope
In this breaking dawn

So tell me once again
That our love is strong
We’ll keep on dancing
Until this storm is gone
‘Cause there’s nothing but hope
In this breaking dawn

Camelot, Social, Songs, War

Where Poets Go To Bleed

Momma’s Bleeding
This one started as Where Poets Go to Bleed — see below. But something changed—out there in the world, and in me. What began as a meditation on the artist’s role in dark times turned personal. Because it’s not just poets bleeding anymore.

It’s your momma.

It’s your neighbor. Your sister. The quiet one who raised you. The one who cooked while the news got louder. The one who paid attention when you didn’t.

This isn’t a metaphor. This is the moment when masked men come crashing through the door and you’re no longer wondering why—you’re wondering what the hell you’re going to do now.
This song wasn’t planned. It happened. It demanded to be written in the same voice I use when I’m scared, angry, and dead certain that silence will cost too much.
I don’t know if songs can stop what’s coming.

But they can damn sure name it. When Monica Moreta?Galarza was thrown to the ground like a rag doll by the police after an ICE raid, this song morphed into the truth…
And maybe that’s the first step toward stopping the bleeding; Stopping ICE from breaking down your door. One day you will realize what a time you have lived through…

Momma’s Bleeding
I don’t shave now in the morning
I’m afraid I’ll cut my throat
I see the blatant misery
and wonder how’d he get that vote
These aren’t brand new revelations
It’s time to admit he’ll sink our boat
[Verse 2]
They want to steal our country,
They send masked men in the dark
And we find that thugs are running
Running rampant across our hearts
There’s no one left to save you now
It’s time, to get up and do your part
[Chorus]
Because we all hear karma calling
In a world that’s come to be
A bunch of reckless howlers
selling fear that lives and breathes
This ain’t where you’ll find the answers,
this is where
Your momma
Your momma goes to bleed
[Verse 3]
The world is shifting faster
Than we can laugh and love and breathe
Like escalating chatter
Of chimps up in the trees
When men with masks and power
come crashing through your door
You’ll find the ones you love the most
lie shattered on the floor

[Chorus]
Because we all hear karma calling
In a world that’s come to be
Just a bunch of reckless howlers
selling fear that lives and breathes
This ain’t where you’ll find the answers,
this is where
Your momma
Your momma goes to bleed
[Outro]
This ain’t where you’ll find the answers,
this is where
Your momma
Your momma goes to bleed

The first version of this song:

Where Poets Go To Bleed
[Verse 1]
I don’t shave now in the morning
I’m afraid I’ll cut my throat
I see the oval office
and wonder how’d he get that vote
These aren’t hopes and revelations
It’s time to admit he’ll sink this boat

[Verse 2]
If you want to ruin a country,
just don’t fund the arts
You’ll find your delinquents running crazy
Crazy in the dark
Next you stop the funding
On all matters all matters of the heart

[Chorus]
Well we all hear karma calling
In a world that’s come to be
A bunch of reckless howlers
selling fear that lives and breathes
This ain’t where you’ll find the answers,
this is where
The poets go to bleed

[Verse 3]
But a movement is arising
And the people are at hand
Because pointless politicians are now playing’
Playing in the band
But the music that we’re hearing
Doesn’t come – come from the promised land

[Chorus]
Because we all hear karma calling
In a world that’s come to be
Just a bunch of reckless howlers
selling fear that lives and breathes
This ain’t where you’ll find the answers,
this is where
The poets go to bleed

Chris, Dad - Red Cline, Family, Mother, Songs, Writing

Things Inside My Head


Early Wiring
There’s nothing I can say here that experts haven’t said better. Early wiring is real. It sets the stage for everything that follows. It can be changed but it cannot be avoided. Some personalities escape the consequences sooner than others — but none of us escapes the setup.

I was one of those who didn’t know it for the first twenty-eight years of my life. Consequently the first thirty years were a runaway train — drugs, criminals, bad examples, violence, abuse of every kind, and a litany of myth, conspiracy, folklore and outright lies. Looking back from here I sometimes wonder how the hell I survived, much less grew into a man with a stable life who accomplished something worth talking about.

I can never quite stand up and say I’m proud of myself — not cleanly — because the first thirty years are littered with mistakes and abuses of my own. I acted out things that were acted out on me. Though I can say, with some pride, that I never took it as far as it was taken with me. I never molested anyone. I never beat my children bloody.

I was introduced to sex at five. I was beaten until I bled on more than one occasion. My mother wrapped a phone cord around my neck one night and choked me until I nearly passed out, screaming: “If you call your father I will kill you.” I just needed him to come home and make her stop. He was at the tavern.

It is hard to call it anyone’s fault. My mother shared with me the abuses she suffered at the hands of her father and brothers. She was only passing along her own wiring, as was my father with his brutal whippings. Ironically I never truly held any of it against them. I loved them both — the way confused children of God tend to love the people who hurt them.
So I ran instead of holding grudges. I ran a lot. You’ll find those stories in my autobiography.
This song is the condensed version of all of it.

Things Inside My Head
Sitting in a church house
Propaganda fed
First time I was cursed out
Was something mama said
Things inside my head

Sitting on the highway
Like an Otis Redding song
Going down the byway
Will they notice if I’m gone
Was I right or wrong

But the boy just don’t know any longer
Such a boy just hopes that he’ll get stronger
Sometimes deep at night he wonders
About these things inside his head
Things inside his head

Another line of cocaine
Filling up my nose
Humming like a freight train
Hear the sirens blow
Hear the sirens blow

Sitting in a courthouse
Shackles on my legs
Quiet like a church mouse
Hear the verdict read
Hear the verdict read

But the boy just don’t know any longer
Sometimes that boy he just gets stronger
And sometimes deep at night he wonders
What’s these things inside his head

That boy just figured out he’s stronger
Once he grew up it just took longer
But nowadays deep at night he ponders
All these things inside his head
Lord there’s things inside my head
Things Inside My Head