Dearly Depressed,

There are moments in life when happiness feels like a distant possibility and depression becomes too weighty with which to trudge. For the chronically depressed, these moments are well worth noting. Not for it to steal your attention, but to note the change in cognitive function. It’s the moment when depression is trying to convince you that it’s negative views are true.  It’s when nimbus clouds block all exit routes out of the harbor. It’s when you feel your logic and reasoning are failing in it’s presence.  Your shoulders slump under the weight of the internal battle. It’s the moment when your mind is chemically bias and is conspiring to keep your ship docked. When that mental bully has crept back in, I find it best to acknowledge it, but don’t believe anything he says until happiness is equally within reach.  DEMAND that happiness be nearer before agreeing with what your depression may have to say.  It is necessary that depression keep you in delusion for its talons to remain deep.  Depression wins only when YOU are convinced.  Not that I believe you can just simply overcome it. And, I’m aware of how intense it feels. It sucks, I agree.  All I’m trying to emphasize is that the ideals, thoughts, emotions it imposes are not true. Period.  “Just because you feel it, doesn’t make it’s true.” (I’m scared in my dreams at time, but it doesn’t make them anymore true.) Chemicals cause feelings. I’m not suggesting that ignoring the monster is the answer, either.  Depression is like an intruder in my home whose tied me up before I’ve woken. I’ve learned that there are few answers that work, but if you can note the change in perception, think of it this way: it’s like a bad movie that you are forced to watch til the very end.  Sometimes, even until the credits finish rolling.  But, it will end and the lights in the theater will come back on. It’s then that you’ll be able to see clear skies by which to set sail.

In poetic summary, if you are running with faulty instrumentation, try not to set sail at night. But, once the fog lifts, pull up the anchors.




Get a Good Pair of Running Shoes


We must say
‘Fuck the world,’
at all costs,
if only
to save our soul
from being lost.(?)

The trees we’ve sown
create a world’s
To protect our
daughters, ’til
they live and lie.

My daughters
and sons,
I remember still once being young,
have no laurels
on which to rest;
they only run.

I before,
with brave face,
discarded the human race.
Hurt nurtured
my ego, while I
paid my farewell grace.

But, here I stand.
Seeds in hand;
I have rarely seen the sun.
Shadows surround, I’m hidden.
Who am I kiddin’?
It is I who run!

Bulleted Angel Wings

future dim,

getting slim-

downed from fantastical girth

of a healthy, imaginative childbirth.






just like a master sleuth;

finding answers, deciding truth.


of evidence.


i dare

to stare.

realism decoding idealism,

rampant and panic-stricken

and protean.

I comprehend.



to codifying.

oligarchs arrange in backroom

to the benefit of far too few.

in poor, jealous state

we capitulate.


lapsed future,

spalled culture,

disenchant of middle-age.

Albatross out his cage.

stuffed yowl,

swill the hour.


Back again

without friend.

a shill who can not pretend;

who lost a bet on the will of men.

still can’t win,

though I sin.




a memory taunting by deja vu’

of the child that once knew.

lonely dream.

rogue gene.


Belief, I’ve none

yet, I pray

that tomorrow stay

the Albatross away.

Au Revoir, Monsieur Faulk:

I met this rad guy this one time at a show in Crowley. He stood out mostly because he stood at the front of the stage, belting out tunes to a near deadened crowd. This zombified Louisiana bar sat and listened to this loud band seemingly out of place. The Popscene, whom they referenced themselves as, hammered out some cover songs, of which I remember Blur and the Gorillaz, but the Crowley crowd wasn’t having it. I suspect many of patrons couldn’t tell the covers apart from what was the band’s originals. Not the best musical connoisseurs here.

The blame did not fall on the band. They were on point. They were tight. They were fun. It was the crowd that doesn’t have an ear. Through the alcohol, their eardrums must have been confused.

“Why isn’t this band playing cajun/country music. I’m drinking exports not imports, damn it. Keep that indie bullshit in England.” Of course, I only imagine the bar-goers saying this, as they peer 90 degrees over their shoulder in the direction of the stage briefly before losing interest to face the light-box again. I’d have been happy if someone would have belted out, “Freebird!” No such shouts came.

The Popscene played for an hour or so. I always enjoy seeing a band play and do their thing in the face of such a non-compliant audience. Sometimes awkward, I will admit, but I’ve always giggled at such a thing. I don’t mean that they bombed, either. But it was: casual rebellion. When it comes to change, such a conservative bunch usually and fundamentally gets nervous as though threatened. Those who are have harbored such frictions have a certain resolve to themselves. This I saw. This band threatened the patron’s Saturday night beer-guzzling, TV-face-fucking as per usual. Forcing the audience’s earholes to hear foreign tones, they played their set until it was done.

I applauded.

We swapped. Our turn, now. Our turn proved to get a reaction much like The Popscene received.

“How you guys doing tonight?!” Nada.

One of the bartenders brought us, The Wanderer’s Drift, our own Coors Light beer, during our first song, as if to offer a silent plea, “can you guys play anything we know, please?” Beer is usually given as partial payment here in Louisiana. Beer is currency.

I drank which is probably why I don’t remember much of us playing. But I reckon, we did. Right through our own set. I’ve always played originals, not that I have anything against covers, I just don’t hear them as easy. This night we performed ended up, by chance, being on Daylight Savings. So, by the end of our set, the time had shifted and we had to start mentally scrambling for an extra hour of material.

We didn’t have anymore. And before you say, ‘just play some more’, I’m never really enthusiastic about playing a song I haven’t practiced. Josh with The Popscene (that rad guy at the front of the stage) came up to the stage and wanted to know if we would like to jam.

Now, here I must admit. I have no intentions of playing a show that isn’t well practiced and tight. I will simply say no thanks, if I’m not ready. But, even though I am reserved in what I play in front of people, a secret musical fetish cowers behind my eyes. I have two modes of playing on stage: rehearsed performance and improvisation. Unfortunately, the middle ground feels too uncomfortable. So, when Josh asked if we would like to jam (improv), I jumped at responding:


We played for maybe another 45 minutes. I don’t remember what we played. I don’t remember the crowds reaction. I don’t even remember if there even WAS a crowd.

Let me digress for a moment. When I was younger (but old enough to drive), I would steal my mom’s church key and sneak into our church’s sanctuary. Now, this was one of those on-fire, Pentecostal, non-denominational churches with the bands, music, dancing, talking-in-tongues and such, so they had an array of musical instruments on stage. I would park on the side of the church and use the side entrance. The parking lot was dark on that side. No one could see my car parked in the unlighted lot. Stealthily, I would make my way into the building at 2 o’clock in the morning via the side entrance which opened up right behind the velvet carpeted stage. My mind had no interest in the pulpit or the pastor’s chairs. The cross seemed just a couple of planks of wood, but they had a grand piano that when fingered would sonically fill up the room. It was breathtakingly, beautiful, especially in that large, vacant room. I would play for hours. Smiling and crying. What can I say, since I was 12 or so, music can make me cry. The sounds would be so spellbinding that I couldn’t pry my ears away. Every night I played, I wouldn’t dare turn it off for fear of losing it, but the sun would start to make it’s ascent. I would scurry off like a happy little rat who had the house to himself for the night and is planning his next night out. I’m sure, if anyone peered through a window, I looked like a psychological mess. I would lose all sense of time and place. I would move to the drums, then guitars. My mind making parts to songs that didn’t and still don’t exist.

My fetish is not to just play music, but to keep playing. Until after I’ve lost my way and walked right off the song’s grid, off the map. It’s there, in the sonic wilderness that I long to be. It’s there that I love to keep playing. Yes, it does sound’s like shit sometimes.

Digression complete.

The Popscene (Josh, Joe and Chris) and The Wanderer’s Drift (Mego and myself) have had many redeeming nights since. I promise. I was there. I grew fond of Josh, Joe and Chris and, of course, I hope to continue to grow and reap from such friends. When Josh waltzed to the stage and asked if we would like to jam, we did. We moved from instrument to instrument, taking turns. We played like the crowd wasn’t there. We got lost in Louie’s vacant sanctuary in front of a vacant-headed crowd and we didn’t want the reverberations to stop.

When I stare back in time, at the glimmer in Josh’s eye, I see untapped independence, resolve and bravery in the face of non-compliance. All things necessary for surviving in the wilderness; be it music, politics, family or the actual wilderness.

I wish you, Josh, the best of luck in your future adventures. I hope that your experiences, thus far, provide a well-built platform for you to jump from. I don’t have a point to all this. Hell, I’m not even sure if that’s how the night went down. If I think too hard, I’m not sure who played first. I guess I just appreciate you guys and will gladly re-write history if need be to show it. And, just in case I don’t remember or get another chance, know that this is where I fell in love with The Popscene. At Louie’s Pizzeria. In Crowley, Louisiana.

Signed, Trinity Bourque

a.k.a. Church Rowe


The fight for such a small spark.
The one that started it all.
The need to stay complete;
to stay in control.
When we’ve steered life
down numerous alleyways,
across deserts and tundra,
we find that ego lies.
Fate isn’t a friend.
Mine has turned against me
with it’s own independent race.

Through whiskey-driven nights
and hazy fantasy-laced daydreams,
I am not the one in the end
who will decide my own.
I’m a point on genetic’s timeline.
My illusion of freewill will be crushed
by the weight of death.
A long last breath of all I was.
A wisp of humidity hovers above my lips;
Readying its reincarnation,
into some other pneuma.
Into some soul sea.
My last humid wisp of humanity
Leaves me
A used bag of bones.
It disperses out of view and I sleep.

9:00am 5.1.15

Awoke this morning to build an effigy.
A 9 am text turned it toward a eulogy.

I left exposed
my heart of gold
to another gone soul.

Hospital rooms,
beeps and boops,
my grandmother’s last soliloquy.

Her last trip through memory lane;
I listen intent, every word
branding onto my brain.

I beg just a little longer be
the bearer of the key
to this exclusive library, her history.

But, alas the doorway is flooding.
God has shut the ark door.
No salvation is coming.

Pulmonen et vita submersi,
analogon Atlantis

(Lung and life drowned, analog of Atlantis)

—Goodbye ‘Maw-Maw’ Nell Broussard

Sufficient to believe?

`Peace. May I ask you, if there is a God what would be sufficient for him to do in order for you to believe? 

This is a question posited to me by a customer who continued to push me to answer ‘what I believe in’.  I tried to divert, he persisted. While, I don’t usually stray into this conversational territory due to ethical reasons, I responded.  The reason I’m posting it though, is not to be rude or exploitative, but I didn’t get a response back and thought…well, the question did make me think and I tried to answer candidly.  I’m a little dissappointed that he hadn’t answered, being he was so adament to keep in contact. He had even emailed me the question only a few hours after we had spoken.  

Mostly, I’m curious as to how he would have responded or if he would answered the reversal of his own question. If anyone would like to answer, by all means please do, in your own way of course. I feel a bit unresolved. 

This was my response:

First off, I feel that the question presents a lack of options for me. As though I have to assume that there is a God, which I do not have a system in place for but you do (and a very specific one at that). Then, figure how your God would get my attention? But hopefully this response can help even if I flip the question around ‘what would be sufficient evidence for you to disbelieve?’

My attempt to answer: I didn’t come to my disbelief due to a single event, nor a combination of events. Like I said before, it was over the course of five years or so that I can honestly say. I believed, I questioned, I prayed earnestly for truth, I begged that God would reveal the truth, etc. There was/is ample time for God to do that. I’m here and I’m sure he would have my number. Quite frankly though, I don’t believe there would be a ‘thing’ that would do as sufficient. I didn’t keep my religion/relationship with God because of any one thing, as I’m sure you don’t either, but because of many things. I also didn’t hang my relationship with God on petty ‘do me a favor’ requests.

But the question still bugs me because; God would know exactly what it would take to convince me (omniscient), he would know of our conversation at this very moment (omnipresent), he would have all the power in the universe to do anything about it (omnipotent), and yet he doesn’t. If he/she wanted to my attention, there is nothing stopping him/her. 

Sorry if it’s too long.



As the 1st poem of the new year,

I wish it were about things held dear,

instead of this incessant ringing in my ears

of work, money, suffering and fears.

January 1, 2015

Babe, Use Your Wings

Life can get stuck
in a downward spiral;
into Death’s
inevitable black hole.

Fly away
little butterflies.
out of your cocoons.

but pace yourself
from the inevitable
and monotonous pull.

It’ll Be Alright.?

She thinks she can change the world

just by hugging it tight,

swaying back and forth,

singing “It’ll be alright.”


For her utopian world,

I’d be willing to fight,

though I don’t believe

it’ll last a night.