Here is a photo I took during the shooting of Josh Krohn’s new film “A Clear Shot at the Door”. He Directed this film because he wanted to do something he hasn’t done before. Mixing poetry, music, and welding this short film has a lot going on. “Clear Shot” is starting to enter into the festival circuit and will hopefully be seen by more people. My role on the film was one of the Cinematographers. Enjoy the film!

Photo By: Ryan Broomberg
Camera: AE1
Film 35MM Fuji Provia X 400

Check out the film here…

This experimental short film melds several different art styles together including Film, Spoken Word, Metalsmithing, and Music.
Directed by JOSH KROHN, Words by JOEL ROGERS, Featuring ALEXIS ARCHIBALD, Music by CHASE PAGAN, Shot by PAT CLARK and RYAN BROOMBERG, Sound Design KESTREL THOMAS

you find yourself the same
and your thoughts and bones are refusing to change
you’re pasted to the couch
and you only go out
to clear your mind of a very reasonable doubt
a doubt that your destiny has been looked after and cared for
rather than abandoned and taken for
but you think there ain’t no doubt in fact you’re sure
that the path you’re on has been trampled on stamped over and paved through
by others just like you
that turned on their dreams too
for a more rational way
for a better nights stay
for a faster moving car
a new set of clothes and a bigger tip at the bar

ya feel your heart beat slams from your chest forth and back
like a pendulum till your rib cage cracks
then the rain clouds part and the suns rays shine
and its clear as day there’s no answers in the sky
so you look east-west, north and south
but the road to nowhere seems like the only way out
and the space between the dates
of your birth and today
are expanding every second
like their running in opposite directions
so you turn your head, raise your shoulders
Put your back on time cause you ain’t gettin’ any older
all of a sudden you’re as proud of the bags under your eyes
as you were then ashamed
of your cushion, of your ties
and the “hard earned” part of your hard earned dimes
It’s not where you’re workin’ or who you’re workin for
it’s what your working towards
it’s work
if you don’t do it you can’t afford to do what you want
and if you don’t have something you want to work towards
then you’re the same at 4 as you are at 64
only you won’t make it that far
if the pedals in your car
are both breaks
and you’re kickin’ and slammin’ on them with both feet
i mean you’ll never drive away
you’ll just sit there idle with no miles on your tires
ready to retire,
ready to blow out your matches before they ever take fire
watching milk on the counter waiting for it to expire

cause you know as well as me that you turned your back with ease
and it haunts you cause you know
if the child flashed forward what he would see
is a man lost
wondering what he could be
just tryin to fill up the space
looking for clues
on open tabs and empty plates
last call hunger on a strangers face
the quiet desperation of a hundred first dates
who’s outlooks were different
but outcomes were the same
nothing lost, nothing gained
not for better nor for worse
like treading water would somehow quench your thirst

ya got backed into a wall by petty thieves
swarmed by parasites and fleas
trapped in the grease that falls through their teeth
in an effort to slow ya or somehow show ya
that ya can’t beat the clock, the wrap or their heat
or suffer through their grief,
like ya haven’t done it before on three hours sleep

Rest to me is as useless as dreaming
it’s desert island screaming
it’s cooking your eggs long after they’ve hatched
butchering the life that you coulda or woulda or shoulda had

the hands on a clock don’t point no fingers
time don’t care when it’s time for bed
collapse
don’t just lay down your head
some lights don’t shine til all the power’s dead
you may say that I’m a dreamer
but I’m not
take your head out of the clouds and face the clock
or I imagine, you’ll get shot

what i’m saying that if you’re worn of what you’ve been wearing
you can change clothes
you can strip naked
exhaust your thoughts and bones
until what was your limit is your minimum
breathe fire
let the flames burn something down

whether on the road freewheelin’ and bound for glory
or destined to flop, sink, fail and and live an untold story
whether you die young, broke and under appreciated
or old, rich and overrated
do not be satiated, placated or contractually obligated
be hated
let them caste you off and sell you out
till the next generation is wondering what all the fuss was about

like genius in the dollar bin at a second hand store
what’s it all for
if not to squander the pot
for a clear shot at the door