Wednesday, March 21, 2012

youth of america, where is your outrage?

Youth of America,
where is your outrage ?
now that all the punks
have grown.
and
the new guard
moshes couches to
play lists
of Avril and

where is that nineteen
seventy nine ?
where is your
Bad Brains, Minor Threat
your Jello?

they were staring over the horizon
when i last saw the documentary
wishing Actors would stay actors
instead of trickling down on us

they were standing in the rain
black purple and blue
red gold and green
and by '86 were shouting in the district streets;
IMPEACH BUSH as the country married
drug money to gun running,
and made heroes of mass murderers.

Youth of Today,
where is your Black
Panther Party,
keeping Big Brother
off your corner,
feeding children and
arming them with
power: knowledge
reminding the nation
that it begins with
one.
where is Marcus Garvey
Dick Gregory, the Doctor.
would you follow them
if they went today?

Youth of Today,
where are your
tent cities
as unemployment soars
to all time highs
and the price of gas
is manipulated like
diamonds
to keep us moving just enough
to keep the executive
pocket book swelling;

instead of riding the play
stations and the x
boxes....what if the
unemployed guitar heroes
set up their tents on the White House lawn,
and waited for something to do?

youth of today
where are your rastas
your punks
your community leaders
machine workers
your teachers.
where are your moms and dads
when you need a kick
in the ass,
where are the dj's
the cooks
the junkies
the squirrels the slimes

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOUR RAMONES
sex pistols
sly and robbie
AND WOULD YOU LISTEN TO ANOTHER
BOB MARLEY
-dylan, cummings, frost
morrison,krs,chuck D...
could you turn the light
inside on
one more time.
can you draw upon that hindsight
and do a better job
taking this place apart
than your leaders have,
or will you watch it on
you tube?
NOW PLAYING:
genocide
poverty
child exploitation
piracy
extortion
cheating dancing and singing
to a host of bored humans
worldwide. that just keep
running themselves into trees
and ditches, banging their adolescence
on dope and hand rails
for the amusement of their friends
-and for lack of anything better
to be.
the jails have gotten more
comfortable,
there's vitamin water in the fridge,
wanna go skate?
nah, it's too hot outside.

i ain't saying that a little
organized riot
once and a while
will improve your sex life,
AND make you richer.....
but i ain't NOT saying it either.
hey youth,
where can i find that high that
makes it better?

where can i find
that nepenthe

Saturday, March 10, 2012

The Last Time

The Last Time
It was a Saturday night, a good night for anything. Asheville was kind of warm, muggy, and breezy. It felt
the way it does out on the coast in the Spring when warm days give way to late-night hell storms. After
spending the previous night sleeping upright in the old Isuzu Trooper, I had slept most of the day. The
night before was full of plenty of sex, drugs and rock and roll. And drugs. There had been a party billed a
as “the Ridgecrest Revival; Molly’s Home! “. This meant, in a nutshell, that somewhere around a dozen
kegs of PBR, plenty of good weed, uppers and downers, a suitcase full of ecstasy, and a bunch of
fireworks were ours for the abusing. I personally entered the night with a great and diverse stash of
illegality. If I recall, I had a quarter ounce of really good pot and a new glass bowl to break in, six or
seven codeine derivatives, a scant handful of xanax, and a couple adderall. I was good, and oh yeah, a
half gallon of the area’s best home-made liquor.

As the night progressed some of us got high, and some of us got low. There were a few bands present
for the festivities. One of my favorites, Drug Money, was playing as I arrived, extremely poorly. This
came as a shock to me, as Fisher, the only guitarist, singer, and one half of the band intentionally played
in some strange D9 or 10 tuning so that “he could still play, no matter how shit-faced he got”, his words.
Once I had seen two minutes of his set I knew he was cooked on something, I figured barbiturates. As it
turns out, the kids had been slipping him the moonshine, and Fisher only drank beer, for good reason. I
was now watching that reason. Sometime after he finished his set I found him lying on the ground
underneath a pickup truck. I asked if I could help but he just wanted to ride it out, he would get a
second wind later. I even tried to play drums with another friend’s group, but that was a mess. I
distinctly remember the point at which I realized that my hands and feet were doing something other than what I wanted them to do, so I just got up, and stumbled towards the bonfire.

The night finished the next morning with a sun-up run to Denny’s followed by a vehicle to vehicle bottle
rocket fight through the streets of Black Mountain. After sleeping most of the regular day away, it was
time to rise and shine and crawl down to the bar to drink it off, and swap stories from the night before.
They had a great special at the bar. Bavaria or shots of John Power’s for two bucks. I think between the
booze, the billiards, and the juke box, I spent around sixty. By closing time the world felt alright again. I
was drunk, but I couldn’t help think that there was more out there for me that night. I stumbled up a
long and winding hill to The Interstate Motel, best $29- room in town. Rumor has it that Elvis once shot
out a TV in there, but I can’t see him ever having stayed in a dump like this one. The rooms, once yellow,
were now beige due to all the nicotine staining. The bathrooms were always a wreck, no soap, dead
roaches in the tub, no TV. None of this mattered though, there was always a great freak show right
outside. There were hustlers and hookers, other hapless drunks and homeless veterans cursing the
moon, and I was right in the middle of it, little red notebook in hand to record my night’s observations.
Generally speaking you should never open the door at a place like this unless you want trouble, it is far
wiser to just lay quietly and hope it goes away. Tonight however, I had a different spirit about it. I
wanted to be part of the freak show, or at least cop a little dope or cocaine with the last twenty I had in
pocket. Soon came a knock at the door. I opened it with the chain lock still in place and outside was a
very large man who said he had something for me. Seemed harmless enough, and again, I just wanted
more. Anything. Without going into detail, I was soon face down on a bed with a gun to my head. My
new friend had advantaged me. He wanted my ID, which I gave him. He said that his sister, a prostitute
(his words), had just been raped and I looked like the guy. He kept calling me David, said the guy’s name
was David. I showed him my ID to prove that I wasn’t him, but it wasn’t enough. The guy just kept
pacing with the steel, repeating over and over again “somebody’s getting’ blasted tonight! I mean, she
said you looked like him, and that’s my SISTER, and somebody gotta get blasted fuh dat!” I laid there,
face down on the stinking, beaten, bedspread, not thinking of much really. I thought of my mother
hearing the news, and how horrible her thoughts would be of me not only going, but going out like that,
in the filth of a $29- motel room, and probably looking drug related. This, and the fact that my youngest
brother was to be married in a couple of weeks. Damn. As I laid and thought a little more, and my would
be assailant seemed to be calming a bit, I thought of the only thing I could say. Rising drunkenly, slowly,
so as not to make any sudden moves I said it. “Smell my dick man, ain’t no pussy on me, I ain’t raped
nobody”. As he showed no interest in this, I began to feel like this was more of a shakedown than
anything. He did search me, and take my last twenty. He looked at my portable CD player as well, and I
said “come on man, not that too”, and he left it. Somewhere along the lines I offered my sympathies to
him for his sister’s misfortune, and a genuine hope that he would get the guy that did it, as I hate a
rapist, even of prostitutes. Soon thereafter cops began patrolling the area and he made his exit, hugging
me on the way out, like he had made a new friend. I just returned to my notebook and started
scribbling, glad to be alive.

A few nights later in a bar across town I sat and gulped whiskey and ate cigarettes amid a herd of cows
at another bar. They were having a discussion about the last time any of them had really been scared. I
had nothing to offer, just the obligatory responses to the kiddie pool and frat boy tales they spun. No
matter, I wasn’t going back to that motel on this night, or any other for a long while. It’s funny. When
you get robbed, threatened, knifed, you tend to look at the world a little differently, slightly more
distrusting, but not me. Not this time. I had just crammed two weeks worth of debauchery into two
nights, and I loved it, every bit. Sure, for a moment or two there I thought it would be the death of me,
but I came through okay. I would continue on that drunkard’s path for years to come. These days I
follow the straight and narrow, just celebrating illegally on rare occasions, but I know that someday,
when all has been said and done, the excess that I have loved my whole life will put me in my
grave.

Monday, March 5, 2012

my pearls(2001)

as i exhale from lack of strength
and leaning back
become part of this chair,
my bed
i barely have the say
-lacking the steam to
fake the dream

oh shit...
from my mouth fall
the only conscious
soundings of my last hour
here.

i am in none of those places.

she was there like
the million shes everywhere
and alone i shrink again to
find my glass
here i lounge, smoking.
a beautifully wasted, neglected,
piece of ass.

the worst about me is my honesty
the words which fall from
mouth to waxed ears
dead fruits for all to see;
and trampled under swine
my pearls...and all my dancing girls.

i guess i long too strongly to be
famous
-so i tell you every truth,
and i suckle,
and you're gone.

i move on, i've said
too much
it faked my soul out,
bought me with the touch of a lover's hand.

and buildings bend when she walks by (2002)

something leaned to tell me
teach me, teach me
is all i heard
and a sixth of the dream i
spilled last night
confirms-reassures that i do not know.

what i have learned is i want.

and a farmer digging earth
as
nails fall back and
sun just burns, mail not sent

mouth yearns
something warm -a misty swarm of
droplets
too cool to work it
and too heavy to be rain
three times again
four times again
what i've learned is i want
and twist myself to think i need
but the want pays the bills
and the want burns soil

and buildings bend when she walks by
her eyes painted by this cloud
-me
the dream that spilled is splintered now
but tired hands remember
as earth grows high around
mixing colors.

en silencio (2002)

in ten seconds i
scratched out five pages last night
and for the next five minutes i
felt it leave me

wandering through a garden
she told me of the
loathsome
through the blackened valley
the garden grew to
pastures
and as the foothills rose
he found the mountains
and clay castles

he found the walls the men had
made

he bowed down to pray a spell
and his deliverance and his shadows
all joined his eyes
the sad clown bent to wonder

and sometimes when the
sun don't shine
we find comfort as we hypnotize
our heart into loving our surroundings-
finding a reality that is drowning
-cult affairs and three more rivers
dying.

the first which flows under
my feet
and cools them enough to go
is drying as it spawns the
second flow. -the next,
crests, washes hate with tears
and recedes to leave the
simple salts
which blow from drought-gorged eyes
and land upon the third
which begins where reservations fail
and oneness allows the silent
pass to somehow, quietly do.

the last dying river which
cuts my cheeks as tears
of glass stream naked
from behind my mind
and to a cold, wood floor,
mixing with the rusted alloys
left for future noise.

en silencio por que quiero,
y quiero por que no tengo.

still moods in blue (6/02)

softness shines
still moods in blue
and red, yet
the hours roll off the wall
slowly while inside this;
too fast in replay

anger stews insomniac
to staring while
self-intoxicated,
the artist with notions of
falling down stairs...
then reprieve.
waiting for the flood again
waiting, for tiny ears
to warm sandy cheeks,
and fairy dust.

lavendar and chamomile
steep cool vision in
confusion and warm
blood water
birthdays for southern mosquitoes
which cannot feed here
tonight.

waiting for that love to call me,
find me here, waiting
as she knows no number to call
no address to find;
waiting for her to pray
for that miracle then i guess.

iced coffee and warm
berry pastry steaks stare
tauntingly through northeastern
junk shop windows.
i walk the cavernous streets
of just another asphalt black
and tornadic sky grey downtown
that does not know my name.

would-be employers offering
in guardian-like tones of
reassurance..."take care"
who only hope this nobody will
return tomorrow. wondering,
for i have left my legacy in
some other skin and
scum-drenched downtown
pawn shop.

i hesitated, thought very little
(and as much as i could)
and threw the claim ticket
in the trash can.
then i drove away fast,
sniffeling, numb and
thinking about going fishing,
and rest.

ensalata del mar

i am the solitude
stripped...not solid
i am the song
of the expiring bleached
child
hair blown like hay
tied down with sea oats
and rabies foam...experienced now,
i am the drunken prophet that
i ran here to die
-to leave behind in a hail of
levi commercial gun battles

i write because i can't sleep
i stare at this page
curiously
expecting to read the lines
the inspiration
that my season should be afforded

i expect "apocolypse now" style
symbolism but
i have only thoughts while drinking
and in the morning there are no
words

the rest of the world
continues with tomorrow
thinking that i'm still here.

unconsciously
i scratch down the biography notes
of a dying man
hurling headlong through
the fables of insanity
funny though...
i hold it together as if
observing some grand experiment,
unaware of what the consequence may bring
unaware of any damn thing

i think it might take a job
riding rollercoasters
to save me

a good laugh is like a
good cry anymore these days

i think of my mother burying her mother
and i long to be with them soon
in their collective and sweet
hereafter

but i have the junkman's work to do
the thrill seeking life of
a junk addict glutton
is a fiery suit to wear
-a cold cross to bear.
leaving me staring down thirty three
wondering

what more
could be left
for a lover like me

if this mind's cliff of mine
leaves your fair maiden dangling
and you're worried 'cuz you
think you've ever
known me
then you should be

if you cry in the night
missing something because you
think you once loved me,
then you don't know me. pity.
i, once dreaming
killed castles housing dragons
to display my faith in thee.

holdin' (2001/02)

just holdin' here
where drunks go to die
like dogs run down by
minivans
on this country's sub divided
roads and plots of nothing
that have been mapped and made to
look
like something worth the savings
of those promised a life

Saturday, March 3, 2012

hot and half gone on her vintage couch (9/2001)

i like the way
my dirty clothes smell
i am a man

i like the way
she moves so softly
and cautiously sure as
i love even more

and the words get me in trouble
wish for my muted double
enjoy the fruit with no seed
nurturing my every need

i've been a love so long
she's been along for novelty
to seem the best way to address
the need to reject my caress

two beers- disappear fears
and i look into her mirrors
and i see me smiling blindly
i'd like to take her home
to meet my mother
floor my peers
but i'm content to lay alone
hot and half gone on her
vintage couch

i say the wrong things.

i say what i feel and
it scares her while
it drives me insane

one more wrongful medicine
make my waking feel good again
at four at six and seven a.m.
it's fine 'till i'm forced to rise again
the talk 'till i'm forced awake again
when spirit guides they hide again
i need the answer from my closest friend
erotic then hot then cold again

message to the living

i don't know the night is over
until i puke
then the dreams begin
frustrated self-mutated
when i choke
sea water themes
again

the times grow subtle as
the envy
leaves and i attend the
lessons in my mind
just briefly
then the stars fall from
the
wonder

will the never-ending seem
a day too long
like lovers on the sunday
-friday night seems
dragging through the straw
never seek that place
again
but given that will-time
will you won't
look into his face again
or bury in her
shroud
that pride you flaunt
message back to
the living
message says it'll all just
be okay
message back to the
living
words struggle concieling this
bold shape
nothing new but starbelles
neck breaking and all
just bend to find
the heroics left sea shells
sand and lightning strike
birthdays and gifts
behind

come see 'bout me star shine
your mother's infantile
glows and grows a
year
since we buried the
life line
telephone and adder
attic stairs
'till we smell
the roses in the
spring time
-the spices in the
mean time we'll
make the most of
dream time
mosquitos and the
moonshine

painted black again
but as the song
cries
not for long