j.s.

i
have met many
women or men
who have offered
anything
in exchange for money
for happiness
for need

but i have in
my life met
only one
whore

and this person
posessed neither
want nor need

that
only
one

how truly
fortunate
my life
is been.

one faint scream or hush in vain

i rub my eyes
release some sand
replace the glass

the colors whoosh
without my hands
to help me now

fingers fumble
words write wrong and
someone

back and forth like
rollercoaster
wooden, splintered on the
side where love is
jammed

jagged in the
corners
cold when the
night
falls

i write want
so fevered and hard
try not forget

one wrinkled eye
line one faint scream
or hush in vain

twenty five years
the hand has scribbled
since half awake
beneath that pillowed head
fourteen
and writing the text
before me in my dream’s sky
cartoon scroll I followed

wish now to not
a frame leave out
misplace a drop

not one sample
not one dragon
not one fenced cop

tired is my highway (02/01/00)

i was sleeping outside myself again
and I saw my favorite sweater
and I grabbed my favorite jeans
and I could see it all
full color
from the viewer in my dreams

i’m tired I told me, and go home I said
-for me it’s always been more than
easy to fit whatever seams,
mend what is torn after blood is cleaned

i slept into the blue again
i slept into the sand
i cut myself on old, smooth green
and cobalt rolled sea glass
i left the vacation. stop.
i twisted one more knot in my rope
and they cut off the other last one
and they paid me after I already left
and they claimed it was on Tuesday
and I asked…stopped myself and
i said to me that how is it
you let him do it- why won’t you
just let it be…why don’t you
just drive away hard –set up a
hot dog stand, sell single malt scotch
at eleven a.m. to all your builder friends?
and laughing back, hell yeah I said and
turned to me again…you don’t see
the me I see – you don’t know the one who is me
i’m true the one who throws away
and I’m the one who smokes all day and
i hold on for your pussy ass when
you think it’s good to hold on-
and I’m the one who holds me up
when you push my tired legs around
and make responsible promises to those you love
whenever you’re turned on, or your eyes get turned around

i’m the one- the one that you asked for
when the way became too hard
and this bitch of a world took off her face
and bit into your back –
took away your student i.d. card
i’m the one; laughing again and saying
i’m the one in me that’s me
and you’re the me in me for them
and you go to work when I tell you
not to, and then I get it done
you’re the one with the bank account
that i always fuck up
and I’m the one who won’t let you run

and hell yeah, hotdogs and single malt scotch
but first things first my son
and it’s pay off the ones that you promised
the moon –and blast off for the sun
we’ll drink more of milky life
when the seasons all are one
i am you for me, it’s true but
tired is my highway
blood on pavement has made
me cautious…but
only for a little while.

I woke up from sleeping outside
and I saw me in a smile,
a cat’s eye…
a fence.

like a tick

blade
and hot flash
rain and then sun
and then
is not real
it is
not
pain
pain is not the
it was more from
it can best be
explained like that

blade
then hot flash
bullet and nature
fast fish from water
to pharma flush
pull the plug
ready

lock my closet and
my brain inside
leave the water for
the sand
check my daughters
love my daughters

first a son
then a brother
then a husband
after father
and
many other suits have been
worn and exhausted
by and by
by and by and by
and by

only four have mattered to
anyone but me
and
pain is deception
love and
double dealing
it is trying to be
them
and realizing after
one thousand lives
that them is but
illusion
them does not care

only those
four have cared
as i dig
like a tick into
the folds of isolation
and suck all that
there is until
blade and
heat added un
natural explosion

stolen
selfish
depraved
false
peace.

one of the reasons i love tuesday nights

there is a badly balanced low off the coast tonight it blows homeward the welcome smell of early summer turning late spring it blows the metal and glass of my light door shut tight and fast it blows the metal and glass of my light door shut fast and tight the ocean roars as the high beach becomes viscous abrasive liquid moving and churning through wooden graves beyond the bar between there and now and in between in ponds or deep ditches the chatter of frogs sitting in there's like a whole neighborhood of them they live where the turtles are looking when they cross my busy summer road singing to each other in hopes of they have no idea what is coming and they do not care

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

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.