Got some fresh fruit on Lincoln Boulevard near Venice.
Cantaloupe.
Needed to land somewhere, a coffee shop with wi-fi. Decided on Culver City but passed it. Drove through Venice, saw my old apartment.
The gas station where I met Hoffman is razed. Went to Santa Monica. Easily parked in front of that lovely 3story Barnes & Noble -- 2hours for $1.50.
There's no mystery here no more. And the place ain't changed. Got some coffee and read some of David Icke's new book, 'Human Race Get Off Your Knees.' It really doesn't seem THAT kooky.
I get hungry -- walk down to the Falafel King.
I decide on an open mic at The Fretted Frog, in Echo Park. It's on the corner of Sunset & Alvarado.
I park a few blocks away, down a hill next to a church. I get out. A helicopter is loud above me. A homeless lookin fella in a van says, "are you coming for the open mic or the helicopter ride?"
he cackles. He's got two dogs with him and the entire back of the van is packed like a hoarder. He smells of whiskey.
I walk to the fretted frog. It's a guitar store with a stage in the corner. It's next to a little coffee shop. A dyed red head sits there with her boyfriend, a bull ring in her nose. water has dripped nearly on her, condensation from the window unit above running down the awning. I say "uh oh" or "whoa" or something equally inane. She looks at me. There's 30 minutes to kill before the shop opens.
I ask her about parking in front.
"i don't know dude."
I'm unfazed.
I keep saying things in her direction because they're the only ones here.
I ask the coffee shop owner if I can park out front.
"yes"
I tell the girl, "i can park out here."
I point at the only vacant spot, directly in front of her: "save that for me"
"yes, sir"
Inside, the show is packed, relatively speaking. I'd say 40 people, half of them performers.
The van man stands outside, a grey beret matching his facial hair. I talk to him a bit.
"are you Jewish?" I ask
"yes"
The girl is about to play. She walks past me.
"are you next?" i say, her hair slightly brushing my face and breath.
"yes. sorry i'm drunk. where are you from?"
"arkansas"
"i'm from dallas"
she finishes this sentence while turning and walking to the stage.
She's the best of the night.
Her set is uncomfortable. She sings of being 'a mess.' She's in total performance. Good vocals, good guitar. unique rhythms. She has a slight awkward loretta lynn stance and look. Mixed with maybe Lucinda Williams.
And I wonder why anyone would want to be a performer, to be exposed like this.
The countenance changes and a whole other side of persona is shown. What was once attractive and sexy can become goofy or ugly. And the more you watch the more you're apt to see other hidden, charming facets. But it becomes clear why beings of this nature are easily destroyed.
Of course her 'i'm drunk' comment to me was a false set up, a prop. the knife blade. If these impulses are not transmuted into creative energy they will destroy the host. It requires maturity, of reigning in the natural talent.
She walks off stage. I can see the vulnerability. I've felt it. When you have to walk back amongst the people, back into 'reality.' It's a feeling similar to shame. That's probably why they designed the curtain and backstage long ago.
Later, she starts walking outside with her guitar case. I 'psst' and she turns around.
"what's your name?"
"Sarah Martyr"
"where will you be tomorrow?"
"I don't know. I have to work tonight. Contact me and let me know what's up"
"I will"
The van man's name is Anthony Michael Shapiro.
And he's quite lucid.
He suggests I look into a macrobiotic diet, recommends a book by Michio Kushi.
I will
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
L.A (5)
Arrived Sunday around 7pm.
My old friend is accommodating.
His 4year old girl is precious and talks like an imaginative adult.
His 1year old boy is a prize.
We eat delivered thai food.
My friends treat me much better than i ever treat them.
I'm self-absorbed. an 'artist'
oh well, forgive me
Monday morning we drink coffee and chat.
I shower and leave. I decide on the Open Mic at El Cid on Sunset.
I get lost driving to the area.
I park in a neighborhood and walk to the silver lake
neighborhood for an orange Mate drink at an Indian cafe.
I lose my car -- Somehow i get turned around in the labyrinth of hispanic houses.
i walk through a tunnel, 2 homeless people talk on the other side. the smell of old, accumulated urine is pungent.
I walk like this for 45minutes as 8pm approaches.
It's frustrating, i assure you.
i find the car.
Trying to park near the club throws me in to some sort of altered space.
I still can't make sense of how i got turned around 3times in a row.
and back to the same tunnel. the way the roads run up there is boggling.
I park across the street, extra careful to check that i'm legal.
Out here you got to read the fine print -- they ticket quick.
Entering I quickly befriend 4 aspiring comics. We chat about hair metal bands and the famous 'Rainbow Room.' They are nice and helpful.
The El Cid has been around for years. An old flamenco club, headshots adorn the walls of guitarists, matadors and beautiful dancing women.
The lighting is low, the curtains and table cloths blood red. It's underground and cavernous. Mini-opera booths sit high up the walls near the stage.
Mini-lions are carved into the wide stone handrails.
I'm number 18 on the list. The comics make me cry with laughter.
A guy plays a sincere piano song. The comic after him starts his set with
"Give it up for Bruce Hornsby junior!"
I laugh. hard.
With comedy it's not so much the joke but the timing.
When the delivery's on everything they say is hilarious.
I suppose an audience is like a woman -- They prefer naturalness and confidence to content...
I tell a bigger bearded comic i liked his set. He stays around and watches my song.
There were supposed to be 3 others in front of me as I went backstage to ready my guitar. But they had left.
So the MC starts calling my name. I hurriedly run to the stage without my harmonica.
I play. My new friends cheer supportively. One gives me a hug afterward.
He reminded me of a cross between Tom Green and that bearded Zach G guy.
Scenes like this aren't found anywhere else.
I tell one of the comics i like them being mixed in with the music.
Too many songs are sad, overly emotive. These guys add much needed levity.
I say goodbye and leave.
The weather here is incredible.
I stop at a pizzeria for 2slices.
I walk next door and grab a Thai iced tea, my favorite.
The place was a semi-swanky Thai bar. I was the only non there.
A lady sat on stage passionately singing karaoke. But not our kind. This was an art form, complete with moving picture video screen and stage lighting.
Their interaction is exaggerated, like muppets.
Driving, I pass the French restaurant/bar I played at 8years ago. I couldn't remember the name: Taix
200 yards later something flashes before me...
a live coyote ran across my path on Sunset Strip
My old friend is accommodating.
His 4year old girl is precious and talks like an imaginative adult.
His 1year old boy is a prize.
We eat delivered thai food.
My friends treat me much better than i ever treat them.
I'm self-absorbed. an 'artist'
oh well, forgive me
Monday morning we drink coffee and chat.
I shower and leave. I decide on the Open Mic at El Cid on Sunset.
I get lost driving to the area.
I park in a neighborhood and walk to the silver lake
neighborhood for an orange Mate drink at an Indian cafe.
I lose my car -- Somehow i get turned around in the labyrinth of hispanic houses.
i walk through a tunnel, 2 homeless people talk on the other side. the smell of old, accumulated urine is pungent.
I walk like this for 45minutes as 8pm approaches.
It's frustrating, i assure you.
i find the car.
Trying to park near the club throws me in to some sort of altered space.
I still can't make sense of how i got turned around 3times in a row.
and back to the same tunnel. the way the roads run up there is boggling.
I park across the street, extra careful to check that i'm legal.
Out here you got to read the fine print -- they ticket quick.
Entering I quickly befriend 4 aspiring comics. We chat about hair metal bands and the famous 'Rainbow Room.' They are nice and helpful.
The El Cid has been around for years. An old flamenco club, headshots adorn the walls of guitarists, matadors and beautiful dancing women.
The lighting is low, the curtains and table cloths blood red. It's underground and cavernous. Mini-opera booths sit high up the walls near the stage.
Mini-lions are carved into the wide stone handrails.
I'm number 18 on the list. The comics make me cry with laughter.
A guy plays a sincere piano song. The comic after him starts his set with
"Give it up for Bruce Hornsby junior!"
I laugh. hard.
With comedy it's not so much the joke but the timing.
When the delivery's on everything they say is hilarious.
I suppose an audience is like a woman -- They prefer naturalness and confidence to content...
I tell a bigger bearded comic i liked his set. He stays around and watches my song.
There were supposed to be 3 others in front of me as I went backstage to ready my guitar. But they had left.
So the MC starts calling my name. I hurriedly run to the stage without my harmonica.
I play. My new friends cheer supportively. One gives me a hug afterward.
He reminded me of a cross between Tom Green and that bearded Zach G guy.
Scenes like this aren't found anywhere else.
I tell one of the comics i like them being mixed in with the music.
Too many songs are sad, overly emotive. These guys add much needed levity.
I say goodbye and leave.
The weather here is incredible.
I stop at a pizzeria for 2slices.
I walk next door and grab a Thai iced tea, my favorite.
The place was a semi-swanky Thai bar. I was the only non there.
A lady sat on stage passionately singing karaoke. But not our kind. This was an art form, complete with moving picture video screen and stage lighting.
Their interaction is exaggerated, like muppets.
Driving, I pass the French restaurant/bar I played at 8years ago. I couldn't remember the name: Taix
200 yards later something flashes before me...
a live coyote ran across my path on Sunset Strip
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Bad Poetry (4)
I could tear it in pieces with flame
And in process, my self
At the soul
Is to live the existence of two
One takes
And returns
Recharged
I can't unravel the night
For five times I've seen a new Spring
Under this refined, otherworldly lens
An old land
After holding
My own heart
I try to unravel the night
And in process, my self
At the soul
Is to live the existence of two
One takes
And returns
Recharged
I can't unravel the night
For five times I've seen a new Spring
Under this refined, otherworldly lens
An old land
After holding
My own heart
I try to unravel the night
Monday, June 27, 2011
Madrid (3)
Pronounced MAD-rid, like the fault line that runs through Arkansas, not the city in Spain. It's 25miles south-west of Santa Fe.
It was once a prosperous coal mining town. when that industry dried, people left and it became a ghost town.
Until the early 1970's when hippies moved in.
Now it's a quirky village of artists.
I got good feelings as soon as I neared.
I pulled over at a primitive public restroom. As I was leaving, I ran over the corner of small masonry wall.
Thankfully I didn't damage my ride, though it did rip out the entire undergirding above the front passenger wheel.
This was Friday night and there was an open mic at The Mine Shaft tavern.
Mainly colorful locals hang here. I sit at the head of a long, empty table.
This trip is by nature lonesome. And I like it that way, not 'having' to speak. But the awkwardness can get to you after a while.
In walks a family of 5. A striking brunette is one of them.
She's well built with softness, a splash of magenta in the desert.
They sit at the table next to me, her back to me.
The legends say this place is haunted. But i don't really believe in that stuff.
I ordered a beer. I also ordered a water -- it smelled of sulphur. I make myself drink.
Some folks begin dancing. A man joins in, holding a carved winged pig aloft.
There's a large dog lying in the pathway.
A lady in turquoise pants and cartoon eyeglasses carries a corona in each hand. She runs into the dog and a bit of beer sloshes out.
"Oh, get over it!" she hollers.
I later learn she's from Berlin.
To my surprise, the pretty girl sings, accompanied by her father on guitar.
And it's lovely. Reminds me of the "Crying" scene in Mulholland Drive.
I play next.
I get the girl's name.
They leave.
An older man, Thom, introduces himself to me.
A lady walks up and compliments. Thom says he'd like to play guitar with me.
The lady says she'd like to play anything with me.
I smile.
He and I end up jamming together until 2am. I got tipped $24.
The patrons say we seem made for one another, shocked that we just met.
I mention to Thom how strange it is to go from a shady stranger to friend of the whole bar with a snap of the fingers.
He says music is all boys like us ever had.
And it's true.
The next day in Santa Fe i'm about to cross an intersection in quick traffic. An ambulance pulls through, sirens screeching. I stop. the car behind me doesn't.
My teeth and brain rattle. I pull over.
"I'm so sorry"
"yeah, there was an ambulance"
"yeah, i didn't see it"
There was no damage to my van.
"i don't have to call anyone if you don't," I say
"No. thank you"
I fist bump her and we separate.
I write another poem:
"The wild fires of 2011...
from the mountain
smoke hovers the horizon
greyish salmon, like a rose
a giant cauliflower head
or an atomic bomb
cloud"
I'd messaged the dark girl and told her to meet up with me in Santa Fe.
No reply.
But i'm on a different path now.
I will grasp at every opportunity.
And attach no importance to it.
I'm ready to get out of here.
Do I go north to Taos and then Denver?
Or do I go west to Los Angeles?
This desert is unbearably dry.
"I dreamed of a woman in black, chubby smiles
But i'm not here for her
this is about me and the twins of my being
8years for the next step, 24 just to breathe
The mountains whisper nothing now
and the sun's kiss is poison"
California it is.
2hours later she messages me back:
"i can't... don't have a ride"
Too late
"dead bones or dry ground?
This arizona never makes a peep
My feet dig deeper, red
Did she up & break the corner stone?
strutting her turquoise thing
My breath gives a blast"
That girl had quoted kerouac, the famous passage about the mad ones burning like roman candles in the sky...
i'd seen 3 shooting stars on my drive back from Madrid
i will burn, my lady.
Mad, but not out
It was once a prosperous coal mining town. when that industry dried, people left and it became a ghost town.
Until the early 1970's when hippies moved in.
Now it's a quirky village of artists.
I got good feelings as soon as I neared.
I pulled over at a primitive public restroom. As I was leaving, I ran over the corner of small masonry wall.
Thankfully I didn't damage my ride, though it did rip out the entire undergirding above the front passenger wheel.
This was Friday night and there was an open mic at The Mine Shaft tavern.
Mainly colorful locals hang here. I sit at the head of a long, empty table.
This trip is by nature lonesome. And I like it that way, not 'having' to speak. But the awkwardness can get to you after a while.
In walks a family of 5. A striking brunette is one of them.
She's well built with softness, a splash of magenta in the desert.
They sit at the table next to me, her back to me.
The legends say this place is haunted. But i don't really believe in that stuff.
I ordered a beer. I also ordered a water -- it smelled of sulphur. I make myself drink.
Some folks begin dancing. A man joins in, holding a carved winged pig aloft.
There's a large dog lying in the pathway.
A lady in turquoise pants and cartoon eyeglasses carries a corona in each hand. She runs into the dog and a bit of beer sloshes out.
"Oh, get over it!" she hollers.
I later learn she's from Berlin.
To my surprise, the pretty girl sings, accompanied by her father on guitar.
And it's lovely. Reminds me of the "Crying" scene in Mulholland Drive.
I play next.
I get the girl's name.
They leave.
An older man, Thom, introduces himself to me.
A lady walks up and compliments. Thom says he'd like to play guitar with me.
The lady says she'd like to play anything with me.
I smile.
He and I end up jamming together until 2am. I got tipped $24.
The patrons say we seem made for one another, shocked that we just met.
I mention to Thom how strange it is to go from a shady stranger to friend of the whole bar with a snap of the fingers.
He says music is all boys like us ever had.
And it's true.
The next day in Santa Fe i'm about to cross an intersection in quick traffic. An ambulance pulls through, sirens screeching. I stop. the car behind me doesn't.
My teeth and brain rattle. I pull over.
"I'm so sorry"
"yeah, there was an ambulance"
"yeah, i didn't see it"
There was no damage to my van.
"i don't have to call anyone if you don't," I say
"No. thank you"
I fist bump her and we separate.
I write another poem:
"The wild fires of 2011...
from the mountain
smoke hovers the horizon
greyish salmon, like a rose
a giant cauliflower head
or an atomic bomb
cloud"
I'd messaged the dark girl and told her to meet up with me in Santa Fe.
No reply.
But i'm on a different path now.
I will grasp at every opportunity.
And attach no importance to it.
I'm ready to get out of here.
Do I go north to Taos and then Denver?
Or do I go west to Los Angeles?
This desert is unbearably dry.
"I dreamed of a woman in black, chubby smiles
But i'm not here for her
this is about me and the twins of my being
8years for the next step, 24 just to breathe
The mountains whisper nothing now
and the sun's kiss is poison"
California it is.
2hours later she messages me back:
"i can't... don't have a ride"
Too late
"dead bones or dry ground?
This arizona never makes a peep
My feet dig deeper, red
Did she up & break the corner stone?
strutting her turquoise thing
My breath gives a blast"
That girl had quoted kerouac, the famous passage about the mad ones burning like roman candles in the sky...
i'd seen 3 shooting stars on my drive back from Madrid
i will burn, my lady.
Mad, but not out
New Mexico (2)
I cross in to New Mexico...
"Nothing like pissing underneath
a wish bowl full of stars.
The diesel wind
outside my car
Sharp dead straw under bare feet"
I receive a few texts...
"Mile marker, like magic marker
smearing past failures.
It doesn't wash off, she says.
No, but collages out of existence"
Every landscape changes...
"Coyotes as tricks of light
Trace my trail.
Dinosaur heat, the undead
Signs of the heart
Strapped inside"
I stop and sleep at the Santa Rosa state park.
The next morning i jog shirtless through the desert. sockless, a blister painfully forms on my left little toe.
Again i underestimate the power of the sun.
I drive to Santa Fe.
The desert here is a cross between old testament wilderness and Mars, 7000feet above sea level.
I'm dusty and tired. I can smell the burning from the wildfires.
They say it hasn't rained in 180days.
I talk to a street person. He's overly paranoid from weed. But friendly.
In the city square I sit amongst the tourists and homeless. I overhear a brash girl say,
"honey, I didn't fall from heaven, I crawled up from hell."
Cute. I'm sure its not original. They all share a 2liter bottle of "coca-cola."
I learn this is considered the 2nd gayest city in america.
I spend the night outside of town.
Santa Fe disappoints.
The next day i head for Madrid.
"Nothing like pissing underneath
a wish bowl full of stars.
The diesel wind
outside my car
Sharp dead straw under bare feet"
I receive a few texts...
"Mile marker, like magic marker
smearing past failures.
It doesn't wash off, she says.
No, but collages out of existence"
Every landscape changes...
"Coyotes as tricks of light
Trace my trail.
Dinosaur heat, the undead
Signs of the heart
Strapped inside"
I stop and sleep at the Santa Rosa state park.
The next morning i jog shirtless through the desert. sockless, a blister painfully forms on my left little toe.
Again i underestimate the power of the sun.
I drive to Santa Fe.
The desert here is a cross between old testament wilderness and Mars, 7000feet above sea level.
I'm dusty and tired. I can smell the burning from the wildfires.
They say it hasn't rained in 180days.
I talk to a street person. He's overly paranoid from weed. But friendly.
In the city square I sit amongst the tourists and homeless. I overhear a brash girl say,
"honey, I didn't fall from heaven, I crawled up from hell."
Cute. I'm sure its not original. They all share a 2liter bottle of "coca-cola."
I learn this is considered the 2nd gayest city in america.
I spend the night outside of town.
Santa Fe disappoints.
The next day i head for Madrid.
Oklahoma (1)
I'm taking everything on this trip as a sign.
embracing what comes.
Starting with leaving El Dorado --
In the middle of 167 was a book, its pages flapping in the highwayed breeze.
I turn around and pick it up.
By Dean Koontz, not a writer I read.
But there's an interesting Lord Byron quote in the forward:
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
I get a text from a girl in Little Rock:
'i had a dream about you last night. it made me giggle'
I reply back: 'will be in your town tonight'
'i'll meet you at the bookstore'
'sounds good'
We grab some food and drive outside of town. There's a secluded park in the hills, amongst hay bales.
the sun sets.
The men in her life care for her. But something's not being fed.
I drive on to Fort Smith and crash at a rest area.
In the morning, Oklahoma.
I pass through Okema, Woody Guthrie's hometown. I suppose he's a socialist folksinger. And Bob Dylan's initial and biggest inspiration.
I pass Prague, OK. There's a sing for the 'famous' shrine to infant Jesus. A large Czech population is there. And I suppose this is Eastern Orthodox inspired.
Just west of Wetherford, Ok is the colossal windmills. They look like airplane propellers, but in slow motion. They are awesome and eerie.
I craned to stare at them as long as possible, following their orbit, sucked in to some cyborg-like vaccum...
I make it to Oklahoma City.
My friend Roger lives there. He's an army recruiter.
He'd set me up to play the VFW that night.
Only 6 people were there.
After 30minutes we split for an open mic in the arts district.
I like this area. Grayson A of 'Conspiracy of Angels' hosts.
I signed up but too late to play.
We leave for downtown, Molly's Alley. It's a quirky two story pub.
Lots of pretty girls.
I stared at a thick red head in short shorts.
"what's your tattoo say?" I pressed my index finger lightly into her flesh.
She turned around and held her arms together, forearms up, hands in fists.
There's elaborate art on both biceps.
It said something to the effect of 'love the pain that makes you grow.'
I smiled. She waited for more.
No.
I walk downstairs.
i overheard a girl talking: "it's the new york city of the southwest"
I turn around.
"sorry to interrupt, but what is the new york city?"
She walks over to me. "santa fe"
"that's where I'm going"
she stands close to me. She's with a guy, but i can't tell if he's gay or not.
"you'll love it. also check out Madrid. it's a converted ghost town"
"ok. thanks"
Back upstairs two dudes are stand beside me talking.
"are you guys swedish?"
"yes, how could you tell? by the accent?"
"yeah"
They both have shoulder length hair, severely parted to one side.
"where are you from?"
"Arkansas"
"what's in Arkansas"
"well, bill clinton, walmart, and johnny cash"
"cash is cool. f*#k walmart and clinton."
I shrug.
They were in the country for 45 days, driving route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles.
Though they took a 500mile detour to see Niagra falls...
The next day Roger and I go for lunch at Pink Swirls, it's a sushi/yogurt bar.
His job requires him to wear his uniform.
He's a good man with alot on his mind. He's quiet.
I don't push the conversation. An older lady walks up to him as she's leaving and shakes his hand.
"thank you for your service."
We part ways.
That night I play an open mic in Amarillo, Texas.
The place was a younger crowd, mid20's.
I leave after it's over.
I write poetry:
"one pint of ale in my belly,
lit cigar in my hand,
Dax Riggs on the radio,
gay Amarillo in my rearview
coming on midnight"
embracing what comes.
Starting with leaving El Dorado --
In the middle of 167 was a book, its pages flapping in the highwayed breeze.
I turn around and pick it up.
By Dean Koontz, not a writer I read.
But there's an interesting Lord Byron quote in the forward:
Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
I get a text from a girl in Little Rock:
'i had a dream about you last night. it made me giggle'
I reply back: 'will be in your town tonight'
'i'll meet you at the bookstore'
'sounds good'
We grab some food and drive outside of town. There's a secluded park in the hills, amongst hay bales.
the sun sets.
The men in her life care for her. But something's not being fed.
I drive on to Fort Smith and crash at a rest area.
In the morning, Oklahoma.
I pass through Okema, Woody Guthrie's hometown. I suppose he's a socialist folksinger. And Bob Dylan's initial and biggest inspiration.
I pass Prague, OK. There's a sing for the 'famous' shrine to infant Jesus. A large Czech population is there. And I suppose this is Eastern Orthodox inspired.
Just west of Wetherford, Ok is the colossal windmills. They look like airplane propellers, but in slow motion. They are awesome and eerie.
I craned to stare at them as long as possible, following their orbit, sucked in to some cyborg-like vaccum...
I make it to Oklahoma City.
My friend Roger lives there. He's an army recruiter.
He'd set me up to play the VFW that night.
Only 6 people were there.
After 30minutes we split for an open mic in the arts district.
I like this area. Grayson A of 'Conspiracy of Angels' hosts.
I signed up but too late to play.
We leave for downtown, Molly's Alley. It's a quirky two story pub.
Lots of pretty girls.
I stared at a thick red head in short shorts.
"what's your tattoo say?" I pressed my index finger lightly into her flesh.
She turned around and held her arms together, forearms up, hands in fists.
There's elaborate art on both biceps.
It said something to the effect of 'love the pain that makes you grow.'
I smiled. She waited for more.
No.
I walk downstairs.
i overheard a girl talking: "it's the new york city of the southwest"
I turn around.
"sorry to interrupt, but what is the new york city?"
She walks over to me. "santa fe"
"that's where I'm going"
she stands close to me. She's with a guy, but i can't tell if he's gay or not.
"you'll love it. also check out Madrid. it's a converted ghost town"
"ok. thanks"
Back upstairs two dudes are stand beside me talking.
"are you guys swedish?"
"yes, how could you tell? by the accent?"
"yeah"
They both have shoulder length hair, severely parted to one side.
"where are you from?"
"Arkansas"
"what's in Arkansas"
"well, bill clinton, walmart, and johnny cash"
"cash is cool. f*#k walmart and clinton."
I shrug.
They were in the country for 45 days, driving route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles.
Though they took a 500mile detour to see Niagra falls...
The next day Roger and I go for lunch at Pink Swirls, it's a sushi/yogurt bar.
His job requires him to wear his uniform.
He's a good man with alot on his mind. He's quiet.
I don't push the conversation. An older lady walks up to him as she's leaving and shakes his hand.
"thank you for your service."
We part ways.
That night I play an open mic in Amarillo, Texas.
The place was a younger crowd, mid20's.
I leave after it's over.
I write poetry:
"one pint of ale in my belly,
lit cigar in my hand,
Dax Riggs on the radio,
gay Amarillo in my rearview
coming on midnight"
Monday, June 6, 2011
acquiescence
I stand on this precipice.
On one side I see delight and chaos, on the other disciplined boredom.
One gives in to the flow of blood, rides out commitments into the growth of years.
The other still believes in candied innocence, art and simple love.
Yes, yet cannot give in to the heart.
And i can feel the aches, knowing the dead life, the unfulfillment...
i see the folly of youth wasted on the young, in long nights filled not with poetry. but in the pursuance of decayed forms. living a dream given not by god but man.
someone has to fall. life has to invade.
it flows over the childless, its madness incorruptible.
to have faith. to force.
to turn life on its end.
a river of god? or a blank canvas.
or both.
was a covenant made without my knowing nor understanding?
and if so, i hold to it then, this garment's hem.
How could i ever lose?
A child we were. and as we grew, in order to make sense of the insanity maturing upon us, in order to maintain a soul, we smash the window reflecting God.
and for a time there was a black, chilly vacuum. we walk through to the other side. and then spend our time not in freedom but in polishing shards of various sizes as we piece the glass back together.
But i think sometimes it leads to nothing. and was only a trick.
it reflected back to us what we already knew.
Yet I know life is movement, a cycle.
chaos is the absence of.
drudgery is the meticulous repair.
beauty is turning our heads back to a time before we ever saw this portal
On one side I see delight and chaos, on the other disciplined boredom.
One gives in to the flow of blood, rides out commitments into the growth of years.
The other still believes in candied innocence, art and simple love.
Yes, yet cannot give in to the heart.
And i can feel the aches, knowing the dead life, the unfulfillment...
i see the folly of youth wasted on the young, in long nights filled not with poetry. but in the pursuance of decayed forms. living a dream given not by god but man.
someone has to fall. life has to invade.
it flows over the childless, its madness incorruptible.
to have faith. to force.
to turn life on its end.
a river of god? or a blank canvas.
or both.
was a covenant made without my knowing nor understanding?
and if so, i hold to it then, this garment's hem.
How could i ever lose?
A child we were. and as we grew, in order to make sense of the insanity maturing upon us, in order to maintain a soul, we smash the window reflecting God.
and for a time there was a black, chilly vacuum. we walk through to the other side. and then spend our time not in freedom but in polishing shards of various sizes as we piece the glass back together.
But i think sometimes it leads to nothing. and was only a trick.
it reflected back to us what we already knew.
Yet I know life is movement, a cycle.
chaos is the absence of.
drudgery is the meticulous repair.
beauty is turning our heads back to a time before we ever saw this portal