G.E.R.D.

Grinding gristle between my wet whistle, die lying on a bed of thistle.

The stars shine like sparkling salt sprinkled in my straining azure eyes.

Burning brimstone foghorn, bellowing bowels, cramping surly style.

Droning buzz bursting background baby wailing bursting blues.

Wreckage wrought iron forge, grilled incessantly melting mind up in smoke.

Biting lips, the quim it quips, sinking ships, siren hither beckon oblivion.

Mushroom booming blasted caps grooming me to mustard crab busted guts.

Soft-boiled sand witch Eastern Shores gleaming peninsula message garbled.

A naked lunch, punching gullet, gleaming guts strewn about inside python glass.

Half-empty dreams, yawning, real stories of the high way control image.

Blurry edges, the gravity grows gravy train delusions of a weekend get-away.

Occupy mind beat streaming expletives beaming across time space barricades.

Turn-style hopper, copper offer to lay down our harms and hold onto humanity.

Magical moments cropping up out there on the pitching ship…

Well-worn and well wishing we all could weather the coming storm.

Barefoot and Naked

Now, I am a bureaucrat with a broken heart and a dream of a vacation cruise package in the Bahamas pinned up onto the particle board in my cubicle. I attempt to douse the flames and merely end up torturing the terrorist in my liver with coffee in the morning and spirits at night. The sky hazes over like a cataract in my eye and the planet speeds up, leaving me dizzy and drinking joyfully on the emptiness. The detritus of working life cakes up under the keys of my keyboard. I turn it upside down and shake it out, making a sad little pile of chin whiskers, baby dust bunnies, bits of granola, bits of skin, and bits of dried snot. I sweep it onto the ground and have to wait a working day for the Korean Custodial Technician to mop it up the next morning. Everything smells like mothballs here and nobody speaks English. The purgatory I vomit up from time-to-time, urges the surging chorus rising up within my mind and heart, only screaming that I must run.

Induced Labor

I joyfully drink the 2 parts heresy, to 1 parts good fortune with the composure of a masked villain having only the best of intentions. The blinding light, white heat of the sun binds me to the asphalt like a dinosaur tar pit swimming pool.

           “I got nothing”.

           Leaning against the wall and staring into the sky (or the ceiling) when in awkward (read most) social situations has worked thus far in keeping Morty Michigan from gaining the trust and admiration of his peer group. The slosh drizzle of cocktail hour and loud music covers up the growling groans of nervy stomach tussles. Finding himself dressing down to the level of an unfunny clown, quipping here and there in jokes clothed in desperation, and beating feat to be alone on dark city blocks, skirting bleeding light of the orange buzzing drone of the arc-sodium lamps, buzzing the fuzz on his situation, Mort wobbles like an electron.

          Zigzagging through the invalids and sinner saints of the post-corporate apocalypse, with the pungent odor of piss and unclean flesh wafting on the cooling, Sonoran breeze, Mort is busy squandering the little good will he has left in tow on some quick handshakes with the sinister ministers of the street. A Hong Kong smorgi awaits his floating brain. A taste in the air flutters just a touch. The pigeons, tired from their stray French-fry finding missions and their flying-street-rat struts down the avenue, flutter above, complaining to each other quietly in their wretched palm tree apartments.

“Is any of this negotiable?”

Master of muppets in the next bar filled with stranger dangers stuck in obscene poses, bottles to the ground, and Morty is well aware psychic bump and grind of veiled glances and finger tips on elbows on the way to let loose the bladders of debauchery. Cursory retro music is blaring over the sound system. Mort ponders the musical properties of cocaine and queers in that damned decade, or any damned decade for that matter. Stroking the goat growing under his chin, his mind side-strokes through a sea of probable outcomes for lives such as these, there is a chance the focusing on the impossible outcomes would be more fruitful in evading the truths that become to be self-evident when one with such a novel mind goes further into the wormhole of self-introspection.

Mort pointing at his beer, the following is said with the most negligible of slurs and eyes gazing past the external, past the candy-like curves of a barmaid in her prime, and into the depth of those eyes, “Ma’am, could I have another.”

Morty can never get over the eyes. He finds himself trapped like a fly in the blissful realm of possibility and stormy images and emotions rushing about on synaptic highways through foothills and dreams all cleverly compiled by alien programmers that makes spirit flesh; beauty. We’ll fail to fully mention here how the circuits to Mort’s ears cause his brain to cheer when he hears a woman sing in these foul years of our yearning. Years spent intertwined in the illusion is taking its toll on this man.

Bar time breathes down your neck, raising the gooseflesh, despite the warm numbness embraced in the sacred den of the velvet gypsies. The organs wear down like pistons and paint until what you’re basically left with is a sputtering engine, some potato chip crumbs wedges into the cracks and crevices of the vinyl upholstery, a broken Creedence tape, and a worn spot where feet and elbows have long since dug grooves into the interior.

Hand pushes face away. Pride pushes faith away. Night pushes away the day. A trail of tears pushes the fun away. How long will he keep on pushing on this way?

“Mother, may I have another.” 

Social Lubricant

I don't know if anyone else may have noticed that when one picks up a slug or snail and gets the snail sliding lube on their fingers that, even with soap and water, it takes consecutive washings to remove it from one's fingers. I say that we isolate the formula for the substance they use to slide along the ground and market it as a personal lubricant for sexual contact. The product brand name will be called, "Snail Trail."

Muddled

     Beating, keeping time like a caveman, the funky drummer pounds deep down in the core of Mickey Moodswing’s ribcage. Guided by voices and the machine gun messages running through his mind, the exhilaration of the current storm front whips his adrenaline into a tizzy. The sheets of monsoon rain keep falling, filling the nooks and crannies of the small city vista with tepid mosquito breeding Jacuzzi resorts. This infraction on the part of nature simply cannot stand, man. The line, in Mickey’s vibrating mind has been drawn, and like shades keeping out the light, all other tasks and chores (we’ll lump personal hygiene into the list somewhere) are kept out there in the void outside the window frame. 

     Goddamned puddles are everywhere he looks as he runs full blast, tears of joy streaming, belying the fertile feelings of frustration simmering ‘neath the surface, jumping with all the dwindling strength he can muster, feet first, into a whopper of a puddle. Sporting a hot pink bicycle helmet and well-worn pair of Scotch-plaid galoshes and a hokey, brick colored cape with a gold (PK) messily embroidered into it, Moodswing quickly recovers and bolts through the driving rain with all of the determination of a bulimic girl ‘scarfing’ down pumpkin pie in another wacky act of futility. The next puddle leers at him with the dour look of a Soviet loan shark. The rain drops dance on its surface as the racing, raging storm drives Moodswing on into his puddle killing frenzy. 

     The local villagers leer then sneer at the funny little man so intent on keeping nature from crowding out the concrete with these pooling abominations. His exploits are well known throughout the village and have become more of a nuisance or tiny headache than anything. Some citizens swear they can see puddles dancing in the maniacal gleam of his eyes. Most people just shrug their shoulders and mutter something like, “The only thing he is hurting is the helpless puddles.”

     And who hasn’t been annoyed, or roused into a quiet rage, at one time or another, by the contents of a puddle slowly seeping into the seams on the side of their shoes? Sometimes there can be an outright sock soaking brought directly from the tyranny of puddles. The tell-tale squash-squeak-squash of a puddle victim creeping embarrassingly through a 7-Eleven convenience store, or a family friendly porn store never ceases to arouse contempt for the puddle in Moodswing’s piddling heart. So, in his own obsessive way, Mickey thinks he is saving the world, one menacing puddle at a time.

     Even a stupor hero with a seemingly never ending supply of puddle fighting energy needs to take a break a refuel his engine. Mickey prefers Carne Asada burritos (plus sour cream, doused in salsa) from Alberto’s taco shop. After necking down his burrito like a pelican at the pier, Mickey takes off again towards the next available foe with guacamole/beef grease/sour cream stains coating the front of his black Dickie’s cargo shorts like some sort of culinary Pollack painting. With the rain forecast to last throughout the day and into the quickly approaching Pacific night, Moodswing has enough work in store to burn off the contents of the last thermo-nuclear burrito injection. 

     The puddles keep multiplying and Mickey keeps attempting to splash them into the edges of existence; however, in the full focus of his hocus pocus, Mickey fails to see the maroon ’78 Buick Le Sabre, with the huge dent in the driver’s side door turn the corner onto Emerald Blvd. Scott and the sub-human crew of ex-High School classmates are well into their second 40 oz. bottles of “Old English 800” and well basted by the roiling smoke of Camel Wides and California cannabis , the throbbing sounds of West Coast gangster rap tingling their minds with low-end bass grooves and sordid tales of savagery and criminal-minded exploits. The minion currently melting into the threadbare fabric of the front passenger seat spies through his drooping, bloodshot eyes our stupor hero clashing energetically with the puddles. 

            “Scott, puddle dork up on the right. Let’s get ‘im.”

            Scotty boy replies, “Done…and done.”

    Scott punches the gas pedal and the V-8 leaps into action and gains speed on Puddle Killer. Even with the fuzzy buzzing bees dancing around in his head his timing is perfect. Moodswing, caught in the throws of his passions, never notices the barreling Buick even as it hits the mother of all puddles in the gutter next to him. The two foot of easement happens to be the perfect distance for the torrential wave to crest and land on his face with great force. The echoing laughter rolls through the otherwise empty street and out stupor hero collapses onto the ground and sobs until there’s nothing left, but puddles of tears.                      

Flutterbies

      The desert sun crept cleverly under Mal’s eyelids. In the distance, the Southern Pacific train wailed its wavering warning onto the dimpled canvas of her threadbare mind. Somewhere in another distance of an electric, nervous highway, down in the pit of her stomach, Mal felt the acid doomy, rumbling hunger of the night before jittering and clamoring its way into being. Grey-blue eyes open, shot with red, burnt by the bright junction of dusty blue skies, she rolls slowly onto to her side, palms down, hot gravelly grit digging into hands.  Mallory slowly raises herself onto wobbly legs into a squatting position and gingerly surveys the desolation of her surroundings. The ocean of desert with its life teeming underground greets her mind and overtakes her with memories of being jostled, of being threatened, of being devilishly drunk with the power of her feminine wolf-mother passions in the midst of a leering crowd of man beasts.

The throbbing in her head is like a post-millennium cataclysm caused by the small pond-worth of Corralejo Anejo she guzzled to tamp down the tumult of two years’ love lost. Benny may as well have shot her in the heart with a six-gun and left her lying on the floor of the ‘Tap Room’ with an old 45 of ‘Ring of Fire’ blaring out above the cacophony of Tuesday night on the corner of bedlam and squalor. Shit. He said he didn’t want our child. He didn’t want the life she yearned for. Why doesn’t he want me the way I want him?

     “He fucking promised me!” 

Mal screams this to nobody in particular at the dead end of the dirt road she blindly ventured down the night before in the drunken stupor of her harrowing sorrow. The thorny mesquite shivers in the wind. The potential offspring of its seed pods litter the ground and crunch under her feet as she heads back towards Speedway Boulevard. The cicadas begin to whir and stir in their lustful buzzing song as the oven begins to slowly climb to its preheat temperature designed to bake brains like fried eggs in drug fear propaganda commercials the electric babysitter bled into her mind as a young girl.  She sobs loudly, disturbing the lizards and cactus wrens only ever so slightly. They have their own physical survival to attend to.  An unending, wailing symphony of pleas clatters through her head...

    

    "What am I going to do? 

    "Why doesn’t he love me?"

    "How did I get here?"  

    "What am I going to do?!”

Her purse is missing, but thankfully her cell phone is wedged in her pocket, nestled between her throbbing, fatigued thighs and the dingy denim. Mal slowly rocks the phone up and out of her pocket, raising it up to eye level. The sun is furious now, so she shades the screen with her hand, and strains to see the time (9:23) and her heart hurts more than ever as she discovers that there are no missed calls. Ben didn’t call. Ben doesn’t care.

A Pocky Lips

I think maybe everyone with a glimmer in their eye should make an end-of-the world music mix as a soundtrack for the next time child minds misguided by anachronistic misinformation get their belief soup amplified by the misguided media, megaphone apparatus.

Perhaps, the mix would be a soundtrack for the feelings of sorrow when we see the evolution of consciousness being shunted into back alley abortions of logic and common sense. Perhaps, a music mix of this nature would court the dread with humor, love, and intelligence, thereby bringing us to focus and spend our energy on actual problems. A wise man told me once, "The solution to pollution is dilution."

The particular particulates the original string of words addressed were probably physical in nature, but in the technological stage of economic and cerebral development the human species is currently in, outdated memes seem to be more dangerous and distracting than ever. Perhaps, I joyfully see a silver lining in the fact that most of us have the wherewithal and the temerity to cautiously approach these freaky sidetracks with a sideways gaze and some hearty belly laughs that will echo down the canyons and null out the noise of the babbling brook.

AwKwA Man

Frighteningly photogenic, in the dirt, under fingernails, wrinkled, up-skirt, clean shaven, sheep shorn, clap trap, howlin’ wolf mystery blues…screamin’ J truck stop anthem, somethin’ ‘bout , “I was born without you, baby but my feelings were a little bit too strong” and all along I have been pretending that the flowing sounds of the Seoul whooshing-pollution, vortex traffic is really the tidal purificación San Diego ocean beaches, water, wave-pounding shoreline ever stretching out to the ends of my mirth. What lies beyond the blunder dome?

Every dog needs a home-brew tincture remedy distilled from the ingredients of its roots and subsequent globe sodding, maneuvers itself into position, squats in the city plazas, shitty squares, broken cornerstones, token beliefs running liquid.

Wicked bullet finds its mark. 

Rube, the patsy, just bluff tough enough in tooth-worn confidence game spouting carnie barker, binding to bilious foam insulation, mad dog, too dark park, clouded 20/20 vision, oh so nearly impossible to see right through these foul fears of our fnords. 

Go scraping crystal canyons in awkward silence for the glittering gold, foolishly fumbling with the keys to find the field; perfected embrace. Electron circles nucleus. Be bolder. Spurred into action by the photo fading, the paint chipping, offspring eclipse, the cowboy wells up, digging no further than his backyard barbeque, punching his stomach, govereeting up his droogs, and sexting his attorney. 

The sordid, sun-burned past is permanently seared into his memory and fossilized there; taking karma payments in perpetuity.

Pirate name?

Red-Blood ‘The Weary’. 

Ship name?

The Fall of Rome. 

Lesson learned?      

Not a chance.

A Tainted Saint

A tainted saint with the heart of troubadour and the smoldering mind of an alchemist, ever so certain that each of the words freely flowing from his calloused fingertips, tempered and crafted by the fertile wilderness encroaching on his love blind mind, are custom works of gold gilded, magnificent art.

Crossing the comfortable confines of his study, littered with books, balance sheets, ale bottles, ashes, and the echoes of the mad cap laughter he always imagined coming from a jury of his peers, he contrives to convince himself that he won’t cry a roiling river over these broken jukebox, jug band blues he seems to have slunk into.

Now standing, overlooking the unkempt foyer, half-sagging into a sort of standing fetal position that only people with broken hearts can ever seem to maintain, tears streaming, as he uses the railing of the dais to hold himself half-steady. Doused by the fire, dripping with the flames of passion, the liquid fire that began as a spark in his battered heart, and fueled by the lonesome ache in his belly, rolls down to where his gnarled hands meet the railing, and pools like some oddly radiant candle wax. The spiritual conflagration is only partially quenched by his solitude and the deeply held, unbending faith that somehow this tender situation will see certain resolution before the darkness stubs out the flame for good.

The deluded long con, the self-induced penitentiary, the razor chicken wire, bird cage, sing-song repository he built out of scrap metal resentments only compliments the rusty anchor of not being willing to provide what she wants and needs, constantly rattles, clank, boom, and steam in the valley of the skull. Side-stepping, for fleeting moments of mind-time, vacation days, the ape shit, 3 ring, circus sideshow that he’s become numb to living in has become the official rational past time. Diamond days sparkling such as these always leave him with the fast-forward, magnetic recollection of getting plowed into by a truck on Fillmore and Oak, as the smoke billows from his ears and the lime light dims in his eyes; terribly alone, old as brontosaurus bones, and ruefully confused. 

Still standing stuck (what the fuck?) like briar fox to tar baby, Le Brea pitfall, mighty mucky adventures in a drunken poet’s daydream, trying to chew his way through the ties that bind, his muddled mind bending spoons, like some vaudevillian, bespectacled, musical magician named Charlatan Charlie. He becomes, that is, he so often becomes too tightly tangled up into his aquamarine emotions, all the while being dragged head long into the Mercurial, azure storm of hers, with rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air. Fantastically, the white flag is still there.

Furtively, he questions himself, “Will I ever get my shit together?”

He tilts his head to one side and gently shakes it with a slight pursing of the lips into a self-deprecating sneer, with painful wince accompaniment, to complete the harmony of the Discordian choir chanting and clawing at his senses in a whole-hearted attempt to fatefully get him to admit that he fancies himself a coward that doesn’t have what it takes to grow wings and fly furiously towards the goal, which only grows bigger as one approaches it. 

What’s the story, morning glory? 

Is he a fatalist finalist in the gritty triathlon called life? 

“Dunno.”

“Wot!?" 

“Nevermind.”

Tethered, feathered, and fluttering, the dust roils, twisting devilishly, from underneath the furiously beating wings of this common earthling. The talons gripping the seams, tearing at the woven fabric of his torturous rationalizations. Startled, and in a pause of panic, he jolts back into his study and splits the whiskey down the middle with a hot knife, muttering to himself about daydreams and heartaches. The writer’s blocking, crimson tendrils tickling temporal lobes, compresses time, blank stares and fatal dares in the reading room, stroking his graying beard. Patsy’s gone, took a walk. She saw the light. The family strengthened by the sacred right, where we belong; no promises or demands. 

Love, this battlefield, seems barren. 

Regroup.

Rally the troops.

Brashly send them to storm the enemy bunker.

Belay the order.

Drop your weapon.

Melt into your cot.

Gnaw on the idea.       

Then sleep on it.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Any questions?

Leonard Cohen - Last Year's Man

Wots, Uh The Deal?

What’s the reason for?

Have a seat. Closes door. Lead shoes. Argyle socks. Feet flat on floor.

The ideas come and go streaming through the air like the handsome filigree of breezes blowing.

Invisible.

The hand is rushing to the comfort of wringing, clinking, clanging; always needing, ever growing.

The nerves, they tingle. On tides of emotion they mingle. The flushing face belies the coy dog’s kiss.

Clueing in.

She shivers, ashen, cinders fluttering down, bespectacled fear, sort of never even considered this.

Pen is leaking. We’re not speaking. Intonations. Incantations. Tele-graphic mind wavers. Take note.

Key in lock.

Crossing the chasm, wielding the sword, feeling for change, purges urges. Minds on words we wrote.

Détente. Tongue to socket. A missing tooth exploring nerves, not fully prepared for the ecstatic sparks.

Fading chains.

The stream dreams between the brains bountiful harvest fertilized by bloody wounds from earlier larks.

Press the flesh, printing press heating words into howling friction, treasure trove, orchestral maneuvers.

Wishful thinking.

Wot?

"Monkey Moodswing Needs an Editor" or "How in the Hell Do You Punctuate Stream of Consciousness?"

So it seems impossible to even begin wrapping my head around all of these millions of brains and faces…

I got the milk cow. 

I got the see-saw wooptie-woop straw man argument, blasted garden horror-show guilt trip.

I saw the pistol sex, spider hex, car wreck, star stripe, gutter line, main vein, strain gauge, class rage, Chomsky stereo-vision.

Eagles’ aerie don’t you dare change the channel, surfing weavers, busy beavers, damn sure sight eyesore city dweller, cellar feller, yeller dog ribbon, best in glowing toxic assets, temporarily turgid, tiger tales of brave…

Tales of woe man, whoa man-at-arms length personal space premium price nice sake bomber, soju wanna go to the shore?

Shoving match, itch up the scratch.

Snatch up the clams.

No bones about walking water, wine wasting, tasting treasure, treating pleasure like the enemy with flights of fancy pants three piece suits dancing with the cars, creeping down to the boulevard taco, standing room only food for thought crime drama saving mamas from the grinning grips of sinking ships stranger danger doomsday devices, tick-tock, stop, watch, listen…

In the distance, rumbling in desert jungle concrete schoolyard funhouse mirror-minded mensch movements blossoming power flowering vine-ripened demonstrations, fertile tooth, blue ballads, Floyd boy pretty girls sure do make the most amazing claims on strings gold hearted mine shafts singing sultry and low, talkin’ bout "...my man treats me oh so..." meaning to get to the root of the disease, disuse, atrophied organ, piping in, critical speech after careful thought badgers’ brain states of action causes, fired pistons, labor quickens birth pangs, rebirth pains cause for celebration of spirit, human being happy for bright-eyed choices, amplified voices in the vacuum cleaner bags bursting at the seems like the only considerable course is to shake and shimmy, quake the pillars, toss the till, dancing in the streets until Babylon come down, down, down…     

Pale Moon The Color of Bone

Tom Waits for no man in our humble sphere of influence. Their doomed earthly chariot crosses the heavens silently while the chaos of humanity billows beneath the blanket of atmosphere below. Mujer de Blanca seethes and simmers, glimmering fire light 'tween feathery thighs, leaden thoughts behind fiery eyes, ducking, bobbing, weaving between the dusk and the dawn's casual lies. Shelley surely shoulders burdens that poets of passion most certainly endure, deciphering the beauty of the world through a hawk's trained eye (with a lens focused by love) in spite of the ever-present knowledge of always impending death, and its blinding blur?

Delirium Tremens

Feeling lost in a dream sequence, my molten daydream. 

Wishing the Winter frost covering American heartache could be melted away by the burning fire of the desert, flaming, heavenly fireball. 

Desiring a baptism in the murky tides of the Pacific ocean. 

Washing away the dried seaweed and rice paper wrappings of my mummified, threadbare heart. 

Casting the poor organ in golden glimpses of brighter days via creative sparks. 

Streaming from my fingers like those that electrically screamed out from ruby slippers, destroying the metaphorical hands of wickedness my angst addled mind has ever trapped my soul in.

Calexico - Absent Afternoon

Tainted Saints of Roosevelt Street

Look the other way. She’s being such a…seaward, seaward….look, I said "look seaward"…I am not going to dispel any notions you may have of the ocean, but the dryness here sears my soft spots and makes me yearn for the mists rising up the hill to greet my nostrils and quench the fire fueled by the turmoil down in there; well, somewhere.

Scorn.

I am losing my hearing and mental acuity due to repeated doses of scorn. Does fury hath notion of the damage done, woman?

Splitting heirs honestly irks the crusty jerk standing in his underwear, wasting to nothing, ass flat as fruit covered breakfast confectionary food. Stuff my mouth with these wasted words until I choke and regurgitate a stalemate of sorts through my burning stomach, a cacophony of belch storms. My warm dragon breath, breeching through the funk fog of Kali strains.

Tongue twisted, mind’s eye, images tied to the Tainted Saints of Roosevelt Street as thee coven goes on painting life wiv thee odd potions and powders, portents for the doubters. I squander my Karma credit there. I wander the city square, barely aware of the clock ticking time tickled and teetering on the brink of realize, as I sway like a willow in the Sonoran breeze.

Scared to lose? You’re being very un-Dude.

Command: Awaken.

Awake.

Hungry, just barely alive.

Paper-slit eyes stare.

Floating face-up in the shallows.

Sun-scorched, sullen brow.

A smirk of indifference clots face.

The scream echoes inwards as short circuits send the previous night’s sounds careening calliope junk rock wagon draggin’ me down the road to the next outpost on my empty moon of morning desolation. Shed tears shear the thirst of the flies buzzing about like the bees bustling around, jiving inside the conniving hive of my head.

Tie my laces.

Lookin’ for other places…to die.

Feelin’ for other faces to lie.

I think I am a decent judge of character; as long as the characters are multi-dimensional. Poor, poor pitiful me, I always see in 2-D.

Hands plunge into sand, clutching granules of dead rock stardust Martian life. Throat croaking the lyrics to some tune Tainted Saint choir purple glimmer.

Excuse me. Don’t mind me. I’m just looking for my hat.

Don’t be startled by my sudden egress from the current situation.

I have got some roads to wander and some heavy thinking to do.

The road stretches out into the distance.

The emptiness beckons.

Will I make it out of this alive; you reckon?

High 5ives and the Strict Policy Pertaining To

I prefer furtive fives on the sly after some sleazy shots of Corralejo @ The Tap Room in Hotel Congress while the sweat of swamp cooler hell stings my eyes and the throbbing grooves of a local Tucson, Too-stoned power trio thump wildly in the next room; overriding my heart beat and my desperately dwindling inhibitions. Then, amazingly, I begin to high five with reckless abandon. I high five the hippies and the cowboy poets. I high five the liquid lesbians and the trust-fund hipster college kids. I high five Tiger:

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/TheRange/archives/2009/05/29/tiger-celebrates-50-years

and a couple of the bouncers. I high five some homeys and I high five your Mom. I high five the punks and I high five some Yaqui. Then, in a simple twist of cosmic misfortune, I accidentally Buddha Palm one of the bouncers, but he amazingly takes it in stride because of my enthusiasm, my glassy eyes, and my surly, shit-eating, sheepish grin. The room spins. Exhaustion looms. The world fades to black, for whom the bell tolls, holier than thou. Enter sandman. I go with a cowardly lion growl and lazy deuces chucked towards God and everyone. Don't mind me. I'm just looking for my hat.

Then, curiously, I wake up in a pool of my own sick on the floor of some party girls slump block adobe casita off of 4th Avenue. I grab my clothes and my head, wandering off into the hellish fury of the rising Sonoran sun oven, and vow, never again, to brandish the overwhelming and mysterious power of the high five in vane. Word is bond.

 Beck - High Five (Rock The Catskills)