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)