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in nature, but in the technological stage of economic and cerebral development the human species is currently in, outdated memes seem to be more dangerous and distracting than ever.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