Borders Crossing dot Net

It is insanity.  There is no hope, or at least not much of it.  I woke up on my head a moment away from aneurism.  I’m not sure how long I was there, but my legs, up to my wasit was paste and my head, blood red.  In piecing together the events of last night, I got to break down a black wall and build it back up square by square.  It’s not that I blacked out, not from consumption or otherwise, just simply, I don’t remember.

            The last thing that comes to mind is a striking beauty, so striking that there is a good chance I could have see her at any point of the night, but since it is what I remember, I’ll place her first.  Behind her tight and tiny package was a wall the color of her black eyes, (dark like my soul today with swoll-up gums, parched with an empty stomach, that will stay so) covered in neon lights. 

            Her hair was short, just like my fuse.  She placed her tiny tender hand in mine and pulled me out of the bar.  That’s when it went black.  No name, no number just vague memories of a bed and endless cobblestone that turned to sidewalk.  When I woke up, she was gone.  Like I said she could have gone anytime I wouldn’t know.  Thank the gods that the weather is temperate because it gets cold sleeping outside, uncovered.  It’d get real cold if winter had set, even late fall for that matter.  I didn’t have the wherewith all to procure a hobo’s blanket.  Perhaps I looked, but could find no newspaper. 

            I been here before.  This village ain’t that big, but its been a while since I been here.  Last time was with Her.  Her that I run to forget, her that I pursue, but only in my mind, for I know that she is gone.  Last time, the grass shone supple, verdant.  Her lips tender, teeming with life letting loose rings of smoke.  She would let it drift out of her mouth of its own accord.  Aeolus taking a piece of her for himself, I didn’t mind.  One ought keep Gods happy.  Little good it does. 

            Now, where were those neon signs?  I close my eyes searching for some recollection.  Smells waft from y body.  She is on me.  What was her name?  Where did she go?  Shit, it don’t matter.  One gal or another.  One day and the other.  But I don’t believe that.  There is no future there.  Nothing but void, feeling evanescent.  Void.  Last night, a jigsaw void pieces.  Parched, I found a watering hole and the crowds were howling.  Football.  A memory.  Today must be Sunday.  I only watch it on Saturday, sometime religiously.  Now where o where those neon signs?  A semblance of Day of night begins to take hold.  Time ticks, memory answers questions with piecemeal truth.  No harm in that.  Better to know something than nothing at all. 

Little tease

Brought me to my knees

Whispering with ease

Just all the things I wanted to hear.

She set me free from her

Though she will endure

As thoughts further

To all the things I wanted to see.

Woman,

You showed me a whirlwind

Of fiendish friends and unjellied ends.

I know I will see you again.

You’re a flower grown in concrete

So glad we could meet.

lb

Limp on my shoulder                                                                                                                         She looks at me with a child’s eyes,                                                                                         Eyes meant for one person only,                                                                                                     And there is only one of us truly,                                                                                              And so she says to me, ”Hold me” -as if I was her lover.                                                                            A son: A mother’s lover                                                                                                                        That’s different than a daughter.

            There it is now, I can see it, racing through the thick puffs of tobacco smoke shot out the ends of the mustached men with the white papers held above their heads; it’s nothing but the lean heard, the horses pounding down the deep green, that grass track passed across the field of eyes and rode by men in colorful shirts with the motor-mouth-man talking a mile a minute about what?                                                                   ‘Mistaken Identity’ ‘Mistaken Identity.’ 

And then the quick pounding whollop, the grown ups are yelling and the children are crying about what they do not know, and nobody knows really, who’s in the lead, who’s gonna win, just asking:                                                  

‘Ou est mon cheval?’ ‘Ou est mon cheval’

Time moves more slowly than i remembered.  Things that should be done in a day i permit to take a week, maybe more. What more can i jettison? The vessel, nigh empty, can grasp no current for more than but a moment lulling in the doldrums.  Sound travels over water.  Voices, at least i think they are voices, carry to water-locked ears reminding those ears of land, lovers and life beyond the confines of this poor, poor ballasted hodgepodge of plank.

Sound travels, but here, time stands still.  Ageless, sailors clamor to break the silent seas offering sacrifices of fresh water to some long gone power who once could swell the sea, billow the sail.  Sailors walk freely down the plank and jettison care and madness right beside it.

In dead seas we wait for a storm.  It sounds as if one might come tonite, but these rumbles and rolls of thunder have come and gone before offering no respite from dirge of peace of mind falling from the tip of every sailors tongue.

——–

Whats that? Rain.  at last.  a lullaby to put my weary eyes to sleep.  if only it could last and feed the thirsty ground till it is full up an flowing over.  The garbage man came crazy early today.  he would have waken me if i had been able to sleep. someone please, a bellows for my sail.

lb

It is tough to say goodbye to a city, you cannot shake its hand, give a hug or a farewell tumble. instead, i roamed the streets till dawn to see it awake, and bid it adieu as it did in a flight of fancy for the last time fighting the day in a city that never let me sleep. The last supper was a pocket full of PBR and a little chicken to power the mind over the stomach. turns out the the mind cannot resist the wants of the stomach ’specially not when they are strong, tasty and full of life. Boston – She was a fine city – small enough to walk in a night, captivating enough for a lifetime..

How to eulogize something that lived but a brief life and left the mouth salivating for more i do not know. have never had the troubled luck to have to try. I could reminisce over faces, pour over streets, late nite meets and days of leisure trips, but that would not reach justice. experience set the bar high and not just any words will do. i returned home from adventure – every day an unexpected day, every day a gift – to a home where i do not belong. A stranger sleeps in my old bed. this new me must find a bed upon which to lay his head. sleep, once so divine slipped nearly out the back of my mind. i know i will soon be gone and She, Boston – the woman on the harbor, port to all the world – permitted me a gander towards the ends
of the sea. there is a world out there, beyond here (deep in the heart of texas) that thrives with life and takes no man for husband, just for life. bloodsucking city left its grip on me. glyphs of vampires and sylphs stain the lense of my internal camera. if only the images could be pinned up eternal. perhaps the would would learn something from my mistake, my missed take.

The city is a bit brash at times, a bit rough around the edges. i found myself on occasion far away with no line back and no ladder out of the water. the bottom up here is deep. i have been there. nothing to do but sink or swim. thank god for friends. i used to know what that meant – now all ive got is the city, the morrow. conversation has done more harm than good. action, even more. but things heal or break away entirely. perhaps now i am amputee, perhaps ive got a growth or am hemorrhaging. maybe nothing is wrong at all – striaght flush in spade. strange though, i truly cannot tell. am i up or down? am i home now (then?) or just an eternal guest.

Another city on the menu, another iron in the fire – leave them in for too long and they will get too hot to ever move – another month chalked up yet again to nothing. time passes – oh how sometimes i wish i could stop it, slow it. freeze it or flow it. instead, it just keeps on creeping on; incorrigible – unable to be revoked, just like the dawn, just like that last misstep.

The city made of dreams gave me none because i gave it no opportunity. Every dream i had i woke from with a start, running towards somewhere/one something always a moment late, a moment flustered and under slept. adieu boston – i bet you look beautiful wearing a dress of snow, perhaps i will never know. lb

I sold the wheels out from ‘neath my feet for sustenance, immediately the city grew.  Freedom had been instilled in daily activity.  Instant gratification… i never had to once wait for the bus or the Transit.  Now i feel a dingy in a storm.  Waiting for the wind to come my way, cause the feet (rudder) certainly wont carry me there.  The billows in my sail has failed.  All i can do is wait the wind, wait the scene.  Wednesday is dead for i’ve no stones throw to go.  The city is huge.  The bicycle was beyond the hustle, bustle.  Traffic (pedestrian or otherwise) never entered the mind.  Nary a thought of, “oh no, we should leave a bit later” or “we should leave now” “so as to avoid the rush of people all going were they Need to be all at the same time.  How could i work an 8-5 knowing everyday what awaited me after office hours.  Traffic.  Yet more time sacrificed to the almighty.  Haven’t I given the dollar enough already?  It’s time for the almighty to give a bit to me.  Strife and war i’ve given.  Time, desire, dreams i’ve given.

Here, now, Boston, intern, i gave hardly a nod to the almighty.  With work (for a dollar) completed i had to merely smile at the almighty and wonder when again i would align my days by it.  In truth, i could not have made it this far; without the sweet love of friends my ship would have sank ago.  Ago go.

Time – a friend – i hope i do not forsake.  Perhaps time learns from our mistake.  can it forgive like a noble man must do? or will it simply stay the course till ‘Mission Accomplished’ – the end of time?  Where else can it hope to go but away.  The monkeys face peril, wonder what species is next as the planet changes into its next epoch? Guess it is time to arm, time to prepare to have to survive.

‘Experience has made me rich’ (Madonna: Material Girl). For what would i trade it?  Nothing? maybe. A tirade worth notice… perhaps.  So sad the times, the weight of Lear have slipped from our daily routine.  Others have slipped too far and wide.  The crops, the ice shelves (Wilkins among others), The neuvo Soviet.  If man perseveres it will be in front of a computer.  I persevere now, maybe not in the morning sun.

Gold = 3pts

Silver = 2 pts

Bronze = 1

China

45 x 3 = 135 + 14 x 2 = 163 + 20 = 183 total

US

26 x 3 = 78 + 28 x 2 = 134 + 28 = 162

Hands down they are winning.

Only Ten days to go, so long boston, i will always miss Her. A little to little, a little to late, sometimes things get crazy, sometimes they do not. Perhaps Boston VII will be what V should have been. Tis all it is.

he hates the prospect of sleeping alone. last, after a number of unsuccessful bids towards the various betty’s, he curled up and slept with the bottle. Woke with a start clothed on the couch, running late as ever, as always and reeking of cheap blended tequila. What led up to this moment? Recalling the night, he remembered in a blur one bar. Sitting, smiling – feeling happy. Overwhelmingly that happiness split the scene right quick as the lady grew enraged. He remembered her flustered and blushed out.

Cant remember what he was thinking days later looking back on the notes strewn about from a scattered mind. this puzzle is missing pieces, that much he could deduce. inspiration buried itself in a shallow sweating hole after much digging towards truth. gasping, he came up empty – bereft of mind, of soul, consciousness and now lacking that inspiration that no doubt now dripped. could he call himself whole? a whole human, or even just a whole man.

Fragmented days into fragmented nights. i wonder will the city sleep tonight? its bottle and can night. the trash awaits. 300 for $15. not too bad, but where he wondered, ‘can i get a shopping cart at this hour?’ All the guards will be on guard watching for the newly homeless, the newly hungry or the always thirsty who will no doubt pilfer the parking lot so that nearly no booty is too large to wheel from neighborhood that cares not for the effort of depositing to neighborhood that needs not the five cent per beverage.

Productive members of society frown down on the nickel. frown down on handing money to a bum, yet put the cans on the street with a if they pick them up, they have worked for it rational. This will be his first time battling no doubt with folk who consider this lane, this alley their territory. Armed with a broom stick, which he figured enough, for his dilapidation has been oh so brief at this time. Once a toned athletic sort, he imagined himself perpared for any bum on the street. Unbeknownst to him, bums survive by necessity and necessity makes a man mad – woman by another name.

Is it really trash day he asked aloud to the audience he imagined present, imagined himself important. Days slipped into weeks which eventually piled up into months. looking back what was there to remember, rather what was there to forget?

Certainly it has been sometime, it seems such.  Settling down, time tends to stand still, awaiting some catalyst to progress.  Life is marked by the big moments, the impressing moments, not the daily trivialities that fill immediate time.  We can pretend.  The world often seems to be moving Forward – in actuality is a diurnal repetition stretching back towards the beginning of time, well past recorded history.  The cycle, as is inherent in cycles, has been going around and around for closer to eternity than i will ever know.  Undulations flow beneath the vibrations hidden in the floor of the mind pointing us towards ever dawn. The beginnings of a new born simply traced back through time – the infants, maybe the children are, are always helpless.  Tender, trusting for through no other constitution could they survive.

It is hard, growing harder, to decipher life life, action; to distinguish madness from inspiration.  The mind reels, the fingers run splaying words on a page that may in a moment mean something and in another be forgotten.  Ideas, written words are transient.  They come and go with the wind, just like the mind and discipline.  Never too much to handle, often never enough to break the levy, the mind has to strain to tell the pen more so that the pen can breathe.

If the world were anonymous, pseudonymic, i would share more.  Last night i fell asleep late with a floating, heavy, heart.  Better to write now than later. Now than never.

From Bub,

It is summer and the time of the year when I am out of work. My friends have all gone to live and work in the city and I lie here on my back facing the sky, nights, with plenty of time to spare. My work grueled; I counted minutes on my watch, I counted the hours on my time sheet and when the time came I left drained of all emotion and vitality. Now I am free, educated, and callow green.

The woman who lives alone one mile up the highway, in the direction of the lake, sniffs her nose when she talks to me, and she does not talk to me very long. Confining her self to herself, but she cannot help it. She is not occupied. My time is occupied, by occupations, but I am not occupied.

When I have worked hard to grow a green garden and it is doing quite well, to those plants, I am Providance. When it rains they see that I am fraudulent, crafty, and artful—but we smile together at what is Genuine.

I am going to go. I want to want to. When the time comes it will fall on me or rather I will fall into it. In the meantime I prepare my garden for the long haul; just in case. It is a way I have of appeasing all ends. The consequence is wholly apathy. I am cancelled out; zero. In requisite terms I desire only what is essential to my well being. As a result of all of this my life is like that of some unremarkable herb, like the ones that grow at the back of my garden, and this is a tincture that I have written.

Though I am alone most of my days I dance to the jazz music on the radio, the way I have seen Negros move on television programs. I move my hips and I strike the corners and the edges of the table, only to strike upon an empty glass or a steel pot between beats. I am Jazz.

Turning on the radio turns off that gnawing of my “other-self,” thankfully, though they need each other.

I read to far away places, slowly, and carefully as if I wrote about them myself and I have now only to read it once more for the final, infinith time.

My garage is full of tools. Some of them I bought, some of them I inherited, some I found, one of them I stole and all of them I don’t really need. I use a few a lot and the others I neglect so much I fear they will not even work when the time comes, but at least I will have them.

I have wire brushes, oil cans, hundreds of wrenches and fasteners, razorblade edges, a router, a jigsaw, a carpenter’s square, three electric drills, ratchet accessories a wood planer, pliers, wire cutters, an anemometer, hammers, handsaws, log splitters, buckets of paint, vises ( and concurrent virtues), hoses, hand shovels, spades, rakes, hoes and the mustard gray charts of the Puget Sound. With all of these tools there are still problems I cannot solve.

Once I worked at a nature park with a man of whom he too was alone most of the day. He made a living at the end of a long trail, sitting mostly. I would see him there most everyday. He was always strong and happy. The skin on his face was smooth like that on the palms of my hands and his hands were ground to shine, naturally.

This man, Carlos, I think his name was, I have thought about to great profundity. I have often thought of him in lonely moments. I ask myself: could I do it?

Carlos always sat or was sitting in the same section of the bench, near the end. He would carry a loaf of white bread with him out to his post every day and munch on it. He did not read. One day, when I passed him by on the trail, he waved me over to the side of the bench and then, taking another chunk from the big white loaf he pointed to the big holes in the wood of the bench; it was an invitation into his diversion. I looked at the tiny creature as it poked its head out of the rotten wood. The man’s face exuded a childlike quality, an unchanged and eternal happiness.

“Raton,” he said, and he plugged the hole with more bread from his big white loaf. The mouse comfortably broke his bread before our eyes as we studied him like an actor alone on the stage. They, man and rodent, made me feel like I had stumbled upon an exclusive party of quiet types, as I had wondered where they all go, unassuming but of an unsung attentiveness to detail. This man was never alone nor was his mouse. And were the two of them every separated by circumstance, each his own, in time, would pass contented with whatever, or whoever sat beneath or above them.

BCJ IV

Spreading democracy and obesity worldwide with force and transfat. It is the American way. How else are we going to bolster our Health Care system? The simplest way would be to introduce diabetes throughout the world packaged neatly in a Super Meal or a cheap bag of chips rife with ingredients that are words i cannot pronounce and if i can, i have no idea what the compound is other than unnatural.

I came across an article, which i suppose is old hat, or was two years ago. Still, new to me, I found it shocking:

Health care in US ranks lowest among developed countries

Bob Roehr

The United States ranked last across a range of measures of health care in a comparison of 19 industrialised countries, despite spending more than twice as much per person on health as any other of the countries, says a report published last week.

The report shows improvements in some areas since the previous rating two years ago but found that other countries had improved more quickly. It analysed 37 measures, including access to care, quality of care, and health outcomes.

Overall, said Karen Davis, president of the Commonwealth Fund, the charity that developed the report, “the US scored far short of the best performance, either in other countries or within the best performing hospitals in the US.”

Cathy Schoen, a senior author of the report, said that the overall US score had fallen from 67 to 65.

She added, “It is a demonstration that we are losing ground.”

[(BMJ.com) I would have posted the whole article, but they charge, links to full articles - http://allcountries.org/health/usa_health_care_2008_nyt.html ; http://www.photius.com/rankings/healthranks.html - the 2000 rankings - not much has changed ; http://www.who.int/en/]

Yes, we are losing ground. What if we take this as a nod towards our freedoms or our quality of life – it would be preposterous to even hint that we stand atop the free world especially if we couple this slight by our government directly to We the People with a few others…

The indefinite suspension of Habeas Corpus for anyone (yea even you kindly old man could be classified a terrorist supporting and furthering terror, Preemptive strikes carried out on the premise of misinformation leading to a war that will likely last for the rest of my life (even if i live a long one), WireTapping (even the candidate for Change digs on this suppression of what could be considered a basic human right – privacy, kind of like liberty) – my god i could go on forever, but, i digress for currently i am concerned with heath care. Forgive the whims of fancy, back to the facts…

Perhaps the rankings are biased, stacked against us. We do have incredible technology and fund medical research to the point where it seems probable to not fear infectious disease and cancer in 10 years that is so long as you have money, lots of it especially if the trend continues. I heard of a South Park episode where they found the cure for aids – it was money. Magic was just mainlining the stuff and living large.

What’s the point of all these advances in technology and medicine if the health care system remains broken and the advances prohibitively expensive for a large strata of American Society? We pay enough already, we pay the most. Still the system doesn’t seem to work – what can we do? I would use my hands to free my feet, but they are tied to the bed with red tape. the same shit is stuffed in my mouth and tied around my eyes. The hue of light coming through is maddening, infuriating. i am a bull and the matador teases – derives some sick pleasure from me flailing my legs, trying to break free and breath a deep last breath instead of these short shallow breaths that the gag allows – before delivering me my coup de grace.

Nothing to be done, nothing to be done. Expatriate? Maybe. Still, i love this country as much as the next guy standing in line waiting for bread or taking off his hat staring proud and silent at the flag listening to the played out tune sung by an up and coming or a has been. It makes me proud but i am afraid of the future.

The disease in our health care system is likely just a symptom of something more grave lying in wait, waiting to conquer. When we fall, and it seems likely that we will, our coup de grace will come from within. Regular Brutus’ lie smiling in the ranks waiting for the moment to sieze and we will all be accomplices for we permitted the demise. Surely there must be a way to find this disease, glare past the symptoms and neutralize it. Surely there must be something you and i can do. Change?

New York: The city sleeps. Seems i often find my self staggering, though not from drink, towards dawn maybe lost or found but far away. The sun ever rising in a far off sky throwing the first hues of blue across the never quite dark city. Empty streets fill with hustle. Off to make a dollar, even on Sundays, day of worship. Every day is a day to worship. Off to the races proselytizing dollars and cents ever in constant communique with the world on the weight in our pockets. hating the jingle of heavy metal, worthless coin. Even more so worthless when they are what will put food on the table and cannot be shucked wistlessly [why not] in to a pond upon a wish or dropped without care or hesitation on the ground for those who need them yet still possess the wherewithall to look down.

It’s scary being hungry. Guess i don’t really know how it feels, but another week, shit, another day in this city and i would. It is scary being hungry, being thirsty and longing for a bed, but it is better to be broke and see the world than horde the money, whore your hours for a handful of plastic, a roof over your head and a mortgage creeping under your bed; the weight of the world upon you and your own weight sitting flush on your fat stack saving, hoping maybe waiting for that rainy day to come so you can smile when the rest of us fools are standing in bread lines as you ride by, fighting bloody on the street to see who is nimble enough, quick enough willfull enough to pick up that found dime. Yes, I can imagine a dime with greater buying power than a dollar, than a picture of Franklin, for what paper worth?

The City sleeps or i’m just in the wrong place walking down (up) Park past what may be the only sleepable benches in the city. Even bums, non productive members of society, need, deserve, a place to rest their minds…

Underground is impervious to the whims of the city’s parades, closures, traffic, sunlight… In traffic going 53 blocks on the bus, i probably coulda walked it faster than th M3 got me from Belleville@Hill Country Barbecue to 2 friends @ 79th and Park. Hmm i know these streets, know them well from last night. The bums still sleep on the benches and the children play around them giant Santa Clauses and Rabbi’s that they are.

After all this time has slipped off to the vine, could i perpetrate a crime New York? Could i penetrate your mind New York? Now reeling in a place i’ve just begun to call home by name and place of possession only in the quiet city with The Entertainer blaring past peddling its wares to put food on the table to salubrious children salivating in a cloud of exhaust waiting for the brake lights to illumine and jingling the change they pfiled from the neglected and forgotten drawers of their parents if they are lucky, parent if they are not i think back on the streets of New York and realize now that they were nothing so great; they, the streets, were as Narcissus falling, flailing starving after his own image. The cost of rent prohibits the cost of food. Somehow, skinny Narcissus, you rationalize the city and make it your home. It’s a pity to be so far from home so all alone struggling with the question of drink or food – Which do you need? Both? then Which do you want? Which will you buy? The time can be bought. There is no place to forage in the city, no space to brew; consumer, what do you do?

A day later and several hundred dollars shorter, i look at myself in the mirror with a smile and say, through every false grin i can fathom, it was worth it – for her, perhaps it was. Lest i paint myself into a corner, forcing myself to trot over stained floorboards and suffer the repercussions of a cock-eyed glance from one glaring towards my feet, i will hold my tongue or just stand Here in this corner waiting for the stain to set and paint to dry before i go off with a glinting in my eye to die a tragic, yet well deserved, night… So next time, the mind blowing movings and shakings of The Belleville Outfit though perhaps my recollections will be a mite to intense for this public Forum.

lb

..

Dengue Fever, what a hell of a show, every time. Beautiful asian peoples running around dancing the lotus dance and music just bouncing through my soul as if it were real. Last night, they played Boston Museum of Fine Arts (MFA) on the indoors stage due to weather. After work, in now traditional fashion, i caught myself up in the whirlwind and booked home to grab my gear. I borrowed a stand that is 3.5 feet long fully closed, strapped that to my gear bag, grabbed a snack and took off downtown wards on my first ever outing with recording equipment on a human powered contraption (save feet). Traffic was heavy as rush hour was still on and not knowing any of the back roads round here yet, i stuck to the mains. Weaving in and out is complicated by a rod riding across my back, sticking out towards the right, which should on a bicycle be the curb side. In boston however, one must brave the traffic, own the traffic exist above it and cut through it like a warm knife through, well, most anything.

After a bit of finegaling, i got my ticket with a printed price of admission $0.00. I waited in line, being the first person not already inside for the screening of what i assume is a fabulous movie, for just a spell then made my way into the holding area to ensure i was the first one through the door when it opened again. It was a theater. I set up 7 rows back dead center for the opening band. I could feel myself or rather my mics getting rocked by bass, bad bass at that. When Pistolero, the opener finished, i moved back a row climbing straight back maintain the DFC position. This will be much better i thought to myself, after getting established, looking down my happened upon a stray $20… mmm i my thought to myself continued, this must be the money spot. Listening NOW, i think it was.

After the performance, the rain had let up and i wheeled on home to stash my gear, but the night was not done, no, nowhere near done. That $20 of devils money was burning a hole in my pocket. I knew that i couldn’t sleep a wink until it was all gone for fear of the devil’s curse sneaking up on me. As if i didn’t already have enough on my platter to worry about, to much even to think about and this presented itself with a quick and easy fix. Only a fool would not have taken the high road here and spent the devil’s money for fear of his curse.

I had my way at the bar for a spell, running into some folk i knew. well, time was up on the night, at least how i had it figured and it was time for me to lay my head down. Atop my beautiful Roscinate, i made my way where i thought i should go, towards home. At a light, a taxi pulled up next to me sporting a beautiful girl, perhaps i could call her a woman – most look like girls in low light and the light was surely low, being night. She rolled down her window with a slight slur and asked if had $5 for her fare. She thought she had it when she got in, only to realize her miscalculation too late.

At that point i realized the devil had left $5 in my pocket trying to trick me into a false and final slumber outside his grasp. I asked to walk her home, she said yes and i paid the cabbie $5. I walked her home, also taking the Univega along for a walk cause i wasn’t about to leave it to fend for it self in the city night. it wouldn’t stand a chance, it was an indoor bike.

Tonight, directly, i am off to see The Belleville Outfit play right across from my work and then hopefully with me in tote, they will continue on Rochester then NYC. Either way, on Saturday i will take a bite from the apple for the first time since i was a boy.

**

More on the Belleville in NYC to come Later

The weeks fly by while i live life in mono. Radio records in mono and the bum speakers i borrowed from the basement of neglect play only in mono. Monotony has not yet set in. I still have stereo ears and binocular vision. Not to mention two wheels that carry me far as i want as fast as i want so long as ive got two good tubes which has been somewhat difficult to maintain. At first, i blamed the flats on fate or karma (whatever you want to call it) as a forced atonement for my misdeeds. They always seemed to come in the morning after, perhaps, i’d ridden someplace i should not have. Finding myself in such daze in the morning, far away from my surrogate home lost in a city all alone with a bicycle toting me a long as i pushed from the back trying not to break a sweat, not this early in the day, where else could my mind wander except to my misgivings.

Passing a church, i went inside to find myself a priest to lift a weight from my chest. If i could have seen his face after i asked forgiveness for my sins and delved into the list, leaving out no thought because you know what they say about the thought and the deed i am certain i would have seen his jaw hanging towards his suppliant knees and perhaps a slight erection forming under his frock. We all know how twisted some priests are.

My son, do you wish to be made clean in the eyes of the lord? I do father. Say unto him, 5 hail mary’s for each impure thought whensoever they arise and for the deeds done, say 25 each for this and 40 for that one. Father, i am sorry, that seems to many and i haven’t the time but it certainly is cool in here i said the sweat on my brow began to dry. Son, what you feel in here is the temperature of the forgiveness of the lord, we have no need for cooled air in here, for this is his temple and he cares for those in it.

I still had quite a distance to go to get home. Outside, immediately my cool broke into sweat. My time in the church had cost me some time in relation to zenith and the temperature seemed to rise exponentially with each step further from the shade of any cool tree. The tire grew flatter and began to ride on the rim. This is no good i thought and picked up the bike, throwing the frame on my shoulder with one pedal digging into my side, slowly opening a fresh wound. I hollered in my head, my god my god why have i forsaken thee? It began to rain. No wait, my body was just drenched in sweat. It could have been raining, i would have been pressed to notice the change.

.

Reality and imagination are two fictions. Truth is a third.

I have never seen a game, never been swept up by the wave of Red Sox nation, and have come to realize my initial (not to mention life long) criticism and blind hatred towards the team, i have been overly harsh.  Blind anything is not good, unless of course it is mere experimentation with the potential to uncover discovery.  Walking home on the 3rd of July, my world was unrighted, overturned.

Nearing home, horse to stable tendencies bloom and i often lean in to some head down walking.   At  a light, one of the few that peds tend to have to break their gaites for, there was a policeman directing traffic.  As i approached, i laid eyes on two g-ish looking fellows.  Both black as a moonless night decked out in stylish garb.  One wore a blue sox hat with matching blue sox t’shirt mimicing jersy with name and number and the whole shebang.  The other had earlier donned a KG celtic green jersey with matching sports head band.  i didnt think, it didnt matter what i, innocent passerby thought and i didnt think to speak for the thoughts running through my head.

Conversation began.  The policeman, typical (if i had to imagine a type) south boston former hockey player with a thick red-sox-accent threw some trash about the sox – they may have made a poor run of it recently.  He said something about a foul, poor trade and how they had to wisen up if they still wanted a chance.  The other fans, engaged, conversed.  The little back lit man came on and the cop, mid conversation, bade the foot traffic cross.  I looked back over my shoulder and found the fans standing next to the cop shooting breeze in the middle of the street as he continued to direct traffic.  Last i looked, a few moments later, they were all standing together and making no motion to move.

Red Sox Nation is good.  People from, what culture has dictated, different walks of life come together, with (apparently) nothing in common and talk and smile and get along.  The nation has bound a city together around it.  Fans, color less, demographic less, thrive and die together and through it all – by superficial observation – they get along.  Empathetic the city can survive.  If they win, strangers hug and throw high fives towards one another.  If they lose, any fan can confide dissapointment in another and conversation grows, virally expanding perhaps from the Sox to things that matter.  Anyway you slice it, Boston cant loose.

lb

Where to begin? I’ve got some water boiling cooking up some carbs i dont really need cause i consumed enough of em today, but its cheap and im hungry. Im in Boston. Red Sox nation i guess. I try, these days, to stay as far away from television and Fenway as i can, but im sure the nation will catch up to me eventually, probably in some dark alleyway after i trashed their team just cause i hate their fans (there are exceptions, several and i am not opposed the letting the number grow).

After a terribly brief but exceptional stint in Santa Fe, i ve made my way east. Its better out here than i remember. In boston for my first time ever outside of Chinatown, I can see the world. Its been three days, working not for pay each day and i must say, it is a city, a real city.
What is a city? Well i cant answer that, but i can walk all over town here. From a to z and get there on time. if im running late (never) hop on the T, which costs infinity times what i earn now, so as one can imagine, i try to avoid it at any price.

Fate smiled down on me once and gave up a handful of good friends. Just so happens in three days i saw three of them. One, a dear soul to remain nameless, just like the rest, picked me up in Providence. We had a swell time for a spell there before coming down here. Entering the City on 2, he remarked at the layers of Haze. There was depth in the fog in the sky. Van Gogh and Theo sitting there looking at the world. Something i’d seen a thousand times, but never thought. Its amazing what the world can bring if you just move in it. Shadows falling on clouds cast down upon the ground. The world dont seem so trite when your looking up, heres to looking up Boston.

After a fervent cleansing of my humble, once piled with foreign cloths, boxes and kitty litter, abode i set out to make things right. Moving can take a day, take a month. To be transient, home is everywhere. Home is here. Settled in a day, home in a day. Waking, nearly everything was in place. My nerves roused me several times in the night, i felt like a kid again, going off to highschool or college again. All i needed was a desk, a chair, alarm clock, towel and bicycle. Today, three days later all of them have been procured and all but the bicycle from the grace of friend or happenstance.

I woke with start, running for the door having no idea how long my little stroll from Allston to Davis Square would take. Thankfully its a straight shot and i was not thrown to the mercy of the odd boston grid and a fitful memory that comes and goes in spurts. I found myself home at work, waiting for the door to open. a habit that will repeat itself time and again as the Interns are not granted Key Privileges. Ones got to be careful with ones keys i suppose.

Been a spell without any music, no time enough to see it. Guess i’ll see what tomorrow brings, see if boston can even pretend to offer what austin does. 8 miles a day, wonder what tomorrow, my day of leisure (least till the till runs thin) will bring. I suppose tomorrow i’ll force my conversation upon a stranger and see if she will take me home and cook up some breakfast. The the only limits i have now are the limits of the imagination, limits of confidence. Perhaps tomorrow i will reinvent myself as an intellect to suave my way into the harvard crowd – after all i do have a classical education.

Sweet serenades fall upon my slumbering mind and forsake this pasta for a life more divine – fast, live fast until its time to go home. That time, i know will come.

I suppose that is enough for now as the night slowly rolls on to morning.

What if it rained acid today? Would I survive? Would my family? I can’t farm, can’t shoot, can’t track, cant gut. All I have been trained to do is think. In college, I also taught myself to drink. In the event of mass alteration, disruption to the status quo – be it economic, environmental, social – one of the two will certainly come in handy. One will keep me from my grave, one take me to it. The choice, I hope is mine. I’d sure like it to be.

If I was alone in the world, which I once thought I was, I could survive. I could be gone from this all. Gone from these crazy worries of tomorrow gone from the troubles of the city, troubles with family (wouldn’t trade them for the world) and be off alone with only myself and my troubles to deal with. Sure it’d be lonely, but I’d find my Eve. If not, I would steal her and throw a nod back to Rome and Levy’s accounts.
Mad Mel was alone after it all went down. He was fine the perfect loner isolated from the world until he found the people dressed in white. If not for them, perhaps Thunderdome never would have hit the screen and that would have been a blessing for all of us, especially Tina. He had wounds to heal. Can’t blame him for that one. Once a loner, always. Once a family man, always. Sure I was a loner for a spell, but have always been blessed with loving parents and siblings and kin. Can’t beat that for the world. I could never face myself if I didn’t try to have a plan. What if the shit hits the fan Tomorrow? I would want to be ready.

Now, I’m not some nut (least I don’t think so, but do they ever), but I’ve heard them talking. Heard them talking and been watching the ticker. That’s enough for me to say at least, ‘whoa. Wait a minute, take a step back.’ I’m no economist. No conspirist neither. What if the signs are right and I just keep on going as if nothing was amiss. Keep on going as if this lull in economic activity will just blow over and thereby curtail impending doom. [I have never had an emotion laden with impending doom as strong and as universal as this one. Before they have always been merely personal, not international.] If these economic woes do not heal themselves, America will be in a bad way. Global economy has been bouncing off tongues of people who would claim to ‘know’ from the first time I saw a McyD’s after taking roughly ten steps in Amsterdam International. Yes, they charge for ketchup, Toyota charges for luxury too.

If Global Economy then The Economic Crises at had too will be global unless some savior cloaking around in undergown is a creditor that can call in debt. Probably a safe bet that we wont be the ones calling in markers. So what then, now. Got something for a rainy day? Why not assume it is now and make provision? Buy Buy Buy, but only what you need. A short list, let me know what I miss: Food, Shelter, WATER, Arms and a little plot of land with fertile soil far from metropoloi. Oh yeah, and a way, a surefire way to get there. Sure fire, ha, whatever that means.

The world is a terribly fragile place ever teetering on points of peril. Man, I fear is even less resilient than the planet on which he resides. I guess I’ll grow hops and weeds and wait for them to flower, wait for them to seed.

i wondered round this town with eyes fixed to ground, afraid of what i would see or what would make contact with me. The ground is sound. Concrete gives no way, offers no reflection of expression or surprise. In a breath i lost my way looking up, seeing out as if again for the first time.

Time gives no way. Like clockwork it comes, like it it goes. Clockwork. I’ve been waking up like well before dawn ready for the day, knowing what it will bring – sometime a little too much like clockwork. But clocks work. Driven by time and sound mechanical design. Set the alarm and wake up, get outta the house by __ take a quick lunch, real quick time is money. Get off of work when the work is done for the day at __ and… go home? go out? The day plays out like a well read dimestore novel – guy gets work, meets girl, finishes work and goes of with girl or any number of predictable variations sometimes… guy finally has son, told to slay son, takes son to top of mountain and is told instead not to sacrifice his son – until the night. The streets are clean slate, the night a new canvass everytime. Fresh air, fresh night air, fresh cool night air billows down the corridors between buildings inviting revelry. Why not asks a breeze. This is a gone town it says with gone people and real gone tunes. Get out, get gone she whispered passing me. Should I, i asked the breeze, the little nymphette of Aeolus, get gone now? will it get me got? She blew on and took my words with her, little tease makes a date then don’t reply. Sweet girl though really.

Wind carries a bunch of shit with it in the city. Blows round a bunch of grit. Don’t bare teeth in smile, grin or growl. Carries on ethereal, surreal – Carries what concrete lacks, what time lacks. Reset the clock, put a zero up there when people ain’t here anymore, when the end has come. (20 years right, no wait, 4, wait 3…2…1…). Put a zero the wind will be unchanged. It will blow, while each little breeze may not whisper invites but rather rasp little puffs of acid rain and fallout, it will blow. Time will lost for some time before it may or may not be rediscovered, but the breeze won’t be forgotten by the things that remain.

My time threw me thru a loop. IF the apocalypse is coming then what? I guess i’ll get gone with the breeze and her friends. Guess i’ll lose myself in a less contemplative place. Get cutaneous. Get cool. I haven’t had a glass of milk in years but i remember how it tastes. Remember it good. I hope i can eat lettuce until the day i die. Time is here today tick tocking away. Clock it now watch it go away.

Autopia

Chapter I

Intermittent shade moved on with the passing trucks and gave temporary respite not only from the sun, but the heat too from the air they moved in going. Relief from this kind of heat, the sticky bright sweaty kind will only be temporary at best.

With sweating ass, Ash sat waiting for the sun to set. Judging his shadow, he thought two hours at best until the fun. It’s been too hot for the comfortable to venture out since the sun bid adieu to zenith, too hot and stale to uncoop the roost.

Just as soon as the sun gives way again to a shady side of the street, an unhot breeze will crawl amidst the buzzing window units and call the now restless out to the street to awaken and embrace the demons of the night.

He’d staked out his stoop all day – the perfect vantage – to secure it for the night. Soon Yeno would be along with the best (read worst) domestic lager in tote. The kind that can be drunk all night and he and Ash would begin the evening ritual… Watching, waiting for a subtle invitation from the street into the night. (A subtle invite from the night).

Sleeping off the night through most the day, Ash discovered how to live on nothing but spontaneous poetry. He granted that the longer his current employment the sooner he, as man, would necessarily desist but for the time, he deemed it best to continue in his present course of action, if one could call it that.

All his life he’d noted beggars (some – infidels – will dub his current occupation) disreputable. Most simply stand looking sad and hopeless, hungry holding invariably a sign with an attempt at a touching epitaph to stir the heart or a glib line to con a cheap laugh. Others perform some act or another on the pretense of reward. He vowed to never be one of these, a beggar, and instead fashioned himself an artist and even fashioned a few rules to live by:

1) Never let yourself seem disheveled

2) Never ask for $ or c.

3) Never pay for a bed/fuck

4) Never refuse a drink/smoke/meal

He’d always had enough and that was just right. It kept him neither lean nor fat – calories enough to appear fulled in the figure from beer, but never enough food to form a gut. He always managed to have enough to tie one on as tight as he’d like every night. If Yeno happened by (clockwork), he’d have as much as he could without so much as ever having to straighten a leg to reach into jingling pockets for a dime or his hard earned scratch.

Presently he came along just as the sun eclipsed by the two stories lining the street cast its last long shadows and night – though merely dusk – set in. Ash had reasoned on several occasions that the waning of day was the most lucrative occasion to ply his trade.   As the night progressed there would be patrons got too far gone to appreciate high art or the would be artist too far gone to create his.

‘Ash’ Yeno said handing him a freshly popped can, ‘it came undone today man, I mean, the wall really crumbled today.’

In his pause, Ash, knowing him well knew no wall had actually fallen even suspected nothing dire had transgressed felt a favor – having been swallowed by pride several times on his walk to the stoop – ready to regurgitate. Yeno never asked a favor, least not for himself. Ash did not believe in them, least not for himself. How could anyone, he reasoned, ever have a greater propensity to help himself than he himself could?

‘I hit her today, this morning in bed, told her she shouldn’t a said what she said. She smiled real big and tears came in her eyes and she tore off the sheet, wrapped her pristine naked self in it. She said, You shouldn’t a done that and ran. I saw her out the window. She won’t seen me now, but I got a plan.’

‘Flowers Man, flowers and verse – but I can’t give ‘em to her cause she’ll hate me the minute I see her. You gotta put ‘em in her pad man and tell her a poem I’ll write.’

After a moments reflection Ash came to life after all he did owe this man, if one could dignify him with that title, nigh a years worth of a daily lager habit among other things for the occasional celebration – ‘Can you still get in through your window of hers? I see the romance now – you’ll get her back – I know you only hit her cause you love her, right – ol’ Ash’ll be sure you get that fine fine thing back.’

‘But first let us partake of this fine fine ambrosiac lager.’ Ash commanded and it was done. No miracles needed. No water to wine for there was plenty to be drunk.

Yeno had brought along, as expected, to accompany his sorrows – sorrow, the mood that happened along today – his cooler filled with chilled cheap thrills.

Twas a strange contraption but built with the love and care that only a bonafide alky could betroth to inanimate practicality. To ensure the success (here measured by intoxication/money spent) of each evening Yeno obtained from the recesses of his seldom exhumed family storage unit – which, due to the climate control served, though not often, as respite from the deep deep summer’s heat for Ash who’d nowhere else to go save the shade of a tree where the cooling factor would be compromised the moment the breeze up and decided to die – a cooler that could now only be found in forgotten army surplus stores tucked into the crevices of rotting town unvisited but sustained by the VA from II.

The thing was double ply construction – a real made in American gem before nothing of any value was made in ‘merica – at least and all metal at that. It would have taken two GI’s fit in the virility of youth with lust for victory, for America to carry when full of surplus/supplies. Yeno, having hardly virility or lust and certainly not for America especially not now in this fucked up war (which one you ask? this one, happening right now), was not one. To conquer the weight, for man must conquer something, have some quixotic quest and a vision of at least a little grandeur, he turned to man’s crowing achievement; the wheel. Imagine if we had decided to stop there and just rolled around clubbing each other to death with other smaller wheels. That would be a peaceful world and the horse would still be king and the king still on a horse.

He welded a sleeve on the back bottom of the cooling case, greased a rod with the best automotive grease money could buy and rammed a rod tightly through the sleeve. Though not properly sealed, he hoped for dry weather and attached two thick treaded bicycle wheels to either end of the rod. Fearing the covet of others, he welded the wheels in place with an old arc welder, a process that no doubt would have been rife with comedy, to make the removal ‘impossible’ he said.

The beer holder departed on it’s maiden voyage so designed but proved difficult to hoist when filled with more than 40 cans and ice. Back to the shop ever so diligent Yeno would go. He acquired a 12” wheel and a fork from an old bicycle, perhaps his old bicycle (surely he would know if only he could remember). He welded the fork to the front of the frame creating a trike/cooler. Trikoler. It was sturdy enough to transport a grown man who had become entirely dead weight along with a smallish boned lady astride the dead weight to any destination attainable by foot. However, not all desired places could be reached by foot, so ingenious Yeno fastened on an elaborate combination locking system whereby the trikoler could be laid to rest at any convenient locale locked to the nearest pole and in the morning or mid-afternoon when one of the trusted, one who knew the combo, happened past there would still be ice and still be beer to continue the next day’s revelry a bit early in this case for the trikoler was still there, reason enough to celebrate. Thus the trikoler could safely sleep the night in a borough where a man might not.

Ch 1 pt II

The night progressed uneventful and after much meandering Ash got back to his compadre’s melancholy. ‘It’s time you told me your poem’ he prompted with a drawl that betrayed his origin and only made appearances after 6 or 8 cans depending on his daily constitution.

Yeno took off almost as if rehearsed, but stumbled enough to show the inspiration genuine:

A flower for my love

A petal for your eye

Black and blue I sigh

From the hovel of my love

A petal for your eye

Black and blue is truth

Enough to see that without

You, love I’ll die.

‘It’s a bit trite I know – make it better if you want – here’ he moved his hand to Ash’s line of sight, ‘it’s written on my hand.’

Ash fished a pen from the gunny sack flung ‘round the cooler like it was a sherpa, flicked it and began transcribing it on his own. Paper could be lost, the hand, well maybe. He wrote:

A flower sweet heart

A petal for you eye my art

Bruised black-n-blue

Truth – I love you

No hide-away…

(incomplete poem)

He preferred aabb to abab for the fluidity it offered on the fly and now had to be careful not to grab a beer with his sinister hand and ruin the work that had not doubt not been committed to memory.

Night dripped on aside drops from cans of lager as Ash & Yeno absorbed into their traditional silence. Yeno alternately contemplated the shape made by the void of the hole in his can and his well praised machine. Compliments to both he thought for without either there would be neither.

Ash drifted back to romances in mexico that may of may not ever happened. The beauty of dream, it can become truth. Truth, dream. Who could force a man to tell the difference. Even if but a dream – all they could be now cause so much time has fallen away since mexico, so far away – lusty sweating Mexican nights composed the memories he covets most, a temporality far removed yet with each sip a closer return away from the sad styling of today.

He’d asked himself time and again giving no particular thought to the answer how long this temporary scene of drinking till dawn could last and as dawn ever crept, so did the time to rap upon her window-pane.

Ch 1 pt 3

Lupe waited for Ash to answer Yeno’s supplication knowing she already came undone.

The City looks different from every vantge. He’d become accustomed to his perch with concrete views, street level + dirty from the traffic, wheeled and footed. Up here, a bit closer to the stars, the world changed ethereal. It was like floating through changes and decisions a mind makes without ever having to furrow a brow. He sat on her scaffoleded escape at a drawn blind opened window listening for whatever sounds happened out.

A low pitched moan, unmistakable, that could only mean one thing came muffled by curtain, perhaps pillow. Surelly he wuld have heard the accompanying creak of box springs had the mattress not been nearly adhered by sweat and various other fluids to the floor sans box-spring for mice and god to watch.

Sweet slender Lupe must have sensed his presence and uttered his cue. He, without sound, crept by the curtain and dropped to the floor (3’). Shuffling into the bedroom, he took the obligatory pause before announcing his presence – it’s not every day you get to watch live flesh gyrate against living flesh – by springing into character and reciting his rendition of Yeno’s composition whilst the two mid coitus paused but did not separate:

Poem Here

He signed off ‘an entreat from Yeno.’ Lupe, with her own entreaty, ‘come stud to bed, there is room for just one more. Too bad for Y he did not bring himself.’ The two resumed and Ash, jaw temporarily agape overcame the angel whispering in his ear from his shoulder and though what a strange angle he’d got him self in from just performing a simple favor. Supplicating Lupe had erase any thought of friendship, of tomorrow at his same old perch with his same old beer and same old friend. Really, he reasoned, this wouldn’t be betrayal, he asked me here. He sat the single red rose (he should smell the rose on the scaffold) from Y on the bedside table, dropped trou, doffed shirt and kissed her from hands and knees as she reached out – God to Adam – for his momentarily flaccid self.

Sex never came easily to Ash, but it always came – unbeknownst to him – just before his breaking point. A man can only go so long without the comforts of cunt. A mid-day wet dream on a park bench could never replace cunt. Turns out however the cunt tonight was taken. On her though, beautiful Lupe, one’s as good as the other and for piece of mind, he knew the child couldn’t possibly be his.

GRAPHIC SEX SCENCE HERE

In the morning, rather the mid-afternoon/evening after sleeping melee, Lupe woke him with a kiss and a hand. The night was repeated in double time with only a single climax apiece so that all the sunlight would not be exhausted by the time they got out of side. The holes were swapped, so much for piece of mind.

Afterwards, she introduced Ash to Stuart, Stuart to ash and after quick showers told them both to leave. Dusk was coming and with it Yeno no doubt was approaching the stoop. Ash thought any lie would be the truth, but still didn’t know what to say. (He says she will see you again… the picnic / murder).

Chapter II (began 02/29-08)

Isbe awoke with a start. An empty bed always gave here that. She’d been of age for sometime, but was just now coming of age…

In recent weeks a tragedy has transgressed much beneath every available radar. We are all privy to the waste that permeates this country, busting from every overflowing trashcan, from every neglected nook and even through the pores of or various bodies. Sure fossil fuels will deplete and corn will not replace them, but the oil crisis is no tragedy except to our pocket books for surely someone will replace (and soon i Imagine) that precious fabric of american lifestyle and our fuel will again be endless. But this waste cannot be recovered, ever.

Time has become a precious commodity and barrels of it are selling for prices never conceived for those of trash or raw oil, for when time runs out what could we possibly hope to achieve? From what alternative could we hope to extract more?

Not a day goes by that i don’t waste at least an hour, but that must change. The other day i saw a biker biking over the lamar bridge towards 5th flying a flag that had been twisted by the wind. I could only make out an S and a V which as you can see lead me to Save. Save what i thought as the miles on my reserve tank ticked off? Gas, no, she must (and she was a woman) mean time. And again i thought, as i passed her, that’s a creative way to advertise, but she, as i bleu by her, could not possibly be saving it…

Then the thought of the most precious resource crept into my mind – How could i save TIME ((not the magizine)(despite the CAPS))? Sure i’ll idle my car a moment, especially in colder climates, but often out of a sheer yen to hear the engine purr and consequently sacrifice a bit of oil. Sacrifice, i say, only because it does not yet teeter on mineracide for there is plenty left. But it, time, time and time again i forget, cannot be harvested from fossil, cannot be decomposed form water or traded for guns and terror to Saudi.

TV’s in the kitchen, TV’s in the morning, wake up first thing in the morning and turn TV on before you get out of bed. Time is lost. Mind is lost. Can you imagine if… (more to come) …

lb

American Gangster @ Alamo Drafthouse, South Lamar

Well, after being turned away from sold out theaters on both saturday and sunday, i ventured out alone on a wednesday to catch the flick. A fitting way to end a lonely night. Pulling into the parking lot, something was amiss. Four or more semi’s with opened trailers lit by big ass lights were in the back parking area. Curious, i thought. Rounding the corner to the front of the theater, was a whole production crew. Interesting. There were lines inside the theater and i thought damn, turned away again. It turned out that they were filming a scene for ‘Friday Night Lights’ which is apparently a TV show set in small town Tx. In the scene, people were waiting to go to a movie. So was i. After a moments thought of finally getting my break and waiting in line to be an extra, i banished that from my mind and bought my ticket to the show.

The theater was half full, though late i got a centered seat and ordered a beer before the previews ended and prepared to dig into a long (157) movie. The credits roll and i am elated, expecting a five star movie (cause that was the word), and somedays, there is nothing like a great movie.

About an hour into the film, i realize i have seen it before, granted not all in one place. The movie pokes its lense into the street, the police force, surveillance, cartels, the Vietnam war, mobsters, and the courtroom among many others. It weaves these various themes (seemingly lifted from other stories that cover them in greater depth) and produces a good story, not a great story.

Denzel played his role well as did Crowe. Without a second look, none of the other performances stand out in the least. The movie couldn’t afford a real (as in hollywood real) mafia man or perhaps Pacino, Walken and the likes have grown too old. Armand Assante did not cut it as a Mafia man. It seemed to me he tried too hard to mimic the likes of Pacino and came up short…

The most notable influence (if i can be so audacious) other than the life of Frank Lucas, has to be the HBO series ‘The Wire.’ Even one of the stars from the series, Idris Elba, graces the film for a spell before he takes on to the head.

What more could I want in a movie? Detail. ‘American Gangster’ is a survey of gangster films/shows that attempts to cover all too much in such a short 2.5 hours. The most original and intriguing part of the film was Frank (Denzel) in Thailand.

For those of you that liked this film, some further (IMO better) viewing. ‘Serpico’ and ‘Prince of the City’ for police corruption; HBO’s ‘The Wire’ seasons 1 and 3 for the street, surveillance, drugs etc; ‘Fresh’ for drugs, street, with a bit perseverance; and im at a loss for a good cartel movie other than the excellent documentary ‘Cocaine Cowboys.’

Wait for American Gangster to hit the stores. or in the words of Frank Zappa, ‘Save your money don’t go to the show.’ Unless its at the Alamo Drafthouse where you can eat and drink while you watch, in my opinion, the only way to see a Film.

lb

The dark comes so early now. Its easier to dip down into dipso land when the sun is low and the sky gray. Feels like i been in a shell for sometime and this certainly aint gonna bring my head out. Another day i think, another handful of dollars dragging me down waiting for the gray sky to come round.

i caught a glimpse of her smile – with eyes adjusting to the low light – she always has a smile. No gray skies down here, just a low ceiling, a dark floor and candle-lit tables. I never noticed lights save the ones on the stage.

Those people up there never come down here. Fools would rather wait in the sun or the shade, too hot or too cold in a line thats too long to get a bite of sushi. When you pass em they look with perplexion as you walk through the same door and disapear down the stairs they’re tryin to climb. I wonder how their faces look when they hear the music, wonder what they think. I wonder how that sushi tastes as my stomach growls and grumbles and she brings me a beer.

One sip and the stomach wants more. Two more and its gone. Another please and she brings. What i hear down here stays right here. It cannot come out. Could i say to her that i love her here but not there. Could i say to her that the when the music plays i love her, but only then? I could say it to anyone and it would be true – i believe i could handle a songs worth of anything if the music is live, the lights are low and the song is short. Love me for just a song. Love me for just one tune. Put me on the rack, i can stand it for just one song.  Can you?

The Common noise of tuning takes over causing my legs to bounce with anticipation.  At last a breath of fresh air inside.  For so long i’ve been without The music that makes my blood pump and guess what stranger should come bopping along.  I wouldn’t have thought to see her whom i have not seen in so long here.  She was just a little girl last time i saw her and i bet she wouldn’t recognize me though she still looks much the same.

To some, music is secondary.  Something just in the background, setting a pleasant atmosphere for diluting oneself in the company of others, cause it gets lonely doing it alone.  For others, it is the reason that drags us to bars, that drags me all over town to places i’ve never been and may never go again.  She took her seat quietly and listened.  There may have been a man seated next to her, i don’t know.  I couldn’t stop watching her listen.  At the end of the song, she applauded.  At set break she finished her gin with tonic, tipped the band and left leaving unuttered words lurching on the tip of my tongue.

Beauty illusory, wont you set me free?  Up the stairs to where the sun has set and night come, alas i am done.

lb

11/04/2007 St. Matthews Church – Austin, Tx

AKG 414xls Sub Card, NOS, 5 ft. from composer’s back, center , 5.5 or so ft. high.

The church has great acoustics, a very nice layout and a good PA. Couple that with an attentive, quite audience (save for a few seconds of crying baby, very few coughs and page turning) and the result is a healthy change from the bars i frequently attend to record, among other things. No glass clanking on being thrown into the trash, no obnoxious drunks yelling to their friends from less than a foot away or trying to get laid by a stranger, an ugly stranger at that. Of all the place to meet a pretty young vixen, A bar? really, come on. Try whole foods or a wedding, a bookstore or coffeehouse. I guess a bar is easy cause all you’ve got to do is buy a drink and then your in (or maybe not, maybe you just gave a pretty lady a free drink for a smile, that same smile she wears for anyone so long as her wallet stays in her clutch.

Graham was on the drums, an instrument i have not seen him play since the Mercury lounge in 2002 or 1, and the vibes (which were barely audible, oh well). There were, if i recollect, 2 violins, a double bass, piano, flute, cello and around 100 kids ranging from i think 3-16 most between 8-12 i’d imagine.

At the outset, i had the -20db pad on on the PMD660 thinking the overall volume would be loud, it wasnt. About 10 mins into the show, at a somewhat opportune moment, i stopped the recording, switched off the pad and resumed, probably losing 5-7 seconds of recording. A short while later i realized i needed more of a pad, so again waiting for the opportune moment, when the narrator was reading, i got up, tried not to distract the children, and switched on the -6db pad on the mics. This level was fine.

The libretto was at best just ok. It read as a rhyming synopsis of the epic tale with some very clever parts and some lackluster parts. Perhaps it was written for children, and certainly written for children’s voices and it matched them well.

The Score was good, at times excellent (on the island of the Cyclops stands out in my mind). To say the least, it was dynamic and would swing from genre to genre. Classical, operatic, hot hot jazz and on. The ensemble was tight with the children and both made few, if any, mistakes.

the biggest disappointment was the scene where the suitors were slain. This, i consider a climax, if not the climax in the books, was tacked on as the resolve. It could have been much more dramatic, but instead served as the nearly the end and segwayed into the round of ending.

The choir was splendid. The kids sang throughout much of the hour long performance with nicely blended harmonies, well sung solos and call and responses. Again, a slight disappointment came at the outset when Odysseus began to sing. Odysseus was not a child nor was the narrator. Perhaps these two parts were too dynamic or too difficult for any of the children to handle.

All in all the performance was well worth the cost of admission and if it plays again, i would see it again, especially at that church.

For my first time out with the 414xls’ i am damn pleased with the recording, even in the face of my flubs. It has a nice sense of room while seemingly not sacrificing any presence. So far, after 1 outing, im loving these mics

lb

A Penny for the Old Guy — the second epitaph  in  T.S. Eliot’s  The Hollow Men calls on the language used by children on Guy Fawkes Day, Nov. 5.

This post is a day late, i forgot, thanks JD, more to come on Guy Fawkes in The Hollow Men soon.

lb

Pulled this one out of the archive for your reading pleasure. Sitting at a desk for ten hours can be interesting if written the right way. With much greater ease, so to can the roads from Tulsa, Oklahoma to Santa Fe, NM.

06/01/2007
No pictures, sorry.

So I ball out of Tulsa on the 51. Ken (rufus on advrider.com) was nice enough to drop me and my new, my first ride off in a WallyWorld parking lot. After gearing up, signing the title, strapping my stuff sack down and shaking Ken’s hand, I headed off on fifty one with the late-morning sun at my back.
It has been exactly a week since I sat on a motorcycle (at MSF) for the second time in my life and the jitters in my hands and stomach were soon forgotten as the numbing vibrations of MY motorcycle (green 06 KLR) crept from the bars, through my arms and finally to the spine and into my mind. I was off on my very first two-wheeled back-road dash –now with a real opponent, not just the Man tucked into some crevice waiting for me to blaze past – against the weather and against myself.

The night before, at my parent’s home, after cleaning out my car (now a cage) in Austin, Tx readying it to be left clean for a clean sale in case this steed stays my sole transporter, I turned on the weather channel. To my dismay, having turned a ghostly white, it seemed ii would be riding through a massive storm. The screen of the panhandles was covered fully with green and riddled with reds and purples …(Game 2 NBA finals; Daniel Gibson will be a superstar) …and I lost my confidence in myself and in the ride. I went to finish packing my bag and trembeled in nubile terror at what could await.

I awoke without much thought of the sleep and my mother drove me to the plane. Of course a delay, my first departure delayed for two hours or so. Sitting on the plane, waiting on the runway I think to the morning’s News Lines. The next TB, the new strain, littered the Airport TV’s and the early edition papers. After waiting twenty minutes in Homeland Securities new and improved co-rals, an airport is the last place I want to be. Here I am though, of a self-instilled necessity, through choice.

Tulsa was quick, and if it serves as the form for fly-and-rides, it is the only way to go when buying a used and well maintained bike. I pull out of Wal-Mart with a semi passing me. The three things that terrified me throughout MSF and as I prepared for the pick up were semi-trucks, inter-states and heavy weather. One down, the others imminent.
Fifty one is a great road with light traffic. With each tenth ticked off the ODO, I gained greater and greater composure. Changing lanes was easy. Passing the little traffic was cake.

The ride to Stillwater was nothing to write home about, but did begin to expose the red clay so omnipresent in Okla. The red clay that ran through so many veins.

I stopped in Okeene. Pulling into town, I slowed down to turn into the first station. So did this beauty, the kind you can only find in small town mid-America. She looked at me, though I’m not that vain, she looked with a longing glance, the kind riders give to distant horizons, at my new beauty, Rocinante (my spindly nag), and slowly rolled off.
The boys in blue, the first I’d seen on the trip. talked driver to driver in the lot. I shuddered for even when I’ve nothing to fear, I always fear the man worrying that he will shake me down and accept only the good old American bribes of time and piece of mind.

I think two people worked at that nameless gas station amidst county stores. Both sat outside smoking to their hearts content, watching the weather roll on in the sky. The stores matron was kind as can be. I bought a quick lunch, bag of chips and a liter of water, and asked her how far to the border. She said, “oh, you comin’ from Tulsa, im go’n there tanite. I usta live in _____, bout ten minutes from the border. Bout three hour… watch the weather.”

After paying for my fuel, I stepped outside to the view of another beauty strolling by. When I say beauty, I mean the Juliet that Shakespeare imagined or the Helen that brought Troy to smoldering embers – A Helen with blond flowing locks and a stride more hypnotic than the tick-tock of a swaying pocket clock.

I allowed myself but a moments gander, for “the man” was “at the window” and it was time to roll. Though nothing to hide, I thought to steer clear of Him on my first ride. I pulled out with a stall on the first acceleration in the middle of the on coming lane. Fortunately Okeene doesn’t have the traffic of Chicago or even Flint, Mi, so the stall was no sweat off anyone’s palm or pressure upon their horn.

Okeene will remain a dream for those nights when the city suffocates and its lights extinguish the stars. These memories I’ll file for later, now my tires create more as they consume tarmac and lines upon the map.
It’s been wet here and the clay gleams red in the sun’s shine. All the river-way’s or arroyos are flowing, not dry like they are in the desert I thought this was. If there was a dustbowl here it has long since gone this year. The greens are green and the hills rolling and the clouds pouring off on the horizon. At fist it was a leisurely ride, then the clouds came.

In the high desert, clouds with water show it with lines of water pouring off in the distance. In Ok., rain clouds are tenebre; darker than dark. The weather I knew would come, but the tenebrous (sounds a bit like tenere) clouds in the distance appeared to fall on either side of fifty one, which slowly became sixty and it bled into Texas.

With the clouds lingering on either side, converging on the bluish sky, I pushed it WFO for the first time. She sings, or rather writhes, whines and moans. Then she shakes and I tense up so she wobbles like hell so I take a deep breath and go limp. The wobbles stop and she glides on between the pair of storm clouds converging on my path. After Seiling the road opens up and so does the throttle. For the next what seemed like hours to past the border, the road offered rolling hills surrounded by meadows that seemed to stretch far as my I could see. Only one car passed me in either direction (or so it seems now to my foggy recollection) and they blew past with yellow zia tags, I think even in a Santa Fe, while Rocinante had already stretched her gait – stretched clear into Texas, unbeknownst to me. …

I can recall for as long as I can remember thinking about roads and travel after being possessed by the new American dream (it could be so many things, for me it is the road), I have overheard that west Texas is a terrible drive. Having driven most of the state west of I-35 and north of 10, I must say it is beautiful. From the hilltop plateaus to the cowtowns, slaughterhouses, oilhorses and flat plains, I love it all. Smells on the bike are a bit more pungent but less stagnant so they pass quickly so long as the mouth was closed.

On 60, from the border down to Pampa, the hills continue to roll and and the scenery is outstanding. Canadian seemed like a nice town and the Canadian was running a rusty red. I plotted out the route in advance and would have been able to steer clear of trafficked roads but for the weather.
So I took of down 60 heading for Amarillo by night fall racing the sun and the storm.

Towards Pampa Texas

Racing the wind thats withered the trees, the wind pushing the storm through the plains, withered by the wind and time. This is the life line of America, hanging by a string of subsidy. Smoking diners and no vacancy motels with their signs steal the eyes from the once farmland filled with rusted and defunct silos and tractors. etc. More subsidy come and gone but more to come, always more to come to raise more grain to relieve more debt to fill more stomachs for yet another day.

The town is advertised for miles before by grated iron (after the fashion of the partitions that could once be found in cloysters) unweathered, newly painted signs for more churches than it seemed the 17 some odd thousand Pampans could fill on one Sabbath.

The effects of the church are pronounced in the town. If not in the no-vacancy skeezy evening motels, at least on the eastern entrance of sixty upon the abreast billboards reading – now doubly illegible – “Pregnant? Need help? …” The larger than life image was faded and peeled beyond recognition and the number could not be read on either side. I suppose this image is less jarring than a running annual abortion toll or even the lung cancer marquee, but infinitely more subtle and subliminal.

I made the mistake of eating before finding my place to stay. I hit up a few of the motels, turns out they had no vacancy. I figured with all these motels, I’d find a place to stay. If not, I could truck it to Amarillo.
I hit up Granny’s diner and order a double burger. I don’t mind eating with the smell of cigarettes, it part of the atmosphere, nevertheless I had to rush my meal. It was a monster burger, pretty greasy, pretty tasty and some fine fries. My vision bounced from the regulars sitting in the corner watching the Doppler to the gigantic mass of cloud storming across the plain. More purple on the Doppler, slowly creeping towards the grid of streets I was on.

Behind me, on Granny’s bulletin, were picture of the regulars alongside a photocopied article on the Brown Recluse, complete with picture and a picture of a twister touching down labeled with date, time and intersection. Some intersection I imagined close by.

I left on the quick, leaving behind a half eaten burger and a round tip, saddled up and hit 152 with the hopes of beating the storm to Stinnet and resigned to riding in the dark. The sun was not set, but from the light that managed to creep around the black cloud the outskirts of town appeared ravaged from the weather. Some lots were empty, leaving behind only slab. On others, the structure collapsed in upon itself.

Around the first bend outside of town, the sky rose black here too. With storm for and aft, I returned to town to find every other motel booked. Heading out on sixty towards the last resort, a Holiday Inn or some such sterile cozy hotel or Amarillo. Night was falling and the weather looked heavy so I stopped to inquire about a room. Damn, the last resort was trying to be a resort.

Outside, I gazed down the road in the last breath of dusk and could see heavy clouds flanking the road. I could race the rain, but could never beat the lightening. I thought about braving the storm in rain gear and my riding mesh in the shelter of a church’s entrance but errored on the side of caution (perhaps truly an error) and kissed the centerstand or the forkbraces adieu.

The nice enough clerk did not have a room on the first floor (so I could sneak Roci in the back door) and would not permit the bike inside. I took a covered spot two feet from the front door and shot the breeze with the clerk and her man who I believe just hung out with her all night on the other side of the counter. After a moment on the weather she said her daddy used to say whenever they drove towards Stinnet, “this is were ol’ ______ got struck by light’n when he tried to race that storm.” Old ______ it turns out is still alive, but I was glad to not be on the road.

At least the bed in the room was big, clean and comfortable. The weather channel said more of the same tomorrow, working its way up from Amarillo. I wrote a bit about Pampa and tried my hand a zzz’s. Laying there, the KLR vibrated my mind and my hands and a million thoughts raced through my mind but only one feeling through my body. I was still on the bike.

06/02/2007

Continental breakfast too. I took of on the 152. Roci purred again and carried on her way. If I recall, after Pampa it was damn flat. Everything is flatter when its flat in Texas. Here after came the familiar stenches of manure, slaughter and oil.
At a Stinnet intersection, I pulled over on some clay (my first time on dirt) to check a map, came to a stop and promptly performed the inevitable, well I guess not everyone says its inevitable, but I’d like to think it is, my first drop. At least none of the passing cars, who may have gawked honked.

After about 15 miles – the weather looked heavy and though I could just be a sorry paranoid forecaster, some of the cows seemed to agree with me and that was enough – I turned back and got on the road to Dalhart. I could just about smell the Enchantment wafting across the border, so I gassed up and hit the road. After a mile or three on 54 S I happily ran into my old route and picked up FM1727 (maybe CR) headed due west.
Say (a ballpark guess) 17 miles out on 1727 the pavement ends. I could go right, but the packed clay/dirt (maybe a bit of gravel) stretches far as I could westerly see. With little hesitation I hit dirt for a second time and stayed astride my steed for the first. I’m hoping that this road will sprawl to the mountains and spit me out on the unknown. A juvenile hope, I know, put it passed and passed through my thoughts.

Alongside the road are signs with what I hoped was some sort of Ag thing, but I suppose it could be government testing or something eerie and classified (I doubt it). Eight (ballpark) miles down, 1727 comes to a signless T. To the south it bends behind a bend and to the north it is straight. I want to go west. I go north. A very few miles later the dirt road intersects. To my right is Tx 102, to the left (my favorite state sign I’ve yet to see) NM 421 zia adorned.

Now the ride gets interesting. 421 to 402 south where the road bombs through the valleys of rolling hills towards the ever growing Sangre de Cristo range. Animals abound on the sides of the road. Rabbits, snakes, cows and exotic, imported stages of some breed. My awareness was heightened by the thought of becoming roadkill from the flank of a cow, then I see a stag on my side of the two lane highway. He is on the shoulder, looking jumpy so I ease off the throttle and downshift. He darts across the road and in a dead sprint breaks into the on coming lane (no traffic at all) and flees me and my steed at a steady 40mph (least by the speedo on the KLR). After a mile or so, I realize I could run this stag dead. I ease off the throttle, then blow past him and at last come to the long awaited hwy 420.

NM420 intersects with 402 and 102 and it goes east (damn fool). Long awaited and much anticipated, I turn onto 420 and a sign reading ‘The next 12 miles of dirt may be impassable in inclement weather.’ I ball the jack through twelve miles of dirt almost killing a snake and almost being killed by herd of cows. After the dirt I rolled on till there was no more roll and headed towards the horizon dreaming of a long awaited nights delight awaiting in Santa Fe. I think to myself again and again, just a little further and the Sangre’s will come into view. A little further and yet a little further and I crest the last hill to a view of plain stretching as far as my eye could see.

Stopping in the middle of an apparently abandoned hwy 420 I looked back over my shoulder to behold to my dismay the mountains that I had, without a thought, turned my back on enticed by the scant miles of dirt and the name so juvenile.

After making up lost time quickly as Roci could, the best to come awaited. 102 hits 39 and going north the highway turns to twisties. Perhaps for the first time I experienced the thrill or at least the terror (rolling on the D606’s) that climbing into a mountain brings when between but two wheels.
I passed a semi on the the right side, taking full advantage – at twisting speed for me – of the dual-sported bike. After passing through a little ghost town pueblo like those that litter the west reeking of long forgotten prosperity; the dream of perhaps one man who tried to stand a village where none had been, the modern prospector – the first man to settle on the island of Manhattan to watch it grow or perish for in the desert, towns perish for the desert lacks what man needs most – I turned to the sun on 419.

Fourninteen was a hell of a ride and I was glad for the first time to have bought mesh. With twisting hand and turning wheels, the mountains consumed the plains. Like horse to stable I rode almost tossing from turn to turn. But steadied and true, she rode awaiting her feast of fuel and I mine.

Fournineteen turned to 104, the road to Vegas (that is Las Vegas, NM). With hardly a soul on the road, we again raced the clouds that covered, from time to time the sun, and brought again the desert’s sunless chill that the stifling humidity of a Texas June had spurned from my mind. Vegas came into view after miles of high plains roached in all directions by cloud.
The last leg of the trip lay in wait, lurking, mocking – I-25, the dreaded interstate. I’d encountered the big rigs, the rain and the twisting roads. The wind, the wobbles and white knuckles all became a thing of the past after a few minutes on the I. I took a deep breath and with the exhale let flow from my grip, from my mind all the tension and the wobbles went with the breath.

It seemed as if no truck could catch me no car could pass and those fifty-some-odd miles to Santa Fe reeled and the engine purred, the vibrations whirred and next I knew I was eight miles from home, from rest.
I don’t remember that night from either exhaustion or anticipation, but the morning left me shaking in terror at the power of the wheels and the speed of the interstate, the only two wheels waiting eagerly at my door for the day.

Now I’ magine myself in distant lands and know there’s soon to come.
A journey’s to come as new land and language weigh upon my tongue.

lb

‘Women are whores and not to be trusted’ said the twice bitten man.

The Smitten replied, ‘ah, but the beauty, the beauty. Without it there can be no satiety, n progeny 0 Now, right now weare just boys, yes, yes – but fathom if you can that space, that empty space bedside growing colder and colder as days turn to years turn to decades.’

‘Aha’ sad the bitten, ’tis true, tis true, Imagine the beauty you’ve found growing stretched and round. No longer succulent like she was when young and your eye wanders, but your heart, it tears because, when Once smitten you professed Love and said forever. Well son, forever has come and that space in the bed, though not cold, is colder than any void. So when you lay down and roll to your side after a kiss on the cheek to slip in to sleep with your back to the Once fair maiden that you will see again that night in your dreams, remember your dreams. For when you wake they will be gone and again you will push the world to turn a dime.’

Smitten: ‘What will you leave behind?’ (his face turns to frown) What will I? (in the pause, the silence a Sylph passes by catching his eye) ‘My god, did you see That? I’ve never seen such legs and an ass, oh the the curves’ (he begins to walk after her) ‘Ah, but i’ve got one and shes got one and i’m happy Enough with that…’

Bitten: ‘Enough? So you could be happier.’

S: ‘Yes, so could you. She is not my source of the not quite, my almost content that lurks each morning or night, whenever we fight. Happier, yes, but miserabler, yes yes. I’d take this, what i’ve got now, always, for fear that whats next will be worse. Then worse. Then worse. I fear i’ll just always be a scab on the earth, keep picking at myself ’till i can no more.  The cut will heal and i’ll be gone.  I’d like to be a tattoo or better yet a birthmark, but i fear, again i fear – always afraid of something, always finding an excuse for they are easy to find, at least easier than an truth – too much time has passed.  But the woman, she will be mine and i hers.  The children will be mine and someday the house too.’

B: ‘ And if the children wear red hair?’                                                                                                                                                               ‘Trust her.  Always trust the woman. She is pure… emotion so do not, don’t ever cross her and she May save you – but never, i say Never, trust the beauty, for it was not beauty conquered the beast, but rather beauty that made the beast.  Beauty has a yen for the beast, the base.  Once she finds a man (a innocent boy like yourself to love), she holds on tight.  The boy, waking up finds himself a man with a woman round his neck dragging down or dragging up, doing everything but letting the leash slack and smiling contentedly.  At this point, the woman is conquered.  Her picturesque world includes a photo of her in her lovers arms for all of time; every moment of time.  Then is born the beast.  Man finds himself trapped deep in a labyrinth with no string to follow out, so what can he do but destroy the labyrinth?  But it does not work.  The beast chews up and spits out the beauty, defiles her in an attempt to inspire a break, a farewell that otherwise (so he believes) would not come.  But after she has been violated in every perverse manner or body and mind, she reaches again for chain and collar to subdue the vile creature that has dethroned her, undone her.’

S:  ‘That’s sick man.  Even i am not so naive to buy into your proclamations – the Bitchings of a Bitten man.  Destroy beauty before beauty destroys you – then what is left?  The world is twisted enough, fucked enough.  Leave me nothing, i mean nothing but a beauty and i will be happy to bide my time until i die.’

B: ‘Time will bide itself and i will let it.  Floating through cherry blossom springs and foliate sprigs of winter with half a glass and poised posture while you crumple and grow old – waiting to die – beneath the weight of an old wrought love adn payments on things you almost, always almost, have that i will never need.’

S: ‘Someone i know and love will work the knots from my crumpling back and help me to stand when i cannot on my own.’

B: ‘I’ve got someone, i know not which one, who will work the knots and do what ever else i ask and in the morning be gone leaving me again free.’

S: ‘Leaving you lonely.’

B: ‘Alone. You will be too.’

lb

Looking back on history, i get the feeling that the world was once wide opened. Opportunity did not knock upon any door, but merely lay upon the ground waiting for someone to pick it up. Hopelessness pervades as the talented, the brilliant and kind struggle while the nasty, brutish, selfish and stupid are flush, living lush.

Time will prevail this hopelessness that permeates the deepest levels of society yet somehow leaves the surface untouched. If there is hope, it lies not in the hands of the happy, the haves, the idiot networkers raking in millions a year with a plastered on smile and a plastered mind connecting other like absent-minded folk together in an attempt to build an impermeable tower of power. A fortress that will withstand the passing of generations and unwieldy attempts by the unorganized masses to bring it down.

Hope lies on the ground just waiting to be picked up. That ground is so far from the tower that those in it could not if they wanted to, but would not if they could pick it up for it is beneath them.

Style has grown stagnant. The world is streamlined, growing more so everyday. Now is a time where style has a retrospection, a knowledge that encompasses all of modern time and none of it looks funny, none of it is shocking or new. On the runway ladies are made to emulate cubist works donning ridiculous garb that few may actually wear for want of comfort or price. A suit is a suit is a suit. Three piece, double breasted, three button front, two button front.

Victorian houses are dead in the streamlined world. Every line is a clean line. A wise man (Aristotle?) said Nature tends towards simplicity. Man as part of nature has as well. The new house is the modern house, the practical house, the green house. Those building in the old style are grasping, gasping for air, flailing trying to preserve what they know. If the market changes, the builder/designer of archain things will no longer be at the top. His world will turn upside down, so he fights change cause change will cut him out.

Nobody wants to be cut out. Not me, not Big Oil, not Ford or GM, not the Denuded States or the Constitution – Time will come, it’s coming right now and time for all of these and us is limited. What will last will be that which does not consume itself. Those things which need not fight for position or preservation because it will always be, it must always be. New dinosaurs roam the earth. Their extinction is inevitable. What is a H2 gonna run on? Whose pocket is gonna fuel that beast? Twelve miles per gallon. What? 3 dollars a gallon now, in five, ten years who knows – maybe then we will be buying by the liter up and over here. The dino’s are dying again. Tycoons sucking history from deep beneath the soil and drinking it up, burning it off at a quarter(25 cents)/mile.

Style has grown stagnant – the suits i have now my children will still be sheik [chic actually, but i prefer definition b of sheik on oed.com] in – but change is coming fast, blowing in on a new wind that may finally wake up America.

Zzzzzzz, the sound of me sleeping. Zzzzzzz, the sound of me awake, too tired to fight. Vanquished, daunted.

Wake Up! america.

lb

enough is enough is enough. fiction is next (if this is not fiction) if i can muster the strength to cease this senseless, fruitless bitching

Day in and out i wonder how those trees got so old while this soil is so cold beneath this void that would be soul.  I’ll sit here today and again tomorrow pushing buttons that a monkey could push becuase it would cost them more to train a monkey than to pay me my hourly wage.  Again I will wake tomorrow groggily from dreams of salary and again my dreams will be but dreams. “The sun will come out tomorrow” and tomorrow it will set again.  I will sleep alone, again, for i cannot share my dreams.  Tomorrow will always be, for it is still today. Dreams or rather ideas, for they are conceived in waking, I cannot bring to fruition will wait again for tomorrow.

I do what i can to find a way to find meaning in the mundane. This is life – “There you have man all over again, Blaming on his boots the faults of his Feet” (Godot) – mundane.

When i was a child, not so long ago, i believed in and was taken away by a wave. I rode this wave for years with ease always asking others aboard. I believed in the wave and in my balance. Now, a few years since, the wave has vanished. It has gone because it never was; it was only conjured by the musings of an active imaginative idealistic youth. Or, i poor soul, have fallen hard over the falls and been under so long that i have forgotten that it ever was.  Whatever the case may be, the wave has crashed or i have fallen and now there is the drudgery of daily life. I no longer have the pains of a scholar who must find meaning in a text. Now it is a new drudgery. I must find meaning in myself in my life…

I stare at my feet to pass the time, head resting on desk with eyes open, always open to fend off my one true love, sleep.