Writings: Welcome to Oblivion ( I am it’s native son)!
Welcome to Oblivion ( I am it’s native son)!
The latest collaboration between the young master ?uestlove and the great maestro Al Green (as pure a bona fide Genius as American music has produced, a ‘shortlister’) IS THE FULL PAID!
It is dynamite in a ticking box! Do try to pay for it if you find it, it is well worth the price, whatever it is, and is good karma to support one of music’s Gods of Mount Olympus! I can tell you personally (and will in future share some good stories) that the Master Green’s mojo is real (and for days). I once saw him being taunted by another ‘celebrity’ while he was getting his meditation head together. She was calling him ‘by his old name’, trying to get a rise out of the SEX SYMBOL AL, instead of showing respects for where he was , in his journey, at that time. In a tent full of other ‘stars’, I saw the great man look up from his Bible, and with one of the purest, most riveting displays of ‘player power’ I ever did see, and with a mere wrinkle of his forehead, and an enlargening of his left eye, stop this woman, herself a ‘legend’ dead in her tracks, and looking as if she had just seen a ghost. With one simple glance , he slapped her dragons facewise. I saw them limp away. I saw her turn around, silently like a little girl, and sit back down politely in her seat. IS THAT A PLAYER OR WHAT YO? Then the good Reverend, the sincere shepherd, sank his own head back into his Bible and continued to read his good Lords word. Get his latest record and stop all of this bullshit. His best days are not past, though for obvious retail purposes, those who own his back catalogue would naturally hope that you fall for this logic, as it better promotes them than it does he. And now you know how it sounds like, when a real bona fide exemplar of God and manhood opens his mouth and sings. We wish the good master well and would like to thank him for what of his graces we have been fortunate enough to receive. He is far more than a retail superstar, but an Iconic pillar of American music ( all of which is in reality ‘soul’ music by its very definition). Again we applaud the production values of he and the young sensation, ?uestlove, BRAVO !
We are truly grateful that we are not obliged to our former record company. The fear was that I would die under contract to them, and my headstone would thereby read: AND IF YOU LIKED THIS ARTIST, YOU MAY ALSO LIKE THESE OTHERS …….! (we assume that the other artists name would have been placed on the other side of the gravestone, the ‘moss side’).
Good company helps keep bad spirits at bay. (but ‘Bad Company’ makes for Desolation Angels !).
What kind of ship is guaranteed to find storms ? Fellowship !
LeRoy, the street philosopher says that: THE DRAGON IN YOUR BREATH IS EQUAL TO THE DRAGON IN YOUR MIND ! ( Or was that Shane McGowen )?
Your sister is so naïve, she filled out an application for a BLOW JOB.
Though he shows up well in old anthologies of the birth of the music called Rock and Roll ( before it were ‘appropriated’ and we kicked out, it got ‘re-zoned’), who is not given enough credit for his immense contribution to our classic American art form is the magnificent Big Joe Turner. Others may have sang prettier, as did the masters Sam and Jackie, some may have come grittier like the masters Otis and Wilson Pickett ( that’s the ‘Wicked’ Wilson Pickett to you ) , other’s may have been easier to sell. But no one before or since ‘swung’ with the absolute authority and field nigger passion of this seminal musician. There were no fancy ‘trickerations’ to his vocal style ,as there is nothing fancy about a Roger Clemens fastball, you just can’t hit it. His sense of timing has been adopted as naturally by those who came after him as gills adapt to water. When the Big Joe, a lady killer, sang a song, he became the whole rhythm section. He would swing so hard, the foundation of buildings would crack, which is why, wisely the Italians never let his sing near the Leaning Tower of Pisa. His voice moved mass. His voice was mass. He sang mass, for you natural ass. When the ass has mass, new things come to pass!
I have dreamed that upon entering heaven from the east gates, it is Big Joe whose band and rhythms, welcomes your soul into the registration center of paradise !( and yes, even in paradise he sings: I BELIEVE TO MY SOUL THAT YOU’RE THE DEVIL IN A RED DRESS )!
… and while we correctly value and esteem her as a ‘singer’. Let it be reminded that maestra Aretha was also a seminal musician and arranger. Almost all of the great arrangements of those majestic ‘Muscle Shoals’ years were the result of the other musicians following her and the way she phrased and played. Our Nick ‘The Sticks’ Taccori sojourned all the way to NYC to see her perform and came back swooning (as did his girl, another Francesca). He said she played a lot of piano, which was great to hear. Once the industry and it’s ‘programmers’ manage to get in your head and convince you that you are only a ‘voice’, you are dead. Then, we hear the Lord’s bugle, wake up, and reclaim our true voice, which amounts to all that our spirits gave us, to convince the world of God’s love. The root of Aretha’s genius is not her voice, but her love of the music and her absolute faith that it were the will of her God that she make herself available to serve his children, in these lost infernal fields.
Thank you for participating in the last 2 concerts, it was a lot of fun! Grazie a Milano, anche Cannes! Grazie a te!
By Zen Cohen- If you pay too much attention to a woman, you’ll miss how fine she is. Barely see her, and see all of her that is real. Look hard and you’ll end up lost.
Never let a woman play games with your mind. It disrespects all that has gone into it as a stable base from which to project one’s reality. The only difference between ‘reality’ and ‘dream’ is not definition , but time. Tomorrows reality was yesterday’s dream.
A potential problem for the future is the growing ability of ‘Hedge Funds’ to initiate wars. How they would then be described is another matter. Put enough money together, it will naturally seek to influence events.
Our reality is programmed, and reinforced every day. You can always choose to remember to switch the channels if your current reality programming bores you. Life is too short and precious to waste too much on what is itself a wasteful emotion, boredom. It happens, but when it comes, it is also a call to another meditation (to garden, to eat, to work, to sleep, to do anything but waste productive time, and yes, sleep can be very productive), to step out of the last mind and into a fresh one, and a fresh head is available, it is mainly the point of prayer/meditation, to procure from spirit a fresh head, less stale and dented by later events, less pre-judgemental, more spring like, more like the ‘wow’ consciousness that gives bounce to the afro of Aphrodite. We are all pretty much hypnotized to remain in a certain relative space. Mainly we agree to participate in the experience, we can just as easily choose to awaken from the last dream, and begin laying the bricks for the foundation of the new, and witness spirit fill it up with energies worthy of it’s dreamers. New games, new adventures , new feasts for those children of Heaven who will to drop the pretence of sleep, and demand fresh holograms for their less bonded, more lyrical souls.
Whatever you call it, dreaming, visioning, creative visualization, it is as easy as the willingness to re-imagine yourself according to your audacity, your bold addition to your life, is the willingness to dress it in your mind, with the finest fabrics that life has to offer. To fill up a Rolls-Royce with gas to take to the store across the street is a waste of energy and logistics. But the same we do with our minds, those rockets so full of power and potential, built to command the attention of the stars, but that we only aim at a hapless bird in a tree, the treetops our limits, instead of the whole of the skyline. You would actually fall for others telling you what you cannot do ? Then you haven’t read the story enough times, the part where the hero/ine is told no, by each, ignores it, breaks through, and achieves, not only despite obstacles, but as much because of them. This story is a vehicle, get in, buckle up, and take it for a drive today!
Moral squirrels? You can’t send a dog to obedience school, then expect him to come home and do the camel walk!
Signed, The Angry Pen ( and the writer likes his pasta, penne all’arrabbiata ) !
Forsooth (dear Horatio)
And though long in tooth
My tongue is steamed
And dancing on its own roof
The marbles dismissed
From the mouth of my youth
Smoke ring halo’s
(increased in the math)
Crowning thought bubbles
Distant thunder rumbles
(or was that ‘fart’ in bubble-bath ?)
A Sphinx fades into Pharaohs
( as worms one day become
And if by aim he charters truth
He catches up to arrows,
And stumbles from the booth
The absence of words
Is the presence of mind,
When living on borrowed,
If you just saw the ‘blue flash’, you are in! Welcome!
‘The Beads of Soweto’ album: ‘Immigration or Bust’, is indefinitely postponed while we work out Visa issues with the Dept. of Homeland Security. In it’s place we will be releasing the first project from acclaimed underground ‘Rock Auteurs/performance artists’, WRITERS BLOCK PARTY. We will be releasing their first single in July, an A and B sided combination of creative guts and fire titled : Tom Waits/ For No One .
‘Regulations’ are conditions placed on ambition !
Paranormal Paranoia : sure, every coin has two sides, but sometimes, both sides are tails.
Short rock and roll poem # 1-
IT COULD NEVER WORK
Because you are a lesbian
( and I am a Les Paul man ).
UTE LEMPER is a wonderful contemporary German/International artist who started out at the same time as my last incarnation. I would often run into her during my early days while we were both promoting our work. I always envied how much her record company seemed to cherish working with her as an artist, she deserved it. She was doing great songs in the tradition of Burlesque and Cabaret, and I was struck by her as a performer. Over the years, rarely, we’d run into each other and once I was due to write songs with her for a ‘her’ project, but time and corporate jealousy (more pervasive than you may think) kept the project off key. She has a recent project which she produced herself and largely wrote called: ‘BETWEEN YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW’, which sounds like the sort of international project that a Starbucks could expose and get behind. A song contained therein, ‘Stranger Friend’ is a song worthy of the Maestra Aretha or Macy Gray. Will it absolutely kill you to check it out? As an old peer, I am proud of her perseverance and dedication to her craft, well done!
…and I am not joking about how great the new Master Al Green project is. Much less on this Al Qaeda, much more Al Green !
All ‘poems’ contained herein operate under the auspices of this titular claim: ORPHEUS IN HIS UNDERPANTS. The criteria for said poems are that they were composed as ‘insomnia exercises’, which did run concurrent with the author being as often as not, underpants clad. Since sleep is also the domain of Orpheo, we see him as a guide and friend to insomniacs worldwide.
IT AIN’T LOVE UNTIL IT’S BROKE
And while it is neat and tidy, fresh and free,
It is ‘infatuation’, but cannot be the birth
Of love, until it begins to bleed.
Until the heart has gone limping
It cannot begin to live, until it is broken
It’s cherry stained with purple bruises,
It can only hope, dream, but stand outside itself
The hole you sucker punched in my soul
Spit out brushfires that singed my throat
(we sat within a sulphur bowl, and
blacked out all the things you wrote !),
Now I pick my teeth with your lance
With your virgin muses I now dance
And settle our debt with your goats
I scribble this out in longhand
(while I nap) reduce the meaning to shorthand.
THE ANTI-CHRIST IS BABYLON !
Just as in Egypt in the days of ‘Moishe’
( and to counter the beast of his inertia)
All manner of ‘tricks’ and distractions
Were deployed to foil the attentions
Of announcements made, every day,
New wars, new stars, fresh disease !
Not from the core, but from the
‘peels’ are written our ‘histories’
But what is new has already been
Your front door sees me out (yes yours!)
My trap door sees me in.
I CAME IN A TRAIN OF THOUGHT
( though I couldn’t afford first class)
And this lyric on a t-shirt was all I bought
The mind, overwrought, ran out of steam
What to do ? Floggeth, floggeth,
Out cometh cream !
But what to name it, Gladys or ‘Hannah’?
( since the flame itself was ‘gratis’).
WHAT ELSE IS THE MEANING OF LUST
But the desire for less of harsh mother ?
By turning us away from the bust
We milk our tears for cradles of lovers
And strand them in the begging hour
When will is torn at random
Blood and needles stab at trust
And pinches its veins beneath ‘rubbers.’
This could be me, this could be you
(it’d be you if I had my druthers).
VERILY, HERESY !
Dances on the roofs of tongues on fire
Flies fly vividly beneath ferns
The more florid is the language
( the more money ‘Beckwith’ earns)
Because the foxtrot of words pay well.
Then the alarm clock rings ( and so I dream)
And then I wake up in Hell .
SUSPENDED BY A DEEPENED HAND
Vengeance, through and thrust !
The barley house blues song sang off key
By the convicts still left in the band
There once was said to be a ‘masterplan’
Though it went up in smoke once tried
After that, they ‘improvised’, once we called
Him ‘Big Willie’, now we call him
‘circumsized’. Naturally, he’s less
In demand. Once reanimated
I called for the doctor, he for
The priest, so we fed him
And he ate well (at least).
O HOW BEAUTIFUL LIFE IS
When your wife is !
A muggers lament: I TRIED TO GRAB HER SATCHEL
But she hit like Joni Mitchell.
It took a while to see the aftermath.
As I had little education.
…these short attention span poems are longer when you take longer to read them ! Do go at your own pace !
…and if you see this: [[@, tell it that ]]#, is looking for it!
For as long as we labour under the systems we have we will suffer them. When there is more money to be made with ‘Peace’, peace will be breaking out all over the boulevards, retail outlets. For as long as there is more money in ‘Security’, there will always be war. When arms manufacturers have so deeply the Governments ear, what can be heard but blasts that precede the filling of the ‘body bag’. As long as weapon sales are dominant, who can afford peace, surely not the STOCKHOLDERS OF THESE CORPORATIONS.
‘Yeti’s’ are a part of a top secret breeding experiment (and the other half is human). The pilots also to many spacecraft are these. ‘Chewbacca’ of ‘Star Wars’, is a link to our memory concerning the role these beings played in helping to re-establish a viable community on Earth, after the wars of Mars caused massive displacement in this portion of our local galaxy. They have what we would consider to be extraordinary mental powers. They also have the ability to ‘mask’ themselves to avoid detection if they do not wish to be seen. They largely avoid us do the respect for the ‘Quarantine’ Earth has been placed under by local Galactic officials….
How lovely the legs are
How long they do get
When the summer heat
In Milano pets
Calves that blush with
The calories locked inside
And placed upon pedestals
With pedal pushers, haggled
And touched by bush leaguers
Flush with the need to display,
Though rushed, it’s mark
And this is why the season
Contains more daylight
Hours than dark.
When Africans are allowed Government and not only ‘rule’, the continent will shift again and for the favourable. When Africa is allowed more Obama’s and a lot fewer Mugabe’s, birds too will sing. If they are among our geniuses, they are silenced if not killed and abandoned outright. Discredited, hounded. If instead they are buffoons who make us look bad, HELLO DICTATORSHIP !
Life is flex, mind is reflex.
Life is action, mind is reaction.
Life is exclamation, mind is question mark.
For sure, there is a time to
Simmer, a time to boil
Then detach and walk on.
If Matt Groening were its Beatles, Gary Larson (of the ‘Far Side’) was its Rolling Stones. It was as if Larson read the absurdity of our programmed mind and drew it without filters. One of our greatest humorists ever. In life, sensibility is everything. Larson’s sensibility was off the charts.
The worst of all addictions, the most infernal to cure, is the addiction to love. Particularly in societies which pay glossed lip service to it as a concept, though it take a broom to it is if to a mouse in the kitchen when it by faith and naïveté appear. This the addiction which cannot be true if it be ‘anonymous’, this addiction which must be lived through, even at the pain of early death. The ‘problem’ that my former industry had with me was that I were not addicted to drugs, nor to fame (which greedy to say or not, I always felt was an inevitable birthright), but to love. Even after witnessing in horror, the love which spirit and my prayers and meditations created for me to dance in was gutted by blades, and each piece extracted parcelled out to whomever could digest a portion of my profile, then promoted as a fresh new colour, strutting proudly in fabrics ripped from my flesh, I still never dared to dream of anything but being reinstated to my post by love and its vessels. The spirit of the music works for the department of Love, the universal division, and in serving her, she has served and sustained me, through all manner of hurricanes from blowhards, through all manner of treachery, backstabbing betrayals and blinding, crippling deceits. The pressure to constantly fold my frame beneath and within last years model, yesterday’s boy, was immense. It helped that I were never so tempted, so out, as to forget the name of the ghost who sent me. We are not obliged to anyone’s definition of love, what it means, what it is ‘supposed’ to mean. We are only obliged to its offices, and to what it means to us. We have been punished by the Lords of Marketplace for not being able to separate our music from our conscience. I swallowed much blood, but then again, so did our Lord, so I at least felt in good company, and we learned that the taste of our own blood can be strengthening, revitalizing! We also believe that this addiction is our greatest weakness. We also acknowledge that it , this addiction to love, is the only reason we were able to survive Babylon, and its constantly evolving bag of tricks….
If the cure is more dramatic than the ailment, we tend to live with the ailment. If the cure draws more than the ailment, then the cure is false and the ailment in your mind. In nature, the ailment is the cure.
A FEW SONG TITLE’S/RECORDINGS REJECTED BY ‘THE LABEL’ L in those long years past):
I THINK I’M GOING TO GET AS HIGH AS I CAN STAND IT
AND GIVE IT TO MY BABY LIKE SHE DEMANDS IT.
I was told that, although it was a good and welcome attempt to crack the ‘Urban market’, I wasn’t quite ‘black enough’ to pull it off. But nice tune, cool beat ! Yes, more ‘urban’ stuff !
A XANAX ( AND THEN MY BABY NEXT).
I was told that the BBC, the national voice of the mighty Anglo empire, would never allow a ‘product placement’ on their airwaves, so that one got deep piled by the execs…….. Was also told that I wasn’t quite ‘white enough’ to make it convincing to ‘suburbia’.
A seasonal ‘Christmas’ offering I offered, in a lilting Celtic waltz was ;
YOU TAKE THE HIGH ROAD, I’LL TAKE THE BONG HIT, AND WE’LL FORGET ALL ABOUT SCOTLAND.
…and some of the Scottish parliament were offended so…..
WOULD JESUS HAVE DRIVEN A CHRYSLER ?
Was deemed too political, possibly offensive to Christians and most of all ,because the BBC wouldn’t accept ‘product placement’.
CAN IT BE WRONG IF WE’RE BOTH NAKED ?
Was seen as ‘uselessly provocative’, non commercial, and the second song in a row which I had submitted which ended in a question mark, which is commercially unacceptable, unless the previous one had been a hit.
Also rejected out of hand was the b-side to the aforementioned title was another ‘seasonal’ attempt, which they failed to see the humour of,
HARK, I HEAR HAROLD’S ANGELS SCREAMING !
It were later re-mixed and I altered a few lyrics and reintroduced as:
DARKIE, DID I HEAR HAROLD’S ANGEL’S SLAG YOU ?
Naturally, there was word that certain ‘establishment figures’ were most not amused…
DOES YOUR MOM KNOW THAT I SEE HER ?
…was deemed controversial, as it was uncertain whether the lyrics referred to ‘Rohypnol’ as an aid to seduction. It was also considered ‘borderline immoral’.( It never seemed to hurt or stop Madonna).
YOU ‘MILFED’ ME ALL NIGHT LONG
….even I had to admit that the chorus did bear an uncommon similarity with AC/DC’s, ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’. It was purely coincidence, I tell you, it must have been playing on the radio when I fell asleep.
It is very possible, given the complexity of human experience and the vast range of human thought, to love one’s country, yet not be proud of her behaviour. People are silly to think that being any kind of ‘hyphenated –American’ is easy. Were it easy, we wouldn’t require hyphens at all, we’d just be Americans, like French are French, Greeks, Greeks. We are the only country which traverses the world speaking, lecturing others about freedom, while we are not yet free enough to all just be Goddamned Americans. It is disingenuous to suggest someone is unpatriotic for screaming ‘OUCH’, when the pain hits and it doesn’t take a militant to know what it is like to grow up with the singular yearning for a real American identity that always came to minorities like a lottery (YES, IT COULD NOW BE YOUR TURN TO BE TREATED LIKE A ‘TRUE’, A ‘REAL’ AMERICAN! SEND IN YOUR REGISTRATION CARD TODAY!). We have often been disappointed by the disparity between the image of our country and it’s cold hard bracing reality. That we see such a different country, is why we need honest dialogue. You really do need us a lot more than you think……… Even with America (read: The Bush family cabal) constantly reaching it’s hand even into Europe and screwing with my right to be a free slave, it is still better to be a man of colour here, than in our homeland where a profile like mine is constantly being challenged by the state and their infernal police. I am grateful, despite all of the baggage to be an American, I am especially grateful to be one living over here…. I love my country, and will nag her all the way to heaven, pulling her ear like a spoiled child if I must. Were I silent, compliant and docile, THAT WOULD BE THE GREATER ACT OF TREASON.
And though he would forever be ‘counter-programmed’, forever being interviewed for shows the day AFTER the show (they wouldn’t wish to influence too great a turnout), and forever running into bad luck with Jews, still, Bernie was convinced that with a new Rock band and a regular, non-preachy supply of herb, growing knowledge of wines, and a small personal stash of enriched uranium, life was good, and very. He had no idea initially, that something as simple as uranium could make such a difference to one’s psychology. Just to know that he had it, gave him a sense of self that ‘Hits’ could never compare to, that being ‘ranked’ by critics could never satisfy. Plus critics rate you one way when drunk and another way when falling out with their girlfriends. Who would have thought that simply by being asked if he were interested in buying some cocaine (he was not, he thought coke-heads preachy and obnoxious), he’d also be asked if he were interested in ‘yellow-cake’. Thinking that it may have been something to smoke, he replied “Yes”! Realizing that it were not a ‘recreational’, he came to appreciate the investment that it was. Until you have some of your own, it is nigh impossible to know the Alpha rated pleasure of walking around with a little uranium in your wallet. They could have all of the acts they could find to obscure him, to drown him out and as repeatedly as necessary. He would never again be offered a comfortable date, nor a comfortable time, only late night offerings too late for working people, and always in the most out of the way places. And, just to be sure, he would always be offered gigs, only after 3 or 4 other major artists were first booked into the city, to absorb the economy first. They would forever be petulant and childish concerning Bernie and his movements through space/time. But with his ‘yellow-cake’, would it really matter ?
The essence of free will is living the choices between our truth and our opinions. As life gathers momentum towards completion, we become more affirmed in our personal truths, less in our opinions, which are granted less leave to interfere with what is true.
Accepting imagination as future memory allows faith to be accepted as fact, waiting to realize its time.
For 10 years, the intervening overlap between our life experience witnessing TTD’s tribulations and the arrival of the new spirit, we functioned purely as a ‘body consciousness’, as our former spirit had been torn to shreds, exiled to smithereens. As the crust on a newborn’s navel drops off to reveal a new soft core of gravity, so did a life which had hardened into separate eggshells, each fresh nightfall a new crack, each day accosted by another hen, pecking at what remains. Now I can look back and compare the nature of what animates my soul now and how clearly then, were we attended by some form of life (perhaps Angel, perhaps even devil) which served as metaphysical parenthesis bracketing my soul while the formaldehyde was being expunged from my bloodstream, so that new experiences might tempt me back into an appreciation for living, such as had been robbed by our head on collision with Babylon, with its perpetual glamour and bag of tricks. We are certain that transmutation is not a lie, though it is a bitch. We are certain that only by God’s grace and my total faith in it, are we even still tempted enough to remain, and in humour enough to do the lifting necessary to move our solar tribes beyond the river Jordan. I am back to full consciousness now, with a fresh head, more bullet proof than ever before. While I lived buried beneath the weight of my own fallen body, nought was there to see me through the various gates of Hell but our Lord, and my friend Shiva. It is good to have my fists back. It is good to have experienced first hand, the living love of God, and how essential is his mercy.
As we stop searching for life, its graces more easily find us. The meaning of life can only be found by giving up the search.
While relationships can float on cooing, sighing and lustful looks, they do so. In the absence of affection, is the reason for love. LOVE ONLY MATTERS TO RELATIONSHIPS WHEN THEY DO, and they do not always because love is not wasteful and only comes when needed. It is when we hate each other that love (if there be love between you), steps in.
Who isn’t looking for life is found by it.
Who looks for life begins an amazing journey, which becomes even more amazing once they are exhausted looking for what is always one step ahead of it.
GET MORE SMARTER
GET MORE WISE
AND YOU TEMPT
A HIGHER PRIZE !
…after having secured the copyrights for the use of the word AND, Joseph realized that all he had to do now was sit back, and watch the receipts get fat like a spongy mattress…..With his contacts at the state department, he is also in line to receive exclusive license for the important qualifier, THE.
There are actually people (no joke), looking into the possibility of owning /copyrighting words !
YOU KNOW THESE PEOPLE, THEY WOULD CHARGE FOR AIR as soon as they figure out a suitable enough ‘crisis’ to encourage it.
The record business in the 90’s used ‘programmers’ and ‘re-mixers’ not only for business but to also aid in reprogramming the minds of many of its artists. I got winded, the amount of times I was ‘automatically’ asked if my recordings could be re-mixed, which I always saw as not only an insult, but censorship as program request. You worked for the industry, it would not work for you. Left to their devices, I was nought but a ‘voice’ to be coveted by the ‘producer/programmer’ with the largest appetite, the biggest greediest eyes. Most of them simply cut the individuality and equipoise from the spirit of a song, and gives it a neutral corporate sheen. These people systematically destroyed the minds of a whole generation of artists, assisted largely by guys in jackboots and wicked turntables, which spins the past into the future while managing to bypass the present.
Despite the humorous aspect of living your own history parallel to others trying to write it to suit their own cause, I was born (or so I’m told) in Manhattan, Harlem, NYC, and not in Florida as has been militantly suggested by recent inquirer/provocateurs. I am not as complete on my own story as I would like, collusion has interfered once I get close enough to the truth, but we do know that as far as we were told by the ‘narrators’, born in Harlem we were, and in the year of the Tiger, though only from up close can you see the difference between his stripes and his scars.
Life sucks sometimes and even understands that much about itself. You are not always obliged to like life. But it does make a whole lot of sense to like yourself and to stay in good relationship to one’s self. From there all other blessings and currents flow. It is OK to be mean sometimes to other people, you know they need it! Just don’t be so mean to yourself, it does traumatize the soul that the source of it’s own hand, would be its dagger. It forfeits self trust, and the greatest merit of self trust is that it is the basis of all of what we call ‘good luck’. When we trust ourselves, our luck improves!
Allowing time for games and hobbies increases your interest in your own life. You do not only have life. Your ‘life’ has a life too. Feed it.
When people have great power, and not a lot to do, they tend to screw with other people’s lives. Eventually, they catch up to themselves.
Along the lines of DOCTORS WITHOUT BORDERS, we are announcing the formation of another non profit organization ( at least until we figure out how to turn a profit ), called POETS WITHOUT A POT TO PISS IN. This organization’s aim is to promote literacy and understanding through increased exposure to education (and beer). They also aim to promote world peace through exposure to common world rituals of ‘imbibing and inhaling’, which is a long standing tradition now under threat from the ‘New Moralists’.
THE DREADS VS. THE DRUIDS ON THE NEXT OPRAH !
Microhard Management announces the fall tour of their mega-selling band THE EDDIES VS. THE FREDDIES ! This should come as a great treat to fans of the trio since as recently as a year ago, a split was feared due to the 2 eddies insisting that if ‘freddie’ left, as he’d threatened, they would sue him for the right to maintain use of the exclamation point. Although ‘Freddie’ rightfully claims to have brought the exclamation point into the group, the two ‘Eddies’ countered that, though he were indeed correct, they were fully prepared to replace it with a question mark and be done with it. According to Microhard chairman Leon ‘the other one’ Spinks, “spirits have never been better in the band”. The split was initially caused by the tensions which spilled over into the band while Freddie was under investigation for an alleged incident in which he was accused of having beaten up his yoga instructor. The tour follows the amazing success of the band’s last release, ‘AVATARS AND NICOTINE’.
The greatest danger of our vices is when we love the vice more than we love ourselves with it.
HE HAD NOTHING MORE
THAN A POETS CHANCE
WHEN HE CAME TO
JOIN THE DANCE
They say he drew
Blood with his quill
Until the curfew
Scattered the parking lots
I was dead still
Sat by the punchbowl
Looking for my pants…
It was so hot in Milano last week, I saw the devil quit his job and turn it over to the chief of the fire dept.
The real terrorists are the toads who would terrorize us into surrendering more power to them to terrorize us with. Brilliant, were it not so painful to the psyche and evil. Meanwhile, they golf in Dubai with some of the same ‘financiers’ bankrolling the ‘terrorists’. And at some point during the 18 th hole, they throw back their tanned and inebriated heads, and cackle loudly at how fucking gullible we are. THIS IS THE WORLD GAME, sponsored by Babylon. We little ‘national’ sheep are herded along like private game reserve roast, while the game programmers live all that we are not supposed to, all the while fucking each other’s wives, while lecturing you on morality and religion, and how to be a ‘better person’ and all of that bull. Meanwhile, they send out prophets to tell you that, in fact it has absolutely nothing to do with us, with government, IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT IF YOU ARE NOT HAPPY. If you lost your house, or money, don’t blame us, the blameless ‘we’, but look only to yourself, as everything in our fucked up society (get this) IS ALL DOWN TO YOU. Beware of false prophets. We are surely to take adult responsibility for our lives (if indeed our systems pay more than lip service to it), but this heathen nonsense that all is preordained was designed by Satan to make you lose your Christian warrior sensibility. Some factors are, but the truth and desires of your heart are not, and alter as does a fresh wind. The recent books, despite being quite well written, are not all there. They are being run on us now, as it was anticipated that the housing and bank crisis would shake up many, so some puerile pabulum was put together to ease the stress on the corporate thieves using these writers to brainwash us. Our government is systematically stealing our world, and shutting us out of it. WHILE I WALK THIS SIDE OF THE GRAVE- FAT CHANCE.
And endlessly bored with the state of non consciousness my ‘career’ was in, I wholeheartedly agreed to the Australians, that I would come there and be the ‘Christ figure’ in GODSPELL.
Having been quarantined from the public that spirit introduced me to, I would sit by the beach in Malibu and console myself that I had a place on the beach, if no longer an audience. That I was still free to compose all the songs I could while still being in possession of my relative faculties, and still dream my best dream and wait for my friend, fate. Having in Southwestern Middle school, in DeLand Florida, sang in chorus, Godspell, I was already well familiar with it, and knew the music by heart. It seemed fortuitous, that after having done some millennial concerts with the great group INXS, in Sydney for the opening of their Olympic stadium, that I were asked back by the promoters who wished to stage millennial performances of this old chestnut from my youth.
Having grown weary of executives and management who seemed more intent on racially profiling me than promoting my work, a trip to the stunning ‘down under’ felt like cool water to my thirsty heart (I have always loved Australia, but travelling there can take longer than many relationships). I was also proud of the Aussies that they were willing to break ‘traditional ranks’ and cast a mulatto as Christ. I thought to myself and my Lord, “Wow, I’ve always had a Christ complex, so this will be great!”. The plan was to go and rehearse in Sydney for a full month before the opening and as I recall Kylie Minogue was to be the Magdalene figure. With a full 2 months to go before I were due to abscond to the land of the counter clockwise spiral down the drain, I knew my role like the back of my hand. I would get up every morning early (my dirty little secret is that I am an early riser), go for a walk up the mountains, then come back to the beach and study my ass off. If they were going to let a ‘nigor’ play Christ, I was going to be as ready as they came. I would also chant and pray to Christ and ask him to help me not embarrass him. During that time, I felt closer to him.
With only the one day before leaving to go, bags mainly packed, came a call from the blue announcing that a dispute between the director (was to be an Englishman) and the producers couldn’t be resolved so the ‘shareholders’ pulled out. Piscean or not, I was gutted. My then excuse for management then asked in a manner, callous and cold which I’d grown used to, “What kind of dark cloud do you have hanging over you?” Later, I regretted not having been in full possession of my wit, or I might’ve replied: “YOU”. My instincts told me later that there were concerns from the usual Anglo sources that ‘HE MUSN’T GO DOWN THERE AND MOVE THEM (AND YOU KNOW HE WILL). In fact, I did hear from a well placed, empathetic contact that the Vatican were also not sure about the implications and through their endless network, placed some ‘kibosh’ on the situation. As well there were English concerns. C’est la Vie! (Somehow, where we are concerned, or any tangible black progress, England is always ‘concerned’). I was grateful and moved to have been asked, and I will never forget the forward progress it took to even be willing to conceive of a Palestinian looking man to play a figure who in truth would have looked a lot more like me than say, Dick Cheney. I confess to having always had a Christ complex, something about always being dragged along to church from the earliest of ages and made to drink from the cup of religion until I gagged, may have had a little something to do with it, but still, I have always felt close to him and his many names. I cannot tell you why. I have also always, from again, earliest memory assumed myself connected to ‘royal’ blood even though nothing at all in my past would indicate anything but having been born a poor nigger with a poor niggers chances. I paid dearly from both the blacks and whites for my ‘white blood’, so from where I would gather so ludicrous an idea escapes me. I can recall being certain that a mistake had been made and that I was meant to have been raised instead in a palace, which infuriated my step- father no end. Both assumptions have taken me a lot farther in this world than I would’ve gone otherwise. Hell, despite what amounts still to a ‘western Fatwa’ against our spirit and its way through the world, we almost got as far as being on stage, prepared and arrested, and playing the hell out of Christ. And though we may not see one another (my sense is that spirit wants me more in one place these days), in these upcoming turbulent and churning years, I will always regard Australian karma as having been upgraded, in having seen through the pain and bullshit and reached out to this battered Buddha. We will always regard you well and we give our word on this !
Having carried a ‘big sister’ fixation since from time, I was glad to have someone like Chrissy Hynde to hang out with and show me the ropes once having established my brand in Britain. I recall her having a boyfriend whom she called my solar twin because we were both born on the same day, same year 5 hours apart, he in London, me in New York, which are about 5 hours apart. His name was James, he was a young aristocrat, and a musician. He also like me, loved boxing, of which Chrissy may have been the even bigger fan. We would regularly get together at her house and watch boxing. She idolized Tyson and was also a big fan of the great Nigel Benn. Usually , if her two daughters were with their dad, me and James would smoke up, while the legendary Ms. Hynde would do something more domestic in preparation for the big fight. We pick up the point in the story where we remind you that the Ms. Hynde is a serious and longtime animal rights activist and vegetarian
(I am an animal too, what about my rights ?), and vocally so ( for the hard of hearing).
There was this lovely Italian restaurant around the bend from where I lived, whose beautiful matronly proprietor, Maria, would let me send a car and get food. I always returned the plates the next day, remembering to wash them first ! I had asked Chrissy if I could order some food, as I was hungry and didn’t want to bother ‘big sis’ with having to cook. Besides all rock chicks are domestic schizophrenics, so sometimes they cook, sometimes they throw a utensil at you for asking. Having received an affirmative, I waited for the food to arrive. Upon its arrival, rock legend and animal activist Hynde took the plate into the kitchen and laid it out better for a brother. While the 3 of us were sitting on the couch or floor watching intently the match, she looks up at me and asks: “ IS THAT CHICKEN YOU’RE EATING ?” Admittedly, my truth before God, I am a cheeky monkey at times, it goes with my nature, but would never have in a million years thought to deliberately order ‘Chicken Cacciatore’ just to piss off my hostess, though it is exactly what I did. Absentmindedly of course ( hunger can do that to a man). “Uh, uh, yeah….., it is”
( Cue the look of really sheepish grin spreading cautiously across my face), “ Uh, shit, sorry !’ A moment passed while she caught back up to the action in the ring. Then she looked at me and said as matter of factly as that: “ Alright, but if you tell anyone that you ate meat in my house, I’m going to have to kill you”. “ Cool, no worries”, as I safely resumed digging into my meal, not realizing at the time, just how close to my last supper that may have been, though the look that James gave me as I dug in, suggested, “ You are so my fucking hero right now!”
And then I became a ‘veggie’ for about 13 years, until it caught up to me.
…and for about 7 of those years, it were the remedy needed to propel my spirit experience to it’s next appointed level, then my body began to ask for change and I noticed that what had started as purely what I regarded as a ‘cleanse’, a ‘purification’, a ‘change of pace’, had crystallized into a kind of ersatz religious dogma. All of a sudden I were faced with militant veggies demanding I reconsider, as if my soul would be eternally damned for resuming a practice as old as cannibalism. I’d gone to ‘specialists’ to get ‘substitutes for meat protein but found that it were no help ultimately towards depressions experienced due to not enough of a certain kind of protein being available to the body in order to help it travail life stresses. Upon realizing that all of a sudden, I would be considered a traitor by certain militant professional vegetarians, I resumed eating meat, and within 3 days felt a renewed sense of energy and stability in the psyche which suffered the lack of meat in a man/warrior’s diet. I despise all dogma and came to realize that I had replaced the religious dogma of my youth with a dogma more suited to where my psyche was at the time. I had traded in one ‘Thou shalt not’, for another. I had taken off one pair of chains only to marry myself off to a more ‘trendy’ one. Successful animal husbandry does actually include the possibility that man is a carnivorous beast, and salads and beans alone do not suit the nature of all men. Types, blood included decide more these matters as well as deep seated issues of deserving. I am capable as another beast of God, loving a cow from both sides of the plate, the one I meditate with as he chews his cud, and the one I ask spirit to bless, right before right arming myself with the steak sauce, left arming myself with a knife. I deserve to eat whatever I can find, whether other often well meaning fascists hiding behind a ‘noble’ cause like it or not. We have no right to treat any animal in an inhumane way. Eating them is not inhumane. “ Yo, can I have some fries with this?” Any person who reasonably expects me to value ALL OF LIFE EQUALLY, is an idiot, an idealist, and a most dangerous person to know. I do value all of life. It’s just that I value my own far more passionately and selfishly than I could ever value a lamb’s. Even if I hold far more value for the lamb than the dumb ass mosquito, and more value for a child than a lamb, no matter how politically incorrect and ‘baaaaaad’ it makes me seem. I try to eat well, but we sniff at our food too much now, we have become people who debate about what to eat, while others are starving , who would eat anything !
Yes, cows are very sacred, from the milk all the way to the meat on the barbecued bone. I grew weak acting as something which ultimately I wasn’t. Sometimes I go through days on end without meat, especially red. And then there are times when it is the voice of God itself, I take it’s life into my own, and integrate COW into NOW. And we both live
Respects to the Spanish nation for winning the Euro Cup ’08 !
The ultimate tragedy of Oedipus was that he never managed to escape his mother’s spell, and a mother’s spell is a very tricky thing for a son to negotiate…… If his ambition has not her blessing, he will be pretty much forever walking into the wind. By the grace of fate, most strong fighters must learn how to see adverse winds as favourable, as strengthening, as the will of their Lord for their edification and education.
The spiritual antecedent for the Master Beethoven’s groundbreaking 5 th symphony can be found in the Mozart’s revelatory opera, commissioned by his enemies, ‘Don Giovanni’.
When I spoke earlier in these writings about Beethoven and sex, I actually meant to include the Triple Concerto op. 56, which if not mistaken I believe is in the key of C. ‘Classical’ music, another useless marketing distinction, is not just music to listen to while grandmother farts, but can remind the DNA structures of it’s own potential. Vibration is the law behind all of existence, and inspired, considered vibrations were how the Universe even came into being in the first place. So music is the creator of the Universe, and is still creating it. Under the influence of the right piece of music, two lovers may extend the dance, while including breathless intimations of immortality. Even the mighty Jehovah stops and swells with emotion when accosted by the music of the great master Bee, which is just as well, since he and Shiva were the main ‘sponsors’ of perhaps the baddest musician to ever walk the face of Earth ( when I do not feel that way about the Mozart, or the papa Bach, whose greatest innovation was bringing more of his ear’s understanding of complex African harmony and polyrhythms to the Western intellect. His integration of the music of the old and newer worlds were the revelation of it’s time, that and his jazz like understanding and embrace of improvisation. He were renowned in his time as a master keyboard player, he wasn’t recognized as perhaps THE composer, until about 100 years following his physical departure from Earth. It were actually the master Mendelssohn who took up the cause of Bach, rescuing him from the academics and giving him back to the people. Many churches refused Bach during his time as he was felt to be engaging in ‘strange polyphonies’ and the ‘Devil’s chords’. His improvising of standard hymns ( he was in many respects, modern Western histories first great ‘arranger’) saw him dismissed from employment many times and this a man who fathered a soccer team ( 12 or so children, and that is just the ones who survived !). He was also accused of being impertinent and ‘difficult’ as apparently, he listened to no one else’s musical ideas but his own, and was quick to take his matters of concern to the highest possible ear, as opposed to the most immediate. He simply knew who he was, and why he was and got on with it. Obscure or not, he died knowing that he had done the will of God, and was deeply loved by a whole bunch of his children. He gave a shit about the rest, which is why we all find him now unavoidable, and his offerings to his Lord and time, indispensable. Growing up where I did in the south, be they church musicians, classical or jazz, no one I knew did’nt have immense appreciation for him. His left hand alone ( guided by his absorption of African music), is still the foundational structure upon which our very idea of ‘bass’ comes from. God bless him and his, he was a seriously bad motherfucker, the father to us all. And no, classical musicians are not better than the rest of us, they are just led to believe they are, and most of them, without a dead man’s music in front of them and written out, are as lifeless as stones, when faced with the truth of most ‘pop’ music, which as elitists ( most of them), they feign to disdain. I am always surprised by the degree to which they cannot improvise ( or swing). They serve more as musical librarians/historians. It would do well for them to lose their superior attitude. Music is music.
Stevie Ray Vaughn was Hendrix’s true successor. However he was billed or marketed, upon his death he was the world’s greatest R&B musician. You could feel master Hendrix’s affection for maestro Vaughn, his sincerity and the brotherhood of freaks to which they were both card carrying members ( Vaughn felt as much an outcast of the whites as Jimi felt of the blacks, they both at the same time felt much bigger than race, and were). Both of these sterling soul stirrers are the grand master ALBERT KING’S . Let me just say this, Albert King is to post war music in almost all of it’s popular forms, what Bach is to the foundation of his era and beyond. Almost every great rock lick that didn’t come from Chuck Berry, was but a more amplified or sped up take on what the great grandmaster had already cooked up while his later successors were still learning how to roll weed. The master Stevie Ray told a story about sitting in with the King ( who along with his other ‘soul’ brothers B.B and Freddie, rewrote the post war vocabulary of guitar based music) when as an aging man, the King played a concert in the funky city of Austin Texas, a blues club sweltering with the heat and excitement of greatness, prominence . The master King agreed to allow the young gunslinger to share a song with him, and display his wares. Stevie says that in the middle of the most blinding solo he could conjure, weeks of work and sweat having gone into it, from the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Albert filing his fingernails down with a nail file, and with the relaxed look of a Cheshire cat about to open his mouth and find a squirming mouse. The master Ray said that it was then that he knew , that however promising he was, he would never be Albert, there would only ever be one Albert King. Ultimately my other favourite Jimmy, Page, is another greatly accomplished and realized disciple of the King’s. Yes, he was really all of that, and then some. !
If you can locate a copy of the master Albert at the Fillmore in San Fran, do so. Live, he was an even greater revelation.
Funny, this matter of ‘Virtues and Vices’. As it happens, after examination I have come to conclude that all told, my virtues have gotten me in far greater ‘Tsuris’ from the world, whereas my vices have pretty much saved me. One man’s virtue is often another man’s entry into theft, Identity theft most of all, and that theft particularly is the world’s most deadly. It is easier to replace a man outright than to replace his ordered mind, which once duly disturbed enough, is lost to the world of progress, to serene sensibility. It is now clear why thieves enlist morality to soften us up before robbing us blind, and we are ever watchful of new morality movements for this very cause. What helps balance our existence is as righteous as the next trap, what preaches against it, often does so with an agenda hidden between the verbs. I have come to embrace what others would judge to be my vices with the full passion of my right to exist as I am, whether or not I ever manage to comfortably sit within someone else’s social profile, which they can keep to themselves and shove back in their wallet. My vices are my virtues and my virtues now my vices. I would simply rather die, than live a lie.
…and under the tyranny of ‘concern for our health’ we are oppressed and robbed of our life. ( spirit will reclaim me when spirit is ready, if not the ‘surgeon general’.)
….but otherwise land of the free, home of the brave……
…and don’t forget Cassius King !
A real man doesn’t care if a woman is mad at him. He just cares if she’s wet.
Never preach against what you love, it always bites you in the end.
The economy follows the laws of order. Without it, it can be neither as stable or productive. Without it, it bounces, jiggles, staggers, falls.
As it beckons
Reckons it owes
Its viscous rebel truants
A shuffle in their drainpipes
Though rattled by their ruins
Corroded are the dandelions
Whose roar has slovenly wilted
Cheeses in the cupboard have
Gone from blue to stilted, my
Digestion surrenders to science
( it too seems in ruins), and
Slowly releases a ‘backflap’
Fart, to fluff up my affluence !
Chariot, come here and carry my stacks
Pegasus fell in war, he cried, I swear
The other soldiers died in packs, while
Marching out their backs. Letters were
Written, stamps were mailed, the cowards
That were found, beaten and jailed
Tweed candles burning as lamps
Traitors nailed, slammed against fire escapes
while trying to cover their tracks.
Our presentation of ‘ ORPHEUS IN GUANTANAMO’ will return shortly after these messages…
ARE YOU TIRED? THEN DON’T BE ! THAT SIMPLE ! HOW ? THE NO PILL! ( and no pill is better than this) !
ARE YOUR BOWELS STALE? RELAX YOURSELF, WE’VE GOT YOU ! TRY TURBO-LAX TODAY !
Tummy feeling unsettled ? Switch to STABILAX ! Why worry when you can be sure ! Be sure with STABILAX !
Want better gas mileage ? POUR IN A LITTLE ‘SUGAR-ADD’, AND GET THE SLUGGISH OUT ! ‘Sugar- add’ is Bio-friendly !
…and that concludes our messages for this portion of our entertainment program.
The curse of the moon in its own house is that no matter how far it goes, it still really never leaves home. Can there be a greater ‘curse’ ?
GUITARS WERE INSPIRED BY THE ANGELS TO COMBAT VAMPIRES, WITCHES AND DRAGONS ! TURN IT UP !
I am not musically gifted . I am musically ‘afflicted’ and you’d have to be a working musician to know the difference.
Witches don’t like me, which is how I prefer it. Why? because:
I SCREAM MYSELF HOARSE WHEN I’M RIDING MY PONY
AND THEY CALL ME ‘THE OWL’ WHEN I’M SPOTTING A PHONY.
A ROSE FROM THE GRAVE WHOSE DEAD TREMORS REMOVED
THE ASS FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE GROOVE, I’M BURIED IN MILAN
EAST SIDE FIRELIGHT THE CRYSTAL BALL CRACKS, ESCAPE FROM NIGOR ISLAND
The School of hard knocks had fewer big books, I repeated my courses due to the girls second looks ( and I had a teacher whose tits were always smiling) !Camel toes and sheepskins, give me my diploma, I graduated MAGNUM CUMS LOUDLY for the exuberance of my ‘boner’ !
Less fuming, more smoking !
PRIESTS WITH TOURETTES on the next Oprah !
I love language, words, but I miss pictograms ! Life was simpler and less ‘tricky’ with pictograms.
The closer a language is to the heart, the closer we are to the language of dreams, which become easier to manifest according to our desires.
By ALEXANDER VAGUE ! STARVE YOURSELF TO WEIGHT LOSS !
REMEMBER WHEN WE WERE ALL NAMED X?
If Dylan were it’s Rimbaud, then Smokey (of the Swiss Smokey Robinson’s), were it’s Apollonaire. It’s Verlaine were none less than Van Morrison. Who Jim Morrison was at present is not in my hat, but while most of his contemporaries made their fortunes the degree to which they could mimic Ray Charles, Van was both a poet and a soul man from day one. Sure he were influenced by others, even God is influenced by others, but instead of mimicry, he developed a true sound contemporaneous with time and place. Besides, thanks to Oliver Cromwell, there be a long and fertile resonance between the Celtic and African diasporan music forms. We have inherited some of their DNA through the music, and they some of ours. Moreover, he wrote great poetry to sing, not always as easy as it may sound. I’ve heard that he can be cantankerous. Poets should be.
He is also not given enough credit for his sheer musical ability as a musician and especially as an arranger of horns. He especially has a way with horns, as Gabriel’s boys often do. For my bells, he was THE great singer of his generation, and anyone’s equal as a songwriter. Had he not been Irish,
(and proudly so), they might have even promoted him more, embarrassed as they were by his wild genius and clarity of vision. For my bells, he is THE GREAT WHITE BLUES SINGER, as real as anyone. So the question was once posited by the heads during the 60’s, “Can white men sing the blues?” In fact, if I speak the truth, most cannot. But that has nothing at all to do with Van Morrison, who anyway isn’t white, but a stone cold ‘Nigor’ from day one, we who hide in every tribe which will contain us ( and hope that we do not get found out before we make a little money) !
For me, the experience I had with the American portion of the industry (despite its entrenched and heavy racism on both sides, a more political industry than anywhere else), was an exercise in futility. They assumed that their ‘squeezing’ of me would produce a compliant client, while I assumed that they had at least enough perspective to realize the difference between a rhinoceros and a giraffe. Evidently, to them it doesn’t matter, they both get surveilled. It were some sort of mind game whereby the premise was to refuse to acknowledge or encourage me as anything but a ‘singer’. There were daily efforts, some subtle, some raw, to dissuade me from my own sense of self and reason, and to discombobulate me as much psychologically as possible, so I’d just be a ‘singer as Manchurian candidate, desperate to be re-booted, and sent back out shiny and new to the world. I speak even from beyond the grave when I say that it felt often like CIA heaven, and some of the games, especially as I’ve now had a few years to digest, seemed ‘programmed’, and I felt ‘watched’ the whole time I were there, and came to realize that there were several ‘spies’ that were sent to me as lovers, all of whom at some point ‘broke down’ and left me with later clues to decipher. I am no fool and my history is littered with roadside detritus of those who assumed I were.
I came to know and see, most of all sense things in Los Angeles, during my 11 desert years there, as like a time spent in some sort of federal quarantine, I felt under a sort of house arrest. I found my every passionate idea fumbled, and me given a little patronizing talking to, as were I a fucking child. I berate myself now that I indulged these men and their caba