Archive for June, 2011

June Blooms

June 24, 2011


why does my stomach sink on

the train, through overpasses

under the sun, all alone

why can’t I smile like the rest

of you, of them, of they who

don’t think to run when the tracks

quake. So I drink, and smoke hope,

compressed cold wild distressed

but not frowning, even face’d

straight through plastic pane rain drops,

primed to cut granite, limestone

the quarries fill beside me.


I Gulped; my mother smiled.

She was ecstatic. She was

singing your praises about

helping her out to the car.

I never lent my arm. I ran inside to cure a hangover.

But I saw her,

the beaming, steady widow,

down the driveway and into the streets,

within view of a bedroom window


alone while the doctor went to work.

So I smiled back at my mother

said That’s great, and

stepped outside to the front porch

for a sad cigarette,

where my best


could, and should, have been realized.


The Currency of Fuel: A Battle for Spiritual Redemption/Fuck the Audio Answering machine

June 16, 2011

Fuck television. Fuck culture pop rap obsession. Fuck your mental obssession with itself. Enjoy this quote and brief bangmasher rant/scatter plot essay I came up with coming down on blotter papers.

The real struggle of life and death is not between Democracy and Communism. It’s between Capitalism and Democracy. Capitalism is the most anti-human system we could come up with. Democracy says: Everyone has an inner worth that must be nonored. Capitalism says: Those who die with the most toys win.

Terrence Mckenna

Most days are fucking mind numbing. I believe fax machines are well disguised plastic soul vacuums, unflinchingly evacuating the spirit light out of any karmic creature, eternally in cahoots with Satan and his army of blue tinged computer screens . The work I do is petty and singular; the money I make feeds my animal habits. I cough up brown spit each morning for forty five minutes because I chain smoke myself to sleep each night. I am the American youth chasing his dream and eating his Cheerios gleefully, khaki pants pissed stained excited to greet the next day of paying tolls along the road towards the capitalist machine.  My smiles are cheap and vague until I get into the arms of a smooth naked woman; then they become robust and transparent.

It all comes out in the wash, though, especially in the local public house of ‘rip your eye’s out for well liquor’ when that smooth naked woman talks my ear off about her port side oar spot on the boat of some capitalist slave ship rowing down Lakeshore Drive and headed toward Broadway Bank and Trust. Beware: these fucking corporate mind-jellers are brilliant because like the hot girl, they detach people from themselves and create archipelago fantasy lands of obscurity for everyone to settle onto their own little planet of self delusion and spiritual desolation.

I am not the boyhood wunderkind forged from the ashes of a world war nor am I the go-getting industry tycoon set to put a price on every object in sight whether it breaths or not. My battles have no visible scars; only check marks separate the dead from the living. Digital age gangbangers confuse cyber police while I ride past suburban sober city traffic stops with my eyes bloodshot and headlights beaming high shoving bags of grass out of my glove box and into my sock. I am a criminal and an outcast, a hacker of the system, but I am not that different than the common man, the poor servants that buy into social structures based on magic stories and “super-ego” driven well-spoken philosophers.

*if the ego is a constant blockade to the truth, how can the super ego be any better?

Sunsets make me think about early morning sex and areola-hardening ice cold-ass rum and orange juice on the rocks. I loath greedy bastards and wouldn’t lose sleep if the entirety of bankers, brokers, venture capitalists, book keepers, entrepreneurs and money swindling piss-ants of the ‘tax the soul out of your neighbor’ paper market all took a Canadian swan dive into hell’s darkest abyss.

Good art can render tears in almost any company, but a close death in the family forces me to cry alone. Sometimes when I stand outside my porch and listen to Van Morrison or Roky Erickson in the rain I wonder where the hell all the soul in this world has gone to. My savior doesn’t need to raise anyone up from the dead; just make sure he can play a 6 string long into a cool Summer night and alleviate my star dusted thoughts from the was and the will be and right back to the now.

And that leads me to an important point. Entheogenic music isn’t dead, and that fact restores some of my faith in mankind. Music that transforms the inner ear into a Wendy’s frostee also has the ability to defuse the stress brought on from any noonday traffic jam on the way to the week’s fifth interview. Steady hands, steady feet. I remember my smiles discovering the Flaming Lips Clouds Taste Metallic  EP during my Christmastime Chicago L meanderings, solo-shooting and drudging through the end of a fall semester at DePaul and working part time in the Loop. From that well of Lips’ bliss sprung a gamut of artists, swinging from shoegaze to art pop, culminating in an experience with mushrooms and California beach bliss lo-fi. But it was the Dead (of course), that opened my eyes to why sunglasses and pot make perfect companions for drives early in the morning after sliding down a gin-fizz sieve the evening prior. Those perforated nights of booze slugging usually end up in a kind of mental rationalizing, the same kind that allows you to finish a twenty-two hour bitch’s brew run at the Kentucky Derby with a breakfast scotch on the rocks. And a bowl.

An aside..

When did we all start spending six hours a day on facebook? I resent church like a genital wart from a college visit weekend where I didn’t buy a condom, but compared to mentally masturbating over a semi-fat chick’s twenty fourth birthday party pictures it seems like a legitimate excuse to me. Facebook has just helped me rationalize organize religion. Wow. I’ll even say I’d rather see a religious movement take stride than witness the social network generation birth any more spiritually devoid shells with a People magazine homepage. The recent obsession over our fellow man’s every move and opinion and happy hour spot is depleting our consciousness of energy for any productive venture in reflection or concentration and transcendence. We have become sporadic Bonobos turned loose in a primate porno shop. Man’s collective mind has slipped and etiolated, a sloppy and erratic beast.

What happened to meaningful conversation between friends and compadres in the business of fun? Folks from the east coast like to knock on bonfires and I’ve even heard them referred to the ritual as “hillbilly,” but there is something to be said about an organic human experience not rooted in television or based out of a blacked out bar experience. I’m not saying I need to start a city suburban Shakespeare book club, but to hear some peer of mine offer a thought provoking life dilemma or engross me in some new album or art project they had come across would be invigorating and refreshing. What the fuck are we living for if the landscape of our minds has become a bland, bitter blind spot constantly extending towards the light of our periphery?

Listen to music, take drugs, make love, ask questions yet be still. Simple like a Greek tragedy.


June 7, 2011

There is something

happening between



someone else

something deep

something called hope,


you feel it?

It exists sacred

spaces of light

not between you and the television, or the cell phone or the bottle or the hammer and all the world’s slack


has to be open


Hope is a whispering first grader,

and you are loud


Impatient and pugnacious

Be still



A Quick Poem- #377

June 1, 2011

The last days were the hardest

A smile ever-ready to stow away a frown

There was no in between

It was end to end, pole to pole

Now seasons turn, they dance

And our final days become our first

Perception is the key to the puzzle

Lying cannot be replicated

Hurt replaced by fire

No more of the fun, no less of the laughs

just smoldering ashes of belief

Ancient Mission Statements still ring true

June 1, 2011

(written early 2010)

The dream doesn’t wait for us in the next band or alliteration heavy sub-genre moniker or obscure sub-printed publication; it stirs when man engages the space between his fellow man only with omega in mind. His own omega, a climaxic rush of oneness with all beings around him, can only manifest when we cease to see with our ego-splicing eyes and to abandon ancient paradigms that have themselves only become weapons for our aforementioned retinas. The systems in place need to come down. The things we teach our children need to radically change. Every television set needs to be deactivated and shot into space with the quarterly report waging CEOs and all their portly, viagara munching tennis partners.

Capitalism is in dire need of a transformation towards altruism, for if not surely it will serve as the mortician for man’s own funeral. Imagine if intelligent life could evolve for another million years? I believe our progeny would find themselves at a wheel of consciousness navigating some truly wild rides, and I think that is something to keep our shit ass species headed on a nobler course. Though the chips are undeniably stacked against this…

You reach a certain point where you have to stop hating your fellow man so you can stop hating yourself. One doesn’t come without the other; probably something to do with those dastardly mirror neurons. Being hyper critical of the twenty first century requires an intelligence level equivalent to that of playing tic tac toe, so it is necessary we don’t “wallow in the mire.” The imperative must be to engage the youth movement, the desperately aching to be a counterculture type, in an enlightening and realistic discourse about the potential for change. It can’t be a slash and burn political campaign propagated by measly celebrity profiles and catchy acronyms for make-believe social programs. Things like this take time, patience, and a damn inspired attitude. I think this scene is ripe for a change and all it needs is something to take refuge in amongst the nebulous and suffocating nature of Western culture.

In the afterbirth of post-modernity and the sickness of global markets mankind has lost its sense of relation. We social network alone for hours on end researching people we talk shit about with our friends. We happy hour at fancy bars and pay $9 a pint so someone can see us when they social network. Is this not fucked up?

Every good ship needs a sturdy anchor and every little boy or girl needs dear songs to hold true in their hearts until they gulp their last swoosh of air. Our generation needs an anthem and a vision, and if you will it, it will be. If everything goes to plan I think Steinbeck might finally get his due for In Dubious Battle.