Ticking seconds invented by men determined to provide context for their private little wars – occasionally reveal oddly specific details regarding sudden life changes – that desperately needed reprieve before things get out of hand. tick, tick, tick, Ted, Ted, Ted.
a man wants to sleep off the drink
and bust his ass till sundown
a man wants to win every board game
and a new girl on Tuesday
He wants the ocean behind brown eyes
a man is a leader of men
and a burden to society
a man is a creature of habit
and a camel chewing cud
He is forever becoming the other
a man does as he pleases
and does the dishes
a man does his own taxes
and does the deed
He does a fine job balancing pleasure with ambition
a man believes in humanity for awhile
and friendship as consolation
a man believes science is less corrupt
and fighting against strident voices
He believes in anything that punishes cruelty
a man needs a tiny waisted maid
and a drink of Irish whiskey
a man needs primitive rock n’ roll
and everything and then some more
He needs stillness to consider
how far he’s come
what else he needs to do
and the time he has left
to sit quietly in his study
Or scream in search of small gods
November 21st, 2016
Ventura, CA
If there were less space for the sun to break through
would you grant me a few minutes
to deliver overwrought sermons
about connections within the unified field
What if post traumatic handshakes gave us time
to gather a wooden stump
like a bent old man
having his last good sit
When I was alone
the visions of this night
were formless yet murmuring
tachycardic tremors
did I see you there
would you talk to me
can I go with you
did I do it right
Under the Orpheum I reached back to offer
johnny on the spot
a chance to step closer
and a chance to provide
Now under the banner of horizon
we distill each fading memory
as nothing in a work week work night
or everything on a catholic Sunday
April 18th, 2016
Los Angeles, CA
Sprinting down the hallway I jumped into my sister’s waiting arms just as General M.D. Shirinda’s jangly guitar riff melts into the kick drum on track three. Much to our parent’s varied amusement we performed this courtship ritual with gleeful aplomb. We were privy, after all, to what New Yorkers were up to a cinematographer’s party. No big deal. What we didn’t know was how much our spongey little brains were soaking up the otherworldly rhythms of Soweto street music. As a welcome respite from the overplayed Dino-Rock of Santa Barbara’s 99.9 and Teen-Beat of Oxnard’s 104.7 – Push It being the exception – Graceland was one of the few records my parents would spin with any frequency.
Part I.
A two-cylinder ATV rattles down a fire road as the Kid peeks behind his left shoulder to inspect the carcass shifting in the plastic utility trailer. Easing up on the throttle around the curves means safer acceleration on the straightaways. Although offering a broad dome of privacy the sky is only a peripheral afterthought as he concentrates on his destination.
Post-Game V:
As the drought nears a terminus with a heavy storm quenching some thirst
Epstein’s cult of personality ditch witches towards a city’s will to power
To decide if this rogue fraternity is counteracted by actual brotherhood
Is to suggest that the sacrifice of tradition to the headwinds of analysis
Might be reckoned with
Aware of the stillness vibrating behind their embrace of fatalism
CJ’s stuff while anorexic still descends to the base of Wrigleycow
Four rounds of nine yield to the stomach churning nothings
And the pendulum of confidence does blade the flesh of courage
Tonight of course signaling the shifting momentum
Back in July the underbelly was exposed to reveal bullish pent up anxiety
But the new god Chappy was acquired to blow through the Lastman’s wall
Now the savory release from sauerkraut and deep dish dreams of forgetting
The pain of over a century of hoping for something that despite being nothing
Actually does matter
Little boys spitting big league chew on seeds know not to step on chalk
As Kris was groomed for true life longevity despite the corporate whiff of the game
Most valued players express for men the heartache of acne scarred rejection
To throwing err on the side of instinct instead of the holistic approach
Head games with verve
Pre-Game VI:
Sitting among bleachers stretching a country mile with identical two eyed faces
Our Billy goat contracted Ricketts when the lion demanded he listen to a voice
Spawning a creature who broke down and wept as result of your indoctrination
Fielding a ball that pulls you back from the post haste financial complex
Is how they would describe it
When asked how to study correctly we were told to review the scouting report
Anticipating game seven Hendricks denies the Dragon’s scale of thou shalt be cerebral
But even the shadows of those who proselytize about how statistically we can prevail
Ignite the hope of victory as something even sweeter than we could have imagined
Shared ecstasy among the clan
Tonight our line up remains as if plucked from late September
May the Schwarbs be with you an arbitrary creation of a juiced Ruth in the making
Then again to embrace the spectacle as fact is to place bliss at the feet of ignorance
Wait till next years smell of fresh cut grass leveling the playing field
Between fairness and her cheating sins of ambition
Collective fatigue in the kingdom now reigns over the sweet boredom of summer classics
However loose Joe keeps it can he try not to suck away the priority of planning for joy
So many platitudes and clichés only deconstruct the faceless unoriginal athlete
By which a new appreciation springs forth to re-energize the purist fantasy
Held fast by Gehrig’s millennial sons
Post elimination Murphy’s law throw down Jaeger shots with Sandburg’s ghost
Ben decided it was cool for Mrs. Screams with delight to foster the requisite jealousy
For long time fellas miming along with muscle memory not only to catch but
To steal away the reserves of energy needed for a lifetime of celebration
To forget the work needed to move on to the next one
Post-Game VII:
So it’s here but what will happen since most of us exist as fair weathered folly
Removed from the spotlight unlike body by Jake as an effectively wild Overman
Digging for the daily courage to approach cautiously optimistic video reviews
About the chances of mildly corrupted secrecy to defeat coldly brazen brutality
For at least the next four years
Another marathon commissioned by the brass entreat their chattel to drink freely
Of the diet only fit for the 22-year-old baby faced but not yet baby man Russell
Eleven hurlers meant we were treated to advertisements only extinguishing
A semblance of the burning core from whence this game ignited real passions
Capable of delivering lasting peace
Instead of a tutor saying runs not points the student becomes his equal
To share in the vicarious Heyward bound pep talk to reckon with the emptiness
Now raining on a city bereft of curses encouraged by a mythology of rapists
Cruising Buell Avenue Joliet John smells sausage in the Polish backyards
Of working Slivovitz class heroes
Hours gone by yield to twittering parade accounts of varying detail and frequency
Machismo might inhibit the tribe but Javy’s iteration reconstructs the boorish camel
South siders don’t take comfort in their guaranteed rate but implore their neighbors
To remember the powdery graphite in Chiraq hover’s desperately despite
The Cubbies winning the World Series
Regrouping to remember those first moments of is this bliss happening stillness
We guess it doesn’t matter if Lester’s yips were brought in 9000 years too early
Only to have them materialize at the wrong plate at his adoring public’s dime
With so many wholesome blonde gals with flawless catholic skin willing to stand
By their prepster Highland Park Yo-Yos
Perhaps you had a friend named Rigo stop by to say it was a sure thing in the third
Only to need grampa Rossy bail him out of his left-footed lies of Montejo
Wisdom of middle aged men is still respected by t-shirt wearing adolescents
If only the talking head pundits so entrusted to give 40 million people the scoop
Would shut up like Scully
As unfortunate as fatigue directs energy to the sidelines instead of the finish line
At least we have Rizzo to shadowbox our spirits into something like motivation
For grievances long past should be forgiven on the spot of occurrence
Lest they fester for an eternity betrayed by the fact of the matter that
Five or six generations never witnessed the Transit of Venus either
When two vaguely defined pharmochemical corporations conspire against each other to out manufacture the antidote for telepathic self-immolation – you know you’ll have to pick sides. Infiltrating each other’s organizations with the most woefully psychotic crew of scientists and artists ever to grace the screen – you’re in for a bumpy night. Who will you pick? How will you celebrate?
Victims of emotional muggings have described the experience as though without warning a predatory force rips their current state of being out of their mind only to have it forged for indecent use and disposal. So the question arises. Why would Ty Segall after all these years treat his fans with such hatred? What new plague afflicts this elephant boy head? Has he found a time machine capable of inserting his once stable fetus back inside his poor mother’s now Zika infested womb?
Down on the street where the faces shine. Floatin’ around I’m a real low mind. See a pretty thing in a wall. See a pretty thing in a wall. In a wall. In a wall. In a wall. – The Stooges, Down on the Street
After 108 years of complete and total failure the Chicago Cubs from the great state of Illinois are a lock to win the World Series. This in a country favored by our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ of Nazareth have them at current Vegas odds of 11:4. Too bad there isn’t a bible verse that could’ve turned us on to these harbingers of “things to come.” Say maybe Revelation 11:4? That would’ve really sung. *
When the Cubs win, they will do so with an overall winning percentage of .664. After the final out, expect the crowd on Waveland avenue to lurch and sway like decadent children during Rage Against the Machine’s set at Woodstock 99′. In other words, it won’t be pretty and the black and whites will be called in to hose down the depraved. Unless Rahm happens to be saving them for a “special occasion” that night on the other side of town. After winning the pennant and despite suggestions from their sabermetrics department to “hold off on the steals and shift David Ross to left with Matt Szczur behind the plate,” coach Maddon will have white knuckled all the shots himself. He will not return in 2017.
Less than one month later Clinton 2 will be elected in a landslide 60-40 split over the occasionally righteous baby man of the apocalypse. She will have done so on a platform of neo-liberal establishment policies and her promise to re-open the X-Files. After her victory speech Mr. Burns will be reached for comment and declare to a doubting public that, “we bring you peace.” Hillary’s recent acknowledgment that the verbiage has been changed from UFO to UAO only confirms what so many of us have known all along. We. Cannot. Touch. Her.
On New Year’s Eve Day Dr. Grigory Rodchenkov of Sochi fame will reveal that he in fact was the mastermind behind the Cubs unprecedented success. His cocktail of one milliliter Chivas Regal to one milligram Ibogaine allowed these now fallen heroes uncommon recovery after grueling sets of high intensity circuit training mandated by Epstein and the boys upstairs. Sources will confirm that while Jebus wept the good doctor hiding out in his Silver Lake apartment made Borscht.
*Revelation 11:4 states, “these are the two olive trees and the two lampstands that stand before the Lord of the Earth. If anyone wants to harm them fire comes out of their mouth and devours their enemies. Like Ryu’s fireball scorched across a two-dimensional plane more victims shall perish despite abstinence of earthly perils.” Your correspondents are awash in prescient connections. Alas, the challenge of distillation remains insuperable in the wake of this horrible gibberish.
King Hell Highway 