In turning beds

It seems okay, now, doesn't it? it seems like the sky has given us all a chance to remember that breathing is a subtle swollen thing worth trying every morning. every night. every afternoon shaking head, twisting organs blurred and envisioning nothing so much as soft skin and cigarettes wistfully breaking the ice into a cocktail shaker.

Margaritas, mamacita. the sunshine's stuttering. the dogs are in the surf and we're better off just watching the scene. letting the whole thing play, just for a moment (you know me. know there are only so many nothings i can let pass before the crazy comes in and i'm up and the shirtless, shouting fuck and running along the ocean races) before we kiss.

Again and again and again.

The hard perks of half dreaming.

Shed de Lantern.mp3


What becomes

Spin the death throe, baby. lash naked while you can. raw hand and frothing mouth at the mirror screaming guilt for the age you pissed away in dime store nicks and cum stains. sheets you keep as memories of faces you could fuck back when there was something of you to show before the ghost.

Frozen meat for crass young lovers to ride.

But now your bones bare through that swollen belly. those scars don't carry the same storied weight. there's nothing there but smiling concrete. shaved short cinderblocks as monuments to the names beneath your feet.

But hold fast, diamond.

No one ever dies so easy.



In stomach turns

We called him king by day. slurred something less subtle by the crook of those spent nights granting the turkey's nest a first and dead end enough times to know that laura's boob show would make us fine dandies so long as we didn't fuck with the pool table (scar faced barricua always watching, waiting for a challenge...chipped shit cue in hand, foam beer spilling on the floor) and we left exaggerated tips for the watered jamesons we'd already polished back at the driggs pad.

Even later, on the orange coach. cracking the whiskey dropouts. posing the menstrual nation fantasy pick (though that was gasperin's pipe, really. i just wanted in for the screaming and t-shirts). killing robots. lighting works and watching the cars go by as our spit and swill rained down the avenue undetected by the drunks who would sooner die than look up and chide us (it was copper they were after, then. a few bucks an ounce at the time).

It was a heroic name for surviving, zombie burns, arrests and all the complements of making it a point to salvage the flaming wreck before it crashed into the shore and the rats were forced to portland.

But it didn't go down. he didn't stay under.

So he retains the title.

Ugly in the Morning.mp3


Last night's waiting

You can play the hard card as long as your living. lift the mask and put the boots on (still rocking unfamiliar, unawares, unabashed and misspent as so much stuttered company). but when you get right down to the nitty there's a fucking footloose in every one of us.

Even tone deaf. even weighted. wallflower pasted to the madison scene where the ladies in their black pants and shined shirt shitheads glint their pearly teeth on their way to fabulous flashes you couldn't goddamn creak even if the place were a fiery wreck and you were the last palladium sage.

So what?

Sometimes you should be.

Dance, dance underpants as mitzi says with blue days going the way of the rest.

Hair fast flying as you spin to nonsense pop rocks just like you did when you were a kid glued to the late night phonograph, mom's brush fast in hand. round and round until the last hiss skipped off and joy kissed your curling bed.

Dance With Me.mp3


Life's curved, survives

We had dreams of punk rock chicks. black tattoos and cold, steel nipple rings. we were gonna be in the greatest band. the biggest fucking never was to ever fall off the radar of obscurity with nothing but a cheap fist of mix tapes to show our cousins' kids a thing or two about the family legacy.

We were gonna make the kids sing and slam their fists into the concrete abandon between them and their stalled futures. we were gonna start a riot.

At the very least, we'd cause a fight. maybe get thrown out of the club and scurry off with our sucker's advance of fifty bucks to blow on old crow and gold smokes and a dime bag or two for show in the morning.

Gratitude, i suppose. we didn't smoke much. certainly not so soon as we found carolina boots and decided our time would be better off led in lifts and zippers (easy fuck shoes, one of us opined a bit too early on to realize his girlfriend was a lesbian and he'd be the last to tackle that rung).

We wore our chucks, too. but never so hard. never so faithfully. never with such earnest belief that when it came time to revolution the sound of new young vehemance we would be ready to kick a head in.

Or ten.

And then they'd see...

Now i wear nikes.

These Two Boots Of Mine.mp3


The crash kicks

Love. love. love.

Sick and shivering. pink pills and all making their way through the bubbling last of this weekend system and all i can think is that there are times like forever to hold her and tell her all the fucking things i ever wanted to whisper into the sky. mark the night.

But i can't now. i'm battered. worn down the punk rock and wishing i could sleep already but the goddamn fast break isn't cutting it quick enough this time so i listen. over and over.

Knowing she's down there. the words already written somewhere like teenage notebook dreams.

Carved in arms and trees. stained ink.

Lifted our best.

And singing.

Does That Make Sense.mp3

Tide your opinion

He was our hero in his own weird way. that motherfucker who could stand the rabble. the wrecks. the hot sauce tampons in the hair going 80 on a connecticut highway. chugging along in his mom's station wagon while we lost our minds and i lost my pants and there weren't even the right drugs to speak of yet but shit yeah, johnny were we trying our good goddamndest.

And so he saw it all, through his madness.

Slowly amassing the man that would stand as a champion of net gains and the fucking arcane references that stump you in puzzles alone, hungover some saturday staring down the end of a hair dog bite and wishing you could remember who you said goodnight, irene, goodnight to...not that you were playing the patent male so much as you were disappearing into the joy of the evening and hoping there was no inappropriate behavior there left to speak of.

He was/is/fucking well ought to be male enough for us all.

And i love him.

Not just for the fifteen years he invested as the one motherfucker i knew well would always be my friend.

But because he always embraced his mistakes. held true to his decisions and even after long whiskeys lamenting the untold passings of others he could still wake up and stand the cold silhouette of manhattan.

And always FUCKING always shaped a future better for it.

Choices Made.mp3