RIDE HARVEY, RIDE!

HO, SWEET HO!

2010-12-20T18:46:00.017-05:00

Banner up again, friends. We've come to close another year.

And has it ever been a strange one.

But since it's late and you've all heard most (if not all) of the stories already, let's just cut it straight.

This year's mix is a two-parter. She works separately and as a two and a half hour whole. There are high points. There's some screaming. Some sadness and, somehow, some fun.

Titles, links (to Mediafire downloadable zip files) and tracklistings are below.

Questions/Issues/Comments...you know where to find me.

For the time being, feel the love.

Rudolph's Red Run
http://www.mediafire.com/?hx2ctt2x3stixc4

Jack Rose - White Mule II...America's flawed. She's fucked, in fact. But Goddamn is she still beautiful.

Curtis Mayfield - Pusherman...Providing the pimp to your stroll.

Liars - Scarecrows on a Killer Slant...I don't actually like this band. They suffer like fuck from an air of bored arrogance that makes me want to skin my teeth but there's something sinister about this warbled freakout that speaks to me. Perhaps it's the "AND THEN KILL 'EM ALL" shout. Perhaps it's time to get out of the house.

Faust - Chrome...Let's not pretend we actually listen to Faust. I mean, some folks must but they're just as likely to suffer the eternal debate between later early Neu! and later Can so they don't count for much. Was that rude? This song thuds.

Twin Sister - Lady Daydream...Remember 4AD? Remember how, for a time, everything they put out was beautiful and weird and smart and moody? Twin Sister do. They also give their records away for free.

Mystery of Two - Repeat It...Now the rock song. I think they're from Ohio which, for some reason, makes me very happy. Fuckentucky.

Mule - We Know You're Drunk...True grit and howl from a pack of savage recluses. Taste the sweat. Embrace the shame.

The Dicks - Hate the Police...Gary Floyd was a fat, openly gay man fronting a hardcore band in the 80s. In TEXAS! They've been covered by Mudhoney and the Jesus Lizard. Badaaasssssss.

Big Black - Cables (live)...Christmas isn't Christmas without Steve Albini.

JR Ewing - Pre Summertime Blues...I haven't shrieked nearly enough this year.

Kanye West - Runaway...Yeah, I don't know either.

Mimas - La Moustache...The best song on the second best album of the year. Last time Danny and Aimee were in town I made them sit, drunk, and listen to whole damn thing while I tried to sing along in broken English. I think they liked it. You should too.

Albatross - Surf Sisters...Deerhoof induces headaches. The Grates are over the bubble gum hill. Ponytail's dead. Take Albatross instead.

Pygmy Lush - Butch's Dream...Rambling half-folk from the less addled arm of Pg. 99. I fear you may have heard this already. I'm just remembering it again.

Caethua - Sons of Hounds...Sometimes soft, odd and pretty.

Cobra Killer - Mr. Chang...Franco-Germanic off sex dance pop. I like this one a lot. I also have a crush on Reverend Jen.

Bars of Gold - Heaven Has a Heater...Sometimes bands surprise you. Sometimes bands surprise themselves. At the best of times, everyone walks away in awe of what a transcendent thing music can be.

Crocodiles - Mirrors...Everyone wants to be the Jesus and Mary Chain these days. Crocodiles certainly do. However, unlike those pasty British shits it sounds like Crocodiles might actually like you. Crocodiles.

Frosty's Long Coal
http://www.mediafire.com/?q8enl4eq97tb4w6

1994! - Shut Up the Fuck Up...YES! I'm not sure why it took this long to get to the good time freakout but fuck it. This day is done. Our teeth are pretty. Let's forge some light ahead.

Castevet - Narrow Hallways...The best album of the year. Not, perhaps, the most inventive. Not the most profound. This is the one that gets it and this song reflects it well. Music is the matter that makes us.

Melvins - The Water Glass...You got a problem with this, I got a problem with you.

Otis Redding - Try a Little Tenderness (London)...If you listen to this version of this song every day for the rest of your life you will be perfect.

Fang Island - Daisy...WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

Bark Psychosis - Murder City...AAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!

13th Floor Elevators - You're Gonna Miss Me...Crazy man, crazy. Crazy, man crazy? Oh, Roky. I don't know about you.

Slang Chickens - Parasited Out...Ben found these kids at SXSW. Dirt-caked surf country. Rolls off the speakers like a beer can kitten.

Steelpole Bathtub - The Seventh Hour of the Seventh Day...This is the closest thing to a Christmas song on here. Hear that? Those are bells. You're welcome.

Fucked Up - Black Albino Bones...I spent twenty minutes at a bar with Greg, Jeff and Shaun trying to figure out what the fuck this song was. It's Fucked Up. People LOVE them. They're Canadian. He's fat and there's a chick in the band. Art.

Omar Khorshid - Sidi Mansour...I spend a LOT of late nights sitting alone in front of a computer. One night I was thinking of Link Wray. I ended up listening to this.

Les Savy Fav - Excess Energies...A number of years ago I decided I was sick and tired of Tim Harrington's shit. A few months ago Les Savy Fav put out a fantastic record. I'm still not sure I forgive him.

Chinese Stars - Kill Me with Conversation...Arab on Radar were a band for people to hate themselves. Six Finger Satellite were so good Shellac named a record in their honor. Together (mostly) they're the hella wrong time party.

D.I. - Youth in Asia...Now you know what D.I. sounds like.

This Moment in Black History - MFA...I think this band would kick the ever-living shit out of you and me and Santa Claus if they had to or wanted to or just FUCKIN CUZ!

Future Islands - Long Flight...This band makes my heart hurt.

Candy Skins - Wembley...Everyone loves Pulp. Everyone loves Blur. Everyone loved Suede. BUT NO ONE GIVES TWO FUCKS FOR CANDY SKINS. Sure the record is forgettable (and, unfortunately, named "Fun") but this song is as fantastic as it was when I lived on cassingles.

Okkervil River - Pop Lie...I have a lot of Okkervil River for some reason. I find most of it insufferable. This song is cynical sure, but let's shimmy anyway.

Past Lives - Paralyzer...She always comes out of nowhere but when she does, we're better.

MWAH!

The Ass Has It

2010-01-13T20:39:00.007-05:00

Slow in the making these ones. long on the love. drabbest day of the year so far so why the fuck not get it together to share. actual, in the flesh, motherfuckers coming when the day breaks on a cleaner brain.

Cover Your Shame
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=MCFTWEGC

Nomeansno - Forward to Death (Dead Kennedys)...prove proud that a capella is not solely for the creeps, the high school theater dweebs and the precious, assholish.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - All Tomorrow's Parties (the Velvet Underground)...you've heard it. here it is again. fucking amazing.

Some Girls - Release the Bats (the Birthday Party)...is this sequence cheating? nick cave is nick cave is nick cave? fuck it. a one armed man and four talented maniacs laying waste to the australians.

The Blood Brothers - Under Pressure (Queen)...in my scatterbrained, screaming opinion one of the most inspired and glorious covers ever set to wax. WAA-WAAAA-WAAAAAAAAA-WWAAAAAUUUGGGHHHHH!!!!!

Crooked Fingers - When U Were Mine (Prince)...who knew the lavender kid's sexual reflections could have such a mournful tone. beautiful.

Butthole Surfers - Hurdy Gurdy Man (Donovan)...i still find this song kinda terrifying.

Coalesce - Whole Lotta Love (Led Zeppelin)...i didn't give two shits for led zeppelin until i heard coalesce's monstrous homage 'there is nothing new under the sun'. now i hate robert plant.

Shellac - '95 Jailbreak (AC/DC)...what doesn't steve albini make better? arguably todd trainer is the real rescue on this one with his blousy propulsions but that squeal would've made bon smile, all right. FREEDOM!

Song of Zarathustra - Tame (Pixies)...like every good white collegiate i took in way too much pixies way too early on and now i sing them unintentionally. never want to listen to them. soz always makes me reconsider. also, the guitar player from the hold steady is in this band which is pretty fucking rad.

Fudge Tunnel - Lowdown (Wire)...badass.

Mighty Caesars - 1977 (the Clash)...joe strummer at the bottom of a genny cream can. the only band that matters, they say come out of some motherfucking amrep act. rad.

The Afghan Whigs - Mr. Superlove (the Ass Ponys)...no one gives a crap about the ass ponys other than the afghan whigs, it seems which makes perfect sense. they're wimpy and fat. but this version of their track is epic and earnest as they go. don't seek out the original.

Cult of Youth - Today Your Love, Tomorrow the World (Ramones)...my favorite ramones song through a neofolk (a genre most famously populate by a pair of gay nazis) acoustic act. i should hate this but it's actually fucking brilliant.

Slayer - Filler/I Don't Wanna Hear It (Minor Threat)...it's fucking slayer fucking covering two fucking songs by minor threat. what the fuck did you expect?

Superchunk - Girl U Want (Devo)...i could listen to superchunk play the goddamn phonebook. thankfull, i don't have to because they'd rather shred devo.

Naked City - James Bond Theme (John Barry & Orchestra)...best thing ever created by a man named barry. john zorn knew that. that's why this song exists.

Dead Horse - Rock Lobster (the B-52s)...southern fried metal men enjoying one of the most indescribably wonderful songs ever recorded.

Leatherface - Message in a Bottle (the Police)...punk rock joe LOVES this band. i don't. i've tried. fuck them. dude sounds like he needs a halls so bad it makes me want to brush my lungs. but everyone likes this police song. so there.

Rocket from the Crypt - This Way Out (Wall of Voodoo)...i never once thought wall of voodoo was tough. clearly, i was wrong.

Cosmic Psychos - Some Girls (Racey?)...who the fuck is racey? evidently barry manilow covered this song as well. fuck him. this song rules.

Willie Nelson - Time After Time (Cyndi Lauper)...this is a beautiful song that only gets better with that frail pigtailed farmboy making it his own.

Jack Norton - Naked in the Afternoon (Jandek)...jandek songs are distant and horrifying. he is a thin, ragged man living in texas under an overwhelming cloud of obscurity. his ouevre is all but unlistenable but it lends to a loving tunefulness. once more, the original is not recommended unless you hate yourself.

Guitar Wolf - Summertime Blues (Eddie Cochran)...ENGRISH SUPERFIRE AWESOME ROCK POWER FOREVER!

Los Campesinos! - Frontwards (Pavement)...pavement are the shitty beatles. done and done. too smart for their own fucking good. boring as sin live but hot damn could they form an accidental hook time and time again.

Shame You're Covered
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=H7ZGI0Y1

Harvey Milk - We Destroy the Family (Fear)...who knew you needed more fear in your life, right? i know. i know. i was surprised too but now i have to go punch strangers on the subway.

The Jesus Lizard - Wheelchair Epidemic (the Dicks)...if only every song were performed by david yow.

Crime - Hot Wire My Heart (Sonic Youth)...grumpy san frannies pissing all on new york trash art education. this whole damn song sounds like it's about to fall apart. makes sense when you're playing junkie.

D.I. - Ballroom Blitz (Sweet)...you know, like tia carrera did in wayne's world but, because this is a punk band in the 80s there's a reagan reference thrown in. why not? dig the air drumming.

The Walkmen - Tonight Will Be Fine (Leonard Cohen)...the best goddamn thing about new york playing you're man. i don't know much leonard cohen. that's a sin.

Archers of Loaf - Funnelhead (Treepeople)...did you know that the jerkoff guitar god of built to spill was in another band before everyone started pretending they loved eight minute jams? well, he was. this is one of their songs by carolina's finest sons.

The Geraldine Fibbers - Yoo Doo Right (Can)...who the FUCK covers a can song?

The Horrors - Jack the Ripper (Gruesomes)...moody english kids gnarling brooding english atrocities. love it or lose a kidney.

Brutal Truth - Zodiac (Melvins)...you can see the geraldine fibbers track for audacity but the grind'we'remorethanametalband'core stalwarts do decent damage to this buried melvins track.

L7 - Bloodstains (Agent Orange)...the longer the academy's closed the more i think l7 weren't really all that great. but they were loud and i was terrified and this is the only agent orange song i know. so, yeah.

Black Flag - Louie, Louie (the Kingsmen)...i heard recently that the kingsmen finally settled their obscenity case and reaped a good fifty years of royalties off this track. good for fucking them. and good on black flag for having brief glimpses of party in their otherwise dead eyed strains.

Big Black - He's a Whore (Cheap Trick)...the last song on the last big black record (cd, actually). kinda like an astro pop at the end of a dustbroom gangbang. tasty as hell but...oh...so...cold.

Sonic Youth - Touch Me, I'm Sick (Mudhoney)...i think every band should cover this, at least once. also, it's nice to hear sonic youth play in average tuning. i think. fucking lee renaldo.

Flying Saucer Attack - The Drowners (Suede)...before they added london to their name they were off prancing pretty bisexuality. i was hooked. then i sucked i dick. now i'm straight. good song though. this version's all noise.

Das Oath - Why Don't You Get a Job (The Offspring)...no shit.

Entombed - Scottish Hell (Dead Horse)...satan kissed my dog. metal.

Birdland - Rock and Roll Nigger (Patti Smith)...for john burger. i really enjoy mouthing this song on that ass machine all the skinny bitches use at the gym. one day, that will get my ass handed to me. at least, it'll look good.

The Get Up Kids - Burned Bridges (Coalesce)...for melissa. this is an interpretation of a coalesce song called 'harvest of maturity'. less balls. more noodling. talented fuckers these bands. it's really nice to finally hear what sean ingram was vomiting even if it is a little fey.

The Wedding Present - Red Shoes by the Drugstore (Tom Waits)...the most adult track on this goddamn list. i like it. i wish there were a broke teen dancing for my amusement.

Megadeth - I Ain't Superstitious (Howlin' Wolf)...when i was a kid this was one of my favorite megadeth songs. now, i have none.

The Muffs - Rock and Roll Girl (the Beat)...kim shattuck makes everything better.

Screeching Weasel - Runaway (Del Shannon)...remember that cop show dennis farina was in way the fuck back when? that show was awesome.

Face to Face - Bikeage (the Descendants)...i've kissed girls who have never heard the descendants. i have made mistakes. best. punk. song. ever.

Pussy Galore - Damaged II (Black Flag)...you have no idea how rad i feel for having remembered, sought and found this fucking sub pop single. not the real one. i have beer to buy. but shit...pussy galore. you've given me so much in my time on this earth. godspeed you and your hate fuck.

Motorhead featuring Wendy O. Williams - Stand by Your Man (Tammy Wynette)...fuck elton john and kiki dee. this is a duet for the ages.

Thrones - A Quick One (the Who)...one man and an eight track turn an epic on two minutes. i miss the third act of the original but the whoooos in this are fucking fantastic.

Babes in Toyland - Watching Girl (Shonen Knife)...fun. fun. fun. kat bjelland has it for once in her fucking life. i wonder how she's doing now. not really. i never liked this band. i wanted to because the mean girls in high school did, but really. grrrrls never did it for me. but playing lovely little japanese...well, that changes everything.

Rock it.

Merry Motherfucker

2010-01-04T22:49:00.005-05:00

It's hard to say it wasn't all bad, but it wasn't. there was love. great love. written in history before man and god and those, adored meddling somewhere in between. there was hope painted on the lips of every young american as a revolutionary cry after a time of, perhaps, our darkest cultural relevance. there was still beauty in our auburn nights. there were kisses. there were kicks. there were drop dead dog fights for reason and being that made us richer for the stumbling nuances of victory.

But goddamn if there weren't some glorious defeats. some hearts spent reeling. wishes returned in tatters. goldberg disasters croaking 'if only' on the dusty shores of california.

Fuck.

But this is a new chance. a new role. a golden store for the bastard moments of yesterday.

And this just might be a soundtrack, if we're lucky. there's not much screaming. there's not much melee. there's just some songs, in loving order. for you. from me with every crack of my best intentions.

(megaupload link is below)

ENJOY!

Merry Motherfucker

1. Action Patrol - Tube...it's too early, today to smash the state and most of us are too long in the tooth but that doesn't mean there isn't some spite in us left to grab a brick from the cairn and start an earthquake.

2. Braid - Killing a Camera...westley was right. sometimes, i am every ounce my father's son.

3. Japandroids - Wet Hair...fucking high fives for everybody.

4. Abe Vigoda - House...this is the sound of kids trying to sound like the kids they weren't cool enough to smoke dope with.

5. Ida Maria - Oh my God...every good time needs a rasping pop sensation. sean taught me about this one. this song got me a hairy eyeball in vegas because it's better suited for a gym than any aged decadence. i fucking love it.

6. Los Campesinos! - We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed...the last time i saw new york dance with dumb abandon. the last time i kissed frantically, sweaty, hopeful at a gig. the last time i couldn't fucking stop smiling for a fucking hour and a half was at the valentine's day los campesinos! gig. it took william t. vollman to teach me what their name means. i am a geek.

7. Oceans - Boy Detective...just believe me, starry eyes. the world is wide and beautiful. your chance is endless.

8. La Dispute - Only Everything Below...but sometimes it still comes crashing down. let it. let the fire sink his teeth into all the monuments you keep. you'll find grace in the phoenix, yet.

9. Future of the Left - Arming Eritrea...you'll find anger. you'll find rage. real and human as the day you tore free from the womb and roared with new purpose.

10. Castevet - Plays One on TV...perhaps my favorite song of last year. i still haven't figured out what the fuck the words are but that can't stop me from singing.

11. Pere Ubu - Non-Alignment Pact...does anyone who isn't a dj actually like this band? fuck dub housing. this song is a party for the last of those glory days you totally missed.

12. Obits - Fake Kinkade...rock and roll is forever bettered by the pinched nerve of rick froeberg.

13. Surfer Blood - Swim...stumbled on this the night before i turned 31. the next day was spent in cold sweats, vomit and wonder at what the fuck happened to my copy of 'here come the warm jets'.

14. Timber - Thorn City...this is a fuckin' UHN! song. not a forceful one. no gut punches. no falling down the stairs. just a whole lot of meaning it scratched into a seven inch once complete with a singalong about taking time off.

15. Mimas - Mac, Get Your Gear...music for adults with questionable english that transforms completely into a mile wide shout. smiles abound, man. horns. clean as a whistle and a thousand times resounding.

16. Locust Toybox - Public Enemy's Rebel w/o a Pause (remix)...someone should probably kick my ass for including this neutering of chuck d. but shit, it's pretty. kinda fun, even. sometimes, it's all right to nap in a hammock while the revolution is being televised.

17. The Mae Shi - The Melody...this song is a nerd alert if ever there was one. bleeps. tweedles. shrill and warbles. judeochristian references. it's what i would compose if my blood were made of red wires and guided by ms dos.

18. Lanterns - Midnight Psalms (Alright!)...if my life sounded like this, i could die just fine.

19. Cold Cave - Life Magazine...fuck the cold wave movement. ian curtis is dead and ferris bueller only listened to cabaret voltaire to impress cameron. this song was just in a radio shack commercial which is rad for a sullen band whose driving force only has one hand.

20. The Beatings - Youth Crimes...perhaps the best band you've never heard of and will probably give two shits about after this (ever the optimist, me) but the beatings are perhaps the last band to play the kind of music that had you glued to college radio when you were in high school.

21. Pissed Jeans - False Jesii Part 2...GodDAMN! do i miss amphetamine reptile records. it took too long for me to catch on but now that midwestern pigfucking dream speaks to me in ways of which i should probably be ashamed. these cats are on sub pop which means shannon selberg can shit their bravado in his sleep but this track is fucking amazing.

22. Danananakroyd - Black Wax...ending on the note that revived my faith this year. simple, young, fun. there's more to life than david lee roth's balloon show, i know but sometimes i just don't feel like thinking about that. i just want to be good and loud and free. i want to be epic. perfect in the light.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=U6NOSEIP

XOXO

Rock it.

Act on fame

2009-11-18T20:54:00.005-05:00

There's a difference between distance and obscurity. a long howling trip. a beat. a blip. a scattering of ash between you and me and the ones we called our lovers back before we were safe and whole in our noise. in our nuances. tics and stutters. dancing in the rain of bats from the attic. from the walls. from the cracks in the corners where we stowed our bones waiting for the right moment.

Stolen, alone.

To shine our regrets. to air all our grievances. to make mountains cower at the men we'd slewn in secret just for fun.

Not as savages. not this time, at least.

As welcome waters for the crickets to come and wash our feet clean of the cobwebs. the shit. the dreams, wrought and webbed and weighed down by all the company that kept us cowardly and free.

The hours, irrelevant. days bleak as machines.

Rusty autumns.

Homes.

That weren't ours. that didn't cede and so we caved accordingly to the idea that we'd arrived somewhere. that we'd been taken in, adored. that every poignant part was now. here. that ambitions laid on different shores unheralded. scheming well beyond our reach.

So we burned our fury. killed the caw to complete the bliss.

Seeming endless.

But tonight, we ring.

Out into the halls.

The privilege. the pain. the indignity of this city ours to claim in every fiber of our rise. up, merciless. against the sun. from hallowed shadows. the burden of security.

Take what is ours in defiance.

In all that could have been.

And make it electric.

Make it epic.

Perfect as sin.

His Most Famous Act.mp3

Forget

2009-07-21T23:08:00.004-04:00

3.

My deeds are carried on

the backs of old crows as warm

winters welcome me home.

4.

She sees me today

as a ghost whose hungry arms

could hold her once more.

5.

All of my pages

left under used cigarettes

are yours to believe.

Boy Detective.mp3

Flowers

2009-07-21T21:18:00.008-04:00

1.

Beside the bones shape

unwelcome roads in dust foiled

by the western shore.

2.

I was beautiful

once and i would be again

if only you'd known.

First Perennial Fall.mp3

Bring tomorrow

2009-07-11T19:45:00.004-04:00

Some thin boy shaking pale fists in the rain. blonde hair stains his face and he's staring at his mother's window. naked. breathing in her bed. a window crack. curtains thin and tatter.

He sees everything.

Bruised fingerprints on her left breast. semen cakes her neck. her lips apart. half drunk. half sleeping. she mutters something at the shadows. a name. a prayer.

It doesn't matter.

In her eyes, yellow. ember. ash. a dead iris shivering by the box fan. ice opens in an empty glass.

He doesn't blame her.

Men stumble through the living room. hard tiptoes shake the floor. trying not to make a sound. leave a mark.

They learn to lock the door.

There's a stain between her legs. spreading blood. sweat. memories for the moment before the morning.

She's in the kitchen choking. her coffee's sweet and cold.

He wants to tell her she's the most beautiful woman in the world. wants to her to believe she is adored. kiss her hard like heroes do before the sunset and ride off to welcome ghosts.

Just love him.

If I Had A Heart.mp3

Next to hope

2009-07-02T01:18:00.004-04:00

Maybe if i were younger. if i were bitter. if i wore the tattoos of a criminal and the scars of illicit season. if i were thin and drawn and my words came out in stereo screams, lackluster and pleading for isolation. understanding. unadultered as the light that shines at the heart of the abyss (you'll see, i'd say. you'll count your failures in the end and i'll be laughing again like i did before my dad left [or was my mother bleeding (or was it me the whole time drawing circles in the sand waiting for someone to catch my precious little meaningless, meaningless message and say he's a genius. he's a prophet. he's a monster better left to die unmentioned again except by children huddled by the ghost fires, crying]) because it looks back. we all know that).

If i didn't lead the night past that last good idea telling you all about bruce springsteen who i never liked until the time i saw him once with danny and i wept when he left to get more beer. if i didn't want you to sing along to every guitar. if i didn't want you to love something as desperately as i have. as i do. as i will until the day my unkept fingers are pried from a folded photograph. two lovers stunned. kissing. mugging. howls from under the wonder wheel.

Maybe then you'd listen. maybe you'd give a shit. maybe i'd be the vogue that sneaks bumps to a midget in the back of the bar with a necktie drawn on his t-shirt and a habit grown just to kick and fatten later to a fistful of all the right accolades i'd memorialize in sanskrit on the nape of my neck.

But then i'd be a joke. i'd be a product of the grist that kills our soft young kings.

And i just can't.

I am a man of reckless invention. i am mistakes and i am shame. i am restless nights and chicken legs and i am happy when you ask me. i am. even if i sneer or stutter or slur what i am trying to say. even if it's all fog and delusions. even if it's purple, borrowed, abused. it is earnest. it is true.

And it's imperfect, all right.

It is mine.

Fireworks.mp3

Lot betters

2009-04-26T04:49:00.001-04:00

Oh, and how we've fallen the fuck apart lately. stinking. foul and fucking forgetting what it is that fueled the maudlin exit. sorrow. pity. prize and i'm a mess but still presented with the chance to scribble half articulate while they're all sleeping.

So here.

So harried.

So half naked spit glass window on the world. the girls said yes, man. the booze said no. the next step was simple enough but here we are instead of floundering the rite of passage.

Sleep it off, men.

Dream well and soon you won't remember that if you'd only granted yourself the chance you would have done something better than your kids and kin because you wanted new york city and i gave it to you. piece and naked. meals carried.

The cacophony saved for the morning.

The principles dead on the stage.

Impunity Rules By Forty Percent.mp3

Quarter fills silver

2009-02-04T21:20:00.004-05:00

I will but whisper into this good evening. cold and distant as the sea. i will touch my skin and wonder what it is i'm doing here. what reasoning is left in mortality when so many better men have left and leaving us with nothing but spit. stained knuckles. crooked necks still tracing the ceiling.

I will drink myself past the merriment of our shared disasters into the beauty of unconscionable sleep where i see us paper pulsed to time the seventeen year sin again only in this play we erase the name together. we burn the likeness like a sun just long enough to illuminate the stars. to offer life. to proffer insignificance to the unfaithful.

He would be proud.

He might even cry were he given the chance before he was written into some other story. some other night.

Red coat down in the rain, chasing the steps down st. mark's place. where so many once like us. once like each other. tired and terrified of who might one day be left to remember their empire of gorgeous and ignoble suffering. shouted into storefronts that the would not be ignored. bought and sold. slaves to the great green machine called american endless and anything, anywhere always. forever. amen.

But he wouldn't.

He'd just say...

Well, he wouldn't say anything.

Mistaken For Strangers.mp3

Nothing there

2009-01-05T21:36:00.003-05:00

And maybe i am looking for a fight now. maybe this whole day after day after fucking day of choking back the panic come from being alive in a city where acquaintances are less reliable than abscesses that don't pain you so much as keep you constantly aware that they're just there aren't they? just existing. just spitting puss and waiting for the white hot hour you lose your shit and tear them out with whiskey antiseptic and a glaring disregard for the long, aching days ahead.

But that could just be more posturing.

Sure i could use a slug. a knock. a head kicked in.

But that won't accomplish anything.

Though i am born (at times) of a set that believes nothing ever resonates quite so deeply in the heart of a man as a punch to the face some people just don't know how to listen.

They're safety net's too grim.

So what then?

Just let their judy time and understand, somewhere in your warm and gnashing heart that their only cup is cracked and spilling blood all over their panty waists.

So one day, it will be empty.

And the cowardly city won't cry.

Freak Out.mp3

Won't hurry chimneys

2008-12-25T00:32:00.011-05:00

Looks like my nails are rusty again, now babeez, so you'll forgive me if the sentiment doesn't run quite as dry as we'd like when you consider the cat's been crying this long and it doesn't look like he'll abate until he matches weights with charles atlas (the rockefeller way).

Still shit, it is. and the horrorshow's still a creep we couldn't escape unless we gave up on this whole blue age and then what the hell would we have to inform the curious space between olive stories?

There's fucking, i guess. but good men rarely prosper and better women would rather be sleeping than hear another one about the time under the table at friendly's. spilling coffee and trying to imagine what it would be like one day on the highway.

So, really, the meat pie's as lovely if not better than ever. the tree's all night. and the warmth of tired eyes reminds us all that everything, in spite of the fire, is going to be just fine.

It's fucking christmas time.

a Swipe at Snow Angels

via Megaupload
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=LRHAPP9O

Los Campesinos! - Broken Hearts Sound Like Breakbeats...and so they're dancing, if for a time.

Neutral Milk Hotel - Ghost...drunk on holy water and the mysteries of being the boy trapped in an attic with a shadow of her dangling the window frame between.

Coalesce - Out on the Tiles...borrowed. stolen. whatever history feels more compelled to repeat in the nefarious room where it kicks the machine as long as it takes to get the rites.

Deerhoof - Dummy Discards a Heart...written on a wing and gone again without direction. she sings them anyway.

the Hold Steady - Constructive...like the psalms when he was young and in love with the hope of great white walls and his father's favorite t-shirt.

Titus Andronicus - Fear and Loathing in Mahwah, NJ...it's not that she cared. not in the usual sense of loving that gets confused with crooked fingerprints. she just didn't know how to share.

Have a Nice Life - the Big Gloom...and so he was released. one of them had to be. and he'd grown wide enough for the hours to consume him.

DC Snipers - All Humans Are Garbage...she giggled. he noticed. his legs were weak and his arms still too small to take it all.

the Cramps - New Kind of Kick...his mouth stayed open and pressed to the glass. she could've granted him anything.

Rocket from the Crypt - Boychucker...the rumbling just wouldn't end.

the Heroine Sheiks - Cock Asia...pangs from the basement. frustration at the fucking hundred left to get right before grazing a stitch.

Archers of Loaf - Vocal Shrapnel..."it doesn't matter what he remembers. only that he was there."

the Blood Brothers - Huge Gold AK-47s..."i only care that someone will before they've taken everything."

Pussy Galore - Alright..."SOMEONE MUST GIVE A SHIT!"

the Soft Boys - I Wanna Destroy You...she would've too. dropped the act and let him have it all but she was made for different bones.

the Grates - Silence is Golden...he would've gone mad. gladly. fingers on the mean that makes us perfect by the image.

Hot Snakes - Reflex...Red-faced and bowed. a temple full of tracks and spires.

Failures - Fill In..."but then where would i be?"

Superchunk - Basement Life...the street was spitting puppeteers. their strings arch feathers in the moonlight.

Blank Dogs - RCD Song...the children wouldn't know they'd gone missing until morning, at least. wouldn't even consider the ending.

Ghostlimb - the Force that Gives Us Meaning...she would. she would. she would. tatter her soft elbows. bleed. sate the both of them with the bats of her eyes.

By the End of Tonight - Philthy Collins....smoke pouring through the crease without even so much as a whimper.

the Party of Helicopters - Science Reasons...light cracked and tore them in two.

Mitzi Dodge - Xmas 3...the children slept.

Dropkick generation

2008-10-14T21:48:00.003-04:00

This started a lot for me.

Too much, maybe.

Sluts in the City.mp3

XOXO

2008-10-14T20:37:00.006-04:00

Once drunk, I stole her

panties. blue silk and lace. pure

teen pornography.

Lying underneath

the sink, stained. i took them home.

came all over them.

For a year. i burned

them in an old tin with love

letters from young girls.

XO Skeletons.mp3

Hide the fields

2008-09-23T21:25:00.005-04:00

I know why carl hates god.

I do.

I've heard his barbacked arguments. his inappropriate workaday pose. his banter. his existential folds. his sermon on the mount of human frailty at the end of the world rubbing his hands greedily waiting for just the right moment to shout loud as his red breast has ever beat I FUCKING KNEW IT!

But i don't agree.

This isn't news, i'm sure, to most of the rebels who've roused me for so simple an angle as saying there might just be something there more elucidated than a fucking human being and he or she (there was the long running dream that in death there was nothing but a fat black woman whose name escaped me even then who would cradle the newly ended into her epic bosom and let them know that when all things end beauty can begin in it's deepest and most inspired ways before buddha whispers something about it being time again and i still might if i ever really afforded myself the chance to consider the divine beyond the wicked alias of upbringing. catholic guilt and roman rest. shame sprials through the sects that keep me - to this very day - wishing it wouldn't be such a goddamn social sin to claw a piece of my flesh for penance before the one i've wronged and in so doing make each error seem a gift to the powerless. alms, if you will. but like any good christian boy i've done a small wonder of internalizing when i tell you how i really feel because that ill is mine to drink away. smoke. stare into the sleepless hours, scrambling for a chance to amend the consequences of my foolishness so each and every fucking thing can be perfect just so long as it kills me in the end. but it's not martyrdom. fuck a bunch of lauds. in fact, my will to suffer time isn't one i even want noticed but if it makes the world a better place i will. gladly. even if it's a stony hill story. even if it doesn't matter at all. it does. because it's mine to do with what i like and i'll be damned if i won't make it right) might just be a spectre beyond all understanding.

A ghost, i guess.

A trigger.

A shapeless sky imbued in everything. the empty wheel. the river turning waves to sea and oceans where they crash back and leave the few daring enough to see them coming breathless in wonder and wait.

Fearless.

Ready to be destroyed as swept away to the peace that surpasses.

And maybe, one day, i'll understand that. one day i'll see the spark that started all good men to war for a name. a place. a right to what was given (once) in a blind, knowing gesture of complete imperfection.

Loose us from these sterile convictions.

Mansion On The Hill.mp3

Watch him by

2008-09-15T20:10:00.009-04:00

Let the dead herald him.

As an agent. an advocate. a charge in paper armor for the charming bourgeoisie to pick apart a penance from my lithe and shallow spring.

WHAT TORMENT!

What an incidental asshole but at last he was past the prime that men of his vanity set see as being the end of all things but never acknowledge. never dare mention out of character.

WHAT SUFFERING!

And so the accolades afford him a place in the american argument.

WHAT A TRAGEDY!

A calvinist walks into a bar.

Oh.

Not quite a greek, no. there's not a motherfucker to be seen for miles and miles of this ingobility.

Just the cold clamor of sense being made from nothing.

A swift, unsteady explanation of actions we may have seen a hundred times before in pariahs far more evidenced in their moaning waves of sex as destructive angle and back again to dope. guns. knives on the basement floor for a sonnet.

Towards an exegesis in silly string.

Science is Golden.mp3

Shaking ways

2008-09-10T22:10:00.002-04:00

Don't look at me now, i'm not ready and there's nothing to say.

Another hour in this pale skin, electric suit and maybe. just maybe. i'll have the means to show you who it is you're facing day after day in the cauldron. the pit. the hell of finding a voice that reads the same to loons as liars and lovers who just need to hear that everything will be okay when it all comes rolling in.

To rise against this madness with the pride of knowing that just at your neck are millions cut in the same dreaded tie and gamble that if they only closed their eyes they'd do just fine.

Suited up in ice.

And lying formless the fortune that came and kissed their anybody, anywhere, anytime like the present. to dine in the courtesy of cocksuckers and queens as if to assure everything would just be.

As it is.

Even if the company doesn't give a shit.

PROGRESS! PROGRESS!

The temple expands. the knife tightens the wound in my hand and i'd promise her anything if i could just stand.

Be Somebody.mp3

Make it fake

2008-09-03T21:24:00.006-04:00

Set in semen and the sun set through the gates of hell.

The last wind rustling.

The dead tree bows.

Bare chested bastard in the scene and looking on his glories like a medicine show when he knows this is, at heart and holy, who the fuck he is to himself. to the world. the woebegone. the folks who know him better, he says. the finds who befriended him for the reference and scuttled callous undertow.

So what?

So fucking fine, the queenstown romeo, at his scattering and fettered debris that no one notices the light's on. no one minds the once great suffering of the puppet piled on top of grey hair and the hopes he's bringing back to task for mistaking him for someone righteous enough to master the stunt.

The calling card.

Matter of men meant to thunder in the night against indifference. injustice made of erstwhile epithets written on the back of tortured jackets taken when daddy didn't mind the till enough to know his boy was missing. his little girl had hit the shitter.

Head first. soft mouth wide open. pink nipples out of frame (just barely, begging future interest in her artfully cum pocked areole).

But he just might.

Cock Asia.mp3

Still

2008-08-18T20:36:00.007-04:00

God rest you red barbarians. you saber tongued sons of frantic intellect.

Your war's not over yet.

By years and men yet forged in the kingdoms of earth and pleasure. carved in the skin of the innocent.

The age of acquaintance.

The blood, black and high on the flag off her mast waving the canon of subterfuge for the sirens to scream through the streets until someone, just anyone understands that they matter in the storm.

When the walls crash.

The wind falls, electric.

Stirring dust.

The fear as endless as the looking glass cowboy whose ravaged arms once raised us up to see the lights of the north sky when we were children and cradled ourselves in the cracks of his hand. feigning sleep. low suffering. a hundred reasons to keep up the demons when we should have been listening.

The quiet was all that we needed.

The hum of a heartbeat.

Our fathers, torn themselves, from the same cloth of fury. born with the same promising fists and what dreams they've kept hidden for the sake of their one simple offering.

A reason to live.

To believe.

Even now.

As we crawl with broken backs towards bethlehem. in the path of great men and shining beasts. clutching our breasts. hope, alive singing with dread until we, at last, meet our magnificence.

Our peace.

New Country.mp3

Still waiting the old address

2008-08-14T21:08:00.004-04:00

No, you don't. you never know. you can guess. you can fathom. you can plan your days away from dawn until the day you die in the shade of the bridge where you first let your hand slip under her dress while you kissed to a cicada sunset but it won't amount to anything more than the memory of a palimpsest.

So bury it.

Burn.

Let the strange avenues of fortune shine a terrifying way for you without friends, without lovers, without country or kin to call you back to the sense of belonging because sometimes, at our finest moments, all we know. all we dream. all we believe and loathe is lost to the moment.

And clarity shines her grasshopper sonnet.

The ants drown, lonely, in the bay.

In The New Year.mp3

Howl everyone

2008-07-25T01:26:00.003-04:00

At our best we don't take pause.

Don't count our blessings when we consider our own.

Just breathe.

Deep, if we have to. otherwise just enough to make the hours melt away.

The noise.

The temporal air as the waves break over another perfect day in an otherwise perfect life we just might fucking deserve for all the good nights and lives unfit for lesser miracles.

We do right.

We eat.

We drink.

We live by the shadows and kiss in the street.

My Organ Sounds Like....mp3

About calls

2008-07-23T20:54:00.003-04:00

That stumbling grace was what he counted on to call him out from the rabble he loved the wedge his neck in between.

The sheepish disposition and tattered black book dreams.

It wasn't a farce, I suppose. there's always some truth to things. some spark of man buried among the morass. but who has time to look that deep? who has time to consider what anyone could be when there are so many faces to fuck and tethers to shake free of the catholic guilt those little girls cull above their ankle socks and the way up?

We might as well just sleep it off.

Consider the fractured happenings just a dream. a cheat. a chance to stay clean every morning down in the dumpster dives.

Back where we used to meet.

At least, back where i used to imagine seeing you night after night by the corner laughing dog howls as all the boys fell head to fist in love with the very idea that they could be the one to shine in your diamond shawl.

Even when it was me.

Yeah Sapphire.mp3

Home coming

2008-07-15T21:13:00.004-04:00

And when i'm goddamn ready, i'll remember.

Right as amber rain.

I have to be.

Steeled in my fucking assurances that this was the man that we buried. that his blood boils inside me. his willingness to fight. to fucking die for the chance to prove that we, as a people, once believed there was something better to men than their shrivelled bones and tragic indifferences.

Their pillars of sanctimony.

That haven't changed in a thousand years.

That generation after generation have led the goodness of the spirit into the teeming pyres of shit on which empires are built and crumble into nothing more than a history lesson rewritten again and again until it's forgotten and they can do it all again.

With the same piercing insect grin.

Those perfect teeth.

Worn by every color. every fucking creed. to mask the aged monster that quivers underneath to blind those of us naive enough to listen. to care what fate might fall our tenuous name of god in the endless, restless, loveless fucking sodomy of the machine that even now is growing tall enough to blot the sun from memory.

Whirring omens that hiss to speak.

By day.

By night.

By the grace of an unwelcome beast.

To swallow.

And, so, to bleed.
Southwest Passage.mp3

Reason complains

2008-07-09T20:19:00.004-04:00

That's right.

I'm ready.

I'm golden.

And on...

Not dwelling on a fucking thing today. so much. so many fucking considerations. so many ways to go wrong in the possibility. spit again in the face of providence and hours until i'm gone and the world opens up a little wider for me.

In the van. on the road. on a mission from who knows what goddamn deity is knocking on my door this week wishing i would remember a little something of my past and unkept pestering.

Such a promising child.

Something of a light.

But the darkness clouding that piety isn't so ominous as it once seemed. so let the clouds roll in. let the rain take me and my bathing beauty's dry eye winking.

Just put your head down and run.

No Regrets.mp3

John

2008-06-16T17:46:00.002-04:00

This is an echo.
Taps.mp3

You, blessed

2008-06-15T10:27:00.004-04:00

Don't ask him, now.

His voice is unreliable.

His mind is mudd.

Digging through the trap of action with bruised hands. a loveless cup. a scowl he wouldn't recognize even if he had the time to consider the weight of the mirror for the sheets. the ties. the stockinged feet wriggling in the humidity.

Itching.

Shiftless and idle in the minutes before anywhere reasonably familiar comes into view.

And the rain to warn the cracks in the street of their post.

End possibility.

Camel Bucks.mp3

Right

2008-06-12T02:00:00.001-04:00

If this city doesn't kill you, nothing will.

Boredom Is the Feeling that Everything Is a Waste of Time.mp3

His bones dressed anew

2008-06-11T21:12:00.006-04:00

God only knows what wilderness he sees in that half sleep. rolling his tongue for spit and croaking ape memories.

I don't know if he can see me, but i wouldn't be surprised if he did. this tattoo struck a nerve. these fingers made a mark on his house with their old soft polish and he never did think i should wear my hair like this.

But isn't that my optimism?

My vanity. my human need for one last moment before the curtain call to look out into the audience and know someone in the darkness was applauding through the din just fucking for me?

I know he was there.

At least, i believe it.

Not as the man i knew. not as the soldier. the father. the genius. the old man who always could no matter what or when or how so long as there was wit and reason enough.

But something entirely different. singularly beautiful. disarmed and alarming as skinny bones can be but still married to the strength of virginia.

Sitting beside me. talking. quietly. constant. she could see him here because this was not the home that they had shared. this wasn't their dream.

This was his and his alone.

One last letter from the war.

Scratched with the last strength of his good hand and in the blue light of summer blinds before the quell of a storm where strange twilight casts us all in amber and he understands that this is not his good fight.

But his time.

You Punch Me, I Punch You.mp3

Release

2008-06-02T01:40:00.003-04:00

My mother tells me my grandfather is no longer hooked up to any machines.

That when i see him, he will be sleeping.

The Big Gloom.mp3

At the door

2008-06-02T00:28:00.003-04:00

Sometimes you have to believe the fairy tale, kid.

Years past that lie. spent in a hundred directions. tired. listless. dough-eyed and dead to the men who shaped your strange discretions.

When you know smoke as well as a woman and whiskey's proved it's weight in late night friendships spilled on tattered pants you've long outgrown but just can't bring yourself to tear up once and for all.

Because, fuck it.

Scars are rations.

Tattoo's history.

The sediment you've dug and raised up as a home to pass through on your way to the grave without so much as a .45 to call out your fucking name.

But what would she say?

When she stared down your ghost. white and fearless in the hallway. ready for the ending. remembering the way you once looked at the sky and trembled knowing there was something bigger there. something great. something that could make you stand up taller than the man you were ten years ago and still believed the devil lived somwhere in the details of the wood that caught your blood soaked razor blades and introduced you to what seemed like madness but was really...

A chance.

A trial.

A mark on which to build the man who knows that when the morning comes you will face it with the dignity a son. a scholar. a scion of pride and great suffering for the sake of so much more than this mortal coil can claim.

You will be everything.

As you were meant to be.

More News From Nowhere.mp3

Outside the steel dances

2008-05-29T09:06:00.004-04:00

He may be dumb but that punk looks a lot like me at that age. red eyes. swollen lips. bowl hair and the dripping ear goss matching sob for sob and it gets all over his spider man pajamas.

I'd help him. i would but the greaser's on the charge in spite of his himself (his wife/lady/moll is drifitng in between the shower and the chocolate upstairs wondering why in the fuck they came here. when they'll leave. when she can just get a good cocktail out of the deal since she's fresh past the point of breast feeding and ready to be out there lit up in the weeds underneath the concrete archway with her hair flying in the wind pumped out by the wall of marshall stacks and the band that strikes us all as a bit too epic for their own good but still better than the load of performance art bloodlet screaming my head off to the pulse of my own bare ass while the crowd drifts away from the bar and into their caves again that we all endured last night).

Besides, i'm not all that keen to rekindle that disease no matter how hard that quiet eyes little shit stares at me and mouths again and again the word friend.

I should tell him this isn't a place for children. i should tell him this is where we come for cheap red fucking and death and unless he's prepared to take on the ill fate of drunk angels then he'd best go back the way he came.

Spare this noise until he's older

Bite the dog on his own.

Young Savage.mp3

Chaucer cocktails

2008-05-20T21:12:00.002-04:00

And there's still nothing left to talk about. pale skin and wet weather. a shuddering stocking over his neck and wondering how in the fuck he was going to live his life just knowing they were out there. cooing. clawing. fishnets and tattoos from some other boy. another time. a place so much more opulent than his lap.

And wondering, of course, wondering later if in his right mind he might have felt a different way about the situation. recoiling into his beer with the corner hug of so many sideway glances.

But he didn't. not long at least. one nipple slips against his cheek and he's forgetting every past utterance about the righteous indignation of a faggy kid's lament on the objectification of women.

The absurd tinkering of the machines as fat tanners threw two dollar bills and sucked their grey goose gobbling the asses of each passer by with their red sauce lips and banker thighs.

Because he knew then on he would be different. they all would. lusty lads too young for the sheep and too old to pretend like they wouldn't go home and wish just maybe one day they'd take the velvet risk and see just what fifteen minutes will get you with an alias and a cash machine.

Fucking red light american dream.

Red Blooded American Girls.mp3

Psalm for western fits

2008-05-15T20:51:00.003-04:00

(departure)

The Walkmen - Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone...there's this new york i still love. this dark and dreaming city of young and poorly pin striped men. smoking cigarettes through laughter and beer after beer after beer until the terminal ringing of her last three words are gone and they can begin.

Gregor Samsa - Pseudonyms...the mourning of innocence happens every time. just as we expect it will. just as the shine of last night's zenith turns to sun and we are back home. alive and alone with the fragile hope for nothing more.

Sun Kil Moon - Harper Road...and sometimes it's just fine that way. hands tied to the wheel and reason drifting from the shore and into the heart of the ocean where leaden angels left their moans.

The Dismemberment Plan - The City...a gyre stretched without the prey to make this bird a meaningful metaphor. still we walk it. still we ride underneath it's tremendous wake and wonderful, temporal epitaphs.

Archers of Loaf - Web in Front...slip down the backbone and to the gin-soaked floor. the radio doesn't know whatever happened to the doughy lovechild. the song doesn't give a damn where his prophets got wasted and lent their talents to sin so long as there's a jaunt made up for offering.

The Dodos - Jodi...we can, if we want. judy eyed punch and clenched a fist. not of rage, so much as avarice had they not been at the door.

The Warlocks - It's Just Like Surgery...where there was the sweetest fucking catterwaul, there was a girl and she smiled and it was about as fucking good as it would ever be except one day they would be kissing and he could never drum up the right context to compare that to anything other than the first time he hid the sun with his fat and pale young fingers and thought, just for a moment, there was a reason to wink back at god.

By The End of Tonight - Tigers...even if it wasn't the best paper life he'd let it ride. some things are better left to chance. frail and combustible ends. fuck it. what good is breathing in the summer if you're bound to survive it every time?

Planes Mistaken for Stars - Dying by Degrees...but, in part, he cared. there was comfort in the answer, clearly. solace in the knowledge that he could rely on at least one thing as he stood up to face the world a man with nothing to lose and precious little else to prove.

Nomeansno - Rags and Bones...so why did he leave it alone? why did he pretend? why didn't he mention all his bright fucking ideas when he had a sober chance? i guess you could say it was a question of thinning the line between now and the beast.

Therapy? - Dancin' with Manson...if you ask, he might tell you his past is all paltry and shaky with regrettable interludes. don't worry, though. he may suggest some wrongs from the rotten pit of his temperate gut but he'll never kill again.

Rocket from the Crypt - Lamps for Sale...lights up ahead. you keep your story straight. if they come at me with that line of questioning. just tell them i'm a friend. scratch that. a drifter. tell them i'm anything other than the man you've met.

Operation Ivy - Big City...if you look real close on any respectable corner, you'll find his day etched there in the concrete. it was his medium of choice with one back against the wall.

The Blackout Pact - You Punch Me, I Punch You...pick it up, now, kid. there are mountains to move.

Sixgun Radio - Bring it Back...trace a circle around the pool of dead. they're going home, now. the stars are red.

The Black Angels - You in Color...he teeters from the steps and into the crowd muttering rituals that haven't meant a goddamn thing since his father turned his lank skin burden into a dime store mask.

Ampere - Mr. Suit...fuck you. i know. i know.

Les Savy Fav - Adoptuction...stockholm doesn't mean anything when you're neck deep in the lover shit and those delusions of intimacy.

Guns N' Roses - Right Next Door to Hell...his letter said something about freedom. from fear. from the casual constraints that'd kept him limping from the stage night after night with a migraine loud enough to crash the sky. we didn't envy him.

The Mighty Mighty Bosstones - Don't Know How to Party...we had it all. the joyous faults. time swallowing days and nights with the same wreckless fucking abandon. we were growing older. dumber too, perhaps. but we didn't care. the path was ours to tear apart.

Fuckin' a right, we did.

Call owns

2008-04-27T19:46:00.002-04:00

Shit yeah, i'm boring sometimes. dull as the dirt i wear on sundays hoping someone is looking long enough to see me through the sunshine so i can rest aloof and alone with a pale can and the ash that's kept me leaning since i was seventeen, fresh out of the bin and ready for company.

Sometimes, i'm a frenzy. smiling. fuck you and the romans you rode to the top of the shit pile just to look down on my moral compass and tell me i'm wrong for wishing well in the time of this plague you made for me and the thousands who still believe there's something to be said for half-drunk affection.

The kind you mean no matter the breath of morning.

What keeps the good men roaring.

And make me better every goddamn day.

No Such Luck.mp3

Wanton woman's home

2008-04-25T01:11:00.003-04:00

And it works something like learning. the intellectuals come to take hold of the barriers from the slackjawed elite and all the salt and middle barrows cheer.

Rejoice pencil ideology.

It's supposed to, at least. i should mention the merits of my red education and the money should roll right in. i should be in the hall of power bemusing those times i had my thumb up my ass wondering if all the time and dough was worth the going because weren't we all just there? didn't we all play the patsy to credits and counseling? soaking dead white men and negroes for guilt. cultures from this roundabout to the next crescent to bloom.

Didn't we give a shit and think that by virtue of our nickel lines we might crawl from the mire of the middle class and set it all right.

Smooth end the axis.

Raise the atlantic name.

But we have failed.

The straining intellectual has succumbed to the petty charms of the meek and turned cheapskate for the fucking privilige of madame's ennui.

I might have fucked. i might have fouled. i might have spit my black lungs onto the hour upon hour of arguments against the fist and plow. but when it comes back to the salty future there's nothing i can do but suck the drab back and part the line for one last social call.

Remembering how i meant nothing.

And how many faked it all.

King of Sex.mp3

Found, remember

2008-04-11T00:44:00.003-04:00

Joe was wrong. we get them all.

That's why we sing.

Why we give a shit.

Why we'll raise our fists our fists to pop songs songs bar down steps from the apocalypse not just because it's so easy when your drinking to give the kind of shit that makes careers of mediocrity but because...goddamn we feel like singing.

Free, for the moment, from the revolutionary whispers of the tattooed wrist bands that mark the basement set.

And into the sweetly canadian.

Kittens.

Virtue the Cat Explains Her Departure.mp3

Right righteous

2008-04-10T09:20:00.001-04:00

Beer sweats and the thought of walking that shame back to the subway and into the long grating rended mass of people whose lives were better off without the look and smell of the place was enough to kill even the darkest, calcified part of my constitution.

But greg was there.

A les paul and strange concoctions on the stove before either of us was literate enough to know that utz was not a staple.

And curious others.

Shit stains and puke in the dishes. woebags. blackouts.

Her fucking babyteeth.

But really it was the sound of summer. the cocktail, less suffering. lime twists and centipede. screaming 'carry on carry on' and when we finally did he told me i sounded like a frantic transvestite who looked a bit like jason lee but i was too muddy to tell him to stick it.

Before the whiskey dropped out.

Before the breakup.

The artless escape to feather boas and ecstasy. home ownership and us back at the rebar bracing lentil sprees.

Home to the typeset dream.

Onward, Fat Girl.mp3

Field passion

2008-04-09T01:08:00.003-04:00

Set the needles to the west and sing that johnny march and hum. we're coming home again. one parcel pieced together from the stuttering holes in the sand digging graves for brightened daydreams.

Soot sift in amber as soft suffering.

And burn.

One as however many.

To glow.

Ebb the welcoming memorial.

Bring it Back.mp3

Long fucking mind

2008-03-27T21:10:00.005-04:00

Sometimes it's important to remember the "hey well, fuck 'em" attitude that seemed once perilous youth.

Sometimes it's better to be pissed and beaten to a pulp, ten paces from the edge of the fucking world wondering just how much rope it'll take to hang the whole fucking crew until they are dead.

How much you'd need left to tie your own line.

Choking on deflation and berated by the sound of others joyful suffering.

Mark your silence with indignance.

Let them speak your name over and over again as if their's were the last gospels heading to skin press and your tongue was the slip.

Faults ripple your head.

Flaws in vision and present company. just waiting to be naked and alone before the hopeless glow of pornography against the empty can through the water. the smoke. the power to bleed seven shades of cruel ink and leave ellegies to the suited boys with their crossed and hallow wards.

Some living for some other evening.

Sneers to eclipse the light.

Tiger Mask.mp3

For a small comedy

2008-03-20T00:56:00.004-04:00

And hope and hope and hope i say will keep me from the dark wilds of forgetting myself in the book of dead names and homesick faces hungry for the righteousness ready to arm itself against the world. for the focus of a curse. a cause. a reason to rise up from the leatherback life and have the merit to make new mistakes.

No matter who the fuck there is, tonight, to listen.

To see.

To feel the impact of decades spent desperately living the wrong way half the time just because it felt right to come home half-naked and bloody, mumbling something about god's glaring light to the cold, sweating mirror. the piss stain lost in the floor.

Those pattern days of low romance.

Cast off the comelately and staged.

Naive as pigeon prayer and the idiot feet marching onto the ides.

But i believe.

I have to.

Even curled against the sound of kisses. even swollen drunk and tracing the floor for a reason to welcome the morning when all i could do is sleep myself off into the thousands dead and shuffling. tapping. keening. lying to themselves that this poor excuse for a generation (then, before and since) is a goddamn way to treat the only chance they've ever had to be.

Their only goddamn shot at beauty.

I Just Make Faces.mp3

Ruin undoes ruin

2008-03-18T20:16:00.005-04:00

Run wild. run down. run amok in the face of our father's countenance. his warm white hair. his balding taste.

His chance still to try and keep something right from what he did in the place of all other options of hope before the flint locked and let loose the canon.

All hours.

All flame.

All fucking pain and principle to bootstraps when it's plain to the rest of the polished keening that this is, in fact, a different age. a time of slippery martyrs. cocksuckers. and the cavalry counted it's convulse pleasures from the fattened hand of apathy.

And the war at home remains a hateful one. cold. counted over the county again and again until the right makes a play and all we can do is moan about it.

Mark the walls in our complaint.

The pages.

The peasant boys of idol status claim their stake and indifference to the bar where the old steel companions still. where the night mandates the middle road between the foregone end and the arrogance of living.

Lighting still in the time of our plague.

Brother Run Them Down.mp3

Art refuse

2008-03-04T21:42:00.002-05:00

Bright end to bad days and we're back here at the beginning (in a manner of speaking down to the teenage twerp who made such a mess of mix tapes between his tape to tape, his crappy cd player and his grandparent's record fiesta in the corner of the brooklyn brownstone that will, one day, make every grieving cox a rich sunmabitch).

When i didn't know a man could do that. when i was amazed that brazilians weren't a thousand feet tall and used anthrax for a template to which all other metal was met.

Okay, not really. but i did see the band three times and in those excursions i was alternately punched in the face (at eleven) waiting to see iron maiden, deprived of fingernails and alomst killed a second time but in a swift bout of thinking moved out of the way of the hulking he beast atop the monster soundsystem at roseland ballroom (the first time he got me. the second time he dide...i think. or was crippled. either way they made an ambulance announcement on the p.a. and no one was slamming him again. thirteen) and on the receiving end of a cracked back that kept me from moving, let alone fucking for a good week on account of jumping off the irving plaza amplifiers at the behest of their then singer and landing on a beercan, being dragged down the stairs by a bouncer holding my hair and thrown out in the rain.

So, really, fuck them.

But antisocial still kind of rules my shit.

Yeah, i know it's french and their duet with public enemy is vastly superior in so many ways the hard corps just didn't get but this is about sepultura.

This about being a teenager and standing at a train station in upstate new york having delivered acres of files from one mental hospital to another and standing alone on the platform trying to emulate max to the hudson river and some homeless cat i only noticed after i paused to rewind the tape and do it again.

This about a band who on their swansong (dub war stoning doesn't count) ocified them as the great monsters who could have fucking shook the planet to it's coal if only there wasn't a nu dream of roadrunning to fucking ruin everything.

And right here is where i came in.

Refuse-Resist.mp3

?!?

2008-02-26T21:56:00.004-05:00

Okay, so...FUCK...what were we saying?

Something about the bomb.

NO!

Something to save the world form heartache and all the suffering that chimes the human existence parallel to beats off left center agenda...politics?

NO!

A lonely lad in a lovely dress walking west with no intention of making it back home again or anywhere for that fact or matter because when you look that good you could give two shits just where you hang yourself.

NO!

Ok, well maybe, but bradford's on the solo uke and parka mend so we can scratch that little lunacy for all the fettered scrams and still it doesn't apply. doesn't cast a long, bony limp nail in the ardor of what the fuck is going on some school night practicing the sublime (sum awful at times) task of self love in the face of so much woman you could just...

NO!

Or maybe again, then. maybe.

Get it, baby?

This is the new freak fuck and out the back end of a skull leaned up and into the sunshine smiling dope show rolling over rhetoric i could recite in my sleep if i had to but tonight the sky's a firebrand.

The static live.

The hope and horns blow to the sunmabitch who cataloged his change.

Doe eyed hunters.

Noodlebrains.

And kids spit to the knowing that he is the fucking stage.

Elvis Never Didnt Die.mp3

My hands out

2008-02-21T21:01:00.002-05:00

One day it just clears up wide and terrible as normandy, but bloodless. bereft of all memories that always accompany the foul west winds of a killing season.

And we quake in the expanse.

Fear the sun and her umbrage.

A breath and the taking away of one petty pace after the next which might signify something if only there were a reason to stand up and count the ones left alive. counting time. measured sighs. falling short of the wide open door scoffing.

'Welcome, son. welcome, daughter. wee last one and all.'

Unlisted.mp3

Let anything

2008-02-14T00:10:00.003-05:00

It doesn't matter how many times you've said it. today. this week. this month. a year and a lifetime.

There and now.

In the shadows of a corner wishing everything could just end and leave that sound the last human moment.

By the tearing light of a lost photograph.

With every ounce and mean you can muster.

To every sweet and imperfect end.

Say it again.
On the Mouth.mp3

The hard step takes

2008-02-13T21:09:00.006-05:00

One day they'll stop listening to the jesus and mary chain. one day they'll just sing it. get the joke and fuck it for glee just like their folks did back when there was still a bit of hippie left in them.

The kind you always heard about.

The acid tests. the love ins. the burnt bra screaming long and lofty against the system. stolen books and afrocentric detroit madmen tearing american flags down from their place on the hill and into the hearts of every last, long haired revolutionary who thought the black experience was a shared one.

Who wanted to kiss openly. who wanted to fuck and fight for a reason just be alive in a place where there were still dreams to be made in simple men. uncoded women. children bare as the day god invented his image and let the mold break and fall for the thousands upon thousands upon thousands. screaming monkeys who would one day inherit the earth from the patterns, puritan and played.

A land of makeshift abbeys and suffering the likes of which an old dead queen once cornered.

HERESY!

Cornfed and blood soaked. they made molehills of the plains. shaped the forms of a new history from the skins of wide-eyed savagery. pissed in the holy water and let loose the terrified ethos that to have was the greatest sin sniveling man could achieve.

So why not hold them all?

Why not rape the sage and leave the soothsaying to less prosperous divinations from the cold wind over the sea?

After all they saw it coming. all the flowers and coupling. all the white noise conventions.

The saw the blue screen calling the end of the road and they tore a hole right through it sendind generation after generation into a tailspin of anger and apathy that'd assure us all dark homes in the future.

But they tried, didn't they?

With flowers and marches and arm in arm against the impossible force just fucking singing.

That was enough then.

Sometimes, it still might be.
Life on the Line.mp3

Starve nations

2008-02-05T21:32:00.000-05:00

I guess i stand corrected.

Anger is inevitability.

Instinct of Survival.mp3

Ready arrows

2008-02-05T09:24:00.001-05:00

It really should be something meaningful. something political. something sacrosanct from the well informed secular reaches of new york city night crawling where some real pulse of the free world beats with tastes that keep the righteous rumbling 'them faggots over east.'

But it's not.

Not really.

Today i lack the indignation to make my way off polling. today, really, i could give a shit. not because i'm lazy. not because i'm cross. not because there's a peaceful protest in my ennui (though if this were paris you'd see my white card...just not today).

But because there's no underdog.

No fucking meaning. no fucking real fight out there that could give me reason for party affiliation and part the seas to trump barack over hillary.

Hell, when i was a kid i advocated the republican party. i liked reagan and his post tumor hairdo. i danced with the right winged seat in new mexico and shook hands with good old rummy himself.

If memory serves i even followed allegiances to the first bush. the monster. the killer in the flesh (well before his seed made it's way to sight gags on the simpsons). prodigal beast of the cia.

I'm not sure why.

I guess i just liked the old man over the impish greek in the tank.

But that was childish. i know. i was a child, goddamnit, and well aware that my flights of fancy had no real impact on the world of old white crumpling men who overpopulated the electorate (and still do, my budding revolutionaries).

Then there was aids.

And that fucking changed everything.

Yes, i know the disease made it's mark on the american psyche when rock hudson first up and croaked right out of the closet and onto the nimble ears of a young feverish kid waiting in the emergency room for some relief to the vomit and shuddering but it wasn't until the nineties ushered in a real understanding of the disease and it's immediate implications to every living thing from the green monkeys of the african plains to the swing set of 42nd street that i understood the power of the political over how my friends and family could just manage to fucking survive.

It was about then that my impotent rage found a real focus in the bush flag. fifty skulls. hundreds of thousands more. agenda after agenda forsaking the people just for fucking someone other than the old white bag. dropping junkies. impoverished. innocent after innocent fated to unimaginable suffering because...well...shit, there are a thousand theories from duesberg to darwin that promulgate ideas about why the body pales against it's unseen enemies.

Fact of the matter is i started to fight. i started to argue. i threw chairs. fists. i had my fucking head kicked in. literally. figuratively. time and time and time again to get anyone to understand what was wrong with the crapshot idea that aids was an act of divination.

Through high school. into college.

I buried fathers. i kissed dead inspirations. i marched down seventh avenue in red marker reading 'red ribbons. red tape. what's the fucking difference?'

I gave time. i gave blood and when i was eighteen i gave my vote.

But it didn't matter.

By the time my voice had a chance to matter the country was ready for a new greenwich legacy. and then again four years later. but i persisted in giving my vote to the democratic party because anything was better than that son a bitch making travesty his tome.

But we lost, didn't we?

America caved to the warm whispers of daddy and his incessant mention of the other and his war to stop unerring ideas from blowing up in our fucking face.

Again.

And they didn't.

But we imploded, didn't we?

We fell under the spell of avarice and all his bastard sons where soon we'll suffocate because there's not enough power in one single vote to change this nation's torrid history or any of her backwards prospering madmen.

So why?

No vote today echoes my voice other than it's flagrant opposition to the lineage of the republicans and i don't want my voice to resound with warbling teenage spite. i want it to be strong. virulent, if need be. i want the strength of my beliefs to be reflected in the highest fucking office.

But that's not about to happen.

Not so long as we live in a republic. not so long as the panty-waisted killers run the show. not so long as politics is pandering.

Exclusively.

My vote doesn't count for shit.

And neither does yours.

Unless a couple hundred million happen to agree.

And those millions live within the right bounds constituencies.

So fuck it.

Take my primary. shove it up your coarse wound ass. tell me i'm an asshole for registering independent when there's evil in this world to defeat and you need every slack jawed idiot to agree.

I won't coddle the lesser of two anymore.

Not while i still have the chance to speak.
Man the Ramparts.mp3

Dues

2008-02-04T00:12:00.000-05:00

Fuck you...how's that?
We are the champions.mp3

Pallid sense

2008-02-01T22:20:00.000-05:00

And what stares back?

Years left at the bottom of the ocean. the eloqunce aged. left. to bloom in quiet corners where the sunshine creeps past the malcontent. the memories of who we were when the shape took.

The names.

Faded.

Yearning for the abyss, but the darkness isn't ready.

Never was.

Never is in this time of orchid men.

And so we carry on forgiving. trying to, at least. breaking waves one after the next until one day we can rest and be swallowed.

Whole, again.
A Delicate Sense of Balance.mp3

Rust cowboy

2008-01-29T09:00:00.001-05:00

Show me the fucking magic, man. slight handed faggots fanning malfeasance for the sense of fitting in the rank. the filed the fuck away to postmodern melee. outcast and incestuous. prim and preening for the pleasure of alienating ends.

After the riot.

After the rise.

After the wall came down on paris embers and culture cowed to the second, third and future sex fiends if only in the dying cathode age.

Advertising lisp memes. syndicate and shit storms swallowed up by the midwest from all fucking east pointing sick and inchoate to the sunny, shoring aesthetes wondering just how quiet they have to be to finally welcome a noble death in the eyes of a loveless country.

Like the old washed radicals said.

But we're still onto other things.

Still scared to death of the imminent threat of sandy, windburned offerings. black blood. burkas. bitter almond and the wide array of bombs to mark the next great war at home.

Until then, fuck 'em.

And the once fiery revolution that left the love in liars fucking ash.
Rednecks And Ragheads.mp3

Blinked twice

2008-01-24T00:34:00.001-05:00

Been drunk and each a day spat out the satellite for something to say since it's been forever seems since the scramblings right.

TRA-LA!

FA-LA!

DOWN!

DOWN!

DOWN!

In the loose and long unfettered light.

Call of the Vague.mp3

Try

2008-01-17T01:27:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it isn't for us to know.

Dont Laugh.mp3

Find regrets

2008-01-10T20:51:00.000-05:00

Youth, say.

Arrogance.

Fury from his mouth bowed like a song for bleeding insects and at our feet the city. the furnace. the prospects forged one after the other in the bask of golden street lights as she walked away.

His hand clenched in passing.

Well You Damn Well Should!.mp3

Paradise

2008-01-09T00:51:00.000-05:00

And i blew my brains right the fuck out of my head. right hemisphere gone. splattered across the bathroom walls and the blood. the blood poured for days from the gaping wound dimly covered by a matted head of coal black hair. it was all in the operation. all a reason. a purpose. leave the left and let a man be more efficient at the clandestine.

Had to clean it up. had to wash it down. drag the boy in. he's here to help. real pedigree when it comes to matters of life and limb or whatever the fuck you want to call the security of this smoldering pile of rotten tissue i used to call a city of men, angels. trees and sunlight coming down through glass tapestry wrapped in irons.

Digression.

There's a line left. i can feel it. wrinkles in the lobe i have that shouldn't be there.

We'll get it later. the task at hand. years of gray pieced together and sluiced down the drain. blood on the drapes. sinking into the tiles.

He arrives ahead of time, goddamnit. draws his razor. the boy hits the lights. i close my eyes enough to see the glint of mine and nothing else. tear out. sink in. watch it blacken. dim in soft, pale flesh.

He collapses.

No match for a man who love left.

The task at hand and then the morning.

Into the Death.mp3

Window jumps

2008-01-04T01:54:00.000-05:00

I am currently laboring under a few basic constructs that i don't necessarily hold true to be self-evident (as i've proven better since the fazing heydays) but, nonetheless, appear to be very much enamored of this evening.

1. Winter ale and cigarettes are a man's best meal time friend.

2. More than six hours of sleep makes one weak in the knees.

3. Scabs are the greatest thing to come out of adolescence since hardons.

4. This FUCKING song.

I blame the great white way.

Dont Think Lover.mp3

Travel words

2008-01-02T20:46:00.000-05:00

There's that whimper bang again. the hungon havoc of another year basked in the shadow of bridges too old, too long, too fast for chumps to sell the sycophantic trash the way of the righteous anymore.

Still they do and will and suck it up chilidogs because if we're not going to loose those troubles this mortal coil's going to be one hell of another three hundred sixty odd nights wishing there were still fucking superheroes out there in the drug soaked leather jackets smashing cans instead of bass lines.

But i missed that ride.

Chances are you did too.

Chances are there's an irony clause stitching a lifetime full of lies and cheap intellectual pissing contests telling you black lips smell like real city pussy but they don't, kid.

They don't.

And i don't give a fuck what the proposed irreverence. who backs their systematic asses from the garage to the glossies. those kids have as much to say about the bright side of dying as a pale german fistfuck in the wet summer of our discontent.

So get pissed.

You're being had. left and right and red assed up in the air for the limp-eyed post 9/11 set.

And you will be again if you don't set your shit straight and start your own hopeless fight someday.

NYC 1999!.mp3

Santa Claus Is Coming Down

2007-12-24T13:40:00.000-05:00

So, maybe baby jesus was born in a manger to get nailed to some wood and let us all rest a little easier when it came to our lurid proclivities. maybe it was a vatican cover up to quell the queer orgies over by the bathhouse while miskept women bid their time at the vomitorium working their feathers in hopes of living the aesthete dream venerated then, as now, as some apex of western society.

It doesn't matter.

Whether you're a greek patterned boy or a christian. a jew or one tuning in african roots. there are lights aflashing all along your city streets calling good cheer out from the dregs of anxiety, violence and financial woebegoings.

Trying, at least.

Families are scuttling together. strangers eyeballing the red pot santa claus. and everyone is wondering just how long it'll take before that right sip of egg nog sends the tenuous balance of good grace into a dervish of obscenity, bad touches and learning a little bit too much about yourself and all the iniquities that made you the man, woman or otherwise inclined that you try every fucking day to be a little better.

And broke.

But we don't fault you for that.

It's christmas, after all, and this season does strange things to even the best intentioned of people which is exactly why you need a present. a good one, we think. a piece of clattering nonsense that ebbs between joy and the end of the world.

Because nothing says "NOEL!" like rock and roll wreckage and here are a few of our new fucking favorites all wrapped up in a zip file cum mix cd.

We hope you enjoy them as much as we enjoy the casual usuage of the plural first person (this posting coming to you from the sunshine, alone).

Rock it, babeez.

MWAH!

Spike the Sucker Punch

via MEGAUPLOAD
http://www.megaupload.com/?d=WMDS5Q7T

via Mediafire (in two parts)
Part 1 http://www.mediafire.com/?cz1yimlnu2l
Part 2 http://www.mediafire.com/?8djunmjkqtw

Somebody's uncle jokes

2007-12-19T00:42:00.000-05:00

I remember them less and less. their smiles. their kisses. their loving whispers as i cried myself to sleep at the foot of a hospital bed wondering just how long my mother's smell would linger on the sweater wrapped around my head.

My age has become a recent champion of forgetting.

And i wonder, really wonder when i'll fucking miss a thing.

Reconstruction Site.mp3

When alone

2007-12-05T00:28:00.000-05:00

No one sleeps anymore but the dogs.

Is There a Ghost.mp3

He spoke in dust

2007-12-03T22:41:00.001-05:00

That lifetime left him long ago.

Those dreams between the sunny side of death and the morning. the pale breath. the old fucking arpeggio of headaches. heart sick. hopeful this was the time when he'd find a voice above the city rabble. a grit true as the eye that made the old man famous once more before fate came and took his drawl back to tide.

We could say well better for it.

Could intimate that in the passing there was room left for the rest of us callow sons of men. who wanted the indian tits and gun play. the fortunes of navarone. chivalry laid in stoic plays on the dead savage land of ancestry. of family. of country. of home.

On the long lone.

The sunset prairie.

But we still don't have the guts. don't have the principle to stand up straight so our aging bones shiver. shake. scream for angels to come forth and show us the earth we were meant to inherit.

But they've stopped listening.

And so have we.

All World Cowboy Romance.mp3

Commute corners

2007-12-03T22:01:00.000-05:00

What was i saying, anyway?

Something about the line between this one and the amber faced to gray and knowing all along she was the one back when i crumbled on the barroom left and bleeding us for everything from smiles to molding ice in the corner of a hotel stalled for ethics.

Turned on to turner tricks.

Turned off from black and white with age and reason or at least reasoning enough to know some loves are better left spray painted on the sides of monuments than kept on corners and limp lip nights.

I've been once and over now and then.

But now, i'm right.

Lake Street Is For Lovers.mp3

And possibilities

2007-11-19T21:17:00.000-05:00

Red giant at my fingertips.

I must be.

Must be.

Shivering.

Sleep.mp3

A brief and otherwise welcome distraction

2007-11-15T18:41:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it's nice to just sit back and shut up.

Out shut

2007-11-14T21:54:00.001-05:00

He should've hammered harder.

Should've swung until the eyes rolled back and the head fall into the slow, fat lap of the garrison.

Stepfords, lost and lonely.

Camera folds.

And negro carrying the stiff weight of the air his counters played in manicured silence on the east end.

His cock swollen. limp. contrary.

Bare-chested summer men. squealing like children. suckling pigs. two-bit motherfuckers held in the soft cell of american ego as the price for killing them off, son. every last goddamn low-eyed one until there was a just cause left to call our own.

But there was. there was.

He swore, naked still.

And dead.

Like I Give A Care.mp3

On a phantom

2007-11-02T21:22:00.000-04:00

I can't really say as i blame him though to be fair i don't think so much that i care.

That's horrible to say, i know.

Man lives his life best as he can and when he dies there ought to be a better way to speak of his days than with the casual indifference of a freight train lumbering into the glow of old factory smoke.

But, fuck it. i'm still going.

And he can rot in hell. ascend the stairs. haunt chapels in some twist for the atheist that brought him up to not give so much as a shit for the tears of a woman who once loved him.

Who stilled.

And might just cry out from time to time when she's succumbed to warm devices for him to be the one there to comfort her. to kiss and caress in that sweet awkward way that assured his distance from the pedants he called friends when he wasn't so hellbent on offering drunk spit for a handshake.

Foul air for bland hellos.

Strange manners that kept them whole.

But alone.

Their idles shift and vanish into thin strands of argument. tongues lashed to iron. spendthrifts clamoring for wishes before the coming pales of winter where they once stole whiskey shots in front of the tree.

The dog, sleeping.

The city sights shut.

Weclomed in.

Weird Fishes-Arpeggi.mp3

Found

2007-10-21T00:42:00.000-04:00

They wrapped the child in plastic and left him by the door.

Blue lips. black fingertips. creeping through the cover.

And the air was still. stale, even. heavy with the sound of hidden gasps and silent prayers from men who wouldn't have believed a god would meddle in this century if it hadn't been for his eyes.

Milky. wide.

Drawn over three times in loving marker. pupils. iris. lashes.

A maudlin depth for the nameless. unwanted, unintended, unfamiliar dead left for the company of the curious to come and see.

To remember.

To bury, unmarked, in a lonely grave where his father could come every new year's to lay stolen daisies and weep for all that he could have done had this not been the only way.

Or so he would convince the sinking lines of his face. so he would tell her to this day as if she were there to hold his hand and agree that what they did was right, somehow, in the grand scheme of things.

But we burned the remains.

Her November Diary.mp3

Face on

2007-10-18T03:24:00.000-04:00

Arm bar and nonsense. we are wet. we are tired. we are spent in cheap paint huffing artists chasing fads.

Bandanas and the ironic slant that passes for dancing these days.

Goddamn have i grown so swift and old?

So tired of the postured scenes. the pedestals of listless genius wasting time in neighboring caves while i still mark my heart for days when men shared their mania with brutes and stains.

I want to be, somehow.

I want to fall back on arms like i did when this place was home.

Decayed.

The Crystal Cat.mp3

Never go

2007-10-15T21:29:00.000-04:00

I miss the art of negro streets. old ghosts shuddering the dawn.

Madmen, really.

Angels when i was young and raised the city in whiskey songs. ashes for the piano. stinking, wild and drunk.

Reunite On Ice.mp3

Star fairytales

2007-10-10T02:20:00.001-04:00

We lose our voice and then we forget. time slips our day. sentiments we should have etched in the stained glass of a cab slow to come back from the pock mark. an orgy bemused by backpack attitude. spit and swollen memories of suicide rooms white in showers. half flights over the broken mattress.

Hallmarks of why.

I should say. i should.

I do, but never better.

Never enough and never as much as the knowing that makes me stand up straighter. prouder. full of the conceit few dare mention let alone record across their skin in the hopes that one day the goddamn world will see and then we'll really show them something.

What it means to be in love again.

What it is to be invincible.

King of The Rodeo.mp3

Place reflecting echoes

2007-10-05T01:22:00.001-04:00

He still looks for her name under his pillow.

Traces her hair out in a map across his chest.

'You did. you did. you did.'

Train tracks whine. the ocean calls.

He will amend.

Heatherwood.mp3

Cancer sleeps

2007-10-04T20:59:00.000-04:00

It was a growl of resignation.

There'd been enough sighing these days. enough playing it up for the sympathy can laughing back in stubborn glee and she, the last one in line for the fraught iron prize, was sick and tired of trying.

She was ready, already.

Closed her mouth.

Counting bullets by the bedpost where her trophies hung torn stockings. cheap showpieces. remnants of the whore she could've been if it weren't for him and his goddamn faith that they would make it, anyway.

That she...

Fuck him.

She would mount her fate, yet. she would suck the marrow from the lonely bones of the parlor games she'd played with the ghosts the nights when she was drunk and they were alone.

And she would be happy.

She would know.

This moment was her's.

The morning would open.

Belly Full of Hell.mp3

Amend goodbyes

2007-09-28T02:13:00.001-04:00

Live as much like you should have. throw the microphone through the ground and yell.

Every one's our perfect hour. every one's our setting scene.

And what i recognize from settling smiles doesn't matter now because i'm torched and torn. the sheets have gone the wrong way, winded by the pressing fate of handshakes when all i want. all i need. all i care to steal and see is so fucking close.

So struggle meaning.

Salted lips and melodrama.

Keep my time for counter theology.

Wishing it was better. wait and sleep. carve silhouette dreams.

Make the name and wake up.

Write it long across the ceiling.

A Responsible Person.mp3

The wax philippines

2007-09-26T21:34:00.000-04:00

There are men for seasons, all right. bold statues high above the arc of your last fucking prospect who weild their power like a thirty pound cock and terrify just about as many (if not countless more) than they could possible impressive by the sheer, veiny force of their begrudgingly loved.

These men make nations. they make deals in the dark. see saints fall, hallowed over a martini stained olive and laugh as hopeless as the champions they march off to lose a war.

Then, there's danny.

He works in advertising.

He likes his girlfriend. pork products and the cheapest swills of american whiskey bartenders only find when the night is shitty, the shift is endless and a pair of cops busting up a brown-bagged genius seems like the last semblance of hope in an otherwise meaningless life.

He also likes him the shit out of some rock and roll records. he's got a bundle. carried them from seattle to santa barbara to new york to philly still honored with the same plastic seals they came in.

And that's something.

They used to remain in alms above his work station where he labored to comfort his delusions of adequacy.

Who fucking knows where they rest now.

It hardly matters.

If i know the man as if a fucking day, i know those beutiful pieces of wax are stowed safely in wait for the day that the turntable wakens to melt the fat face of some hipster dipshit mistakenly referencing latter day replacements as the best work of an american songwriter's career.

Like 'merry go round' is any 'dope smoking moron'. or 'the ledge' carries the weight of 'fuck school'.

Fuck you.

The mats were a band when they were dumb, white and lazy. when tommy was a teen. bob was living and paul could've given two shits for busting out of minnesota into a slumbering world of humdrum one man anything.

When they were drunk and throwing their lunchmeat.

All hopeless and free.

I'd like to say he taught me that but nihilism's never quite been my thing. danger, sure. drunk and yes.

But he did remind me that there was nothing better than a rock song to save your life. and i mean rocking. not the lamentable dirges of endall wet dreams you'd hold a candle to if you weren't so busy torching your own prospective being.

To remind you that there's a line out of everything.

Fist pumped, mouth sweating the garbled scream of an idiot kid dead set on having everything an inebriated street in this city can bring.

And that saved me once.

To this fucking day.

Surrender.mp3

Education fool

2007-09-21T09:29:00.001-04:00

There was this fleeting idea of being hard that came from a few years scattered in this city. new york, new york. hard core and fucking all the rage of concrete jungle gymnastics.

Deep down, though. i was a pansy. and i knew it. so did she. so did the bald man hurling me a hundred feet (it seemed) into the air with my head into the barricade and back again to his bewilderment.

Dust swirling. crazed fists and lucha libre masked men from norhthampton bringing the pain on one some summer day when we all drove down to the melee because punk is and punk does and dumb punks like to be in a place where they are counted.

Or not.

Comradely call to anarchy. strength swelling up to greet the concussion and when the wall of death was called for, fifteen thousand answered and spread their paces far enough to charge themselves in brotherly disregard for their own sweet fucking well being.

Except me.

I was passed the point of seeing stars. struggling to stay awake. in aim of the kids who had, wisely, waited at the other stage. but i wasn't leaving until the set was over and those men the dirt had claimed were carted off to the oxygen tent overflowing with the toiling undead.

I had the pulse of the city left in my bones. a reputation to uphold in the face of a scene that didn't know me and didn't give a shit for the long-haired freak, three deep and waiting for the start.

And when it came the force of men propelled me. i was up. i was over. blood splattered. another nose broke. teeth fell to nails. i stepped them over. i stomped them down. shoulders gave under my carolinas and soon i was so close to home i could smell the cigarette lingering stiff between her breasts.

Seconds later and it just stopped. the swarm ceased and he was up there crying out to be taken back to mommy.

I should've fucking known. the words were there already but she was gone.

Instead there was our nero. smeared soot and sweat staining his meager (by any account) frame.

'Thanks, lou' i said.

He hugged me.

My Life.mp3

Radio once

2007-09-20T01:30:00.001-04:00

We have before.

We will again.

Time to man up, son. show that face and make a name. let the bastards turn the mill for once.

You already crashed the gate.

It's just a matter of growing old now. sucking up. laying blame. hard lines culled from the shit-stained missives you tried so hard not to sate.

These aren't the good time winter mews. the beer end tossed back and blue.

We're talking the fucking future. something like progress.

Sand drawn from the dust.

Cowards call.

Ends...

Wiggle pigs, on

2007-09-18T01:21:00.001-04:00

Of course, he kept his swagger. even after all these years of face fucking facts checking out. droning in. coddle company keeping him a draft catching embers as light lucky charms.

Fuck 'em.

He wasn't about to let the mark hold long.

Not when there was still a chance to grab her tattooed hand in his and ride some one horse wonder the hell out of town.

Round the set once and into the sun.

Stereo.mp3

Hopes at the door

2007-09-16T02:54:00.000-04:00

Just sweetness, now. softened pale sighs into the embrace i can find anytime. any hour. any night crawled from the joy above the caterwaul of forgetting.

Fucking simple, perfect, pure love long written out in diaries left to the crackling of wooden floors.

Trying to capture a piece of her sleeping whisper.

The way my heart beats.

And she's kissing me.

The only last two dreams come true.

Comet. stars.

The arc.

1234.mp3

Always unglued

2007-09-12T22:49:00.000-04:00

Fever boys talking end of the world again.

Crash boom. clicks and whistles. the same sum swagger that left dead men sitting for hours in rust and ashes high as the red eye rover looking for intelligent signs cut in plastic welcome stones.

Weeks, even. years.

And i'd say we don't care and that may be true in the in/out, all told but on certain streets. on certain, sweaty unkept days. we do.

So, sometimes, we quake against the sky. sometimes we hide and wait to dine on cold steel moonlight. counting itchy triggers and impotent ends in the hopes that someone, somewhere, someday will make some sense of the fucking thing.

Until then, we bide in fury.

Hot Heart.mp3

Night sounds

2007-09-11T02:50:00.000-04:00

Calling mcqueen.

I'm heading out the devil and i need a bit of that old american sinking to the bottom of the barrel and back up through the sunset soft smoke grins before i see him.

I need an awl. a lust. a hammer. the good fuck off the blackened barstool fortune.

Restless city legs.

Warm breasts lifting my worn station head passed emptied cigarettes and bottles stacked as high as her blood.

Then i'll be happy.

Then i can sleep.

Little Animal.mp3

No idle tastes

2007-09-06T00:19:00.000-04:00

Should be something like a rolling over, aimed to die and other drug-fueled awfuls. fucking stint the way of high end living to replace the mess of maybes.

Right?

End it easy.

Face on the wall. names scrawling. posies pocketed and paid in full again. again. again.

GODDAMNIT, PAY ATTENTION!!!

The amber company is coming.

Shiftless When Idle.mp3

Sleeping floors

2007-09-04T20:45:00.000-04:00

Come on and live it, kid.

Dream something better for me and this ghost i've been riding the way back i came.

Sweet sultan futures.

You've seen it enough times. dyed right. inked. pale fisted fury in the last summer light beckoning the sailors sink rather than face another day on the curb counting teeth (unfamiliar currency to the boys back on land) and wishing there was a decent way.

Bags rustling, wait for abraham.

Dead End America.mp3

Morning points

2007-09-01T04:27:00.000-04:00

So the boy went to texas.

Shuffling new drunk against a hatchback. nowhere. cigarette dangling. trying to hold it all in. suck it back. make it seem like this trip was all the fuck worth winning but really...as disasters go, well...

Still, he's humming. two years later. better set for the eclipse. magic happens. spurn the wrist and then, suddenly, singing.

Late wind and old friends. markers met and the counterfeit play lays an aim and so we pray in beds made well before we came back home. warm faces. almond shapes of hope and graceless hands.

Fucking love.

Fucking awe.

Fucking moment upon moment upon slack jaw agog until the knuckles spill the burns and there isn't a goddamn trace of anything to divide us from the whirl.

The kid kissing you in refusal.

Our nude charm.

Our fuck all everything.

You Can Say.mp3

Longer pulse

2007-08-29T00:36:00.000-04:00

Let's see that mettle, sunshine.

That growl. those shakes and pain.

Elocute unwelcome morning. her face shaped in a murder movie. lips carving rust from a dozen rows of teeth. eyes narrowed in bloodstains. breathing hard and writhing. motions from the prison scene.

Wind butterfly wings while you count the dead.

Aim low.

Turn left.

Slaughters written in epics and salvation games.

Hall of Mirrors.mp3

Down the curtain

2007-08-27T21:43:00.000-04:00

It was the car. the fucking car that brought us home or hell and all the fuck out of the town that dragged the last one good horse into the ground and swilled his bones for candy stones and penny heartaches.

Honda accord.

Not much to speak of from the sight of her for years but that motherfucker took us places we might never have dreamed if we really knew the power of psychadelics. weed. whiskey. beer and in betweens. black and with a system that punched the jams out the back of our heads and steadied justin's deadman handling.

He was the driver. we were the winners.

HA!HA!

MFinc. and subsidiary sin wish. cut and bruised and flailing our youth constitution. another friday. another ride. to the shores or through the coast. past cowfields. into suns rising faster than our dialations could possibly handle and all we could do to stay seeming alive was smoke and listen over and over.

Louder and louder.

Speak sleeping in the back. an old friend tending her studies. more madness than slung parties.

And then there was the crash. the wreck of the thing, at least. we were fine. he was furious. tore the back out the side on a truck back trying to outrace standstill traffic and show some muscle to the uptown church just leaving jesus and carrying his name back to china plates.

It was a mess. he swore a streak and some weeks later, after the setting of rust and past the chance for repairs we gave our black tattered beauty a name. in white paint outside a stadium. shaky. camel filters. hangovers all charm and no substance to make mind of fledgling matters.

And mac screamed.

We'd made it again.

Flawless.mp3

Bottle kids

2007-08-23T20:38:00.000-04:00

Rejoice. rejoice. let the rats all comfort you.

This time living's the only thing to do. the only good thing, anyway.

Sure you can kick the can. prick fate and end the ho hum havoc of a one way street. choke off. fall flat. die gasping the insufferable whim of one too broken down to try breathing for fear, this once, you might do a damn thing right.

But fuck it. fuck all. the whole storming drag and pipes that dragged you this far out in the world.

The means of surrender are designed with the hopeless in mind. the uninspired. unimpressed. unwelcome mess who made it all a red shit-faced little guignol.

So let them have it

The cheap heaven of a steady hand.

And rise up to break your glass again.

Zen and the Art of Breaking Everything in this Room.mp3

...

2007-08-22T20:54:00.000-04:00

Drum beats and the days go on in years and years until all six are gone and you're on your way to the western lands that held my hand and golden brow just long enough to learn there's no reason to go back. no call to arm such errant troubles.

Prickly wombs and mending trees.

Some shores belong to the bearded young. some to the concrete rent that makes us monsters. fakers. tired eyed destinies hallowed the red palm of my hand and the clouds come to kiss off the stumbling ides of summertime.

Who would drink the blood of fortune. level sutured arms in a kiss.

Razed mountain men. women. children dyed in avenues laughing the sirens calling come home again.

Still proud. still terrified. waving at the window wishing goodnight, friend.

Goodnight.

So Long, Lonesome.mp3

Chin up boys

2007-08-16T01:30:00.000-04:00

She sat and wished for anything more than the tired dreams he kept repeating (slow and down the edge of the cracking glass of guinness he still, earnestly, believed gave him some strength to see beyond the seething wealth of shit grown grins he'd dragged her into when she was too young to know that there was more to fucking than love and an arm to call her own into the future where they would sit somewhere all fat and tanned by the empire he'd somehow made out of the dust he carried this far, didn't he?).

She sucked back her sigh. sipped. let her eyes roll him over in wonder and then land onto the jukebox.

Tired flashes. johnny cash. some boston for the pool-grown white caps prancing around the pocket.

More than a feeling.

Fucking, indeed.

Nowhere Is Always Somewhere.mp3

Always this way

2007-08-15T00:35:00.000-04:00

Leave the boy his timely passions, we've promises to keep. fates to seal and hopes to mete before this night's forgiveness bleeds.

Let him.

Leave.

His ode will come on stranger wings.

Concrete Bed.mp3

We fall out

2007-08-14T02:10:00.000-04:00

She whispered into him a dream he'd been replaying the last fifteen years of his increasingly brief and unremarkable life.

All she could do, if only...

And when she didn't walk away he couldn't breathe. when she kept her hend on the nape of his gray neck and left her fingers dug in. when she let him feel the curve of her breast against his arm.

When she told him when. and where. and how.

And shuddered.

So he'd believe it.

So he did.
Mr. Superlove.mp3

Faster moves bastard

2007-08-11T03:41:00.000-04:00

So, thirteen years odd now, and we weren't as wise.

I guess i should've known that at the time but it's hard in the throwing conceit to believe that, even for a moment, you might be fucking wrong or simply off base when there was just so much to rail against with those skinny little wrists and still fat fucking faces that sang and scowled and laughed much harder and longer than any one of your small arsenal of best fucking friends would've ever deigned to admit no matter how wide the blonde grin in photographs or how bright your nail polish.

When you believed in the ills of selling out. when you didn't want to buy in. when the targets were easy and the cost was a bruise or a scar you'd still be wearing to company barbecues day to shilling day.

But, shit, it was a good time.

I guess it still is.

Even if the horns turned into screaming and the enemy's left the white hat for a polyester arm deserving sweat and you'll never quite be the star you imagined plastered on the sidewalk by some dumb kid just like you.

And the hands don't hold like they used to when rode on high with strangers and hit each chorus with a shot straight to heaven knowing somewhere, someone was given the damn that made it all worth dancing.

Islands.mp3

White steel

2007-08-10T01:31:00.000-04:00

I threw the watch away. i smashed it to pieces. i burned the fucking thing and vowed i'd never speak to the son of a bitch again so long as i lived and breathed an ounce of the man he'd made a broken means.

I'd sooner die.

And so i did.

Now i'm his son and he is...

Dragline.mp3

This morning bed

2007-08-09T00:12:00.000-04:00

Sorrow comes in days. sunshine settling over the pale skin where hands once trembled in loving shame. in fear. consequences born from being under the wrong side of the right and just wishing there was a way to say 'this is how it is. this is who i am. and that's why i've got to be...'

But there never is. never will be. no matter what corner of the street you slink and smolder ashy eyes along familiar bodies (tracing them later on the ceiling. bare-chested and desperate for a taste of sweat along the thigh).

The horror illuminates. the imp cries perverse.

Skips his own love. tears this hole and ribbons around a dream of smiling faces. sweet summer sighs and lemonade by firelight. the next one. the future. the name drifting on into the unforeseen.

The unimagined.

The time when you might curb these shakes and cry with dignity, alive.

A Hundred Years.mp3

Better sick

2007-08-01T00:42:00.000-04:00

Face down in the gutter and our third fucking pitcher of guinness (each) is coming up foam and fury while the meat packing district does their best transgressive dance as the suits move in and the queens descend on wallets, cocks and the father's who abandoned their dreams in youth.

I'm not sure where rob is. last i saw he was putting the slurs on some toothless woman.

It's christmas. new year's. i don't know already but he has the fucking keys and we're not going anywhere until he gets his shit together or gets the last of his bravado kicked out his hulking dick.

I don't care. i hate him. i hate the world. i hate me in it. i close my eyes and reach a dream when i feel a whisper on my neck.

"Oh, honey. it looks like you actually need this a lot more than little old me."

I crack open an inch. there's a finger in my face. a long white line along a manicured hand come down from heaven to release me of the village fucking idiot and take my motion to the streets.

I breathe in and my brain sets fire.

But by the time i'm to my feet my angel's gone to the rest of her evening and rob's tongue is curling the gums of some filthy homeless lips.

King and Queen of Winter.mp3

Hesitation plays

2007-07-31T01:03:00.000-04:00

Let this be the start. the mark. the call that sets the trumpet force in motion and brings us to the next part of living wherein we finally get the hippie shit, the anarchists, the punks, the cops, the squares and the long drawns all in one big rolling smile that would've painted us a jackass if it weren't for this notion that there was just enough love song lurking underneath to make it seem that we could.

We can.

We will.

Forge our silly little sanctuaries day for night and back to the old believing there's a fucking rapture welling up and we'd be damned to let it down.

Former Babies.mp3

In turning beds

2007-07-28T17:41:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-27T01:18:00.000-04:00

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.

Ratbite.mp3

In stomach turns

2007-07-25T16:01:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-24T22:37:00.000-04:00

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

2007-07-23T23:53:00.000-04:00

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