mahakali

three days now in the midst of kali/throes, spasms,
unearthing the divine, the demonic, all the holy
drudgery in my heart, and seen them all blossoming,
the bloodsoaked petals of my heart, dangling,
time lapsed and still superimposed as i glare into the
mirror, into these teachers' eyes.  nothing can
be smooth these days out, i can only hope to consume
myself before she finds me, and picks my bones
clean. at the end, i am dry crackling white
porcelainesqueness, clattering up the hall,
through the creaking door, shambles rattling across the
living room and clattering down the stairs to rend
myself again, to ready myself again, is it possible that
i am instore for another night?  she couldn't have in
mind more luscious, lascivious, courageous descent,
lower and lower, all of the stairs and ropes in the
world couldn't possibly go this low, so i must ask her
if it is on the bows of her bloodcurdling shriek that i
am to be alofted once again to the land of living
souls, to the real of salvation and sainthood, battered and
bruised though i may be, it is there that i must
be, and will it so.  are you my lover tonight? are
you my reflection? my mirror, my vessel,  i empty all of
these fears and hopes, every drop of lusting and
debauchery into the comfort of your bottomless
pit heart, your infinite echoes, your perpetual
grafting wallows, my time to see the starry eyed
reflection of what we have left at the end of this road, the
mirror of the bottom of the glass and the eyes staring back,
i can hear the glistening ring of the song
already and again, the deepening follows the tracks of the
circles around my eyes, and the bending of the halo
around my head.  everyone on the train shows thier shiny,
shiny chompers, thier demons glare, the filter is
changed and the heaven i had is woven again with the
silent thread of langour, and exhaustion.  i know if i
could will myself to sleep. if i could kill myself to
sleep, i could sell myself to sleep, fall myself to
sleep,tell myself, and fix it all up in a short couple
of hours time i could let go of this shuddring,
stuttering gate, lift my feet off of the bones,
and tickle the slight sun with my listening ears, my
welcoming smile, my open heart.

i must be really fucking tired.

transit strike and the flu

sent reeling again, out of sleep into feverish hallucinations, delusions, Brooklyn is such a sweet jewel, and i know today that i am not going to see her for a long while, until this whole greed machine, out of whack, rights itself, and the balance in the universe is restored. just another hour, please, i have a fever, just one more hour and i know i would be fine. the girl next to me shudders, and wakes, wondering if i am o.k., the bed is soaked, i am glistening as i peel the white t-shirt off, and thump it into the corner. i thought Jameson's whisky was s'posed to get rid of the flu? it did for one night, for long enough for us to play the show, to dazzle the small crowd that shambled in from the surrounding neighborhood, and gather round to ward out the cold and set the fire to stirring in the water that we are when we play. but now my fever is back with a vengeance, and the text message on my phone says that my friends car, destined for Manhattan, is full up, which makes the extra hour impossible, in fact i should have left an hour ago. jerked from the cool comfort of slippery dreams, the girl, always self referential, it is a hang-up, is quiet on the walk to flatbush avenue, the air is crisp, and my hands, face and feet are almost instantly numb. i can feel the fever creeping back into my bones, the dull, concrete whittles down my spine, and already i can't envision walking all the way to flatbush to find a willing cab, a thirty fucking dollar scam, to rumble me through the time space into the maha-kali. worse than i could have imagined, flatbush avenue is a reeking, exhaust filled parking lot. it seems i am destined to spend a little more time with my long lost lover, Brooklyn, today. i take one look at the gridlock, and know that walking to Manhattan is the fastest possible way to get to work, no-one else can make it all day, just like yesterday, and nothing is getting done, especially as i sit on the corner, watching the heatwaves of car fumes while their way into the clear blue. let's walk for a bit, i say, though the concept of actually making it to the studio is not sinking into my reality in any way, my bones already aching, and feet stiff with the cold. on down the avenue, we are passing cars, someone offers to take one of us into the city, i know i could catch another ride, but she is unwilling to go alone, in a car with strangers. i say that it is o.k., that they are not strangers, that they are brooklyn-ites, and we are all cool with each other, as long as there is some adversity to adhere to. she still passes, and i know we are in for a long, beautiful walk through old downtown Brooklyn, along with the seeming millions of other folks that crowd the ever narrowing sidewalks like the cars next to us. i am already soaked in sweat under my coat, and i know that after the fever breaks, i will be in hard luck with wet clothes, and probably end up with fucking pneumonia. i peel off some layers, she willingly carries, and i lead on through the old burrough to the Brooklyn bridge, shining in the mid-morning, solstice sun, the shortest day with the longest shadows, drawn out melancholy. the walk is beautiful too, i am steaming, people remark, and make sideways jokes about the banjo i am carrying. we get momentum from the skyline from the bridge, the statue of liberty, and the "fuck it, we're all late" vibe, and stream through lower Manhattan, past the city hall, up through soho, noho, and union square, where i hoped for a nap in a nice warm tent. i bid the girl her way, and set foot into a long day of work, i choke back some cold remedy, swill the cooling miso soup, and barrel through to the end, this letter, a jug of o.j., and a pull off the nyquil bottle. breakfast is served. only 3 days to go.

luna

spent, the veil becomes luscent, the matter apparent, the static reveals. i could see inside of you, i could hear, even if it was but for this split, shortest moment, i am relaxed in that moment for the first time today. what direction the sun came from, what direction was the center, what is left when you find that you are nothing? is it warmth that i feel when i find that i am gone, dissolved like one breath into the atmosphere, one wave in an ocean of illusions, quivering with the anticipation of what it must be to fall all the way into this vision and sound and taste and smell of what it is to be me, i, one, all, nothing. the hands they shake, there is horror welling up, am i about to take the final step, or am i just waking up to begin the journey at last? either way, i must shed this skin and venture forth as naked and open as the day i was born, my umbilical eyes and ears watch as i make it so, my womb is now only the idea that i cling to for last reaches into falling sunlight, as the cool night air surrounds and tears my grasp to shreds of paper meandering down concrete walks, hitching on the backs of fences and wires. fallen under darkness, i can only just make out the monoliths and spires as they stretch out of the streetlights into the vacuum above. my love, satellite crawls in as my sole salvation, to surround us all in still, marine glow, bent back out of the pooled residue of last nights storm, beckoning us to the horizon with her in her fleeting rage, her silent, cool embrace, her divine echoes of what she has seen and will be. i will find my slumber somewhere in between this heaven and her, and listen to the pulse and breath of this ancient mother and timeless whore.

am i getting used to this???

two nights in instead of out. just a puff of smoke under the beaming filling moon around 2 am, clear headed and empty hearted as i am, somehow she always draws a smile out of my face. diving back into more rest, more dreams, and awakened with a reminder of somewhere i once was, and how those things will somehow always be where i still am, thankfully steeped in southern skies and desert sands, the strangest place on earth can be sometimes the most familiar.

sleep is only news if you never do it, and right now these past two days are like the french revolution of slumber...

sleep...

...especially after a 2 day run is really special. the dreams are rich and random, and the world has colours again when you wake up. when you wake up, you are sane, boring, sleepy, coffee swilling just to get one word out, and generally a fucking wanker. even after 3 hours awake, the world is still streaming in, i am soaking it up, cool, clear november morning, the house could burn down, and all i would do is sit and watch, mebbe with a slight smile, like as if i just got hit in the head with something other than a pillow for 10 hours.

halloween.

playing soccer with the cabs on houston street.

taking a crap in the trunk of some puerto rican rappers' car. much to their chagrin, i suppose...


happy halloween. i can't wait till thanksgiving. i hope to yodel till dawn with a rectal thermometer in my ear and my new yet to be found transvestite wife and her baby, pink poodles at the doorstep of her recently burnt out trailer. for the time being i should just peel my toungue off the roof of my mouth where it has been adhered by the spackling that my saliva became sometime after passing out round 4 a.m.

this seems like a good trade for being once capable of bouncing laser beams off the stars with my inter-retina radar waves. kind of like getting back to the basics of what living really is. what dying really is. whatever, drink some water, and a big ole glass of STFU and get on with the dream. hazy, foggy dream, somewhere, back of the skull, right beneath one of the recently found, previously forgetten bruises, we seem to be collecting regular as of late, us evel kneivel, alcha-yogi-sahtva freaks that we are. as usual, there were women, to be sure, but as always one in particular that riled me up, and wound me more tightly than could be contained, sent me spinning out into the cool night, teetering like a coin on the prowl for a place to rest my head or tail, always on the brink, weight thrown forward, legs just barely keeping up. bound to, sooner or later, dig teeth into soil, rearing to a halt with the whole spine firing juice into the misty meandering back of my mind. somehow these intermittant lubrications trigger cool nostalgias, useless and indulgeant as they may be, i remember slow, low sunshine days, way back when, before i was broken, spent, emptied out and filled back up again and again. same thing happened at the end of the h trip, though this time around i am amazed by the speed with which it all got on with, just a couple of months to drain the clear waters and leave the tank an echoe chamber, reverberating with the last ring of what surely was a scream of delight, like the same one you hear the last second before dropping into the steep track of an old wooden roller coaster, excepting this happened at the end of the ride, not the start. must have been fun, i know i was in love at least ten times with the city and her dreamy flowers, her poppies, her roses, blossoms sprang from the concrete, glass and steel, these most unlikely angels somehow right at the fingertips of the devil, just within reach, tickling at gripping, not so much to tear at the roots as to drink from the petals all of the morning dew, steeped in floral sweetness, all for a moments salvation, just a moment, just one more is all we ask, as the history of the universe swims around our ears and turns the last shock of hair on my head on end, charged with the electric possibile, anything happens, everything happens, anyone happens, everyone happens, all of the time. if you keep your ears pressed tight to the rails you might hear the next one coming before it runs you over, you might have your eyes open and heart clear enough for room to let her sit, the next moment, shining second, with the scintillating halo of this most rare engagement, most perfect wire, tightening to a quivering hold, again on the edge of its eminent collapse, one could taste it, balanced on to the tip of the tongue, knowing it was all so beautiful flying as it was the most likely to fall....

i think we have alchoholism in our blood.

the pic is of me and and my sis bec with some hangovers in SOCA.....

sometimes i can only think of all of the great shit i want to do someday when i am finally sober, after i have had a few beers. it seems easier then, except that i think of much dumber things, or even after a while, don't even bother thinking of things to do someday except jump off of chairs. when it boils right down to it, what else is there really to do, except "jump off chairs". isn't everything that we do all day long really just "jumping off of CHAIR'S" in one form or another?

i was on top of a baseball backstop one night, when i was very young, or younger, with about a half ounce of psyllocybin(?) mushrooms in my belly. i stayed up there half the night, until it seemed that the sun was teetering on the brink of the mountains, and the according little league games were just looming in the horizon of my paranoia... whilst there i listened to the dogs, waves upon waves of dogs, hollering, barking, yelping at eachother all back and forth across the north tucson basin. it was so clean, so discernable where the sounds came from, i could almost see the paths of the chain reactions as they travelled through the neighborhoods, up into the hills, back down into the arroyo-side streets, and back again, over and over. yelping here led to howling there led to barking there and so on. the where became ever clearer, but as i wound down in my mind to these final, deepest hours of morning, normal life impending, i was confounded as to what was being said, so emphatically, so repeatedly, back and forth, and back and forth, over and over, to my psychedellic visual delight. inevetable came morning, and i crawled down back out of the sky, from my perch, and staggered to the street, where i was promptly picked up by a friend who had been been driving laps around the neighborhood, looking for where i had run off to a bit, but really more just digging on the other half ounce of mushrooms coursing behind the wheel of a half ton of ford steel. looking none the less, and listening to pink floyd "dogs" over and over again. from that rattled old tape, i finally knew what the dogs were hollering about all that time up in the air, north in the valley, high as a kite, i finally believed my ears.

jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.
jump off chairs.

autumn

tonite became this morning,
somehow still and cool and quiet enough
to slither under the door with the sun,
shards stars way out in the east still,
greying east,
the day snakes through the canyons of the waking city,
you can hear her first breath,
rustling,
slumber is parting,
making way for the new day. 
the residue of midnight's play reverberating,
bouncing around inside my head
like ten thousand ping pong balls
trickling down a staircase,
the memory freshens and gathers steam
and drags me out of the arms of short lived sleep,
across the asphault and concrete that has
been laid to mark this supposed separation,
this distinction between you and me,
them and us,
and her,
earthen mother,
maha,
she is still wrapped around
usin lusterous embrace
regardless of the bloody betrayal we seek. 
i found the shining lines last night,
finally bottomed out nearing 5 am,
these latter days of autumn rustle
across the grass and shimmer in
distant cool sunshine days that have been dredged up
from the farthest reaches of childhood memory,
i must drink deep before we are shuddered in,
succor and
savor and
engorge myself with every second of
these precious days,
nostalgic days,
harkening to afternoons
spent in the backyard,
silver sky,
wrestling with the dogs,
napping in the grass,
reluctant already in
my youth to return to school the next day,
praying for some reason or
way that monday could just become
another lazy sunday.

the water bio

coming from the insides of the cells, or reflecting from the outside, light rays bend around the illusion of matter, also the choices that are the fabric of your consciousness, days spent whiling against the coldest wind as it rips your ears off, mind reeling back through copping in the
low-e, bouncing laser beams off of the chill of the baybottom, cool sunshine and whatever was left to be seen from the dusty red skys pierced by saguaro cactus, whichever, we were in love, and couldn't help but to act out the years in the way that loved us back the most. how many days sleeping at the wheel, how many nights sleeping in the backseat, vegas sparkles in my eyes, and the pacific ocean, yelling out of the bottom of my soul-heart trip into the fog into the top of my lungs, and care that comes from being scared enough of the reflection to call it out. have we landed, as the crumbling rockers and billowing yogis? we can only watch it unfold, as the lines grow, the tattoos collect, it makes no sense to me that the cells are ever tired, they are perpetual, and i am them, we are them, the organism is observed as it walks through its steps to the valley floor for sleep. tomorrow it will walk up again, humanity, the universe, a scholar, a hillbilly and mother nature's son. we do it for the vision, or more to the point, for the view. it is where we can see us best, and you too...

this is our biology...