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.