Monday, July 21, 2014

Survival (from American Music poems)

What can possibly be said about the
early 90’s that has not been said before?
Perhaps my 2 cents given to the
shelves of minds and souls watching
the hands of all clocks aching forward
will illuminate certain memories
and then again, perhaps not.

I recall 1993 playing
hard-rock-club Alibis in Denver CO.

Alibis was situated in the Glendale
area of Denver among countless strip
joints - clubs with names like The Mile
High Saloon and Shotgun Willies.
If you happen to be walking east
from Colorado Blvd. past the strip
joints, you can’t miss the pungent
misplaced odor of baby powder - strippers
use baby powder to cloak a terse/tense
body odor resulting from being pawed at
and drooled over by countless truckers and middle
class business fucks with anxious dot-eyed
kiddies at home cared for by
           sit in wives with tiny gold
           crucifix necklaces.

Matt ______, Alibi’s
owner and main bartender
(with more than a passing resemblance
to Kyle McLaughlin the famous actor)
was a friendly, semi street-wise booking agent
for his club, appealing to leather-clad
rockers and late night strippers
just getting off their shifts, and before
you knew it, people would fill the
place and be pressed up against the stage
in earnest anticipation.  

For awhile it was a glorious time.

Then the cops were called because someone in
one of the late night metal bands dis-robed during a
show, came out completely bare ass
naked for one reason or other and the cops
heard about it and dropped in on
Matt and his club.  I heard that Matt
was tied or cuffed into one of his bar chairs
whilst cops searched the place since
it was rumored that Matt had some kind
of drug record but the cops never found any

The last thing I recall about Alibi’s was the bathroom - near
the end of the whole disaster Matt decided
he was no longer interested in the up keep
and the result was a busted out urinal
and toilet completely missing from the
bathroom floor, had a suspicious fluorescent
green color around the base of the pipe leading
up in to where the toilet used to be and
anyone walking close to the bathrooms left
the bar with sticky-feet.  

The stench was unbelievable, almost as bad as
                  a rotting death pit.

Shortly after Matt was almost arrested
Alibi’s was dismantled and replaced by a bland building
full of apartments with look out balconies and
tiny shit-kitchens.  

Matt decided to move his wares to a steak house in
downtown Denver, actually a high class strip joint
labeled as a ‘gentleman’s’ club and the last time
I saw him he was dressed in a tux and looked
like Kyle McLaughlin during his deplorable
Showgirls era.   

Meanwhile every strip joint in Glendale survived Denver’s
forgotten metal years and as far as I know,
Glendale in Denver still smells like baby powder
with that dreadful undercurrent of anxious
                    slavery sweat to remind
                    the earth of human cost
                    and decrepit extent of
                   low-down human survival.

- - - - - - - -

(July 21rst, 2014)

Monday, June 30, 2014

Tom the Canadian (from American Music Poems)

Let the motocross begin
and the resounding snarl-roars of wind
flap race-cars, plumes of
thin purple exhaust and whap in face, producer
Tom the Canadian took me to the stock
car races back in 96, gleam of white race
lights reflected from the panels of
the roaring cars lap for lap and
fat man over by the restrooms
along with congested snack bars hot lit
pop corn as the whole race track is
isolated from the small town / city,
rocky mountains ever looming out west
like the uneven jaw of
a beast beyond proportion.

I recall the cars hypnotically
zipping past around the track
over and over again almost to
a lull were it not for the furious
hot snarl of the stock car engines
and Tom the Canadian
hopping up and down on the
bleacher seat saying ‘Just look
at those fuckers’ and years
later after a divorce with
his actress wife, Tom the Canadian earned
a PHD in some mathematical field or
                other - I hear he
quit producing

Tom was the kind of producer
who had it all laid out for
you when you walked into the
studio after you tracked.  You had no choice
but to follow his lead and for all that, was a fine
producer on most
counts, made us sound clean
and pro but truth is that
if he pulled that shit in these
times I’d slam the door on his face,
pull the songs out of the sound
boards of his immaculate studio
and never swill around the back
rooms agonizing over my complete
          sense of no-power
          ever again so help me

Tom the Canadian, slipped us acid
the last night he pulled a mixing
party at the studio but did all
               the mixing himself as the
               acid gave him
               the necessary
               just so he could have
               it his way and
                   God knows why.

Never saw him again after 99
or so and never worked with
             him again.

I googled his name and didn't
find a fucking thing.

Tom the Canadian, produced
the first real album I was ever
               a part of.

Maybe even at the very second of
my scrawl / sketch over the
memory of it he’s
at some lonesome woe-some
             huff track full of zipping
             stock cars and

true American heavy metal.  

- - - - - - - - -

(June 29th, 2014)

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Those Clouds - Video

Monday, June 16, 2014

A Matter of Moonlight Perspective

Shooting up north through Tex-ass
               in 2006
after a hopeless gig in San Antonio
driving that night
under a vacant moon
with only a song to show for it
a month later, somehow managed to yank
               a sliver of hope
                     from its silver
                     gloss light.

Sometimes all it takes is a song.

A song from a bag of tricks that
used to rattle like bones
           now sings brilliantly
and it never ceases to feel like
a con, that is to say, if I can just
lull everyone to a sort of blank
state, I can jump out of the
           picture, hardly

take on a whole handful of roads
like snakes and summer heat
            leprous hot highway
            sun bake

in the American wilderness
           the floods and
                  folds of
                  countless flatland

threatening to eat us alive
in yawn distance of highways
               heard from tiny pin
               point towns.

- - - - - - - - - - -

(May 12, 2013)

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

The Night Wears a Metallic Edge

The night wears a metallic edge.  We are
hunkered down into our dim lamps
against a giant wilderness of yawning
interstates.  My feet feel warm when
I finally sit down.  Been wandering
the house all day, laundry, tending
to five children scampering running
across the living room floor, pell mell,
hurly burly, lung gust of young screams
against the coming twilight until
silenced into beds, into sleep.

And all these half a million day
start worries over particles, dust
mites, rust bargains on 34th street,
the President’s pockets full of money
whilst his medicine bag is full
of lies.  Countless movements to
accomplish the simplest things (even in
this day and age of befuddled technology)
the slick slime idea of ‘insurance’
as if any group of folks could save
me from myself not to mention all
Russians and Chinese and anyone
else convenient enough to be called
enemy, the feared apocalyptic
horse and fire smoke swirl villain
existing only in the carpetbagger
slum fiction of Washington politicians
spreading wealth like plague next to the
swirl suck Missouri river.  Half
a million day start worries over
an early morning hard on before
the great seething humming void up in
the dark blue bathroom that my wife painted.

There is no salvation in a song itself
unless blended in to ears open enough
to hear it.  Such ears are able to
perceive strings of pearls in
stars, clearest skin of her back
and each mole and birth mark,
every strand of hair in my thoughts
and run through my fingers by
the day’s huff-puff end.  

- - - - - - - -

(May 18th - June 3rd, 2014)