I did buy juice today. It has been
more than a year to the day
since I bought juice to keep in my home.
My friend tells me
about several a thing
related to juice and we agree
that no matter how poor,
no matter how badly your parent fucks up,
every kid should have the opportunity
to have a sippy cup of juice available to them.
A common denominator. From young to old.
To cracked out 65 year old woman
asking you if you want a cup of juice,
the distance is bridged instantaneously
once the apple sweetness bites
from the back of that Dixie.
Everything is okay and you are you again,
a kid who fucking loves apple juice
and summer time scraped knees
and dog spit on your mouth
because if you were not out
in the afternoon batting rocks into the woods
what the hell else could you possibly
dream up being in to.
original works of parts
Pittsburgh Black and Whites 6
Heading home we are
in an alley with a sign at it's mouth
that said no left turns
so we did the right thing
and saved ourselves a few cents of gas
and turned left
directly into a drug deal.
Their headlights were in our eyes
the same way the prize was in theirs
and we waited
while he went back into his house
to get the money after
talking over the terms or
maybe reiterating
that the code talk in text messages
was real, because it is all
nonsense banter
until you are staring down
the straight away
box cutters at the ready
should something be more askew than it
already is.
We waited and
waited and I got itchy
watching it go down. Video card artifacts
for other times and
the car backed out of our way,
the gent retreated with an upheld end of a
bargain and the world
kept on turning
rather peacefully and he breathed
a sigh of relief
for the three of us
between wood picket fences
on a street none of us had business being on
while snow fell and cats balled themselves
into ear wax colored cotton balls
beneath street lights.
in an alley with a sign at it's mouth
that said no left turns
so we did the right thing
and saved ourselves a few cents of gas
and turned left
directly into a drug deal.
Their headlights were in our eyes
the same way the prize was in theirs
and we waited
while he went back into his house
to get the money after
talking over the terms or
maybe reiterating
that the code talk in text messages
was real, because it is all
nonsense banter
until you are staring down
the straight away
box cutters at the ready
should something be more askew than it
already is.
We waited and
waited and I got itchy
watching it go down. Video card artifacts
for other times and
the car backed out of our way,
the gent retreated with an upheld end of a
bargain and the world
kept on turning
rather peacefully and he breathed
a sigh of relief
for the three of us
between wood picket fences
on a street none of us had business being on
while snow fell and cats balled themselves
into ear wax colored cotton balls
beneath street lights.
Learner's Permit
I am starting to learn better
why people tell me things
more than once because I
am not the person they
spoke to the first time.
It is hard
to put the memories together
sometimes and see it
from where they are, but I
do try to keep
the front burners burning.
why people tell me things
more than once because I
am not the person they
spoke to the first time.
It is hard
to put the memories together
sometimes and see it
from where they are, but I
do try to keep
the front burners burning.
Small Town Blue
There was a shootout
somewhere near here
and I've been scratching
the belly of the dog pretty
hard, but was sound
asleep an hour before
it happened. The bar
closed yesterday and I
hope no one got hurt,
especially the old Nam
vet who's been teaching
me to shoot better pool,
because without that hole
I don't know where else
my insides could drain to,
where else my insides
would not matter and
the only thing that did
was whether or not I
could lose with class.
somewhere near here
and I've been scratching
the belly of the dog pretty
hard, but was sound
asleep an hour before
it happened. The bar
closed yesterday and I
hope no one got hurt,
especially the old Nam
vet who's been teaching
me to shoot better pool,
because without that hole
I don't know where else
my insides could drain to,
where else my insides
would not matter and
the only thing that did
was whether or not I
could lose with class.
Music
and when you think
about it,
really think
about it,
it is all music
to my years. We laugh and we drink and we
make stupid jokes that cross lines drawn
in the sand with sword tips
sharpened on existences potent by our own
definitions and begging test by the hot bricks
in our hands and the tasty plate glass
across the eyes of the boy sitting cross table and
the girl on the stairwell trying to
sit something pretty and looking
for a way out of the bar somewhere under the radar and
the rainbow of the common draw.
The lip smack. The parched lip smack
that turns everything into
some kind of broad shouldered music
that bangs and pumps like an engine you could
wish to have. Drawing lines and line after line
is crossed heart and forehead and spat at and
steel toed, but no one goes to the hospital
tonight.
It is all music to my years.
I've gotten on and am less reckless
now than I was then, but sometimes you
do not have to look for the accident.
Sometimes the music finds you,
asleep at the table and
driving far too fast
to notice who's slipped you a number
on yellow blue lined paper.
Call me tomorrow. You will understand.
about it,
really think
about it,
it is all music
to my years. We laugh and we drink and we
make stupid jokes that cross lines drawn
in the sand with sword tips
sharpened on existences potent by our own
definitions and begging test by the hot bricks
in our hands and the tasty plate glass
across the eyes of the boy sitting cross table and
the girl on the stairwell trying to
sit something pretty and looking
for a way out of the bar somewhere under the radar and
the rainbow of the common draw.
The lip smack. The parched lip smack
that turns everything into
some kind of broad shouldered music
that bangs and pumps like an engine you could
wish to have. Drawing lines and line after line
is crossed heart and forehead and spat at and
steel toed, but no one goes to the hospital
tonight.
It is all music to my years.
I've gotten on and am less reckless
now than I was then, but sometimes you
do not have to look for the accident.
Sometimes the music finds you,
asleep at the table and
driving far too fast
to notice who's slipped you a number
on yellow blue lined paper.
Call me tomorrow. You will understand.
City Boys
I wonder, sometimes, how many
cities were founded in the places
people have no business being
because they had to stop, between
where they were and where they were
going, to catch their breath and
decided that breathing
was good enough,
maybe not better than arriving,
but good enough to be a thing of it's own.
cities were founded in the places
people have no business being
because they had to stop, between
where they were and where they were
going, to catch their breath and
decided that breathing
was good enough,
maybe not better than arriving,
but good enough to be a thing of it's own.
Flowgenomics Analysed
The reason for the failure, the real reason for the absolute face plant of freestyle, is in the lack of the creation of something new. It was, in retrospect, an act of taking a math exam in the guise of producing something new. All of themes are well established. All of the word play is well established. When I say "well established" I mean it has all been done successfully prior too their various incorporations into Flowgenomics. And that is why I feel, in rereading several times over, that it is one of the worst failures I've managed to generate.
There's nothing in it. Nothing identifiable in it. It's like saying one and one is two. Over and over again. Except instead of numbers we have concepts in the same positions of the variables. Concepts drawing toward a well established and well documented conclusion. Not that they are not my sentiments. It is just the framing of the picture, the execution of the strokes, and the lighting of the presentation that is phenomenally stale. It's not even so bad that it's good. It's just so putrid that the stench engulfs any reason to enjoy it. When I finish reading it I feel like I've lost time that I will never get back and it leaves me, if anything can be left after riding my eyes down the page, angry that I wasted time.
Well, I did not waste time in evaluating it. I learned what I could do better and worse by making it. I can further apply what I've learned to making something better. The galling thing, the disappointing thing, is that someone else has, perhaps, wasted time reading it and for that I apologize. It will remain up, though, as I persisting reminder to myself for the high latency space to work in. There is absolutely something to be said for the pressure of short turnaround times, but that piece is a clear example of what is and what could have been, had I given myself the time to mull it over for several handfuls of days before pressing it.
What I also learned was some of the value of new music. New music is, by definition, new. By technical definition. By ethos, however, new music is truly new when it conceptualizes the familiar in new ways. By that token, Flowgenomics is the equivalent of vomit. A math exam with set answers and many of them regurgitated from memory with fidelity and sealing it's fate as nothing more than parroting. One plus one equals two. There's a certain amount of shame I am still trying to digest. A certain amount of wishing for a second chance on it, and I can have one at the drop of a hat, but I will not take another crack at it just yet.
I am partly too disappointed to look at it for an eleventh time, but part of me wants to remember the mistake so that I have that in my furnace to power the train toward better production. The mental workshop. A fine substitute for class. What makes new music new is not necessarily the paint on the canvas or the framing or the lighting, but the artist's ability to take a familiar concept and make it interesting again; in this case by presenting the ideas in ways they haven't been presented before. Maybe it's not one particular thing that does it. That makes "new" new. It's not all "or"s. It's a whole lot of "ands". So I'm going to hold that idea in my mind the next time I feel inclined to spit out a rhyme about the fire inside me and engage and coactivate memory language and footprints of words that crush the edges of other footprints of other words. Anyway. Just though I should let you know that thinking is happening. I don't just open my mouth and talk off of the top of my head everyday.
Sometimes you've got to plan if you want to get better.
There's nothing in it. Nothing identifiable in it. It's like saying one and one is two. Over and over again. Except instead of numbers we have concepts in the same positions of the variables. Concepts drawing toward a well established and well documented conclusion. Not that they are not my sentiments. It is just the framing of the picture, the execution of the strokes, and the lighting of the presentation that is phenomenally stale. It's not even so bad that it's good. It's just so putrid that the stench engulfs any reason to enjoy it. When I finish reading it I feel like I've lost time that I will never get back and it leaves me, if anything can be left after riding my eyes down the page, angry that I wasted time.
Well, I did not waste time in evaluating it. I learned what I could do better and worse by making it. I can further apply what I've learned to making something better. The galling thing, the disappointing thing, is that someone else has, perhaps, wasted time reading it and for that I apologize. It will remain up, though, as I persisting reminder to myself for the high latency space to work in. There is absolutely something to be said for the pressure of short turnaround times, but that piece is a clear example of what is and what could have been, had I given myself the time to mull it over for several handfuls of days before pressing it.
What I also learned was some of the value of new music. New music is, by definition, new. By technical definition. By ethos, however, new music is truly new when it conceptualizes the familiar in new ways. By that token, Flowgenomics is the equivalent of vomit. A math exam with set answers and many of them regurgitated from memory with fidelity and sealing it's fate as nothing more than parroting. One plus one equals two. There's a certain amount of shame I am still trying to digest. A certain amount of wishing for a second chance on it, and I can have one at the drop of a hat, but I will not take another crack at it just yet.
I am partly too disappointed to look at it for an eleventh time, but part of me wants to remember the mistake so that I have that in my furnace to power the train toward better production. The mental workshop. A fine substitute for class. What makes new music new is not necessarily the paint on the canvas or the framing or the lighting, but the artist's ability to take a familiar concept and make it interesting again; in this case by presenting the ideas in ways they haven't been presented before. Maybe it's not one particular thing that does it. That makes "new" new. It's not all "or"s. It's a whole lot of "ands". So I'm going to hold that idea in my mind the next time I feel inclined to spit out a rhyme about the fire inside me and engage and coactivate memory language and footprints of words that crush the edges of other footprints of other words. Anyway. Just though I should let you know that thinking is happening. I don't just open my mouth and talk off of the top of my head everyday.
Sometimes you've got to plan if you want to get better.
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