Showing posts from 2009


Clearly New York (ain’t got) nothing on us Their “quaint” street corners, and grime riddled stiff cuffs Punctured pig roasted porcupine hipped nicotine puffs its cloud dissolving to cobblestone paved side streets erupts Like bubble forming elitists, tipped to the top, eye-focus adjust With an air of overcast soaring on their wide-framed bust From where they walked the Bowery, handled side street short cuts disemboweled St Marks Sushi like a pro; Fondled toy poodles, opened them up, spread their guts In front of PETA and they only scoffed blemish on a boot toe, dropped a Blackberry in a street crevice puddle, Ass-smelling like must deep as their Crevice hanging from tramps stamped in disgust Vamp waist lines, held with thongs like narrowly hanging Vines, must too devine, longing to die on the line rather than become A vintners best press as I might, but that is why we are not thus! Honestly, New York is minced meat in our presence, Meatpacking district, “fag” for th

Why is it that...

when you wake up at four in the morning, aware but not truly aware of the happenings of the previous night, that you do not feel hung over yet. It is almost as if you are born back into your body for the first time and seemingly every little bit of your history previous to this 4AM point on that random Wednesday in March is not present in your mind...But wait, your first memory clicks in like the distant ring of a cash register. Oh how sweet was that first Guiness and the car bomb, how sweet it wa...wait wait, here comes another one, I think, a memory coming swiftly down the line completely crashing into the back side of the other memory at the bottom of the most unholy of unholy memory slides! Weeeeeeeee I think at first, but then, like the sound of gun shot, the cash register KaChing hits really hard and there is my memory looking down on me, tall shadowy, sinuey outline of an angry...and I begin to realize that my peaceful womb like state is slipping through my fingers like sand int

Zappa Gone Phishy

"...yeah and Trey, like some silly kid on stage, couldn't keep his feet on the ground, high heeling every few minutes and jeering to the crowd; like the hammer dropped to crack the granite seal which held the answer to some cosmic joke had been his guitar! And the answer flew back at him like a hallucination of bats screaming from the primordial cave of his soul" While being subdued by one of Paul Languedoc's musical transporters, MSG fell prey to the swift manueverings of fine veromont craft noodling; the musicianship that once again dared the edges of volatility and chaos, and some how teetering that edge, simmered to an ambient fusion that lingered long after the rise of the house lights. Such was the first night of The Boys 3 night stay at The Garden. Coming off a tightly wound Wolfman's the frenzy then settled quickly- turned loopy into the first few contagious notes of the NICU. It's opening notes eliciting a patchwork of musical airiness, evo

I Don't SpaceBook and other musings...

Where to begin...I imagine where one must always start, one foot in front the next dear sir! But I must preface, that is mask my rumorings , musings, wingdings, hullabaloo , and other what- nots with a fresh Teflon coating, and relinquish my self from the mire I might find myself akin to and sliding in one of these days with hunt and pecking fervor of my type-click-appear: To the Meat!! I am not a blogger, in fact, for all intensive purposes this is the anti-blog, this is the Beelzebub of the heavens-realm, staged couthly; bell hooks sort of lower case affirmation of a position; an aerial attack of the passive kind-staged sit in, sit on, right out of Lil ole Passaic! But nay say thee, as I am not from that particular area...I will use many facets of the grammatical kind, winding thoughts together semi-colon style, and my stance as a non blogging neophyte of the triptych type may speak of music; may let on about fears of the heart, may implore you to retort, to agree, to smear,