Wednesday, December 23, 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 the faux paux of the faux essence!
They hide behind shades while tempting the sun, their sleeveless presence
this Vest sextet indented death threat of a thought caniving day dreaming
And then denying fraught peril by a shirt proclaiming Errol Flynn's present!
Our relentless gaze through visored eyes, on cloudy days, isn't
Where we “saunter” like they saunter, notice their quotations absent
Missing, hidden under their drone breeze-filled-chocolate-covered
Steak riddled little entres. I am not angry, but…”I am not gonna lie,”
Her eyes remind me of jarbled words spit out and revolving,
They too getting spun around, and regurgitating clasped curves dissolving
to esophageal goodness. Frankly, and I say this “loosely” problem solving
Could you think it more fitting, like a room, in a chic saloon of dodging
Haughty-taughty fashion-ista delight, where belly buttons flaunting
Curl below exaggerated sags and shoes point three sizes too-jaunting
Too- much! Oh and when she said at it looked like @! that was haunting.

Presently, BQE to Williamsburg, is the way to go, flow it
Red and seering with cramps and uterine lining, let me show it
As the east river does like the east river does, like the hudsy blows it
Floods it’s untainted bottled water into salt infested Liberty incumbent
Waiving Sperm Whale ejaculating, sperm wail away at the abundant
Way we sift between Man Hat On, dipped in tails and foot loose kermudgeons
Not so fancy freebie of an evening cause honey he has got nothing
Honey they have got, honey, we have got, baby she has got, something
Darling, cobble hills got, Slim Williamsburgs got, Babes, now erupting
NYC has got everything on me, I see it, it’s in that window their, pussing
It’s below that taxi cab tire, it’s in that bicycles basket, in the waft, its judging
Of your fart steam rising, and I swear, fuck, if I curse, shit, if I say nothing
these wooden slats below my feet, red delicious line the slats as they creak
I swear if i Get one more worm from this apple I am gonna fre@k!

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

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 into my now scratchy sheets. I try to meditate on not allowing any other visions of the previous night enter, blocking the shadow in the distance from striking the keys of that cash register, but no...The second bar, oh the second bar with the shots of Jameson, why oh why and...the ATM Machine, $150.00 for what? For what I ask myself, and KACHING, now even louder, the cash register mouth opens and a tongue comes unfolding with a memory on roller skates, knocking through the roller rink of my head! You had to buy that didn't you, you had not only am I fighting with myself and trying to stave off memory from coming to light in the forefront of my mind, I am strangling myself, mental envisionment of what I might look like, if i feign open my eyes.

I push my head from the hot scractchy texture of the pillow up towards the untouched cool section of the bed far in the corner, as if this motion, eyes closed will slip me into some catatonic fronzen embryonic state. Ahhhhh, it is at least cool up here, and maybe that might freeze the memories from trapsing in...NO...and now driving, oh driving, and the next bar, with road soda, now ripping through that stuff, and thinking...No no no...another ATM, another, what...a whole one...and the drinking, the smiles! I am looking at myself, hitting my arm of myself from the last evening, knocking drink out of hand, and the image wisping away like a cloud of smokey reminders only to reform with the drink intact and headed straight for my lips. I protest to the company I keep, STOP!!!! But to na avail, I am now, KACHING, registering another memory, what the...where am I, stumbling now, it's beginning to get light out side, and I come too again, my breath having warmed this section, this cavernous cold I had discovered now heated from teh global warming of my mind and breath, and spirit. Were it not, in coming KACHING, the shadow and outline laughing sinister in the background, and me clicking away at the keys of my computer keyboard, alta vista search engine of what? How do I think shaking my head, shuttering at myself will some how heal all the grossly injust things I have summoned from below to wage war against myself, how would the outloud grunt heal my still intoxicated, bad breath having, stale smelling "once-temple-of-myself?" At once, all memories flicker and register together, but that kaching is my kicking foot, slamming the side table and knocking the lamp to the floor, that is a real KACHING...and I know, the lamp isn't broken...worse...the bulb's delicate filament is shattered, and useless, like my silly attempts at pleasing myself the wee hours before now, which, in all estimation: Me attempting a mathematical equation; akin to a horse trying to dial 911 on a rotary phone with it's hoof: was only 30 minutes ago.

And if I was a baby for a brief mimicked smattering of a second, somewhere before this tidal rush of everything toxic and corrosive washed over my once fleshed bones: I am left now the skeletal remains of my id, and these tiny Jax like objects scattered about my boney visage, the memories which forsake me! As Abraham, I lie here ill-fated, and psychitzophrenic as he may have been, I too Must live to see the days past these inexplicable dealings with Self rejection, humility, mammalian indolence and petulence of another worldly kind! Cruel are my mental mumblings, tricked to taking LSD and forced to live their lives a babbling efficacy of puddled illusions transfixed, spun, swirling and mixed as oil, canvassing a rainbow, in standing water.

I shriek aloud for a chance to be heard, that my whinning might catch the wavering hairs, and register with the follicles of a passerby's eardrums; and in this sharing, however incomplete, of a tortured moment with another live being, I might invade his mental scape, and plant as memory mortars, mines, like those Jax lying around my still boney remains, for this other being to feel a morsal of the suffering I must endure for at least another day! But I wish death, or at least a disowning of those who I might have referred to briefly as "friends" so as not to harken back their feeble memories of my obnoxious clammering, noxious odoring, concocted scheming, and overamplified duely notarized ignorant synopses of how life is all coconut shavings and open wounds!

Thursday, December 3, 2009

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, evoking with it the subtle tinge of brief contented excitement. Trey's noticably more controlled chops and less forced-hand, no longer battling to hit each note correctly, seemed to loosen to a state of comfort on stage; his notes falling into place as the lights settled from a purplish hue to streams of green blue and red. The band stuck changes on cue with the smattering of color, catching glares off the cymbals as Fishman kept the rhythm. Out of a standard NICU, the band pounced into Ocelot, helping cement this song as a mainstay in their line-up; with each passing note securing it more tightly with the bands deep catalog. Ocelot melted quickly into a bluesy guitar solo where Trey's patented facial frenzy stretched long with each note hit, his guitar too at his mercy, it's neck seemingly bending with the curl of his fingers. As the song jaunted to a halt, the quirky Brian and Robert allowed for a rest as the Garden had heated to full temperature and began to boil over. Followed by a straightforward, Poor Heart, which helped to briefly rekindle the fire pace set by the first half of the first set, those in the crowd who recognized the next notes, certainly made up for those who were in the dark: Zappa's Phinest courtesy of Phish; Peaches En Regalia, made it's post double hiatus debut, and had not been seen in over a decade! (186 shows, September 24th, 1999) The opening drum whirl threw the unsuspecting masses to conditioned gasps and a fervor erupted as Trey's guitar led the band through this beuatifully intricate orchestrated piece from inception to ultimate climax. Of the orchestrated pieces tackled by the band, those musically woven and delicately written, Peaches posed little challenge to Trey. Even with fans having eaten him alive over the past months for flubbed notes and sections his intentions seemed positive, and as the song unwound, Trey up to the fight passed through each note with grace and sophistication: the sound emanating from stage throwing the crowd into bursts and cheers! That that 90's sound, defined by this crew in that era, may now be modified, is only to say: it now carries with it maturity that saves them from a meandering-go no where jam; but doesn't limit their creativity.

If the mid first set bluegrass numbers have become a tell for the band, then where that set is going to end lands itself at the opposite end of the spectrum. Coasting out of Peaches, with the crowd riding the sonic rip curl throughout the venue, Trey's guitar again emitted the indellible, revered first notes of The Divided Sky, and the crowd knew that the mid set-set break was simply a breath of air in an otherwise hold your breath-underwater exploration through the musical reefs of the bands untapped minds. As the band approached the unmistakable mid-section silence, the tension ressurected by the band vied in steadfast attempt to keep itself intact, and holding tightly to it's thin layered control, with the minute passing, the crowds thunderous roars finally broke through the surface and Trey let a grin out to alert the crowd he felt it too! After the final notes of Sky bellowed out, the garden's musty slime grew rampant as Cavern's slinky groove gave way to it's simple messge, and I was reminded to keep tight to all that is holy and sacred in the world: i.e. my shoes...or my soul...or my face...all of which seemed to be scattered about the Garden at set break!

With the ambiance stifling at times, faces beat red and minds stirring in anticipation, Set Two came too like Rock & Roll Show turned dancefest! Golgi kicked off what woul go down as one of the fluent and congruous sets of music the quartet have pieced together in 2009! If the Garden felt like an underwater breeding ground for transformative james, the waves that jarred above would soon be doubling on themselves as the band, navigating through Golgi, again propelled themselves to greater heights with MSG's interpretation of Light. As the band wove through the cut and dry section, the song seemed like a beacon being all at once released to full beam, and the band tore into a jam that rose beuatifully to a sonic syncopation and settled again in an ambiance that allowed for them to smoothly segue into Slave. This Slave, while bearing more weight in measure due to the Light it was born from, seemed to sooth the yearning crowd as the band meandered into the savory free form and loose segment towards it's third part. With the notes now wavering over calmer seas, the band too let this one trail off as if a ripple casting outwards towards sea.

And then, when we thought we were at peace and floating safely, Thundering in, reminding all of us what fast paced was all about, Tweezer exploded from the gates and seemed to get the seascape jarring again, soaking up the crowd and rising to a very high tide before subsding into oblivion. What can be recounted of that second set is surely magic, displayed for all eyes to see, with no smoke and mirrors, just the wholesome syncronicity of four friends, who have set their place in the ambles of music history; a force not needed to be reckoned with because; it lies at such outskirts of this proverbial music town, that no one knows how to approach what they defy in terms of beauty and enlightenment.

I think, if summing up were a case of Wine finally drunk to it's entirety, that stumbling through the musical landscapes created by Phish, likens one back to the ether and bare naked nature of things. Their wayward musings and benevolent rapture, that which is cast out to the audience those who never tire of their creation process, summons from that vast primordial goo, something fresh; something new; something downright dirty!

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, to tear and smear ten inch cuff linked collars and cuffs to a smattering of merriment and hilarity! Might I add, when the spirit moves you, do not reply!
Now, if it must be said, hello geoffrey, and in my mind it must, I don't space book or my face, tweez or tinge, tango or tabulate, label or congregate: But I might start by offering something new, something fresh, I like to call it Limbo! One does not Limbo, so to speak, as much as one might be in Limbo, that too is not to completely encapsulate, Sartrian style, the wonderful folly that is this Limbo! It is that one is all at once Limbo! But I digress...back to the first steps, the moment and reason, sanity and staycation on the topic, cause that is why I am here!
I only exist of the Internet, found conveniently in Black Framed Screens, and Smackberry's alike, as a runner from some obscure town in some obscure state, in this our obscure smattering of states we live in! I altavista'd myself recently to enlighten mine own self of mine own self. I may now exist of a whole new creation and cease to be bogged down by this single solitary singularity of a singlexistence. I am no longer the runner from "X" High School in New Jersey who posted a 4:34.26 in the 1600m! Torn from the shackles now, I am all at once some now back to my original form, running, and hoping to post better times than my previous web-saved time in the 1600m!
I am humoring myself like I feel others are, that I may one day be mentioned simulcast style with the likes of Golfer's Mistress, I do not recall this Golfer's name; something to do with an Animal, a Jaguar, or Harp Lizard, or Angling Maltese Spitter, wielding his 9 Iron, shackled to the same fame that claimed his name irradicated from my now long flowing and well honed memory. I will only acknowledge my want of such stature as this Golfer, or that Actor, not the names of that Golfer or that Actor, prolific and self explanatory as they may be, of the Billionaire-bobble headed, boney, brain bashed masses of neo-unintellectual, money hording, million pair of shoe march, honey suckling, teet fondling, nookie sucking, noodlings of the fab-famous-former serial activist for the Darfur youth and Ikea Nesting Instinct! Yes, I stole it Pallniuckian as it may sound and is(and how I just went back on what I said I wasn'g going to do) or is that just a slight the Chuck, and no not Norris; god knows he would kick my feebleness into idolatry!
But this may be a first, a single step forward toward the movement of the Limbo, as I ressurect it, crown topped and chocalate dipped, tipped, sipped and relipped, sprung jailbird style from the definition of a pole toting bar-mitzvah novelty! Resurrect you to the founding values of our cyber nation, mother board plantation, planting a home made staycation to freeze synergistic firings of our mental justifications of why, we need not leave the office room, fingers curled in carpal dispair, waiting in vein to grip the lettered board, ready to smatter letters as blood spatter, to blank white screen and develop yet another cyber murder scene!