Monday, December 20, 2010

If its Thursday it's Friday, and it seems if I think blue, it's green. It's never warm enough, until it's too warm, especially under the covers; that when me feet traipse the cooler edges of the beds frigid edge, and reach the brisk cool that wraps in between toes like a wedged sock, I am for a split second appeased, and then all at once too cold.

Music abounds, drearily as a hazy faded image of a distant vision, that words all meld toegether to form one amalgum of a holiday song that teeters the intelligble realm of having a set denomination. Christmans time is Christmas time, would be the safe descriptor for a snowless mid December, and slipping in and out of the work day through the branches of the month, lingering to close on the edges of the weekends limber branches, we again slip off into the vast abyss that is Monday, reminded of the fact that weekend has past and we must endure through another week to the more mild and relaxing confines of our weeks repose!

I shutter for the fact that my words are all too often drenched in a mildly stringent vapor of epistemological, primordial ooze; I long for the moments when my words stretch the length of my Saturday stroll, down an uninhabited beach around a curve, where the eyes might spy another band of beach, bookended by two Jetty's, their rocks jutting from the water, that in my mind might be too cold to swim. In this hazed scene I dip the toes of my youth in the water, sometimes forgetting to remove my sock, other times my high top nikes, and revert to a bedroom of my mental sanctuary to burn out the fuse of a low powered to hair dryers to try drying them in an instant.

I step across peeling wooded decks, partially painted, and sliver my toe, in a slight slide across the front of a house. Like a dream, it being a dream, I remember a house once dark, thick, recessed and expectant. Than later, like it's demeanor had switched, like a mid life crisis and light brown stained the still aged planks of wood that it's skin consisted of.

When I turn to winter, to fall, to school, I walk the side walked streets of Spring Glen, I wonder how it all transpired, how it all took place, what lived behind the walls of the houses that stretched my simple sojourn to elementary school. I wonder who couldn't pay bills? Whose life was cut short,having had children to quickly in their life, and possibly later was the impetus to drink too much, to feign interest and quibble at their own existence, cultivating passive agressive tendencies like high rising Sun flower heads, bulbous in the sprind day sun. I silently listen for distant noises to evoke the miniscule moments of my uneventful day. I long for the end of the day, only to recognize that I want nothing more than more of the day, but to do it differently. I cry, and I think to cry, and sometimes I laugh at the times when I should be crying, or at least contemplating. I watch time tick on tock to the next hour, diffuse daylight and scatter clouds, limit the sun and devour the day. I ride the same track of land home, across the same body of water, and never once do not think why? I am purposeful, but unable to fulfill my purpose, querying the system of MPG incorporated for the next thing, stuck in the same thing.

MPG Inc, the epicenter of the world, the center of the universe, all are hear for me, and I must take time to develop business strategy to concur the world; though in the less than well thought out extended metaphor, the conclusion is that I have concurred the world, as it is my world. I have strategized with a think tank, that I can successfully limit my output while increasing the inout of revenue streams. I do this by simply not eating, and finding ways to eat that do not cost me any revenue output.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

I recall that this particular Sunday, hit harder than other Sunday's, that the moment of recognition that the day had to end, would be lost somewhere between the bookend of the evenings sleep and the following weekend. I might recall the next Sunday of this particular moment, or look back to this photo as a reminder of that transient feeling of wading into the streaming flow of time, held afloat on the back of another day of the week. That we all feel this envy of ourselves tranposed upon the ideal of the day, is less comforting and more alarming, that we don't do more to create these moments in the majority of hours that make up our actual week. I close my eyes to envision this lighthouse, caught in the haze of my subconscious fog, and dwindling in the distance, the day has finally given us it's beauty just a few moments before it takes it away. I wake each morning, and in a sort of karmic jest, drive the half a block to the Sound's edge, and glance across the water to this lighthouse, stop every so often in these morning strolls, and snap off a picture of the same lighthouse, only just out of true reach.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Onwards Down the Road(incomplete)

If it wasn't for this chain that sinks me down
I'd probably high step walk right out of town
I wouldn't turn my back, not for a sound
I'd simply sink my feet and toes on forward ground.

I wouldn't put a price on it
I would just pack my bags and quit!
But I haven't found the courage
or a pair of shoes that fit!

Onwards down the road I'd go
Onwards to a place that I won't even know
Onwards to a time, without a worried Mind
Onwards to a new place that I could make my home!

I'd clear out the cabinets of my mind
I'd empty out the attic, leave it all behind
I wouldn't stop to review what I'd find
I'd trade it all for dust and wind and ties that wouldn't bind

I wouldn't try to salvage it
I'd burn it all in a fire pit
But I haven't found the reason
or the match that would stay lit

Onwards down the road I'd go
Onwards to a place that I won't even know
Onwards to a time, without a worried Mind
Onwards to a new place that I could make my home!

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Camden's QuickSand June 09

Musical Interlude:
It was wholly ironic, wholly Camden, quite dirty, quite quite dirty: As we remarked a few nights earlier, amidst that vast dark corner of Jones Beach, that far side of the venue with no exit(just old cups of coca cola which we still aren't sure were ours)of being very Camden, very very Camden. It was in that space , treading steps up the steep corridor of the venue, and certainly a few tiny misteps of my mind, that Summer tour of 2009, where the first symphonic blasts of Meat Stick became all to real and funk began to lay it's plasmic hands a top the stratosphere, lending an ooze like quality not unlike the Ghostbusters holy slime, for all to wade gently through in the following days.

The Thick and the Quickening:
But what of Camden, a haven of a venue having sought refuge from it's bastard drug addled, and addicted brethren of a surrounds that is Camden Township! This venue, finding safety between train track and deep plunging river, where everything comes up Roses (except Roses are Free)! Camden, that divine space beckoning a second set-2001-Michael Jackson-Thrillerfest; Camden, worthy of a divine comedy in the rapturous form of Alumni Blues set opener; Camden, and the Magilla-Twist of 2000; Camden the birth place of crack, pcp, and Phishy Goodness! In side the warm blanket of Camden's (Insert Corporate Sponsor Here) Center, I remember the opening licks to Fee and feeling okay with the thought of a 4 and 1/2 hour trek home to work that late Sunday, early Monday morning! But I am not here to tell you of the racous and wily party of the entire night, but more about the funk infused inards of what I am sure I saw, felt, tasted, heard, and soul searched, in the gooey cream of this Vienna Wafer of a middle section of the show. It was here, in the good times had by all section of my brain, that I recline effortlessly in the spaghetti of my brain, clenching the long smooth stem of a Sherlock Pipe with my teeth, grinning deeply, to pain, that I recall the final moments of the first set with an intense 3 and half minute funk based, almost Talking Heads, Electronica-cyber infused keyboard solo, turned raunchy finale of a Tube-Ironical Second Set Opener First Tube-Enter Sand!

I recall, slipping cerebral notes via telepathy to the gallery of friends throughout this first run of summer that the nights were constantly being stolen, Hamburgler style, by the Chairman of the Boards; hence Paige side Rage side. (I now concur why my meandering aimlessly ventured to this dirty side of Camden) Yet the mid show intensity does not dispel, as much of the evenings heat does drifting to the atmosphere. Instead, before set break, that plasma-sphere, having been renamed by yours truly, took the fire and heat, allowed it to blub up, dropped it back on the unassuming crowd, and took audible form via Trey when he announced, "Well, we might as well play this one now!" Enter First Tube, irony, emplicity ensuing simplistic groves, base heavy opening of straight up face tearing neuron melting, seizure enducing groove of funking love. Inside this eden of mid show rapture, God would have frowned upon us heathens having embraced Epicurean tenets, holding fast to our figurative goblets, and toasting Bacchus as we hunkered down into the looping frenzy that abounded.

To the benefit of the audience swimming in the visceral, the plasma sphere had burst and created a cosmic sea for us to set upon our backs and let the current lead us. The momentary lapse of music, as First Tube dissipated into silence, we were left adrift in wake of first set energy, though the tension, having been built high caused the molecules of the plasma to slow from their frenzied state. As muscles began to tense(the thoughts of a week long run with Phish starting at Fenway began to grapple the brain) I was almost certain, as set two started they were re-beginning First Tube?? But in a slowed base heavy intro, it appeared as if the boys up on stage had felt the Liquid clenching to a more stable form, and were determined to burst through this quickening mix and not let us succumb to it's hardening. Sand! Through the opening section of the song, my mind was drawn to the words and underlying meaning. (What was I trying to patch up but never cure? Was my love of this self-destructing pattern of tour-bursts but a pacification of hankering that grew over time, and when would I be completed with and by this?) But I wasn't hear to effect the cause today, and in some ways knew I would take in the anecdote (jk), pulsing through the speakers and let the groove ease me into a hazy laze of a false sense of wholeness, until the next segment of innoculations.

In that initial 4 minute span my mind warped, the crowd blurred and that canal I sank and swam in, cutting cleanly between lawn and reserved seating sucked me in and swirled me 'round until that echoed guitar lead shuttered and filled the void the music momentarily held. At this point Sand-proper ended, and what can only be described as madness ensued. I use this word in a derision best explained by the process that led to the finality of this epic version. Sand would never again be seen as that fateful friend, certainly tattered at the pant cuffs, and hinting to the mischievous acts that could ensue in his company, but always with good intentions. Now, when those opening notes, driving bass and progressive guitar licks, ensue I am "shook" to shutter and turn my head hastily as if having been struck by an unknown assailant, ala Hartford 2010 night one. All at once surrounding me are clouds circling in and I am caught in the monsoon.

The boys are clever in their wielding through this massive onslaught, and the battle ensuing early on is being fought and won by the Spirit riders, who reign supreme, pulling out of the plasma and creating a jam that can only be described as primordial. From the 4 minute mark until 8 minutes, the jam is led by seering guitar, and the fluid connection between the fab four is present in every turn of the jam; and at eight minutes the primordial goo that has been bubbling up boils the pot over in the deep progress of notes building up to what is seeming the first bits of cognitive being. (I kid you not, this jam, firing out of the intitial four minutes, seems to tell the tale of the birth of man straight through to the invasion of aliens, and the final glory of having experienced it all, and lived to tell the tale) Segue to minute nine in the first peak of this epic piece, and the path the four followed through to about 13 and a 1/2 held tight to the initial undertaking of SAND, when all at once their seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel! But no, less a light, more so entering into the oasis of the eye of the storm, the jam turned light and airy, and maintained it's course careening around this theme. One thing became apparent, the plasma-sphere had been restored, and the gelatinous marvel the band sustained found a symphonic groove that saw the lead switching between Trey and Paige. Paige seemed to mimic Trey's licks until all at once the notes played resembled Trey's staccato rhythm. At around sixteen minutes the lunar module (the band collective) left the atmosphere heading towards space. Beginning with Paige's effects on key's, electronica was in full effect with Trey wailing, then trilling; with Mike's Power thruster bass rhythm and Fish's beat, there were a few molten seconds where I thought for sure we were in for a 2001 Dance party, and as the Ship rose, each member of the band possesed the power of an effect of that virtual starship cruiser, and the lift off segued into the latter part of the 18th minute when at full tilt the band launched into hyperspace with a solid full member groove always returning back to a five to seven note refrain Trey had picked up on and revisited over and over and over.

As the Spaceship came to a halt, the seething tunnel of a bunker that separated the Lawns from reserved seating was alive and toasty, but unsure of their final resting place that the music had launched and heaved them to. Yet, instinctively, feeding off the plasmic layer waving through Camden, in it's jelly-like state, it wasn't long before they dove into another high paced piece of frenetic energy in Suzy Greenberg, and the crowd went nuts. As all things must end, so it is in the first solo of that song, where this piece of sonic history ends; and as my semi-colon suggest, in anecdotal fashion, I allude to the small spec of recognition and wit that Trey inspires, and alerts the crowd, as a nod, to their musical appreciation, that he revisited once more, that refrain that had completed the latter part of what was left of Sand: Emerging lifeless, grown, blown apart, and scattered for all to share across the universe!

Standing Ground

I've been lost in this place,
center of space,
unable to rectify my own withered face,
willing to give "save for the grace",
a chance to tug pant legs with the glance and a taste,
unable to trip to the chaste
for the chance at a place in this race.
So I move my position to the left,
a knee jerking jest
to the crowd that knows me best,
off left
center stage,
I pull rank as a blow to the chest,
unable to keep up the pace
I relinquish my grip, trip and rest.

If you thought it wasn't much,
stomach punch to the gut wrenching thrust
to the push comes to shove
a warrior in tattered scrubs,
my words they traipse
with a grace
along the rug,
as I saunter, coat tails waving,
top hat contemplating
a rest on my head,
twice I'd be dead,
laid to rest
in a carnal dirt laden bed,
roses at my ankles,
the green matted surrounds,
i've adjusted.
The wind circled in just to listen,
then, forgetting the reason why,
dispensed on their way again.
It isn't right just to steal breath,
tight just to reel of the tenth
time you tried to take this from me,
your beauty,
the ugly,
the streaming mind,
the unjustified,
criminal enterprise,
the super kind!

I tripped the fence,
the pearls as they thread
needle as a sewn tight tread
of shoes, as they tear concrete,
souls left to step, repeat,
forward and moving marching treat,
of gum based bottom,
gripping moisture
as they wick my feet.
I adjusted the turn of the cap
as it flickered and stated,
mis red and mis represented,
talons, gripped and hated,
mysteriously, thought provoked,
and thoughts misstated,
as in grounds for misplacement,
ample beats in their internment,
steel plated,
jacked up high and elevated.
Bullets lined the crime,
addled and frayed I left,
just in the nick of time,
out of sight out of mind,
but in this new york city line,
it looks white,
flickers yellow, forgets to turn red
and bunks up town for the night!

Friday, August 13, 2010

Space Lost Space

I'm not crazy, though I split my time, between broken thought and pirate mind, and afloat aloft a sea of clouds, determined to loosen the tie that binds the mellow drowned out frown of a temparate mound-like structure of cumulus white; they scream aloud for all to hear: "WE ARE HERE!" But do not fear the coming night when these mischeivous shades, turn silvery gray, their crows ignite to vagrant decay of the sidewalk's dismay, as they keep footsteps at bay, not faulting those for stepping on crackes as they stray.

I've been lost in this place, center of space, unable to rectify my own withered face, willing to give "save for the grace", a chance to tug pant legs with the glance and a taste, unable to trip to the chaste for the chance at a place in this race. So I move my position to the left, a knee jerking jest to the crowd that knows me best, off left center stage, I pull rank as a blow to the chest, unable to keep up the pace I relinquish my grip, trip and rest.

If you thought it wasn't much, stomach punch to the gut wrenching thrust to the push comes to shove a warrior in tattered scrubs, my words they traipse with a grace along the rug, as I saunter, coat tails waving, top hat contemplating a rest on my head, twice I'd be dead, laid to rest in a carnal dirt laden bed, roses at my ankles, the green matted surrounds, i've adjusted. The wind circled in just to listen, then, forgetting the reason why, dispensed on their way again. It isn't right just to steal breath, tight just to reel of the tenth time you tried to take this from me, your beauty, the ugly, the streaming mind, the unjustified, criminal enterprise, the super kind!

I tripped the fence, the pearls as they thread needle as a sewn tight tread of shoes, as the tear concrete, souls left to step, repeat, forward and moving marching treat, of gum based bottom, gripping moisture as they wick my feet. I adjusted the turn of the cap as it flickered and stated, mis red and mis represented, talons, gripped and hated, mysteriously, thought provoked, and thoughts misstated, agitated, as in grounds for misplacement, ample beats in their internment, steel plated, jacked up high and elevated. Bullets lined the crime, addled and frayed I left, just in the nick of time, out of sight out of mind, but in this new york city line, it looks white, flickers yellow, forgets to turn red and bunks up town for the night!

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Sean & Becky Part One

Certainly it’s not the thought of an adventure, that culminates in an abstract appreciation of the convoluted, that gets me all tizzy inside. Certainly, not the thought, or narrow prospect, that by being the early worm, I may in fact be dead, due to the daily feeding habits of the proverbial early bird. Most certainly, beyond this all, I might conjure a guess, and beg then to differ, when the request for my esoteric resignation is called for and asked to be presented in my own blood, as to why I waste my precious essence. Further than this, and I might add neutral countries will protest, at the Nobel Peace Prize given to oil company that invented the newest technology to stop the spewing and cracked well it negligently oversaw; and those protesting countries, neutral for all matters, were in protest that they were not the ones who sprung up this grand scheme to present to the masters of ceremony!

In all, the sense with which I make my matters pleases me little in the turning of words to spin meaning to terms that only seldom are full realized periodically.

There are 46 High Peaks that surround the land occupied by Lake Placid, Keene Valley, Essex County, and it’s neighboring villages. These villages thrive on an original formula, not unlike Coca Cola; Add one Main St thoroughfare; one Congregational Church with thin spiring(<- not actual a word?!), metal topped, white sided steeple; mix in a myriad of front porch adorned homes, set back on an acre of grass, with mixed visages of Americana on display(American Flag, Radial Flier, late Seventies Chevrolet) for all to take in as they pass through; and finally, for protection, and loyalty, one household pet (lab, bull dog, mixed all American Mutt) and place him mid lawn, as still as a painted jockey, perched to perfection, almost death-like still. Stir this in a bowl for ten minutes until thick, and most non-carefully dob out on a Crisco laden baking sheet (not forgetting to lick your fingers of the raw-eggy-salmonella goodness) and cook under the hot summer heat that is upstate NY. And there you have, rising under your easy bake oven light of sky, the High Peaks region of Upstate New York. Delicious!

Little did I know Rebecca Holzhauer and Sean Lyons had climbed 40 of the 46 High Peaks, on their way to joining the elite ranks of the 46rs. To be a member one must climb all 46 named peaks, all above (technically) 4,000ft elevation (Though three are less than, while another never added to the list, was well above). The Peak’s names range from the likes of; Wolfjaw (both upper and lower) Macomb, Rocky Peak, Table Top, to Mount Colden, Dix (and South Dix). It was less an astonishing fact that the pair had accomplished, almost to completion, this feat, and more a decided understanding that two strong, rock-like, personalities, wanting to create a singular life for each other, had endured these trials on the path to their life together. I know much of what I know regarding Becky and Sean as subtle and sure; and like climbing a combined elevation 160,000ft together, I was comforted by the knowledge that this task, like building their life together, be done as a unit. I digress to more mired days, moments muddy with the passage of time, moments before the first steps of these monumental hikes were even a semblance of dream, of a fantasy of a thought. To time, hard for myself to remember, when I did not know Sean.

Sean: musician, literary, evolution, maturity, caring, aloof, sometime asshole, Nissan Maxima, Beef Stroganoff, kind heart, braveheart, Maddox, and Chuck Norris, engaging, enhanced, adult, Becky! My stream of thought, racing down peaks, crippled from a stubborn snowcap and came loose leak into the lakes that careen around the base of these majestic hills; these thoughts edge on insanity, having to grip the jagged edges of my minds own steep cliff, and venture to where our minds-vision open up, as clear pools of glacial ice water, to the moments individuals entwined, around sips of beer, tens of thousands of miles from home!

Sean and I guerilla rampaged New South Wales, with a fury only captured in the annals of B-List, Peter Jackson, horror films. Our triumphant conquering of the Northeast region of Australia near Cairns in Port Douglas, where Sean almost lost his foot, held back the impending rain of the wet season just long enough for us to; “wrastle” with Aborigine spear fishermen, smoke some bush weed, imbibe the regions ration of XXXX gold, and slip out the back entrance unnoticed and unsuspecting to ravage the pokey machine haunts of Sydney’s dive bars and hotel front bars. (Breath) Sean and I for all intensive and practical purposes, met in a TGIF at JFK airport January 7th 2002. It was easy introductions, as we were acquainted via vicarious friends, and having tread water in the same wading pool of similar friends, we slipped into the pejorative battle of witty satire of not caring and feigning interest. (That might be hyperbole of a more calm and tranquil first moment) I was 2 days fresh of the old 21! Having brushed past the carnival barker of life, who could no longer hold that under 21 wooden measuring stick to my long haired and skinny stature, I was officially, well…official. Sean was 18 days, and (little did he know) 600 Peter Jackson cigarettes, just shy of imbibing all the XXXX Gold, Stella Artois, Toohey’s New and Old brewed and released on the eastern seaboard of Australia in those 18 days, away from 21.

What I learned, very early on, as did many, was that it is very easy to grow to like Sean (insert witty statement here), but even more easy to want to kill the motherfucker! And living, eating (roo burgers at Iron Bar), drinking (XXXX Gold, then later Gin and Tonic at Bar 1), roller coaster riding (The Bush Beast) song writing, bar hopping, poetry consuming, Opera frequenting, pokey machine playing, in close proximity for the better part of a month both succeeded in showing us we were meant to be brothers, but that like brothers we knew just how to: turn the screw, to twist the dial, to cause the marble to roll to begin the chain reaction, that would flick the switch that lit the light and rotated the fan that had my bed sheet hanging from it! With Sean proclaiming, as I enter my room, “Holy Sheet!”

It was in these moments, of that Sheet spinning above every bed from every room on that Sydney Woman’s College dormitory floor, now transplanted in my dorm room, allowing me no privacy; To Taxing Sean to a hospital reminiscent of a Sanitarium just North of Port Douglas to await the fate of whether he would get to keep his foot after an Aborigine had cursed him; to he and I making eye contact as our ride rolled up to the largest (and only) Theme Park in the Southern Hemisphere, and in that moment, eyes locked, realizing we made the biggest mistake by bypassing the Blue Mountains to check out the Bush Beast and Anal Probe; but instead of admitting defeat (a trait we new little of) we instead decided to write our own songs about the amazing Amusement Park and perform them for the Blue Mountain crew, exclaiming the fun and excitement they missed during Tony and Joleen’s Magical Mystery Adventure, and almost convincing them.

These moments, too many to dictate or even try to explain. This fated our friendship, which was sealed early on when speaking to the general group, we exclaimed, in perfect pitch and tone, at exactly the same inflection, at exactly the same time: “Beef Stroganoff”

Friday, July 9, 2010

Hot Lobsta or The Laziness of Mr Hot Lobster or How the Lobsta Fell for The Bun or Lobsta Lobsta, Get Your Lobsta...Hot!

I am chasing the dream, the narrow, straight and curved, the packed down soil, hardened to a solid mush of deeper brown; moist and organic, weaving it's way to...The World's Best Lobster Roll!

To begin, one must make a simple choice, so forked it conjures images of a snake tongue, slithering it's way near your ear; Snake might be the perfect extended Metaphor, as it seems the polar extremes Lobster Roll fanatics take their love, of their type (cold or hot), can be sinister as a snake carrying an apple...err...a lobster roll through the garden of eden; tempting youthful minds for the taste of something...well, Fishy.

I prefer mine hot, and it would do my mind a restful peace and solitude to know their are no menus in existence that garnish the word "Lobster" with "Salad"! Lobster Rolls are meant to be hot, (Ask Jesus, he served up the finest hot lobster rolls on unleavened Bread at the last supper) hot and teaming with knuckles and claws, seething heat with the delicate texture of drawn butter coating the perfect assortment of Lobster-Gooey-Goodness. There is a Gordon-Ramsayesque recipe for perfection that wouldn't have one's mind jabbering off, in full english accent, ranting of soggy hot dog roll and rubbery lobster, "It's Roubbery for Chrissake!"

I wouldn't call myself an expert, so much as a connoisseur, and practice the Art with only one other person; the "Drive in" To my "Drive out Again" so to speak, if you placed it in her terms; the "Moma Dance" to my "Ghost" if I had my press agents handling the billing of our Debut at Carnegie Hall. Moma has got it all, if you will. She has the personality that would reduce a Primate back to its primordial goo, with the feminine wit to carry all the world at her beck and call. And She loves the Hot Lobster Roll. (That right there should prove it is the best and only way a lobster roll should be concocted)! More to Come...

Monday, June 28, 2010

A Phishier Point Of View

A Jumping Off Point
Before I embark upon personal journeys, these vision-quests which I know will undoubtedly toil with my mind and ultimately alter my particular points of view, I tend to view them with a great amount of exhilaration and limited but palpable trepidation. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, knowing the approaching of the next city, the next big event, the next rollercoaster scream attack of a night, dipped and now ready to ooze in all the pulsin
g and sensation of another Phish circus will ultimately suck me up, duck me down, turn me round and spit me out like a sugar ravished kid on a sit and spin. I knowingly enter these moments, the ether blistering with possibility, with choice and freedom, with the knowledge that there is No-Thing that can be pieced down, pinned out and sewn with any real understanding of what will come...It is the innocence and bewilderment that is the still gestating tour, the verbage that gets coined in the first few carnival nights, the "whale tones", the "New Phish"; it's the old faitful language of a culture that far and wide has a pulsing and rhythm and heartbeat all it's own. Having thought I lost this loved one, and now reaffirmed of their existence, I shutter at the thought of our reunion; of our sonic conversion, where planets align, the stratosphere bellows open like a gaping head wound, and in their melodic irreverance, the world catalyzes as a string of notes holding together and binding the cosmos for one mere moment.

"Phish as Avatar"

This "Avatar" of sorts, this multi headed, yet seemingly single brained visage, that which had laid dormant, the growing cobwebs adorning it's extrerior like streamers that still hung from a now defunct and depressing dance hall, this mass, alone in shallow darkness and verified silence, had for many years been motionless; yet in these same years this "Vultron" (mightier, the whole, than in the sum of its parts) sparked, by its hibernation, contro
versy amongst it's disciples, their voices and words billowing subtle insight as smoke churning from the stacks of their concrete cannons, busy within the inner-workings, trying to hold fast to the dream that such an organic and evolving natural machine, the Phish, may live again. These Phans, joyed at the whispers of re-union; to once again enter into that tacit consent and sublimely uplifting single consciousness that formulates and eeks it's bubble bodied form throughout an evening from fraught filled fret frenzy, bass implosions, keyboard collision courses, and high hat hilarity, all focused hell bent on creating something from nothing, and in that, that that "No-thing" had no idea it may have ever had a chance of existing.

The Reunion Verified

With the rumor now a full fledged fact, that Phish would be "no more" no longer I personally began revisiting old favorites in hopes of conjuring the spirits of an era of Organically Grown-Home-Spun, and Freshly Squeezed Music; I entered Pre-Hiatus funk fests, veritable boatloads of fizzling bass bomb-debris shoveled offshore from the barges of fabled jam sequences. I launched back to my origins, to the nauseating likes of NO2, my first take on Jimmy, his lovable cat, a comet crashing into Jupiter, and the slip and slide splash of Page's Keys as he invoked the God's in his solo as if he was "hit in the head by a comet!"

But I also entered labyrinths of seemingly maze-like dead ends of my post-Hiatus quests to resecure "my band" to the ever evolving "me"! But I had found it difficult at times to latch my cerebral cortex to the always elusive formiddable blob that showcased, night in and night out, in the darker years surrounding 2002-2004. I sensed a dense fog criminally en
gaging the music and in the back alleys and piss stained snow caps of those winter tours, their was more than meets the eye, Jacob's Ladder style; as evil incarnate glimpsed from broken glass and busted shuttered windows. In the highlights that fluttered in, off beat and unexpected (a Tweezer-turned-Stealth Mission-turned-Happiness Jam-turned-Sinister)and eased me, infrequently, to a tranquil slumber, I was always certain of the moment when my transcendence would dissipate and I would again be forced to outrun an angry pile of joggers, or an over-zealous Church Mob, in my failed effort to evade my own mortality.

In all, I managed to scrape by the post-Hiatus, pre-Phish-End era, working my way to some miracle moments, but more often than not, a Giant's helping of every "Walls of the Cave" ever offered up; and done so ubiquitously to appease the ravenous flock of Basket Hangers, perched, captivated, and chomping at the bit behind first row steel bars and netted stage skirt! (I consistently think back on how that song reminds me of wiping my A$$!) When Phish said good-bye, I was even okay with it, knowing, as most had been murmuring, that it would "never be the same!" Then, Trey said it, too! And like a hero I admired, letting me know that my excitement and enjoyment of their craft was simply a waste of (fill in the f'ing blank), I didn't want to be where misery was!

Rumors had been flooding through the parking lot, a scene debauched by the left over debris of a now tattered and war torn Gamehendge; rumors of its timid leader, Big Red, being overtaken by the domination of what seemed to be more like Saron's ring, than the seemingly soul saving power bestowed upon the possessor of The Helping Friendly Book! The vacated lots, no longer teeming with transient miscrients, off to the next all knowing Trash Heap, peddling their wares, looked reminiscent of a birthday party on crack (hippie crack)! Burst balloons relayed the story line of crackling synapses that had ignited, flickered, and sizzled to a blackened demise. I recall my final glimpse of the scene; my little red car, caked with mud, puttering dow
n back roads out of the Northern Kingdom, the dirty windshield hinting vaguely at sepia tone, and the scratchy melancholy chorus just out of ear shot in the workings of my brain. I could hear music playing in the thoughts that jumbled in my head, off notes hit out of stride, telling me that I should not let go so easily (cars ditched in the little divets in between the highway, and possesions scattered as many scrambled to catch the last dribbling of their all at once lost heroes, as they flubbed the final number, performing in the wrong key) I would have been better off not catching that Velvet Sea, knowing it might have been the last, but would only later understand what true loss was, having secured a split on par with the likes of The O(Phish)cial End! I climbed in and out of my head, travelling South that morning, having endured what was akin to the "everybody hurts" traffic jam come to life...I couldn't be sad, but I couldn't be happy. I teetered as if on a tipping rock unable to appease myself by balancing myself, and always trying to steady my position, I was a consistent shuttering tremor. I felt uncomfortable. But I had no control and that was how it was to be...

A Real New Start (Or Something Smells (Not So) Phishy)

I remembered the news of the re-union, giddy only in the relative quiet of me and my puppies; but while witty, wide eyed and crazed for another chance at any thing Phish, I quickly wandered into a sea of those caucaphonous and deafening pangs of cymbal crashing reality, reminding me of how "not so good" it had been! (But this too shall pass, right?)This is for another time...

My Awkward Transition (Throwing The Horse in the Sand)

So it was, and while I may have more to come on this Post Break Up terror/dread/Joy?! I will fast forward to the veritable thesis I know is wrapped up in this Cocoa Crispy, Cap'n Crunch crumbled High Grade Gooey concoction! What I have learned?!

I was certainly re-energized for Phish Tour this year! First off, I was going to play part one of the summer smart, i.e. Days off of Work, Places to Stay (hotels and not back seats of minivans), ample comfort level with repsect to reaching the lot and wandering of the lot, and finally a means of generating a minor amount of pocket change via some witty(clever) T-Shirt Sales!

Finally, while I set a few minor expectations of what I had in store for myself, I did not create any gnarly, Wookie-esque pre concevied notions about getting that Alumni Blues>Letter To Jimmy Page>Alumni Blues! I created an alter ego to what I thought was the older "matured" me. And in retrospect, that "Old Me" was...well...not as "easy going" as I wanted to be! This cool cat would soak it in, live the lavish life of a concert-goer once those house lights dimmed, but could still tear it up in the Lot before the Show!

I think it's mob mentality but when a song drops, and it is known fodder that the masses abhor it, Things Get Heavy, and blood runs silky as Velvet to Pools in the hemisphere during the encore. I escaped this, creating my own singular connection at times that transcended any negativity. So I opened up a third eye, one that was stymied by the light let in at first, but then able to grasp the creation and transformation happening all at once. I was here to critique a band I had always held to a high standard, to revisit their songs, their growth as a molecular unit, and was able to synthesize, and embody their ebb and flow with the surrounding environs; how they honed the samurai skill of stealthily breaking apart from the whole, to linger in the foreground, the background, with limitless patience; to explore, in depth, patterns of musical anomalies, with the sheer ability to graph themselves back into the larger whole, and effortlessly reform rhythmic patterns and passages, conversations, snippets and novels of formulaic Enterprise!

Further, I was able to bask in the knowledge that I was there to experience a creation that, as I always knew it, was limited only when limits where perceived, and my letting go, free form enjoyment of the Music that I yearned for, and seek passion from, gain energy and utilize like solar reflectors do the sun, like wind turbines do the passing wind, I re-engaged with a ferocity that only spiked as the days went on! So when it was that my expectations had nearly dissipated to the wind, and I was asked, what I might really get a kick out of hearing, I finally scoffed a breath of Alumni Blues, jotted in down in my blue set list book as a "Want" and ventured to Camden that Friday, to meet my fate! To Be Continued...

It all started with...

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


I enlisted the forces within to conquer the Whitestone Proper
quelled to imagine the musings of such Sea Birds, rolling
their plastic eyes at the pigeons of Washington Square.
Where are the leaves, the squirrels raged, tender tips
of fondling fingers folding and rolling their acorn nuts. I
might just squeeze his little cheeks at the sight his nose,
so squeeky and rabid. I scurried for the ground, found
yellow drips of picasso's blood boiling over the brim
of the Hudson River Bandit, steaming down shore
towards cities edge. If I looked twice and slowly,
the world might just edge to the end near battery park,
might just turn down 90 degrees and allow us to slid down
to China. The sea birds down here don't have patience
for me, and the pigeons have stolen one of their glass eyes,
so I am sure my stay is overwelcome and my welcome
over easy like the eggs scrambled in the Diner on 43rd.

I searched for Pizza, 33rd, 32nd, 31st, like the clock
ticking forward, the clock ticking forward, the clock
clickety clank of the widgets and wheels, of the cogs
and that steel, the springs and the wings, and the
white flying things, with glass eyes. I mentioned my
breath and covering my mouth, breathed, to be
certain, it was that shit smell of steam and not me.

I don't like you, and that's an abstract! But I am sure
if you looked in side, took time to cock back my head
you'd be certain there's something to like. I'm no city,
but you're no island, so let's not pretend who were not
supposed to be. You're linked by bridges, and I only visit
but your food's pretty good, and my singings quite bad
but we've something for each other, for each other.


I turned and left, rose pedals falling, charging the ground
like rain water being pricked by each falling drop; now puddled
and pregnant, the moment collapsed and I was gone.
If it was Tuesday, the skyline ignored it, as wind sheeted by
like worn linen over a freshly made bed. I thought it might
be her bed, clouded and wet, electricity scuttling, lights
flickering in a mimic of bright eyed filament mistaking
Morse code; that I could watch the bulb fire on and slowly
fade back to black. I remember now, how much darker
it seemed, after starring intently into the dying glow,
my eyes blinded for moments.

In a later moment, I saw the clouds tear apart, light
shone, but still grayed, and lit to a blueish hue. I felt my lips,
chapped, and heard under the rolling tires, the crumble
of some loose gravel. I parted my thoughts like the sky,
let the road veer the car, and loosened to the night. Somewhere
detached, between nervous and cold, my toes met wet sock
and I knew you knew I should have brought a change,
a fresh set! That's all I could see, the window fogging, those
fresh steps of damp traipsing across the windshield for me!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Correspondence 7

So many things, Frederick, then, quiet now they all disperse, and disperse only to resurface when tension builds. We walked today and you were quiet, a silent judge, hailed above the rest, an exception to the rule in many senses. What is it that we do exactly to make things easier. For me, Frederick, you said it was the fact that I was able to realize all things do not eventually come to a crashing halt, but that the things we have to do, those that need to get done, life tasks, will get done; regardless of any extra effort exuded by myself. So we are merely quiet and frail as humans, calm and controlled, doing our piece to create a whole, of something, not necessarily of a "whole of existence", or of a "whole of society and community", but a whole of ourselves, pieces of a puzzle to create an "image of a train station in the rain, with blurred outline of a man or woman waiting at the station edge, for a light in the distance, to come and take them away!"
Nonetheless, we do this, always, this collecting of mental relics, we horde instances and moments, of times when we did...we contrive other instance when we night have done such and such, and in setting those trivial fictitious moments, memories so far off in the distance, like that brief moment of light that might be the train light, or just another light adorned lamp post, we can almost speak them as history, our personal history! We do this with a tacit consent and assumption that all the pieces are able to collected, or are at our disposal! The possibility inconceivable that filling this hole is possible, by collecting the snippets in order to create a whole, does not stop us from moving forward in attempt of such a grandiose feat.
We find nothingness in this though, in the cave packed mind shaft of mental moments miserly holed up for us to horde and grovel through! Yet we hold this past recounting as a meditation, a solitude of fortunes lost, past and never achieved, of gems of temporal fleeting, and ultimately gold dobs of sand worn time, dripping through our hands as the grans may an hour glass. But at the same time it seems a conglomeration of all things , that in this emptiness of nothingness, we find everything, that the vacuum sucks itself in to pull itself out again. This rolling over of itself, in and out of itself, folded over on itself, peaks beyond one sentiment into another, and as these two feeling grasp cold fingers as they peer around each others edge, that is, wholeness as a mind full of mental moments against emptiness as simple a mind full of mental moments, the fear cancelling out of each other drips through every platelet, blood cell and nerve ending and creates a numbing!
It is intriguing, Frederick, that you felt that we relived a vicious cycle, we re-entered unknowingly into the life infinite, utter fools, maybe your pessimism is your Strong point and your weakness: But you write at night with eyes stinging, attempting to capture the last bits of lamp light before the oil lessens, lap flickers and out. The wooden slabs run the length of the floor, creaking, your feet, wrinkled hands, toe nails decaying, with no nail at your last toe, just skin...But beauty denies age, no age denies beauty, no beauty and age are skin deep, are cliched. Beauty hangs before everything, as does any valuable trait held by a person; and it is only that we work to hard to see what is there before us, when we ease into everything!

Monday, March 15, 2010

Correspondence 5

Slow, Frederick, my breath extended, my chest rising, and along this hazy day, I watched as the clouded sky sighed, as I might, as if knowing that its current plans are going to be washed away; not much unlike the branches, tree limbs, and full tree bodies down Route 15! The wind scuttled, Frederick, and the branches fingers scratched at window panes, they too, whispering, Scuttle, Scuttle, Scuttle. And what of those wooden framed windows, on their track with painted thick rope pieces, only able to be risen or lowered if both sides are exactly parallel to each other; what of those Frederick, rickety, rickety shaken by the winds massive hands, the knuckles white where they gripped tight the window sides. Behind them, Frederick, the reckoning of the mind, subtle slowness encapsulating, and vertical and horizontal motions cease. Beyond those Windows it's Monday, I think , you say Tuesday, along the main street, we walking, you to the left of where you walked, to the right of the street, stepping through and occasionally on those cracks, me flinching each time you missed stride and the soles of your worn boots straddled those industrial built sidewalk slabs. Occasionally, as if on some miniature level, the sidewalk having split and one side of the crack risen, as I imagine the world might in some giant earth tremor, your shoes try to bridge that giant fissure, and focus your balance from the heel to the ball of your foot. Even in these moments, I flinch with the thought of yet another back being broken. But I muddy the mental waters, and sail from my point, as it was here Frederick, as the winds faded between the brick behemoths on either side of us, and the gust having risen up, and then as if in the rise, the wind regained it's strength and scoured back towards the minute openings in our jackets, the spaces between wrist and jacket cuff; our neck and jacket collar, and invaded the last few spaces of warmth for the rise of hair in these follicles their reach extending to some imaginary warm space in the vacuum of their undeveloped minds. You spoke words that entered the world as smoke, lifted twirled in a very unrehearsed waltz with that same wind, and the word, Goodnight entered into existence, stricken to the record, as a scream, and I yell back, the heat of my words as jet stream towards yours, and we battle for the nights attention! It's midday and dreary, most certainly not night, even on this the first long day of the year, this dreary Monday, although it seemed Tuesday to you , but dreary doesn't cut it, you say, as you would, hanging on the limbs of that white knuckled wind; and I, vanquished, retreat, each word doesn't cut it, I mumble. So moving on, together once and against the pale gray street, flooded with shop windows dimly lit I sit!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Correspondence 4

Well, Frederick, last night I dreamt. It may sound funny, but I feel that we can have dreams, but when there is no understanding of these dreams, than all yo have are dreams. But, in the "act of dreaming" you understand, maybe I understand these dreams! I decided, in my dream, I would go bowling and entered the doors swinging inward and out like those of a bar, with a circular plastic window towards the top. Moving from the door energized and excited to gt bowling, I realized my bowling shoes were already on, laced up, and I was ready to bowl. All the lanes spiraled, or seemed to spiral in a way that kept their original straight quality; they seemed to buzz around me, all along still seeming straight. So while the lanes were staying straight and still turning, I turned with them, my ball, actually, turning and hitting the pins striking, with strikes or spares, but hitting all the pins in one or two or three shots. I was doing well, Frederick, well as in doing great, hitting pins and dancing across lane lines, tickets were flying, pieces of paper, flying and falling, falling slow and fast, from teh machines, where the machines now dispensed tickets, like skee ball machines; me having fun, hitting pins, getting points, now knocking down pins, getting points! Now, now I make my move, grabbing the person's next to me pin, I tried in feeble attempts, to bowl with each hand, in two lanes, one ball per hand, tied to each other, the balls tied to each other, and smoothly, my lane, ball moving smoothly, the other person's ball smoothly too, as well, rolling thin planked, greased floors, still spiraling, and lights flashing, both balls moving smoothly, maybe the other lane's more smoothly! My ball begins to break, my lane, Brooklyn, south side, sliding across right to left, surpassing the strike zone, catching the head pin, slicing it hard to the right, it richochets, then returns back left, slicing the lower section of the red necked pins and clearing the space, ten empty spaces. My left hand, not my lane, hit pins, falling, all I feel or know is fall, falling down, the ground!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Correspondence (Part 2)

Of a post apocalyptic expression, my dear Frederick, spoken in the wired drone of a somnambulist's newswire; sent running silly of it's own sinister tone: And, and I choose to start this thought with the dreaded "And", I might speak to you, Sir, capitalizing the first letter of your name in my mind; or in sinowy mood, I too could take from your name the "proper" part of the noun and scrounge its nose in the less than desirable, in my mind of course. Cause is the real question here, and why do we mean to cause, in our less than ecstatic tone, a radio waved pang of soulful emotionally charged proverbial heart murmurs, to uproot that beat of other's ideation of body turned to thought, and why do we force others to turn from the smile, to a tear ridden jerking smirk of "why are you doing this to me?" I too, Frederick, cannot excape the extended hand of the lamb of god who has taken away the sins of the world, and is therefore allowed to demand my value be offered up for less than it is worth: That I am to be the blue plate special, humiliated in the name of His bad day, of Her rough week!

I scoff at those inane sycophants, who allow the "holier than thou's" to poach their existence like an endangered animal, to eradicate from the earth of their cosmic ooze, that last semblance of humility and sage virtuosity, that last utter drop of the udder of life that is the goodness bound inside each soul:

But wait, wait tirelessly for me, Frederick, I scurry to halt, laughing a sanguine hefty arched chuckle of cynicism, because I know deep within the primordeal depths of each soul's own soul there is but an everlasting rehearsal of sorrows foulest songs, the singers deep within selling for fodder, the paper with which these ballads are written, to the next in line, just so that they can burn them, destroyed in the hellions waste can, smoke billowing forth, they crowding around its rusted rim and faded chipping green paint, hands held to mouth huddled as a begger, for a chance at staying warm in the coldest of dark dungeons that is the ethereal body proper!

It is cold, Frederick, and I must warn those who are not schooled to observe this cursed colony of degenerates, that amongst Beelzebub and the merry pranksters of the down under, the creatures of the sullen abyss of folly and sin, the deep below, the duck and cover run ammock of the thorned and wicked, the crouching tiger hidden sin of a devil's den; in that place it is most certainly not Hot, it is not all central heating and pellet stoves, it is not all chocolatey smores and heart attacks. It is already frozen over...and in that farthest, vastest most kindred sprinkling of snow flakes and hanging icicles, the ice cube and freezer box of a temporal point on life's road map, you burn at the fact of the colds most cold moment. That in heat's hottest moment, in it's point of burning itself to a crisp and then fluttering those crisps into heat-filled transience, and all is said to be most hot, a cataclysmic climate change occurs forging forth cold! And in the furthest points of this cold ridden heat deprived soverign nation, you get burned by the touch of cold!

And So Frederick, it is for this reason why the soul merits no warning, wages no wars, and wallows in no way towards sympathy or fear, but it is fridgid solid frozen and hot to the touch, the character of those we call humans, less humane, able to positively stick to one another the warblers call of hatred and self loathing. I hold contempt for them; that their "appearance" may merit a judging crowd to award them no points for the many non-talents and limited looks they possess! I too though Frederick, may be one of them, are you?

Friday, February 12, 2010

Correspondence With Nietzsche (Part 1)

Here's to you, Frederick, your infinitesmally-cracked skin-pocked perversion of a self anecdoted reliant, hell bent on seething your unorthodox views to the world; you the robed judge of judges, pondering on the ills of life, pretending to prevent the weight of the world, and it's axis' from tearing at your skin, flesh from bone, cold stone of a slab, canvas torn. And in so much as you deny, ignoring the seamly ooze of unoxydized blue blood, rich with nitrogen, to river to a pool below your feet, you fail to fake a clown for clever magician of a well qualified scholar of a son who was born the sailor of another country. You have fought fire with gasoline, hindered a disease, crippled innocent life dribbling maze of cloudless window panes, waking for a moment of terror to collide and shatter their once whole and finite structure...and you do, how you do, how do you do, an incomplete portrait of squinted eyes, under candlelit, dribbling the fascination of another less then holier than, though shall not kill of a commandment upon the earth of the righteous and forsaken. Frederick, you overman, cannot stand against the decay of the skin, as it wrinkles to a flaky subsistence, and for this moment, you grant us an instance of trivial insight into the envelope of your mind, tightened to adhesive with your weak saliva, and you mail us as you do your mind to another abode, one wholly and holier more than a body, of a christ, a savior of a communion, that his sins were a favor, no, more willingly a sentencing of me, and of you to a life of fragile decadence, and ill purported tolerance of many who do not deserve to be tolerated, deserved to be wind burnt and sent packing, sent to the town square for a frollicking of folly and meriment in tortuous propensities.

I care not, Frederick, for your whimsical nature, when attempting to shed light on the moments of sheer human madness, that a laught like that might be more a reason for terror and menace; I hear a shriek I am sure I could conote as humorous, but then take a look at the black in your eyes, and am sure I see the many head-filled baskets that represent the greater minds of the enlightenment. Nobody expects the Nietzschean Disposition, the mental exquisition, handled brilliantly with noose, or with guillotine, or precisely at this moment, the tap quick click of the keyboard key: And to finish what we have started, nobody expects it from the inkwell, dip and the drip across parchment or hemp, or whatever paper ties ink to page, sets mind free to rage and all at once, deciphers god in the cracks between the wooden floor boards! So much for now Frederick, til next time!

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Zoe & Ulysses cont'd

I miss my dogs today, wavering somewhere no no, I start thinking there are going to be words forged forth, theoretically of course, because before the words leave the diving board of my mind, or are even a thought of a thought, maybe making their way by that larger wheel on the side of the diving board, there to make it more springy...the vast wasteland that is the dust with which these all at once not thoughts were not made of is sailing through the air, obliterated before the non thoughts could even begin to become half a thoughts. But that is a thought and it is a solid one, that I receive the canvas like comunion, sometimes it is simply chalky and morose, the body of some old man making it's way down my esophogous and into my digestive track, and I receive it less willing, I receive it as if I might actually receive communion, thinking maybe this time, this one time I will have the courage, the audacity, the huxspa, the (insert witty phrase about confidence that I lack here) to open my mouth presenting brown stained teeth silver fillings and one gold crown to the priest so he may lay the body of my savior, the lord jesus christ on my tongue! But I digress in line more often and with much more ability than I do in life, somehow finding pride in my failure to follow through: "Wow, Matthew, you really did a good job avoiding!" and "Maybe you should write the book on taking the easy road?"

I receive this paper as meticalurgical embodiment of the patrons saints of GFY, and the unholy anecdotes of WTF, with pangs of tennis elbow rearing it's nerve pinching in the simplest of times when I am simply doing nothing, and realizing I never played tennis! I skirt the effervescent issues by leaving the Seltzer cap just so loose as to let it become flat quickly enough that my next sip will be awful, that that seltzer cannot turn into water but "Bad" water. I have the juice left in the fridge one too many days before I think I should finish the bottle I purchased, and when I sip, that half sip, and know as the acidity level is too high, the liquid just a little too solid, I scorn myself for all the attempts I ever made at trying to be frugal; purchasing groceries to eat as opposed to wasting my money on some fast food reality that I think I can sustain. I kick myself for the nxt day and say, who do you think you are living a normal life, one with "food shopping" and "money saving" practices, you are a fool sir, and a damn good one at that! I flinch as the gold fish might seconds before losing that first five seconds of memory, sometimes only realizing that he is always flinching, flinching, flinching, flinching...and think to myself as I try, months later to get that acidic solid like liquid taste out of my mouth again, scorning myself for all the attempts...

It is a vicious ill-conceived spiral and we are ony privy to minute glimpses of the rosier and greener of the poetically conceived other side! These glimpses are seldom enjoyable, and occur many times at the tail end of your five day vacation when you almost forgot about things, and actually vacated...more to come my silly pups, this is all for you!!!!...

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

PART I "The Kitchen"

Curtains hung down, extending to the length of the floor, teasing the floor as a dress does, mid waltz. The curtains wouldn’t normally be considered anything special, but in the midst of this altogether stuffy room, they are only things which appear light weightless. In my view, which is blurred by my stubbornness against wearing glasses, they make me weightless, and for the brief moments my mind envelopes their grand descent to the faded linoleum floor, I forget my worries. Interior monologue has always been easy for me. When there is no one to speak to, there is still me! I regroup my stance, having been leaning on the door frame, and I step out of the kitchen and into the hallway which, extends down the length of the house, connecting the few rooms of the apartment like nearly matched, yet mismatched puzzle pieces; it doesn’t quite fit. I laugh aloud, amused, bemused, altogether content with its awkwardness because it is not mine. I find what is not mine though, often times, much more interesting; a piece of gum on the coffee table in the living room of not my apartment; the iced pop (last one, and red to boot) in the freezer of the refrigerator in not my apartment; the already beat up, but not too worn in sweatshirt hanging on the side of the door in not my apartment: All of these things, much more amusing than my gum, iced pop, or sweatshirt. Even when I say mine aloud they sound so dull. The things in my life lack shimmer, as if reflected by the dull side of tin foil.

Back to the Kitchen though, my mind drifts their aimlessly. You would think, as quickly as my mind wanders, I would never have a chance to worry having thought past and through the worry. But my mind works much like a jammed printer, or no, better yet, a backed up assembly line, malfunctioning of sorts, yet still spewing its product forward, falling to the floor, a mess I want to, but cannot clean up! (I think of cherry-filling-filled Chocolates with a thin, chocolatey outer layer, after a while, Cherry filled chocolates set perfectly amid the white conveyor belt, thirteen or so inches apart, coming quickly. Then, and we never know what causes it, because the camera that is viewing this, the high tech expensive camera, is always a few inches off, not quite capturing the drama, and when it refocuses gets zoomed and turned: The back up has already occurred. (Break from that dribble) The kitchen is stuffy! The refrigerator opens cleanly without obstacle, but cabinets are cartoonish! From left to right, like an awkward line up in some dusty police station we have refridgerator- aged to yellow, slight outline stains where school papers were once pegged magnet to fridge; cabinets- chipped cream paint; below them counter top- that fake wood, light-grainy, that always chips to gray on the ends, like a linoleum that should have been used on the floor; the back drop-splattered with spaghetti sauce from two years ago, not so much stained as permanent; then, sink, which comes abruptly and doesn’t; excuse itself from the counter tops or the back drop, with that gray around the rubbery part that makes it water tight, caulking I believe, but that cool caulking that feels nice, little balls of it rolled on your fingertips.

The sink has a second side kick, like the Robin to its Batman, This sink is the bitch sink, even in trying to describe it, I lack the words! Then the counter turns, and I am talking “UPS truck trying to take a tight turn”, as opposed to those “Lifestyle of the Rich and Famous” turning counter tops, like Formula 1 on rails. It turns to nothing also, the end of the counter being there, but no side, you can actually look in the cabinet, see through and I am not a fan of that. There is a door way right their, and a nail or two, semi twisted that seems to catch only my favorite and very expensive clothing. I imagine the nails conversation to the other nail…but I will spare you that dribble.

Why the Kitchen though, the one thing that does it for me, besides such airy curtains, is the egg chair. It’s in the corner, sort of in front of the Fridge, but set back, as far as can be for this apartment kitchen. Instead of wooden chairs with the mock cushion, an eight inch piece of cardboard surrounded by fabric, there is an egg chair. Shaped like an egg with an oval cut out, speakers inside it, I spoon myself into the egg chair like I am adding back the hardboil, and trying to make it whole. When I sit in the chair, observing heaven’s curtains, my mind slows to a crawl.

I hear conversation in the other room, and even partake in a little of it, but for lack of grammatical iniquities, and shear laziness, I will paraphrase throughout my haughty diatribe. I may have just lied there, as I probably have no intention of ever getting to what others are speaking of. This is a truly selfish moment, one that may extend for pages, leaking in its paragraphs the ooze that creates life and destroys it. The ooze that ostensibly surrounds the kitchen sink, the one we call clean when bleach or Lysol touches it, but we know, even when touching it, cleaning our food and dishes in it, that we are only fooling ourselves. Against all odds we choose to ignore the simple truths, Plato’s Cave meets Joe’s Garage.

Rambling to Jesus

I am cold today, old today feel the bitter sting as frost crack-spreads across a pane of glass. I am enveloped, wrapped in a wet towel in mid autumn, having thought swimming was a good idea. Gusts pale through vacant door ways and we realize why window treatments matter. Who were we to not make these realizations at such a young age, an age of profound ignorance and egotism. We prayed to the isms to release us from the tender veil and safety harness we masked as witches grip our parents held strong too. Why did we ever doubt, because others had had experiences, others had been duped, been beat, been left for dead in a dank ravine, swimming with shopping carts and dead rats. Why do our minds coat the warped angst riddled folly of youth and create doubt in our elders, and splendor and joy in our peers. It is our shakespearian rant that echoes the halls of Beowulf and rattles grendel’s aching ear; it a plague on both our houses, it is to be or it is not to be it is double, double, toil and trouble, it is our stewing in the cauldron of what if. We are vacant to our steps strode seemingly sleep driven and deprived of intention and destination. Rolling stones on our own, destination unknown, completely alone, Dr Robert ramble through space like an echo in space that transcends walls in an anti gravitational flux, beaming as a squared imprisonment vacuum sucked and ever fading to nowhere. What are my chances of hitting atmospheric pressures and to rapidly descend after my free space float. Can we get a mathematician to establish variables to relate to a seemingly non right brained person, can he explanate and convolute, can he parabola and convex my existence, can I be graphed and measured, can I be squeezed inside a TI-82. Can I escape from that TI-82? Where would I be inside that gray screen, slanted and covered, plastic emblem of Texas Instruments guarding my movements as a watch dog of the 21st century. The plastic grips, thin strips of rubber so tempting, glued on the back rolling back from their stuckness as gritty nails of adolescent hands peel underneath them, the instruments, these calculation machines, mini computers, being used as a bowling shoe only no disinfectant, sharing calculators like we share Kick Balls, like we share the water fountain with no backsies no cutsies. The life water draining, pissing like an STD riddled member might in small spurts, our lips contacting that never cleaned metal and our coughs engulfing that porcelain back drop, mimicking the home of our churches Virgin Mary, oh how we bowed daily to that sacred religious fountain bursting the tears of Christ to satisfy our paining muscles, to draw water from the lips and deposit it between calves and thighs, swelling and pulsating chest, rise and fall rise and fall. I have neglected the use of the comma for the rumble rant of a sader speaker of a rabbinical ranting stupor, of a religious inconvocation of the 10th apostle, that Jesus was busy on Leno, and we had to settle for the second rate act of third party description of Jesus blowing up the scene at that wedding. We all thrust our elbows to our knees, fist to chin, skirting sleep and feigning interest. Oh how we feigned. The 10th apostle appeared enamored at our seeming attention and rambled, recited, quoted scripture and at one point I laughed one of those laughs that you laugh when you don’t know why you are laughing, and stumble into another laugh at the realization of your original uncalled for laugh. I got more applause from my arrant disregard for stage and performer, and thought, but only briefly, as these thoughts expire like milk in the fridge, that I might sub in for the misanthrope, former devotee and shadow boxer for the almighty. But like thoughts, those that no one ever sees, ever conjures in color, ever hears or knows exist, it dissipates, fades, fumbles itself down the drain to be lost amidst the other unused unexpressed un bridled and ultimately unsuitable for conversation thoughts. You cannot deny their existence, oh holier than though, want to be Jesus, cause you would have ascended pre crucifixion, the mystery of faith and the bafflement of someone who could have done it all. How many times did the devil descend Jesus in tow, Jesus cowering as he entered the mighty Beelzebub’s basement apartment littered with half drunk Miller Genuine Draft bottles, long necks special ordered, and hid his face slightly, but did it as if to not do it, knowing he was doing it. Face still visible slightly, and his beard a dead give away, Jesus saw John the Baptist, twisting a cap off a freshly acquired home brew. A nod and then a turn to the farthest corner of this now expansive bon fire rager, there is Judice, tempting a volumptuous mary Magdalene, teasing her shirt at the belly and rolling his finger upward below her bust. Jesus, guzzling now in haste and sweating in his realization that his father knows all and will surely be waiting up for him, begins to relax. He relaxes as we do night before a daunting day, seemingly forgetting, or drowning, or purging the thoughts of the next morning’s existence right down the toilet. After his third, being a light weight, arm drapped, one around old spiked tail, the other around the resident whore, he wiggles his nose, I Dream Of Jeanie Style, and a disco ball descends from the ceiling, “I just want to dance!” he proclaims, the floor lighting seventies dance party style. All at once, he pulls his ear and the floor is gone, people hovering over emptiness who had just amassed on this glorious flashing oasis, starring blankly ahead and floating much like wily coyote would. IN a brief, half blink, or upon two half seconds, the floor returns and jesus, smirking ear to ear says “JK motherf&ckers, J f&cking K!”

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

To Those I Have Lost

I have observed worse, obscured curse, devilish hell in the third verse, happen to expand my urban rhymes by ten times to include mother nature's cosmic chimes of squawking birds, flying by walking herds of talking heads lingering by the reaper's hurse, as they converse with a concubine, bodies ravelled, between sheets and entwine, screaming shouting, words so terse they tear through the fabric of time, printed ribbon of motion picture crime, captured by lense in 8mm, careful not to bruise but to beat her. But i've blurred lines to turn times turns elastic, bent shredded and burned plastic, automatic, words, head flashing to static, tv screens bombastic snowy visage, blissed out miscrient image of an edited scene, replayed in sepia tone, shrugged up in back don't you see me, hang up the phone, you won't drop knowledge from a ringing tone, nor gain your patience from the wireless zone, give a dog a bone, walk him in the park let him sit upon a throne, atone, for all the sins you've transgressed, living this life unimpressed, crush a leaf between your palm, sing a simple song, compose your holy psalm, obsessed with what's next, while I am quiet in solitude your heads a total mess. Best is the way you should lead, go check out books you should read, the prisoner's in your mind, locked behind, imbibing the kind, they could be freed.

I have observed worse, had hangover's to nurse, burst into laughter at the drop of a pin, forged forth towards a new life with my fellow kin, achin from the back to the front, been so high I was blunt, wrapped in my own mess, careful to step out of the press, dodging the questions they asked, wearing ten different masks. Why didn't I stop, flop on my back, tactically analyze my attack, back to the drawing board, tight twist turn of the cap, zipped up and buttoned the flap, corner pocket called eight ball dropped it, took another lap.

Board flipped click on the asphalt heat, sweat filled bodies secrete, sweat was never as sweet as the times when blood lingered to, careful not to subdue my body to the swine flu, mental gardens I grew. How I turn rhyme, in fine time and garner applause for the brothers I've lost, melodies swept through the halls, and I've observed worse, big oc curse, plagued the weak willed and won, contracted hep c then run, so you thought this was fun, when we let loose at night, only lighters ignite, not addictions you'll fight. Later, when it's dark, and you cannot evade, the sweat now trembles muscles like a death march parade, that I might sit by your grave, and recite good times we had, lost a brother, gained another, six feet closer to god, and why the f%ck'd you decide, that junk over our brethren kind.

I'll ask the question await the answer, it wasn't cancer, but then again it might've been, as you study that wiley grin, legs shake, half awake, nod til you burn up your room, quick quake, cavitate, try to speak and turn to stone, once again, fated fates, your alone, devil's all that's left on your shoulder, I got it, ashes to smoulder, won't get older, I turned the cold shoulder, divulge her sins, in your eyes, jaundiced with lies, as I decide, whether to stay or to go, knowing I may not know, this monster in Echo Gear, won't shed a single tear, tear down walls to appear at your side. your eyes now covered with flies, swatting away the ties that we sewed right, fabric laced so tight, we once flew that kite, key laced so lighting would ignite, incite a riot to peace, and rise the fallen to their feet, retreat hatred in a battle game, a starring match of the eternal flame, and when we pass the blame game to the kiddie pool and let it drown in a puddle of drool, all knows the rule, contaminated cosmic fool. Why Matt, Why?

I couldn't have written a script taking stock or a sip of this life we engorge, careful not to abhor those paths that we cross, nail Him to the glossy golden crucifix, that the churches afix to the wall of their home, god would be shamed of the dome, gold plated cold slated, obsenities flair as their paper's graded, sermon's they spoke and ill fated in their jaded misappropriated forecasted interpretation of the emancipated dead riser, wine imbiber who was consicrated by emaculate conception, for the betterment of all.

Friday, January 8, 2010

The Gospel According to Peter

I spoke to myself of myself in the moments between moments that barely exist. Withered from time, like subtle decay, which one misrepresents as tarnish and flaw, these narrowly escaped moments draw out like fractions of pennies slowly accruing, but always forgotten! We speak the dribble as we walk our two step-day to day-rambling of foot before foot before foot! We quietly acquiesce to the passage of time as morbid fascination of a self euthanized death march. Why we don’t protest is less of a question than what would we protest against. And that we haven’t gotten that far in our thought process, or even begun to register what it is we are fighting against, is all the more reason why we bow down to the languid transgression of thoughts! There they go…and we breath, ahhhh, a long sigh of relief, at being able to get lost and finally numbed by our rapidly decaying minds. It’s not even that we have a rotting brain structure, but that our formed words, which create thoughts, and then sentences, paragraphs and so on…It’s that these then digress from their pages to paragraphs, to sentences, to words to letters, and then poof! It is a love affair, the neglected mind, growing further neglected; but we sample it, as a record is quickly sampled, each track tested traced by the fingers of our minds for a few lines, and then a quick switch to the next track! What of it, though, Matt, what of it! It is that I am slowly enlightening you, reader, to the mere fascination that is our thinking mind, and bring light to the misuse, the lack of use, and the fun we can have, sober fun, just thinking. (Segue)

I had a friend, still a friend, wrote a great line, and I will paraphrase, or simply plagiarize, or is it that when I quote I free myself from legal action, either way, “When you grow older you forget the way to live, how easy it is to function, get through a day of playing in the sandbox and eating a grilled cheese.” Oh, Peter, west coast Peter, always had the west coast mentality. I remember it would scare me when Peter got super serious. Because taking it light was my tag for Peter, loved him for that, for the ability around him, for me to take it light. Peter treads light! When he is drunk he acts a little heavy, and that Achilles heal of his makes him all the more beautiful a human being. Don’t worry Peter we will always have a doctor around if you cut yourself; even if it is a veterinarian! (finger gashed at my wedding) Back to the point though, Peter hits it on the head. Isn’t it so true, we get convoluted in our motions, so self analyzing of our motions, so aware of others around us, that we have to adjust our motions; whereas when we are kids, we simply do, and we do, most times out of instinct which, innately is possessed and kindled with love and compassion(or at least not out of disdain and fear). I think of the card I always buy for my wife at these moments: The Boy in black and white, sometime with a touch of color in a red bow tie, mini tux, kissing the black and white young girl on the head as she sits on stone steps, stone in the back ground, some forgotten Sunday. And this Sunday doesn’t end, this Sunday is the Plato’s Form for Sunday! à

(This is called inner (inner) thought, when the parenthesis come out. Within this Sunday, and I hope to make it to this Sunday some day, there is no tiredness, there is no true sense of time, it might be light or dark, it may start off light with shadow, soft idyllic shadows that bend around rolling shaped stone, circular and soft. This Sunday is not cold, nor is it hot, it is not hard, and never too quiet. Sometimes we get the two tone chirp of the birds in the near distance. Other times we get a rustle of tall grass in the breeze. These are the movie moment Sundays when voices seem to trail the actions, but I only hearken to that image momentarily because I don’t want to get bogged down in the images movies lock us into.***(stuck images with movies/books) I am free on this Sunday, and I am aware of an end and my responsibility on this Sunday, but I am never worried about what is next! It might be my death day even…)

à That simplistic image of the black and white boy, kissing the black and white girl on the head, a dash of color for effect is fueled by compassion, that that is what we strive for without ever having to try! So back to Peter…Peter says, within his quote, that we get derailed by age, by manipulation, by all the outside influences telling us what we need to wear, go, associate with, adore, emulate. Parent’s have the first say, but what they teach, impart, help their kids to imbibe is wiped almost completely from their memory on that first day of school, on that first day sleeping over a friends house, on that first night of hanging with a group of friends. At first we don’t know, as children what to make of this competition; how so many world views can exist at once and we slowly recede home each evening trying to cull our minds back into mommy’s train of thought. But each day we exit the front porch, first sign of foot hitting pavement, we embody new shoes, new views, and learn how to neatly cram our views in with each other. And these world views fight each other, mask themselves as other world views to infiltrate and rear their ugly heads at just the right time for them, at the wrong time for you!

Remember the first time something your next door neighbor, kid your age, different world view, remember when his words slipped out of your mouth in front of your mother! A racist slur, an insensitive comment towards woman, a talking down to your parents! My god, the look your mother had for you, followed by the wooden spoon in the top drawer to the left of the stove. My parents’ punishment for me was, in part, a deflection of their own pain; that they had failed! We hadn’t necessarily failed at anything, in fact we, as human sponges had simply taught them a lesson they had long since forgotten since the days of them being a child; that we are merely impressionable children. If we were to turn to face our parents, which we are taught in these times of their anger never to do, we might catch a glint of a tear forming, and watch as they sniffle it back behind an eyelid.

I recall an autobiographical moment in my child hood, one that sticks with me now because of the forgiveness asked of my mother by my mother later in life. That she had come full circle, or at least noticed in stepping away from the events that how she had acted was in total a reaction born of another soul; that she may have actually been possessed (and not in any religious sense of the word) in the moments that ensued from my actions à bike/key

(Possession here is very much a reality and I will borrow willingly from my fellow philosopher kings the ability to inject a term with yet another definition; much like we inject over stuffed turkeys with their savory juices until they are oozing with multiple meanings. We act many times because of others control over us; hence possession. But the intriguing part about this possession, the illusion, and it is seen many times in abuse cases, is that we have little knowledge of this possession. We walk around catatonic, questioning nothing, aware as one does who has the onset of the cold, that something is off, but not able to sum it up and express its function. It is not until we step outside of ourselves, away from the hazy laze that was once our clear sight, that we finally see the truth in the proper light. Again, a dream view ensnarls our sense! We think we see words and numbers and people, but our true view is distorted and we only see outlines, cloudy visions, and emptiness.

à This day was atypical, and much a dream, one I often dreamt, only-childness, just myself and my mother, very dream like (mom don’t cry)! I had the car keys to my uncle’s Alfa Romeo Milano, and my bike, that Black General BMX style (with pedals braking the bike when they were spun backwards) perched upside down. Treading the spokes with the key, creating a clanking sound, that was abruptly calming, as each spoke spun, and the key, oh that key, it’s flimsy metal’s molecules slowly being disrupted through every turn of the bike’s wheel, those infinitesimal cracks I was creating, conditioning the key for failure (my father always said that Italian cars were cheaply made) gave way to science. The brittle key began to split in my hands but did not succumb to the laws of gravity and physics and melancholy until it’s true test, living up to it’s purpose! As the key was being inserted into the lock outside that driver door, waiting for the large rectangular piece of plastic to rise up out of the door, issuing it’s orange red flag of warning (I am now open) behind the window glass, I heard it. The final clang the key would ring, having now been stripped of it’s ability to fulfill it’s duties, as it struck the always moist floor of that soggy wooded garage, was a death rattle and final toll. I fell silent, almost accustomed to these moments, where I, in the wrong, received the punishment. I would look down, conditioned to prepare for verbal onslaughts, those that hurt most, the non physical blows that slammed down upon ear drums! The rustling of little hairs in and around the ear canal, positioned on end, like tiiny soldiers awaiting the gust of sound waves to surf them straight to my inner ear. à

(Pushing past the present of this historic past moment, we celebrated Christmas, or Thanksgiving in the cramped dining room on Filbert Street! This would be my first confrontation with my uncle post cataclysmic event! I played rogue warrior, hidden among the patterned furniture, had picked my clothes careful to fit in and avoid conversation. I had killed, had performed murder, and was awaiting…something! I spent the day in terror, avoiding eye contact, which meant constantly eyeing to see if their was an attempt at silent attack. I centered that days world view on my failure of a former day, could swear I knew that this was the only thing those chewing lips preferred to spew forth other than gravy and cranberry sauce! I have since wasted many days acting in much the same way, rambling inertly, internally, of my pitfalls, and others minds exacting revenge; that their minds too could could only grasp the wronging I had done them.

à It came in many forms, but being banished to my room seemed most common. (room as poor punishment as I kept misbehaving) The room decision, always an awkward one, like I stated, was the most common, and therefore, as I became accustomed to my punishment, like any good puppy, I receded to my cell for moments of sobbing and solitude! My retreat sometimes gave way to my personal choice to lobby personal protest. I would spend hours in my room staring out windows and inciting morbid outcomes to seemingly dull events. The family car, the Subaru, yellow, dull, bleach stain in the trunk tearing eyes, would creak its way past the side of the house, and as it faded out of sight on Filbert St, the mind would unravel as gauze from a wound. Blood would spill into every scene; car accident, two of the four dead. I would day dream little to positive outcome and keep my darkest thoughts inward. Would imagine, down to minute detail, the remainder of my life if my brother and father happened to die, then my sister and mother, then mother and brother or father and sister! Would actually gauge the best of these worst case examples. Money seemed to be the current theme, and I always backed away from the free form though race of heavy imagination knowing that the worst case of the worst case would be the one, if one ever came true!

Scripture / Melody / Finale

Our actions become us, beguile us! We, trusting in their outcome, succumbing to their wisdom as age old sages, are constantly fooled but return for more nurturing. But their words are spoken of forked tongues and always slip away on the breeze with a lisp and fledgling spit. Action is our insider informant always speaking into our ear, tickling our thoughts with hopes of greater…As a child we may achieve action for action sake, but do not dwell so much in the outcome as the motions. The actual motion of things, and are interaction, keep us amused enough!

I need to center, to complete here, what was started out. Need to expel the treatise’s message written on a fortune tucked neatly behind two fused cookies. We need to embrace our simplicity and try to, just sometimes, act as the outcome means little and motions mean much. Don’t pump the swing to go higher pump the sing to swing. Don’t build the sand castle to completion, but always add another turret. Peter says play in the sand and eat the grilled cheese, bite through the grit of the sand in the bread, and swallow; Praise Be to Peter!


Was it the air, swept in with sea salt that grazed your lips
Or the gentle breeze that caught your hair, tangled, blowing
Across your face? Was it that, or the way my arms went numb;
And circling all around, my eyes searched for place to rest,
My shoulder a post to lean, and my hand a hand to hold?
It could have been between Breaths, your arms stretched left,
stretched right, then curled down under your stomach,
where skin met white linen sheet, and hint of your lower back shown.
“I’m not gonna lie!” you said, your lips, formed, loosened
Then persed…and I don’t recall your words that followed, that
Distinct mumble that I mimic in your presence. Was it that I recalled
In a moment and forgot to say, “Almondy” may have been the tone
Of your skin, that it was so fitting; but lost the thought in your eyes?

There is a possibility, beneath the dock at Bowen’s Wharf, or
Bannister, beneath the sheath of barnacles, where tops of hands
Get cut, it may have been there? I wasn’t sure whether I reached
My hand through to see, to feel if it was there? My hand though cut
On the knuckle bore the scar that something had happened. Was it Fishnet
Or the drunken buzz of fiddle and banjo, acoustic guitar and Bodhran,
Was it on those notes, between them, sitting on barstools, was it there?
Could it have been that narrow pass at Spring St, where I bumped off the curb,
And swiftly back up, back next to you?

Was it Stonington, that hill at the end of the corridor of grape vines,
Or behind the vines, perched upon that table? Was it in the deep
Burgundy that filled our glasses, that cabernet grew legs, grew lips
And spoke? Was it in your squeeze, beneath a canopy of crab apples
Watching flies buzz by, was it then? It might have been between Westerly
And Mystic, when, we, quiet, sauntered down a side street, for a last
Drink. I shuttered in the bathroom as I pictured you lying at that pillowed
Bench, and wondered if it was here, now, could it be here now? I lowered
My head, mind blanketed with sleep thoughts and fought my shutting eyes,
And still wasn’t sure, if Newport had stolen my shoes, my watch, my keys,
My weekend, and you my lips?


I never really understood all the fuss about titles, and really never had the courage to be able to title myself with anything other than some verbose contrived, theoretically sound and grounded itemization of what I thought I should be conceived as...that is, until I decided (stumbled) upon my DOMAIN NAME!

Now really, domain, and all the silly seinfeldian notions of what is a domain, master of...cheesy double entendre of a fascination we have with the Washington Monument and how it moves us. Really, quite, quite silly...but then it happened!

If ever there were a domain that I might call my own it would be in and around, under and on top of; hermetically sealed with; taking baking lessons with; flying silly octopus shaped kites with; scoring Yanni tickets with; handling precisous census material with; mucking through garbage with; cross country yak riding with; thelonious monking with; entering into a political debate against; firing friendly fire at; cahooting with and sometimes against... ... ...

Zoe and Ulysses. The goal for some is to stay cool and calm, and while I mentally subscribe to this tennant of radically diverse alternative thinking, my wiring was installed differently. I know what not to do, and yet as if not knowing, still do it. So too were my congruous canine cavalry the illustrious and good intentioned, if not oft times ill tempered and free willed, the unsatiable "Crime Fighting Dog Duo" of Zoe and Ulysses. If you know me, and in fact I have no proper way of determining whether you do or not...or whether my words can painstakingly steal away from teh canas the purity of it's blank nature to reveal "me" can call my cell phone @ 203-927-5920 and undoubtedly leave a message for Zoe and Ulysses if you press "1"!

Back to my wiring{+==---][]=-=} I imagine if I were to dive into my head via my ear cavity, or nostril, ala Spaceballs; or be injected into myself to probe my cerebral cortex and other vast galaxies of the body internal, similar to the now (supposedly) retired Body Wars, you would find the synapses shaped like grammatical symbols, and, undoubtedly they would be conversing with pregnant pauses and in the throws of some wordy rendition of what could be described as a verbal laser light show. Much like the Malkovich of my youth, doors fall prey to windows, fall prey to airplane cabins losing pressure, fall prey to trap doors leading to that wicker basket I suspect cradles the heady remains of the Enlightenment.

So my dogs, Zoe, Black Lab, mixed with Chow Chow, curled tail and black tongue, "wrap it"(<--Glennwood reference for those familiar with the Hummel Hot Dog pushers of Whitney Avenue, Hamden, CT) Ulysses, male...the cross between what some might refer to as the left overs (Twins reference, anyone?) of a American Staffordshire Terrier, Rednose Pit, sone of Blue, Brother of Symbiline and Nemo. I digress, what is the correct nomencalture, is it red nose staffy, is pit bull terrier, I say all of the above when describing him thus keeping up the legacy of others, nodding their head in approval of one or the other without correcting you or acknowledging which one is truly correct.

There you have it, Zoe and Ulysses, the demons of devilish delights, foragers of fountain st, elegaic angels of Ellsworth, Mighty Miscrients of Maple St. These two dogs, legends on earth, gods among mere mortals. My canine companions, wandering the earth, netherworlds, and outer regions of the flemish cap from 2003-2009! May your souls be cast seaward, to waver in the rising tide and rest valiantly in the watery grave with the likes of Mulcahy, Caspian, Icculus and Mr Palmer.

Though this may not be the beginning of it all, it certainly marks a point that can decidedly be considered a beginning. I loved my dogs, I lost my dogs, but always, and mark my words, always, I will be one with my dogs, whereever that may be. This inextricable link that is forged is no match ravenous winds of change which beat their sandy breath at the decay of time. And while we may not the best of all possible conditions, we most certainly are not the worst; and in this sentiment we wallow and take stock on what it is we may have had, if only for a brief moment. I Love You Guys!