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MARCH 2007
03.24.07 - 07:26PM PST >>
saturday sun and music
paul mccartney is now signed to the starbucks label. i cannot believe it is the man who once wrote "helter skelter," "why don't we do it in the road", "hey jude," "elanor rigby" and "let it be." tears welled up in my eyes as i spoke this to my brother over a pint last night. paul mccartney, the beatle, is nothing but a corporate whore. i hate starbucks. they gentrify the original mom-n-pop coffee house experience with wallpaper reminiscent of nazi-era german propaganda art to sell their overpriced bullshit. i want a large coffee, you got that, dickweed? no, i don't mean grahnday, i mean LARGE, you fake alternative bitch. your weak cliché sticker on your tip jar only exemplifies your stature in a corporate culture where you agree to minimum wage to make your corporate master wealthy past anything your rhyming poetry and lip piercing can conceive. don't you realize that all your customers are yuppie types with money to burn and you are only hired as a visual throwback to what a coffee house once was? you are now mere eye candy to the upwardly mobile asshole talking on his cell phone while he orders his deaff latte. fuck you, paul mccartney. you once stood for individualism and freedom of expression. but you've turned into a puppy-dog faced warren buffet. your mediocre bullshit will be placed on the counter next to that bitch's water-stained protest against the rich who refuse to tip. good karma? it's checked outside the door of every starbucks. if it has to be explained to you, you deserve to be treated as rudely as you can be by each luxury car driving, self-centered prick with six cents change dropped back into his pocket. if starbucks was a real coffee house, not the death knell of the coffee house, the music would be local. new orleans would have grayson capps on the shelf. paul mccartney, i am disappointed in what you have become. no wonder john lennon never played with you again. he knew who you were. he knew you were a slut for money. he knew you'd sell your creativity to anyone. you will be for sale in starbucks.
and now for something you'll really like.
drinking budweiser mixed with an energy drink. i have been asked by some where i've been. they come here lately and there is no new stuff. well shit, i quit writing for the people some time ago. the people let me down. the people want my labor for free like they are corporate master's masturbatory dream. a thousand dicks coming all over president's faces. my words stained by your lack of support. free is good only when offered after you buy something. don't like that? fuck you. my shit ain't free. i write for me. and i've been too busy forsaking my writing to work to support the love of my life in her quest to be back in school and to fix her broken teeth. my payment is blowjobs and sex outside on the chaise under the stars as random clouds made silver and gold by the lights of the city of phoenix reflect our lust, reflected back in love. the tattoo of her on my back, across my shoulders, shining with sweat returning unto the star's light. eternity in a cosmic conundrum of reflected glory. it only ends when we go inside to sleep. then we dream.
i will be 45 and then i will be able to write full time. until then i have a book being published this spring. my first. "shoot forth thunder." who knows what will come of it. maybe this once, something i create will make money. not the creations i make for a job. not logos and website designs for paul mccartney-like profit, for blues twanging how i've sold the value of my soul for a dollar. my dollar goes to her. my dollar goes to her and her child and their dreams. if my labor sees them come true, i have forsaken nothing in the end.
i dream of being someone new all the time. of being trusted with wise words of madness. of playful rhymes and simple songs turned wicked by alcohol and more. turned wicked by anger and frustration. turned beautiful somehow with flowers rising from the crack in the sidewalk. a dandelion nobody will step upon. a memory of it's wine in the mountains of montana. the mountain goat child roaming through the woods, surpassing anyone who tries to keep up with him. i was that child drinking dandelion wine by the mountain. now i am slowing down. it is disconcerting. i dream of being someone new all the time. 45 is divisible by nine. someday, i will make a living as a writer. somebody will pay for my sadness and my rage. my words will run and jump and thrill all of you fuckers. i will write that novel where everyone is killed and reborn in utopia. like karl marx with a boner. like larry flynt standing up straight holding the bible and quoting the song of solomon. like jesus wearing levi's and george bush apologizing. like the marquis de sade falling in love with a woman's pussy and writing a novel about what it is like to come within it. like the devil growing weary of the battle and asking to come home to the love of god. i dream of being someone new all the time.
solomon and gold. jesus and stone. chris cornell and rock. trent reker and love. someday i will be new. reborn. forgiven for the sins of my anger. marilyn and birthdays. wine and cheese. lullabies and scratchy blues guitar. dreams and wonder waking in the morning. someday and right now.
there is fresh-squeezed orange juice i made with the punk kid last weekend from the orange trees in the back yard. we have a 2-litre of vodka. grayson capps is singing "orange juice and vodka on a nightstand..." i jumped when i heard it. i remember. i remember christ and the stone. i recall the signs of the future. what an elusive thing happiness is. what music has brought to me i do not believe anyone knows. i hear so little. i trust so few. probably better that way. i am my own man, struggling to work for love rather than love to work. i love to write. it is not work. it is fun.
i dreamt of a horse. the opposite of a centaur with the body of a man and the face of a horse. it talked and told me things that were important. i don't keep up with my dream journals like i used to. i could recite the dream to you here if i wished, if it was had many years ago. i wrote a novel fed by years of chronicling my dreams. get me in the morning. get me ready to recall them and not stress about being to work at a certain time. i now have the kind of job that if i was to arrive at ten a.m., telling them i was writing my dreams down, they'd dig. maybe i will try that this week. maybe i will turn off my alarm and see what happens.
yes, i quit. i quit the job that sucked but only after i found a better one. ah ha. that is a big thing for me. i have that fuck you reflex. had i exercised that on tuesday, march 6th, i'd have quit and not made another thirteeen hundred dollars. my father said just hold onto the job for the money and work to find a better one. so i did. i posted my resume on craigslist and somebody wrote to me. they wanted to see me immediately, but i had already taken an afternoon off monday of that week to meet with another prospective employer. so i put them off until the following monday. i had a doctor's appointment anyway and my girls were in town from texas and i was going to take the whole day off, feeling that they would hire me at the interview. that is what happened. i started two days after the interview/job offer and it is the kind of job that i can turn into something great in a year if i stick with it and perform. i plan on it. it is what i do for love. i might be happier writing and being poor. but she would not be in school and eventually, she would leave me because it would be i who kept her from her dreams. she would be paying for me to be a poor writer, as she has been for the past two years. before that i was just poor. it is her turn now. now i will work and it will be okay. she will realize her dreams, her daughter will realize hers, and i will in five years begin to realize mine. i will be past my prime physically, but not as a writer.
gotta love how i slip in and out of poetry in this post. fuck you if you're gone by now. come back so you can be told off. thank you if you're still here. now give me money. this shit ain't free, no matter what you think. it will resound within you and change you. if not, then fuck you, too, and go away. seriously. give me money. the button is above this on the left.
i bitch like i've got it hard. i did for a while. but at this moment i sit on a barstool at the bar of my father's home. i have my favorite music playing from a stereo that encompasses the entire home in it's sound. the masters of reality. the flaming lips. audioslave and soundgarden. the love song for bobby long soundtrack. things that i write novels to and that make me weep for new orleans. things that make me jump and yell remembering being 21. things that give me hope for a better day. this is the best screwdriver ever. jackoff smirmoff. i've got the blood of your czar right here in my dream for george bush. all i need is a train and a forest and a gun.
"in news from the former united states, civil war..."
watch. kill your masters or be enslaved. it was only a matter of time before the african people, tools of economic supremacy, gained their freedom. some were afraid. some were hung. some waited and seized their moment. today, the only thing that will truly free them is a black man in the white house. i vote for al gore as president. obama as his running mate. john edwards for press secretary. he'll never lie and he'll get everybody to new orleans where the current president said the latest push for us to get out of iraq was loaded with pork. yeah. like funds for rebuilding the levee system in new orleans is pork. to you it is, right? motherfucking asshole. you flew over it like it was a big deal. you were not there. the men you hired to do that job were not there. they were too busy with dinners in other southern cities making money for you. fuck you, george bush. i wish you a horrible, pain-filled death. or a bullet on a train. dumped in the forest.
i have been writing this for hours. since noon and it is now past 4:30. i stop and post on my phoenix suns message board, or i make a new drink, or i dance and yell to the music. sometimes i cry. sometimes i laugh and pound the bar. i look out the window and see 75 degrees and a pool.
you are those who came back after i told you all to fuck off four months ago or you were invited today. then, you either did not take it personally or you like anal sex when it's your ass being used. hey, that's okay. gotta get your thrills. whoo wee, i have had a lot of fun today. whomever you are, thank you for reading. i do hope i make you a different person when you do. i want to change the world. thanks for being one of them who were. thank you.
now go out there and blab about it. say it your way and have faith in your deeds. be imperfect and stop and pray for being better. know who you are and sleep dreaming of important things to your soul. wake and be them. remember the horse-faced man. remember your anger at provisional justice. remember your vow to be a difference maker. it is not what you learn in a university. it is what you learn contemplating your life. it is what you learn being what you cannot always control. please tell people you have read this if it makes a difference to you. please do it right now.
it will matter to me, my indigo girl who dreams of a phd, her 11 year-old daughter, our dichotomy of dream and our new orleans rescue cocker spaniel whom we call the poopy puppy. at a minimum it might matter more to the rest of the world, to the one or one thousand or one million who read your blog or hear your music or somehow through electronic cosmosis read your one post on that one website. who are you? are your words worth so little that you cage them to one topic? believe in multiple things as loudly as you believe in one thing. be an expert in life, not in the sad sunset moment when you realize the light is gone, and you are looked for in nothing. spread yourself wide. wings are a metaphor. pick yours. dream the music in your sleep and wake unable to create it but remember, with each face you meet, you did something beautiful in your sleep and you woke to it and remember it right now, whatever it was.
i lost the words. cursing technology. i go to play my guitar. the fingertips of my left hand are blown up as i type this. ruined by jazz-style guitar strings slobbered over with my flesh torn off to play a song of a prostitute and new orleans. perfect.
i've got a cold beer, it's pretty cheap
i've got a girl downstairs, she's what i need
a cigarette should be dangling from my mouth
and it fell out because my walking dream is heading out
for love
she sleeps awake
she talks a game
to those who pay
for love
she says i do
she wakes each day
she's someone new
my beer is warmer, it weighs a ton
the girl is out to meet the setting sun
with summer heat like my whispered prayer to god
falling angry answers i don't care if you forgot
about love
she sleeps awake
she talks a game
to those who pay
for love
she says i do
she wakes each day
she's someone new
my bottle's empty, a hollow tube
sucked dry for jesus tell me what to do
passing moments turning distance into time
with every fucking faking sweating smile she is mine
in love
she sleeps awake
she talks a game
to those who pay
for love
she says i do
she wakes each day
she's someone new
if this matters to you, tell someone. please. don't be slut, taking what is put into you while giving nothing in return. you think the triumph is in the fucking, but it is in the giving. write to me and tell me something. i have made friends and met one who still writes to me in response to these words. she gets what you do not. so do others. i never ignore those who write to me. there were days where over two hundred people came to misteradiant.com. none of them wrote to me. so i told them to fuck off. one of them wrote back telling me to fuck off in return. one. two thousand people a month came here for months and only one wrote to tell me what i told you all. what a bunch of pansy pussies you all must be, when one in two thousand writes with hurt. a pinched nerve made right. how can you read this and do nothing? go away if you are still here and have not contacted at least one someone with misteradiant.com as a link, a subject line, a wow, let me call joe and jane and tell them of this crazy mother fucker who says it like we smoke it.
"life is a series of hellos and goodbyes and i'm afraid it's time for goodbye again." - billy joel
a passing phase. a masquerade. who you are today. who will you be tomorrow? will you remember you now and recall your dreams, your clothes, your words with pride? hide your hearts from harder times. be now or hide it for tomorrow. do it now and fuck off. and give me your money. if you read this far and gave me nothing, a prayer, a tear, a fist pounded on a table, then fuck you. fuck you fuck you fuck you. you are here and did nothing. loser.
don't be like that. do something now.
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03.08.07 - 09:07PM MST >>
wants and needs
i wanna be a black man in a black pinstriped double-breasted suit from 1940 with cuffed pants and a huge jazz guitar with a fedora playing music that makes them cry while they dance. that makes them want to give me money and drugs and sex. that makes them want to live for their dreams, not the dreams of a master or a boss.
everything else is second best.
i wanna talk to the devil and leave with my soul.
i wanna be a fisherman tumblin' on the seas wearing the same pants for weeks and netting just enough to pay for my home and car and the simple joys of my lover and her child.
i wanna build custom motorcycles that people call sex rockets from god, that preach the angry but still sad wisdom of god with the sound of throttle turning burning rubber on a hot street in the summer.
i wanna be a writer who lays down what people think but won't say.
i wanna cut the vice-president and shove his shivering body upon those who let him determine their fate.
i wanna be innocent.
i wanna be rich.
i wanna fuck my girl for two hours without coming.
i wanna eat cheese with a pitchfork so i can put it as a slogan on the back of my business card in huge red letters. eat cheese with a pitchfork. let them wonder if it's a metaphor.
i wanna see the spirit of my dead sister and talk with her, that she will talk back with a blessing.
i wanna see my girl in school an inch away from her masters degree crying thank you for doing your part in seeing this come true.
i wanna see her go for her doctorate and become a professor at a university in new orleans.
i wanna go back to new orleans and write a novel of those who were there like me but stayed and struggled and loved and fought and believed.
i wanna die in new orleans.
i wanna live for the moment and not get so caught up in the stress of disappointment when i believe the word of anybody and they do what they do and let me down.
i wanna never be let down.
i wanna be free from the words of others.
screaming at them, i wanna be rich for a reason.
my words.
i wanna make enough to do something good for strangers.
i wanna own a block of new orleans so i can build a park and a community center with doctors and coaches and me, some guy with a vision to inspire without having the face of some stretched-out horse with sentience and cognitive dissonance prancing and racing to the end at the bank.
i wanna care.
i wanna be a painter painting visions that make people stop and stare.
i wanna be in love forever.
i wanna talk to god and say yup, that's what stays with ya.
i swallow ice cubes.
i wanna kick your ass and have you thank me.
i wanna save the world. you are all so lonely. the things you own from the tv commercial don't make it okay. would you die for the bodies you can touch today? i would for six of them.
i wanna be mummified in a bitchin' sarcophagus of turquoise and gold.
i wanna be covered in beads and polaroids of tits.
i wanna have a lifetime supply of abita turbodog.
i wanna see the wealth of my father saved for those i love.
i wanna play music again with my brother. with indigo. with the punk kid as the poopy puppy naps in the corner.
i wanna go on forever.
i want everyone to be forgiven.
i want to legalize prostitution and marijuana.
i want to smoke in bars again.
i want jesus to come back to say whoa man, you got it all wrong. love your neighbor. i came to abolish the law. god loves you queer and demented. god wondered why you wouldn't listen. so i came down to find out why. oh. it's hard in this life. people fuck with you. you fuck with people. in your car most especially.
i want people to walk more places.
i want to find the life in death and come back from it.
i want everyone to know.
i wanna rhyme with orange and make prophets cry with it.
i wanna pray every time and feel the spirit of the creator of this magical dimension touch me.
i wanna talk to the devil at dinner with god over a nice bottle of red wine.
i wanna be dried on bamboo racks.
i wanna be tasted and hummed over with lullabyes.
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