Sunday, November 18, 2007

\\ namo guan shi yin pu sa //

(intro: aggressive drum roll: 150+ bpm / 4 measures then bass and guitar add on)

namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
mother of mercies, hear our cries.

he's a big baby, see him cry,
suck on her 'til the day he die.
he got wings, but cannot fly,
mother of mercies, hear his cries.

namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
mother of mercies, hear our cries.

she got needs no man can see,
tired of being on her knees.
needs some refuge and some peace,
mother of mercies, please...

namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
namo guan shi yin pu sa,
mother of mercies, hear our cries.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

temple not made by hands

for days, for weeks on end, he was listless and numb to the turn of events which he had set into motion. again fear had compelled him as it had so many times before to tear down the temple they had built haltingly and with such trepidation, and yet still it glistened in the fading sun, stones toppled and shining like nuggets of gold scattered in the dust.

at night, camped out among the ruins, glancing through the torn pages of the holy books he searched in vain for some wisdom, something to explain the emptiness he felt inside. when the faltering light of the generator finally sputtered to silence, there in the dark he lay still, the sweat pooling on his skin.

the wind blew as he felt her slip by him in the dark. his breath grew shallow and he sank deep inside, feeling the ravaged heart beating. down he went, down the torrent rushing out and through the arteries and veins, spreading as a wave breaks on the surface of land and coursing through him in a pulsing flood.

finally, when the generator ran out of fuel, he began to place candles among the fallen stones. on his knees he leaned into a heavy rock, and began to push it back into place, then another, and another. in the flickering light her shadow seemed to jump out at him, and then fade like an illusion.

late in the night, it began to rain, a cold relentless downpour, extinguishing what was left of the candle light. his tears mixed with the wetness, as he pushed through the mud, adding stone upon stone.

it was there the realization came over him, empty and alone sinking into the sorrows of new and uncharted depths. he was powerless to halt the worship that had opened in his heart now one year hence. he could tear down the temple once, twice, a hundred times, and scatter the stones to the farthest ends of the earth, yet she would never depart from that place inside him.

that moment he bowed down into the mud, and with great care lifted the next gleaming stone up out of the mire, setting it into place there upon the rock. briefly he paused, and then down again, he disappeared into the void.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

* strays *


"goddam that motherfuck'n' motherfuck'r, i'm gonna kill him!!!" hyatt was raging through the gallery space, and stopped right in front of his newly sold artwork. "he took my fuck'n' keys and has my truck and won't answer the phone, and i'm gonna fuck'n' kill him..."

eyeing the fragile floor piece, he circled around it, sizing it up, as though looking for a weakness, some place to land his foot in one tour de force death blow. suddenly he came to a standstill, force gathering momentum, about to reach critical mass.

it was then, jamie bolted in: "where's my fuck'n' shit, hyatt thrush?"

"it's in the motherfuck'n' truck, and chase won't answer his phone!!!"

"that sonofabitch, if i get my hands on him..." she reached out and gave hyatt a hard push.

the artwork, a louis xiv replica chair made of styrofoam sat there, oblivious to the ensuing chaos.



chase walked in, paint besmirched tattered hoodie zipped and stretching over his belly, black frame glasses taped together, studious and chill all at the same time.

he looked down at hyatt's piece, now boxed up in cardboard. "hey guys, how's it goin'...sell anything?"

"actually, yes. say, hyatt's been tryin' to get ahold of you."

"yeah, i lost my phone. i've been hangin' out with my friend matt. he drives a forklift, we met at the bar last night."

"the exhibition organizers are throwing a party right down the street, you wanna go with me and m.f.?

we closed shop and walked outside the large exhibition hall, heading with the other hipsters toward the searchlights waving randomly down the street. queing up, we moved steadily toward the door. now at the entrance, security pulled out a flashlight.

"let's see some i.d." we flashed him our drivers licenses as chase fumbled through his pants and hoodie pockets.

"i can't find mine. will you take a school i.d.?"

"hell no."

"let's just go eat guys," m.f. chimed in. we left the line and headed to the pizza pie house.



"i'm just existing...existentializing my existence in this space and time, drifting...peace, not looking for trouble. an animated protoplasm of energy and matter, looking for something..."

chase, wasted and high, rambled on in the back seat of the cab as we looked for his hotel. "it's right over there, oh yeah that's the one."

m.f. threw the driver a twenty and we piled out into the cold stiff wind coming in off the lake. scrambling through the entrance, the night manager gave us the eye as we looked for an elevator.

"you gotta use your keycard to work the elevator," m.f. observed. chase fumbled the card out of his pants pocket and held it wavering in his hand.

"lemme help," i grabbed the card and slid it into place...nothing happened. then the night manager appeared, looking over our shoulders. "can i help you?"

"we're tryin' to get our friend to his room," m.f. said as the man eyed us suspiciously.

"i wanna take a look at that card," he grabbed it from my hand. "that's not our hotel, you need to go a half-mile up michigan avenue," and gave us an extra stern look as he handed back the card.

"alright, thanks." we high-tailed it out of the hotel lobby back into the night, looking to see if security was onto us. m.f. hailed another cab, and five minutes later we were in front of the right hotel.



up in their room on the seventeenth floor, i flopped down on the carpet and started flipping through channels, looking at nothing in particular. chase sat next to m.f. on the bed and started fumbling with his shirt. "you gotta label on there somewhere?"

jamie and hyatt tumbled through the door in from the hallway. "chase, where the fuck'r my keys?" eyes half-closed, chase reached into his hoodie and tossed the keys over the bed. "my clitoris gave birth to your mother," he trailed off into nonsense.

hyatt dove behind the bed, grabbing the keys, and went into a frenzy, pulling open drawers, then leaning into his suitcase and throwing clothes into the air. "where the hell's my glass pipe?!"

"shut the fuck up you lost it, you sonofabitch," jamie yelled back.

"give me my fuck'n' glass pipe," hyatt yelled in reply.

i leaned over and whispered to chase, "say, we'll catch you tomorrow." m.f. and i waded through the pile of empty bottles, dirty clothes and tools on the floor, and pulled the door shut behind. as we moved down the hallway, jamie's voice cut through the early morning haze: "hyatt, you fuck'n' idiot, i got your glass pipe right here..."

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

johnny rude (indian summer dream)

it began on the side of a dirt road, late afternoon, leading down into the valley. he was a young girl hanging out with three others, all of them around eighteen. the thin brunette, andrea, peeled off a wad of bills and threw some to each of them. "there's your cut...four-hundred fifty each, y'all have fun."

he pocketed the cash and headed down the road to the little tavern at the foot of the valley. walking inside, the warm, familiar glow of wood paneling and blood orange shag carpet welcomed him.

now a guy, he sauntered over to the side bar and leaned over the cute girl in front of the mini-jukebox. "lemme have a play at that," he whispered as he pushed into her, sliding a quarter into the machine and pressing his selection.

saxophone music rattled out of the blown speakers and followed him across the tiny room to the gambling machine. he pulled a crisp twenty out of the wad, fed it in and the game came to life.

"say, this is kinda like that space shoot 'em up that i used to play," he thought, except the reaction time was really slow. he would press two, three, or four times before a shot would squeeze out at the descending alien ships.

suddenly the lights flickered and someone yelled "closing time!" the game started to shut down and he turned to the door. just then his friend nicki threw a bill at the juke box and yelled to the attendant, "play me that song!", and pushed open the wooden revolving door, stepping to the street outside.

he followed after his friend, walking out into the young night air, neon flickering around him, and started down the street, walking with a fancy cane now. suddenly from behind, the tavern keeper, a middle-aged loser with slicked down hair, ran up and said, "hey you lost your money in the machine!"

"yeah, i left eighteen dollars in there when it shut down."

"well here's your money, johnny rude," said the man throwing a twenty his way. he screwed open the top of his cane, and pulled out a gold ingot from a hidden slot, handing it to the man in a move that surprised himself.

then, reaching down to the ground he picked up the bill, along with the rest of his cash, which had fallen there. shoving the wad into a recognizable stack, he stuffed it back into his pocket. "i'm gonna let my friends play their hands, me i'm buryin' my talents," he thought and commenced to walk away.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

spring break

i looked out the window of the greyhound bus and wished it all away. that whole first year of junior high, the crappiest year yet, but now i had a week to forget about it all, this first spring break ever, starting with the overnight bus ride to see my grandparents in amarillo.

earlier that day i'd worked up the courage to go into the school library and check out a book. i'd been wanting to all year, standing in the hallway, peering through the glassed in front wall at the books. today, heart beating in my chest i went in and found it, the hardback, tom sawyer by mark twain.

finally, on the bus: some good reading in a lounge seat, the overhead light casting a glow all around. nine year old bubba was right next to me, holding the box of donuts mom and dad had left with us as we pulled out from the bus station that evening.

now here we were, halfway through oklahoma,the full moon skimming low over the horizon. bubba yanked on my arm, "i really need ta go to the bathroom."

"it's back there."

"but i'm scared..."

"what are you talkin' about?"

bubba tried to look back down the dark aisle but couldn't. "there ain't nothin' to be afraid of," i glanced back, catching the silhouette of a huge indian in jeans and a ripped-up t-shirt coming down the aisle, long hair flowing, dark eyes burning a hole right through me.

turning back quickly i said, "maybe you can wait 'til we stop."

just then someone leaned out from the row behind us, into the light. "say, my name's johnny and this here's my little sister. she's real cute, you like her?" the boy looked kinda like the ninth graders i tried to stay away from at school.

the bus pulled into a parking lot next to this filling station, to drop off some passengers. johnny glanced over at the pumps and then back towards me and bubba. "hey, you know what my favorite hobby is?" he paused... "pumping gas," he said and nodded knowingly towards us. i took in the cigarette over his ear, as bubba leaned in a little closer to me.

"come on, let's check out what's inside." he led us off the bus and into the little station. bugs flickered around the florescent lights as we sauntered over to the pinball machine tucked in the corner.

"hey, watch this," johnny said as he walked toward the man at the counter.

"say, i lost my money in the pinball machine," he said, gesturing toward the three of us leaning against the machine. the man in the blue uniform stared back at him for a few seconds and then slowly reached into the money drawer, pulling out a dime and flicking it toward him.

johnny held the coin up and snickered as he came toward us. "let me show you how it's done," he popped the money into the machine and it came to life. "ka-ching," the metal ball spun into the field of play.

"all aboard, we're headin' out," the bus driver yelled in through the door.

i grabbed my brother's hand and took off, leaving johnny and his sister there at the pinball machine. on the bus now, moving away, i caught one last glimpse of him there, working the flippers and pushing the machine up to the edge, just before "tilt". his sister caught my eye for a moment and then we were gone.

the bus lurched out onto the highway and i glanced back, into the sun rising up over the station, and then ahead toward the still dark west and the road ahead. grabbing the box of donuts from my brother i pulled it open. "say bubba, you want the cherry or the maple?"

Saturday, August 25, 2007

east river

we'd been working for days, getting ready for the opening, when dan calls me up: "ran, you and your friend gotta come to this party tonite. it's over by the east river in long island city. it's crawling with writers and such." bobbie and i, inhaling the fumes of early august manhattan weren't in a hurry to go anywhere, except back to williamsburg and the (relatively) cool air of the second floor window box fan.

the jammed in press of days old funk mixed with fresh scrubbed and body washed skin as we hopped the "L" for the long ride under the river and out to bedford street. a screech of brakes and we were spat onto the platform, the mix giving way to straight up dank, late summer subway odor. out we came into the fresh air, and my phone beeped with new voice mail as the signal came back. dialing in, it was dan again: "hey ran, hire a car and get on over here, you don't wanna miss this party." i hang up by the time we begin the walk up the long flight of stairs to dan's raw warehouse.

a dark figure looms in front of the box fan, devon, forty-year old skater boy queen, broken down addicted to whatever, picking at something on his shirt. he was immersed in conversation with himself, a steady stream of unintelligible sound trailing our way. "what's happening tonite ?", i offer up. "sonic youth and yeah yeah yeahs playin' over at the pool, free barbeque at manhole tomorrow, house party in dumbo later on," trailing off into a free-form mumble.

bobbie chimed in, "hey, you know where i could score some weed?" devon, still fixated on his shirt, finally looked up, his fake shoe polish black eyes shiny and mismatched. he says, "lemme find my cell phone, i gotta contact in there." disappearing into his closet of a room, he emerges with this beat-to-hell phone with only three working keys. "there's a number for my weed man in there," he says, handing the phone over to bobbie. sensing the hopelessness of the proposition, bobbie just looks at the pile of electronic crap in his hand and shrugs.

just then, my phone rings's dan: "hey ran, you GOTTA come to this party, they gotta boat and barbeque. it's at mark disuvero's studio." suddenly it hits me, this was a REAL party. "alright, we're there," click.

bobbie, stretched out and sweating on the futon. "dude get up, this is the big shit deal tonite, i'm callin' a car." minutes later, we're bailing out into the darkness of an expansive scrap-yard looking street. a corrugated steel gate slowly swung open, revealing two huge airplane hangar studios on a hundred yard long stretch of dock. "what took you so long?", dan quipped.

we did the walk through, checking out these immense god-like steel sculptures, finely balanced articulation sent rotating around the hangar with the flick of a wrist. out on the loading dock we stepped, hipster group hanging out at tables, drinking, talking, eating barbeque. i did the meet and greet, trying to hold a conversation, but the river called insistently, just off the concrete dock.

breaking away, i jumped down to a floating platform and began stripping off my clothes. city lights reflect across the blackness of the river as i dove into the cold darkness. invigorated, i opened my eyes and tasted the fresh salt-tinged liquid deep underwater. black depths glowing with a neon pulse as i propelled myself up and into the air. i took a deep breath, realizing i was twenty yards offshore.

the others looked small and insignificant, as a wave of fear and isolation ran over me. taking another breath, i dove back under, gliding through the peaceful chill and blind miasma. this time i came up near the platform and awkwardly clambered back onto dry land. shivering, i began to put my clothes back on.

"is he really naked?", a filipino girl asked bobbie, as though she had never seen a human body before. bobbie nodded and then dan called out into the night: "hey ran, that was real huck fin of you, there." pulling my shirt on, i smiled and glanced back into the night.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007


nightfall, another hot gulf coast night, found us walkin' down the tracks to a show at crawlspace, a second floor artist-run gallery overlooking this machine shop. chase was runnin' the space then, and had some drawings by a tall gangly vampire fella on the wall. comin' up the rickety wooden steps i bumped into betty, who threw me a sweet if slightly off-kilter smile.

i took a quick jaunt around the show and then settled into the comfy sofa in the boutique area. chase took a quick hit off his wood pipe and then proceeded to show us this cool new video game he had just picked up, "kamachama yo' mama". cardboard critters, woolen doo-dads and other knick-knacks stared down at us from the wall as we focused in on the little 10 inch color screen.

it was 'bout then that betty launched into one of her stories. this one started (like all the others) with a smile that slowly spread from one side of her face to the other, followed by a gleam in the leading eye.

"yeah, my boyfriend and i, we were down in mexico, and he had this great plan to buy up boatloads of liquor at great prices and then smuggle it back into the states so we could have it for some big parties, like. he had seen it done in the movies before, so we knew it could work."

"so he bought up all this booze and then stuffed it into a backpack, and loaded it on me to carry over." (long pause) "he knew they wouldn't suspect me, so he went on ahead and crossed over, then i followed a few minutes later, hee-hee."

suddenly she was distracted..."hey that's an awesome video piece you designed, chase." (he had been playing "kamachama yo' mama" this whole time) "how'd you do that anyway, i mean how'd you make that video? you oughta market that thing to burger king, they'd go for that big time, you know what i mean?"

"that sounds great, betty", chase said absentmindedly and continued to rack up the points on his game. we looked on as the night heat closed in on another round of drinks and more stories from betty.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

midsummer night dreams

he walked along the desert road with his father. a dirt pathway diverted up the ravine, looking like a gully washed out by the last rain. they followed it up and over the earthen spine, coming upon an adobe church, empty and open to the elements.

inside they walked, past flickering candles, and out again, this time into the courtyard. a monumental sculpture loomed ahead, an oversize wooden chair with basket-weave seat all cast in bronze, double life size.

"el diablo" his father exclaimed as they rounded it to the front. seated on this monstrosity was a sculpted devil, a typical one with horns and spiked tail, seeming vaguely cartoonish. though of human scale, he was dwarfed by the giant bronze seat and looked rather infantile perched on this impromptu throne.

they continued on past the seated devil through scrub into the desert wilderness, moving into the late afternoon sun.


he drove the old land rover over the dirt road, pushing the accelerator as it threatened to die on him. his teenage son fidgeted in the passenger seat and leaned out the open window. the wind was picking up now and heavy black clouds were moving in fast.

for a moment he considered going back and trying to retreat from the storm, but then he gunned it, going full blast into the approaching melee. whirling black clouds dipped down, and dissipated smokelike as they whipped around the plodding vehicle.

the road grew muddy as they moved into the deluge, with vegetation and debris slowing them little by little. finally they came on a roadblock formed of two huge fallen logs. he looked over to his son and then jammed on the pedal, hitting the logs with the full force of the steel hulk.

coming out the other side, they slowed to a stop in the parking lot as the storm cleared and moved away behind them. his son hopped out and ran around to the front of the truck. "fuckin' a..!" the hood was crumpled up, but otherwise intact.

he got out, checked the oil, and got in the passenger side. his son now on the drivers side turned the key, slapped the transmission into drive and they lurched away.


he cradled the rolled up posters under his arm as he went into the school, walking down the hall and scanning the classes as they passed. the rooms buzzed with activity, kids in parochial uniforms collectively reciting math formulas and language phrases. she came with him, and together they went into the monk's workshop. "i don't know if you can use these, but i'd like the school to have them", he said.

the young monk towered over them, looking vaguely buddha-like with newly grown black stubble coming in on his recently shaved head. "i like this one" he said, pointing to a poster of two people lying on a bed having sex. "we can use it to both teach and provoke."

at a loss for words, he looked her way and nodded his head toward the door. she smiled and they scooted out into the hallway, down the freshly mopped glistening terrazo floor and out the double doors into the bright sunlight of the playground.

Monday, June 4, 2007

"The Real Thing"

So there they were sitting out on the front porch late that evening, when the holy ghost came over him. Kneeling down on the front walk, he gathered the loose sage, lit a match and made a protective circle around it with both hands. Pressing his face into the circle he blew, like some crazed fool smoking a buried pipe.

The beautiful young things on the porch looked on, wide-eyed with amazement, as if a strange public t.v. documentary was unfolding before their very eyes. Handsome bud talking to them stopped his come on routine when he noticed their attention diverting.

Then it was he reached under and scooped up the burning sage, and brought it up before the two lovers seated before his tiny altar, gently blowing the smoke into their faces. They breathed in deeply and the girl began to chant in foreign tongues. drunk on the spirit, she rose to her feet and started to sing "amazing grace, how sweet the sound", pulling her lover up and holding him close.

The girls on the porch clicked their heels nervously and went inside, in search of cold beverages and relief from the spectacle, handsome bud following closely on their heels. This was when he went to the hollowed-out tree and lit the candles, the glow coursing out like a beacon in the night.

The two lovers blessed him and moved into the darkness, a portent of things to come. It was then his vision appeared, peripherally she stood in the half-light, faded red t-shirt encompassing her profile. "The Real Thing" it read, and before the next heartbeat he knew the course his life would take.

Later that night 4:15 am, he was lying in bed in the dark, and one of the beautiful girls peered into the room saying "hey, me and John gotta head back to Houston, can you do us a favor?" Five minutes later, he was standing at an ATM, dazed and confused, taking out $500 and handing it over for an artwork. Somewhere in his stupor the thought occurred to him that this was not a rational decision, but it was good to be done with it, the senselessness of beauty and the valuing of worldly goods. He knew that part of his life was through.

The beautiful people took the cash, and faded into the night. He knew that somewhere she was awake and watching over him, la Morenita, the t-shirt now swinging from a hanger. He walked back to the front porch, to where the smoke from last night's rites had left a smudge on the walk and sat. Watching the first light of morning break over the horizon, the hint of a smile upon his face. A thirst had come over him.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

bloom (in the ghetto)

on a hot and sweaty any morning
another little baby child is born
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

cause if there's one thing that she don't need
its another little hungry child to bleed
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

and a hungry little girl with a ring through her nose
plays it on the streets as the cold wind blows
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

so she starts to walk the streets at night
and she learns how it hurts and she knows it ain't right
in the ghetto
and her mother cries

then one night she takes a blade and cuts off all her hair
and to herself she makes a vow
she wants to leave but she don't know how
and her mother cries

(based on mac davis' "in the ghetto" 1969)

Tuesday, May 15, 2007


the pinata ascended haltingly up the backyard cable, a blue donkey rotating slowly in the air. blindfolded, vlad knelt below it like a knight before battle, his head bowed. the russian had already burnt his hand on the grill, and held the wooden pole with some difficulty.

as he sprang to action, i saw her coming toward me, carrying a bottle of chilled vodka. "we chase it with a pickled tomato", she said. "you hold it to your mouth and squeeze."

vlad had been flailing at the air for some time now, and the little donkey seemed to be smiling at him. its orbit becoming more and more eccentric as the pole sliced through the air, coming dangerously close to the laughter around him.

"be my designated driver", he said as she led him inside and up the stairs. the darkened room began to turn slowly as he lay beside her on the futon. pouring a shot over her, he licked the vodka off her stomach and squeezed the tomato chaser into his mouth. "you are what you eat," she said.

the party had moved indoors now, their voices rising from downstairs and breaking free of gravity. he was behind her now, their rhythm merging into the blackness. time sped up, and they fell spent onto the covers.

in the morning the russians were gone, the broken pinata stuffed in the trash can. he staggered into the kitchen and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge. tilting back his head to take a swig, he saw a mark on the ceiling, a sneaker print. closing his eyes, he saw vlad cartwheel into the night.

Wednesday, May 9, 2007


sitting on the fire escape he looked down, eight floors to the ground below. concrete, stone and steel, the city, tough and relentless. a lighted neon cross blared "jesus saves" from the street front mission, car horns shouting as traffic rushed up to the stoplight, people hurrying along the walk.

slowly he took a drag from the cigarillo, warmth and fire pulled into his lungs. he closed his eyes and felt the smoke inside balancing out the cool blasts of wind which buffeted him high up the city's side. he felt himself slipping into a dream, of soft grasses and flowing water under a canopy of trees.

she climbed through the window and sat beside him, her legs resting on the steel bars. "this is kind of nice" she said, and he opened his eyes, looking up at the softness of the sky and beyond. she poured sangria over ice in the plastic cups and handed him one. "to nice" he said, and tipped his cup into hers.

Thursday, April 26, 2007


in first grade, he threw a rock that hit a girl in the head. it was an accident, he was just enjoying the way the rocks spun through the air when he threw them. her platinum blonde hair erupted in blood, and next thing he knows, the teacher dragged him up the hill to the classroom, where the principal came and read him the riot act.

one day in second grade, the teacher, a grumpy old woman, lined him up with all the other boys on the playground and swatted each one as she went down the line. he never knew what offense led to this, but all the girls in class were laughing.

in third grade the kids were all playing baseball during recess and he was the catcher. he knelt down to catch the pitch, and just as the older boy swung the bat, she caught his eye. whammmm!!! he's crawling along on the ground, stars swirling around his head, and blood gushing from his cheek. seven stitches later, he returned to class.

fourth grade saw the class moved to a portable building, and he sat behind a cute girl with pig tails. he thought it would be funny to whack her over the head with the plastic tissue bag she kept under her seat. whackkkk!! she started screaming and crying. uh-oh, he thought, there was something hard inside of the bag. the teacher reached in and found an empty cosmetic jar. grabbing him, she dragged him out of class and hit him repeatedly with her ping pong paddle.

in fifth grade the kids liked to run around back and smell the honeysuckles on the fence. one day as the girls were chasing him, he ducked around the edge of the building. cutting a little too close, he sliced his head open on the aluminum trim. this time it only took four stitches and a partially shaved head to return to class.

his last year in elementary school, sixth grade, went smoothly. he kept mostly to himself, until the end of school field trip. at the miniature golf course he thought it would be really cool to slam the ball hard and make it fly off the astroturf ramp. zoommm!!! the golf ball flew through the air, its trajectory on a perfect arc to the side of the girl's head, the one with long straight hair.

next year, seventh grade, he moved to junior high and a new school. he stopped talking to the girls for the next few years and began to focus on his trumpet playing.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

(since my baby left me) the well's run dry

since my baby left me,
the well's run dry,
said she didn't need me,
the well's run dry,
got a man 2 <3 her right,
the well's run dry,
oh, pobrecito.

1. i been comin' late 2 work,
took tha' blame 4 some jerk,
now the boss man's fired me,
the well's run dry (refrain)

2. fed my dog a bunch o' scraps,
she went 2 moanin' in the nite,
now she's gone up 'n' died,
the well's run dry (refrain)

3. the ride she's rough got 4 flat tires,
now i walk 'n' don't get far,
the repo man he towed my car,
the well's run dry (refrain)

4. since the twister took my home,
far 'n' wide i do roam,
just like a rollin' stone,
the well's run dry.
(refrain) (refrain) (and out...)

- a little ditty from uncle krishnaremus

Wednesday, April 4, 2007


down, down he trudged, through thick smoke, exhaust mixed with the tinge of human sweat and rotting waste. the crush of bodies pushing against, some moving upward, some down, eyes averted each in their own self-made inferno. a few more steps and there he lost his balance. turning in the air it all came to him, every suffering he had inflicted on all of these, the loved and the unloved. falling only a moment yet interminable, he knew it would hurt, and then he hit bottom. blackness, and all around a fog, lying on the mix of footsteps and grime. it was then she came to him, a movement so slight, a gentle touch in this blindness. grasping, lunging, lost in the foul air he felt himself lifted up and against a firm shoulder and the softness of her skin. lowering now, he moved in close, enveloped by her as blackness closed in again.

Monday, March 26, 2007

* reverie *

He ran out ahead to the playground, hoping to get to the monkey bars before the other kids. But there she was, stopping him in his tracks. He can't remember how, maybe someone pushed him, but there he lay flat on his back staring up and into the face of an angel silhouetted by the bright autumn sun. She stepped forward and stood over him, fists clenched against her hips, staring down at him. The breeze billowed her pleated plaid skirt and passed cool on his face as he looked up and into the mystery of darkness and beyond.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

in love there is no consort with doubt

as quickly as it all began, it was over...whammm, a hurricane blows through your life leaving behind a trail of devastation. that and a question to the universe, how? and why? a new year beginning in ecstacy and immediately after falling into a feverish state of delirium. waking in the night to sweat-drenched sheets and open sores, seven days in purgatory lying on her sofa, alone with your thoughts. and that, that is the downfall of many a man: "are you sure?" "are you REALLY sure?" synapses going into overdrive as you realize that somewhere someone's despair is balancing out your joy.

for in love there is no consort with doubt. when it gets a foot in the door, it kicks its way into the room. and there you are, intuition laid bare, sliced open and left to bleed out by a moment of questioning. in its wake trust dissolves, connections disconnect, and you are tossed out and back into the world of samsara...and after you hang on as long as you can, but...only now just past the sleepless nights, the turmoil, the chemically induced numbness, left to sort out, to reflect and (maybe) begin again. yet you still find gratitude and blessing, for experience, for failure, for each step along the way, for the brevity of perfection, together spinning on the great wheel of the all.