Friday, February 29, 2008

rip mr. miles...

Sunday, February 24, 2008

oh shit...

love that Budos Band...

Wednesday, February 20, 2008


Tuesday, February 19, 2008

an excerpt...

two sections from a much longer work in progress:


I think the desperation had reached some kind of goddamn tipping point, some place that threatened the tenuous tether keeping our miserable sanity moored to the failing centers of our minds. We’d entered a sinister place, a desolate place where we were gripped with hatred in our hearts and bloodlust, a fury for murder, in our spirits. It was going to be a fucking penultimate showdown, a real war, with houses aflame and black, ugly smoke rising high into the pale blue winter sky above this terrible ghetto. We’d become snarling creatures of our ineffective rage, our frustrated compassion, and turned on each other in our darkest moments of futility, horrible fanged animals spitting invective and vileness at one another, never meaning a word but thoroughly meaning every bit of venom. The walls crawled with our useless desire to help, to destroy, to explode in all directions at once, to solve this problem and a thousand others just like it, to dig under the festering skin of this suburban nightmare and unearth the cancerous spot, to tear it out and see it burn.

Days of death and hot Georgia sun slanting thru the cold air. Would I have to find another dog knotted up in a bed sheet by the curb with blank-eyed children pointing at it like a broken toy, like some mystery they couldn’t fathom and didn’t care to try? Would I have to be driven mad, beyond madness?


This dog’s name is Bullet. Or it might be; Johnny told me, and he is a manufacture of missing parents, of an overwrought and overworked grandmother raising kids beyond her own days of responsibility. He is the product of thug cousins and ignorant relatives and distant associations who disappear like urban mirages. He comes from a bent and twisted educational system designed to produce an infinite number of Johnnies, sociopath worker-consumers with hair-triggers and no dreams, doomed to fill the endless cogs and spokes of a privatized and soulless culture, a sad, trembling lonesome human crying out with foulness for love and some measure of attention, no matter how wrong or right. A demon and a child, full of hate and life, with glassy eyes that sparkle when he tells a lie. There is a twitch in his limbs that speaks of his last whipping for not cleaning up the yard. He cannot be trusted but must be helped. He is a sinister voice at three a.m. saying disturbing things in the darkness, words that echo between the split level houses, words that should not come from a child.

He lives with his grandmother across the street. There are others, children, older kids, they come and go, the faces change, we never learn any names while the cars in the driveway rotate and revolve. But Johnny is a constant. He is always peering from his window on the second floor, watching the days pass here among these housing tracts vacated by the fleeing white middle class in the early eighties, left behind by those seeking gated communities, planned golf course housing developments with neighborhood covenants and a loyal police force. We lived under his gaze, this goddamn child and his world, we were caught unwillingly in the gravitational pull of these alien people who can wrap a rusty chain around the neck of a starving dog, tie it off to a fence post and leave it to its own humiliating misery, who can leave it without water in the middle of the baking summer heat, no blanket when the sleet pours, no shelter in the goddamn rain and no love in any season.

Thinking about the children in such a place, living with that kind of black-hearted reptilian caring, would often make our lives a surreal hell, knowing there were things going on around us, things behind shut doors and bed sheet covered window panes we were completely powerless to stop or affect.

Once, Johnny and another kid who was staying there accidentally set fire to an upstairs room, and they all moved out while the insurance folks pressed calculator buttons. The months their house spent vacant and blackened were a glimpse into heaven, if I believed in it at all.

But like I was saying, Bullet was the new dog, and the last straw, and the unnoticed cut that gets infected and demands a decision be made. A brown and black mix of chow, pit bull and random mutt. Bright sad eyes and wagging tail bent beneath trembling legs, black tongue panting. He is kept on a chain just short enough to prevent his entry into a crumbling wooden doghouse in the trash strewn backyard. I can hear his bark when someone walks by outside, a single bark followed by three short bursts and a weird yowl to finish. But the neighborhood is full of such, and at night Bullet is joined by a chorus of lonely animals in yards overgrown with weeds, on rope and metal leashes, an orchestra of hundreds of barking dogs, quick shouts, the intermittent howl, the choked yelp, the machine gun rapidity and the steady beat of each individual voice conveying each personality, each animal’s determination to be heard. You can hear the special tones, the frequencies, the patterns reverberating throughout this shitty world, the new phrases echoing in response to a vanishing wave of sound. And then, even louder, the silence in between movements: all ears waiting, listening, hoping for someone, anyone to come into their theatre and release them.

But no one ever comes and the College Park symphony drones back into life, every few minutes, every evening.



eat more industrial beef.

I know; locally produced organic food is just silly hippie bullshit. at our local market you can get beef and pork from the farmer who raised em, and you can learn exactly how what you eat lived its life.

anyway, there's no mad cow disease here in the Best Country in The World, our non-crony, non-corporate linked government regulatory agencies say so.

silly hippie shit, I know.

at least being in Congress, etc. isn't some kind of money con.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

some poems...

haven't posted anything in a while, but I saw over on the KSE blog that my edition of their Next Exit series was one of their fastest sellers, and that made me smile. it's a rarity these days, when each moment is filled with uncertainty and strange rumblings, when the realm of the political is a madhouse where the corporations have free reign and the will of the people is a long gone and quaint thing of the past, when torture is acceptable foreign (and domestic) policy and kindness is an exploitable weakness. but it felt good, so I thought I'd post a couple of poems from the chap while that feeling endures. thanks to my eight readers who obviously bought multiple copies. enjoy:

mobile, alabama

as the trucks
pound across the
giant expanse of
bridge looming
in the distance

the water
somewhere below

exhales and inhales.

everyone is tired
and the world is
a difficult place.

nothing is very reliable.

people are lost, much
is broken.

this road seems

but it

disappear into
the southern air.

metal, mostly,


athens, georgia

he is going to
new orleans
to join a jazz band,
play his guitar,
see if he has what it

the pizza dough
encircles the mound
of his white knuckles.

his eyes are

dahlonega, georgia

driven, hopeful men
fighting the
curious whisper

no mystery about
the past,

death and slaves,
the glint of
sunlight below the
water's froth,

that scream and weep,
sweat and bleed.

a gilded future.

the birth
of a nation.

just another


also, just got Bill Taylor's new book Words For Songs Never Written and it's a beaut. spare and haunting, sad and magical, it's worth the cover price and then some. check it out at Centennial Press.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

laissez les bon temps, etc...