29 Nov 2008

sex girl patrol

trying to stay awake but i'm trying to sleep but i'm trying to stay awake - do you want a quarter or an eighth? how bout them digits?

betty says: i'm not a drinker, really... daddy never made much of it

yeah, and i'm not much of a farmer, i reply - always wanted to be a chemist though - how bout them digits?

there's a brewery right in town, btw - there's a storm coming too, it may not be perfect but i'll take it - i'll take that violent shock of hair, candy coloured - time and again i told myself, i'll stay clean tonight - well i have for five days and five nights - i could for another - it was nice to wake up to your voice - i'd get out of bed for you, even if just to supply your sister - i'd get into bed for you too - i'd stay clean for you - i'd do drugs for you too, if it would allow me to be confident, and connect - but something tells me i don't need to

being myself, not a chemist - what a concept

only in nelson

If I'm going to pay 25$ to hear your book-tour lecture on your alien abduction experience, they'd better be small and grey... not tall and blond.

21 Nov 2008

sensational precurers

polyticks and cushion
where will it end?
where did it begin anyway?
are you getting finnicky? are you thankful for that?
what would be an appropriate activity at this point?
the great defective
the taste in my mouth
comforting blanket of thick english industrial

that point, when the telepathic k sway goes that way, peruvian cocopowder, and i don't remember being dead, yes

this is what you do with a dude whom

there's only a spoon of coco left in the can


beginning to make sensational precurers

17 Nov 2008


Mainlining the morning sun.......

swinging toward solstice........

a masterpiece
a masterpiece



it’s not over
til i smoke this clover

crimson and clover, fuck YEAH -- in the court of the crimson king

heck no, in timepaste, in things that are like other things when they drie in the sun
drie in the sun
drie, betelgeuse rises and myeees are drie – crimson and clover
over and over

it’s not over
but that’s not a threat
i haven’t released an album yet

my left arm should not be heavy but it is
i haven’t found the burden yet, but i left it somewhere
it will creep up on me, it will make my leg restless, it will be there
it’s around, i can’t ignore it just this second... just a second... nikolai tesla coil


can you believe i put on my red coat just now? grateful dead wasn’t warming me enough – but c’mon, what can you expect from a 70s bootleg? don’t get your hopes up – and don’t eat the brown acid – omission of action – it’s still the truman show – i forget how it ends – and

don’t take stock, you shouldn’t, you’ll fuck up the flow, but you’ll fuck up the flow anyway so go ahead and – stop and is this a requiem for rosemont? no, i still hear beautific tonality, and i still love, and when i took stock, even though i shouldn’t’ve, i thought, jesus, maybe i’m just being an asshole... which i doubt – but hey, there’s always that possibility, i can’t deny, i have an ego that’s for damned sure, so it’s no great leap to imagine myself an asshole, the kind of asshole who doesn’t know he’s being one... maybe i can transcend – through iron maiden lyrics – seventh son of a seventh son!

I was going to paint that clove smoke burning, splinter sillhouette against my ochre sick-lamp, the half-alive light that keeps me slow-burning at night in a ketafrenzy when i do that thing, tar vapours curling up to the creek st ceiling, the minimal house i live in, the monastery for meditation on kootenai equestrian merde, but music is an attention whore, it steals the show – it’s got a stack of marshalls, you can adjust the gain but it won’t affect the volume.

Clearly this is the greatest thing I’ve written, since the last thing I’ve written. If you’re into that sort of thing. If so, then there’s no competition. No one even comes close.

late for dreams

what do i dream now that i'm late for dreams? crystalis told me to pull the chair back, sway, keep writing.... keep typing...



typ - it's hard to count to herbie hancocock hallucinations

7 Nov 2008

Requiem for President

I was aloft, quite aloft. Couldn't remember where I was, but things felt okay. Then I recognized the walls of the Bembe Loft. That's where I was. Aloft over the Upper East Side - fifty something stories, thin air, minimal atmosphere, Ruben Gonzales playing piano by the balcony.

That’s when Barack walked in. No one recognized him, not even the wine-sipping politicos. He sat on a couch and proceeded to stare into space. Or at the television, I wasn't sure.

Shouldn't you be running the country? I asked. He said it's too dangerous to run anything right now.
So you’re just going to let God sort it out?

I don’t like it any more than you do, he said. But there are factors in play that you couldn’t possibly be aware of. For starters, the secret service is on strike. Why? Well all you’ll read in the papers is overcooked union propaganda, nothing to do with the real reason. Which is? The whole thing was set in motion by one agitator, who happens to be my top security guy. I was paying him too much, see. He started feeling unworthy of his salary, which led to guilt. He was making too many deals, and couldn't deal with his deals. And all the extra money he had to spend on shrinks didn’t even bankrupt him, because I’d given him excellent health insurance, so his malaise only worsened. The more money he threw at the problem, his wife told me after one great night of Oreo love, the sicker he got. Of course it’s ludicrous, but he must have spread his strange form of dis-ease throughout the agency. Just yesterday the union rep told me they want - no they need to be treated like commoners. At least, commoner-er. So they’re striking for lower wages? Yes, much lower. They can't live with luxury and leisure of the tier we’re used to, their brains will explode. But I wouldn't budge - I can't have minimum living standards for some and not others – that’s as long as we're talking about the middle class here. The middle class is now the upper middle class. So it's become a conflict.

I asked him, are you scared? He said no. If someone caps me, I'll be the biggest martyr since JC. And it'll be as big a gift to the left as 9/11 was to the right. Because all that audacious hope stuff? Everyone projected their ideologies onto that. Those promises I can't deliver on and wouldn't want to anyway. And they're not even promises, see? But if I was assassinated, hoh boy, there'd be no time for disillusionment. The illusion would live on strong, and those great things I was gonna do, for pretend America, hehe, they'd be fresh in the minds of the real America. They'd be MLK's dream. A dead Obama would spur action, you know? Real revolution. But that's the problem with assassins, they haven't thought things through. Like the guy who whacked Franz Ferdinand - he wasn't trying to start the first world war, he was just an archduke playahata. I hate those twerps. Insofar as I hate anyone, which I don't really. Anyway, anyone dumb enough to martyr me would be intellectually incapable of buttoning up his shirt, let alone assassinating the leader of the free world. But still, I’m not taking any chances. Chaos can run the show for a while. You’d think we’re enemies, but we’re not. Chaos often works to our benefit. I mean us elites, and America by proxy, albeit to a far lesser extent. We have immunity to chaos, it’s like smallpox to the conquistadors.

Hmmm, you're a cool customer, I said. You make your secret service look like Yosemite Sam. Is it true you raised a billion dollars in your campaign?

Yeah, that’s in the ballpark, Obama said.

But even so, like... what was it all for? Cause I mean, who wants to be in even pretend charge of this clusterfuck? And the last kleptocracy, they already looted the place, what's left to steal? It's like - did you see South Park last night?

Yeah I did, he said. Brainless as per usual.

No, it was half-decent satire for a change. They depicted both campaigns as crack teams of diamond thieves.

Obama smiled for a second but quickly reclaimed his poker face. There's method to my larceny, you know. I'm stealing from the lesser gods, those parasitic middle deities. They've been hoarding their treasures for too long, I'm gonna shake things up in this town. This town? I asked. Oh, well, not this one, but - well yeah, downstream this town will be shaken up, but ground zero is gonna be Washington, obviously. That's change you can believe in. I'm like a grand canyon-sized syringe, loaded poised over the popped out vein of America.

Well if that’s the case, I said, you better shoot us up before the national arm goes dead for lack of circulation.

Did I show you my stimulus package? Obama asked. Before I could stop him, he informed me that it was in his pants. But he succeeded in not smiling as he said this. I failed to not smile – I’d always wanted to snub an American president who thought he was a comedian, but in person I felt obliged to smile at attempted humour, even if I was aloft.

Across from Obama was a giant plasma television with footage of the president at a press conference. He didn't notice. The sound was low, but I could make out quotes from a cascade of statesmen and women giving O the thumbs up. He had the globe's endorsement. He was President of the World.

You're president of the world, I told him. So where do you go from there?

To the gym, he said. To practice my gravitas. That takes time. And in these dangerous times, I refuse to sit idly by. I can’t exactly run the country now, can I? But I can practice looking presidential. You have to look presidential when it’s assumed your hand is on the god button. And that assumption will be correct when the security strike has been broken. You can't look slapdash, it just won't do. For instance, it would do hideous things to the stock market, if my gravitas dropped appreciably below Harvard standards. Yale standards would be bare minimum. And to think that teetotalling Steaksauce-guzzling Arby’s-patronizing Yaleite Bush-the-lesser tried to get his greasy fingers on the God button!

You mean the nuke button? I asked.

No, there's no nuke button, that's just a comedic device, Obama said. But there is a god button, that's real.

Oh yeah, the God button, I said. I’d forgotten about that thing. But now I remember. I found mine in the synergy of LSD and ketamine.

Nonsense, Obama said. There's no God button there. Just hallucinations. The only place one finds a real god button is an ivy league school. With the probable exception of Yale.

Hey, I'm sure there's other places than where I found it, I said. I'm not denigrating the Harvard god button by any means, but why criticize mine? You found yours, now enjoy. Although I'll admit, just between you and me, it seems like your god button is wired to at least some of my cerebral cortex because it does sometimes intrude into my reality, insofar as I perceive digital representations of daily newspapers to be accurate reflections of events occurring thousands of miles away.

Obama laughed, but he was sitting in front of me with his space-face, silent and serious. It was a different Obama laughing. I spun around to look for the double but there was no one to be found, just the original Obama sitting on the couch, and still that laugher, coming from over my shoulder. The new Obama seemed more friendly, even though I couldn't see him. I asked him if he really found his God button at Harvard but he wouldn't tell me. C'mon, I said, why won't you tell?

He said, in all honesty, I don't know. That's the problem with pressing the button, things warp fast and it's tricky to retrace your steps. But that's change you can believe in. I kept the faith. Like Watson when he discovered DNA. He had the shape in mind. He dreamed about the double helix, and lo and behold, it was there under the microscope, insofar as you can infer the structure of deoxyribonucleic acid from up-scale contours. I saw the contours of the god button in my dreams - actually it was a dial. Sometimes you've got to believe your dreams. And when I got up the nerve to twist the dial a bit, I began to dream bigger. I realized I could just turn the dial a little to the right and within a few years, events would conspire to make me president.

And there he is. I looked back at the President of the World, staring through the television. Look at that Obama over there, new Obama said. He's not handling his God-transition very well. He may look calm, but he's over-calm. The tension is being stored away. Stored where? Probably under a mountain in Colorado, new Obama said. But he's living the American Dream.

The American Dream, I mused. I dream of snow. Banks of snow. Crystalline webs like financial systems, but it's all snow and nowhere to go. I never get anywhere in my dreams, just kind of drift and try to keep warm. I have Canadian Dreams. I'd be content to be President of Nelson, but I'd blow the whole municipal budget on phone sex.

New Obama asked, you're a slave to your addictions are you? Yeah, I said. I have faith in that.

Old Obama shot up from the couch, looking perplexed, Then broke into a childish giggle. New Obama's voice began to flange and merge with Old Obama. Oh, it's happening, they said. The dial's almost turned. I never thought I'd skip so much time. Why am I saying this? Hehehe, President of the World and I don't even know how to channel yet. Well, I'll learn. The flanging stopped and Obama, now unified with his retro-echo, slumped back on the couch. Caught his face on television. Hey, that's me, he said. Isn't it? God I'm annoying. Can someone shut this shit off?

Yo Barack, someone said. He was finally recognized. Ruben Gonzales challenges you to a piano duel. Whatever dude plays the best montuno wins... wins the state. Hey, I said, watch out Ruben. Obama plays a mean montuno - a better montuno than you. That's why he's president and you're not.

free write

i am your oyster - i move slow lee
please don't rush me - very sexy song

listening to aspen on cjly and freewritin


that's what i said


so soporific this live radio broadcast
droney nelson voices soothing me real people
real people who don't know how to speak speak best
kootenay hippies swinging their hips in a kooty sashay
not quite, but something like that, mildly

Am I less fucked up since this time last year
or am I
more fucked up since this time last year?

not sure... in this moment - i'm quite fucked up
twisted, allegations, allegiances to molecular structures
but the real work takes place in telepathic palaver
in those wisps of energy you feel and actually see when you
sniff koot krystals but don't remember can't wish but

drone drone
"let's close baker for sunday"

i should sleep i guess, lest i become insane

searching for lost time

forever blowing bubbles

Creek Street Hooligans - Cap That. It keeps burbling up. I can float for a while, and I will. But I'll do it right. Until I don't.

Washerboard style when the random tears it from the floorboards.
The floorboards, you don't want to overlook the floorboards.
You might want to underlook the floorboards.

Until I don't, that node will definitely poke a node through my fleshtastic fantasy one day, endorphins can be used, have been, web two point oh fuck, let's keep going

drag, it's a drag, that's how we get things done, dragging it all over here til we're ready to set up shop, you want to buy anything? just wondering - not sure

have a half facility for languages, still some ashed instinct to play, but
see, emily is cliff slipping, so

slips are hip for a while, that's why they're hip, cause they shift

shake your glass, it's empty

do something with a cello




Jesus Saves?
My harddrive crashed

shake your hips, move your feet


4 Nov 2008

good karma didn't record

my friend dreamed i died from air bubbles

death is everywhere today
today is death, everywhere, dreamy
time for a change, they say
mandated, demanded by machinery

everyone told me i was a piano genius
then one day they told me it was a prank
what i thought were white keys were black keys
they took the blindfold off and i saw
what i’d known all along, sort of
that i'm a bullshit artist
but a pretty good one
pretty good at making
bullshit pretty

my parents look older, old, old, really old, i really looked, i
noticed, i'd never really looked at them since a certain day
they talk about the economy, their stake in the stock market
they want to gain back what they lost, then get out
"but what if it keeps going down and down and down?"

contra lost his drum and bass track, the file corrupted
he's nearly crying
everything's a sign

the sky is heavy atmosphere
gloom granted, grace, put a good face on it
i take them out to the hume to try and make things feel good
that place i just quit, don't recognize anyone there
there’s no menu meals, only buffet
it’s weird, that never happens
it’s cause of kitchen renos?

grandmother died, didn't get any good writing out of that
quit my job to become an artist, didn't get any good writing out of that
still writing, didn't get any good writing out of that
still a writer

wouldn't it be ironic if i died of a brain aneurysm while writing thi



job eye existising as an eyesore

hope fully getting over it



highway to the danger zone

yes, it's interesting

getting addicted to substances and being honest

supreme court

down home country musiclichards

2 Nov 2008

fuck you both then

another fuck you - another retraction bound to follow - i guess it all means nothing, except for whatever meaning may be found in the fact that i'm writing this - forget the ex, why should i even write anything? and i'm not forgetting, despite wishing to - so much wasted time, i should give up - when i don't even get responded to, after asking to be friends again - when i'm thrown away like garbage, just like the last thirty, forty times - and fuck my former friend, who sees and still cavorts on that side of the fence - only that side - fuck the both of them - i don't ask for much - and i don't get anything - not from them - fuck them both - good thing the universe will grind all these stupid emotions into dust