This IS Klaus Nomi. After his operatic aria performances in theatre groups during the late seventies he formed a back up group and began playing clubs, bars and discos which had to have audience grabbing songs as an intro to the mad mayhem and genious of Klaus' act of performance-art/new wave/pop-opera. This is the song that they chose.

This is Klaus' voice as he was a classicaly trained soprano falsetto and there are no tricks in this recording. It is all Nomi.

We should all be so lucky to be as talented as Mr. Nomi was.

Unfortunately Klaus died of AIDS in the early 80's (back when no one had any idea what the fuck AIDS was and it was still being coined 'Gay Cancer' - retarded huh?).

Thank God, and be thankful today, that Klaus was born and gave us the couple of albums that he did. He got the breaks needed and was sought after by New Wave artists in the late seventies and early eighties performing in SoHo and other areas of NYC. He even performed as a back up singer and inspiration for David Bowie on Saturday Night Live.

I used to have a picture of Klaus Nomi in my bathroom that was illuminated by a red light that was the only light that was used to source in refraction and reflection into my bathroom - and that was before I even knew who the hell he was! I no longer have Klaus hanging since I have moved.

I miss you Klaus and am very thankful! We all will see you soon enough.

Nomi forever.

This man, his being and existance enitrely, is what I am thankfull for today.

God rest Klaus Nomi in peace, true peace.

Ass side to Medusa in an act of defiance and deviancy that only leads and leaves one to believe that chiseled existence can be accomplished if only you face the facts. Stand up straight and let the music sing to your consequence. Let all know. Let all hear. Know that the simple brass chortles and chuggles of Coltrane can take that away and you don’t need a music channel or an Award Show to grasp or grip or grunt it, not even remotely.

The beard is growing in, the crotches have rips, the checks will cease soon. How to congregate realities, to make them strong, to take on facts; standing tall on a dock in a bay without a whistle and only the hum of hideous harangues - such a sim sham, not a shim sham.

Only the music plays loud enough even if the fog is louder. Each morning holds the fog and the smells of breakfast and slumber of forgotten identities and places and purpose unlike any other as all of the realities of a world are found within each days boundaries, their parameters, their developing existence that is supposed to jive with one another.

I have splayed and un-spliced my life from it all. I have decapitated Gene Simmons and he hangs on my wall like a hunted head. I have his tongue dripping down my wall. His make-up is shed and dripped down the eggshell white like that of no other. I do have an infatuation with heads, with politics, with writing, but heads hang that much better from nails on your walls.

I could talk endless hours about numerous different subjects ala politico.

L.A.P.D.

UCLA Police.

L.A. Firemen and their 2.7 million dollar fight.

Michael Richards and the “N” word.

Explosions in Danvers MA near where I used to fish off the bridge.

Rosie O’Donnell.

Nancy Pelosi.

Lebanon.

Clinton’s words at Ed Bradley’s burial.

Celebrity adoption.

Citgo; Joe Kennedy.

The fact that the 'new' Kennedy is not good ol' brother Ted but rather Lieberman from Connecticut.

And on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

Only the fragrant existence of not knowing what to do and not caring is simple and simply enough for me.

I am now unemployed.

I still don’t believe in the economic ruin of our country.

I did not send in a joke to Dr. Laura’s annual corny joke day, today.

I am not going to get into the real meaning of Thanksgiving which has more to do with the journals of the Governor of the time than that which what we teach elementary school children today.

I am not going to get into any of it.

I am here.

Write on …

When it creeps up on you in your sleep it is the worst. A simple belly crawl underneath your sights, your barbed wire, your ten cent barbed wire tattoo that you wrote home to all of your friends about just a week before you wished it weren’t there anymore; a gentle pelvic shuffle and arm tossed in front glide pull push posture into your territory - your mind. Or is paranoia the better explanation and ‘mind’ only used as an attention grabber or advertisement for how main stream you can be with your common place communication? Maybe we will stick with 'mind' for this one.

It comes in with no invitation, no RSVP, no cordial courtesy call of civility and lacking of being curt or curdled or coddled or curdled. You awake and simply it is there grinning, laughing a loud smile. Some would ask if there is any other way of waking up while others would ask what on God’s green Earth am I talking about. Do not RSVP if you do not know. Sometimes not knowing is better than ever pretending to even thought about knowing at one point or time or another as some sort of foundation for an argument or tale exchange that is just belittled by your faux representation of make believe and magic. There is no room for Doug Henning. Illusion is not magic. Magic is not illusion. We are not living to a role of a twenty sided dice and there are no modifiers once the dice are rolled. This is far from advanced; yet it is advancing.

And here we find ourselves, wishing there was more sleep to be had and regretting the early mornings when there could be more escape; each dream world categorized by different diskettes that are stored without caustic rancor, without an acidic taste or devolution. All need be, when in the slumber, it is simple to pull out a diskette and plug in and hide and only the reaction, the neurological ballet we all host, on a chemical level can choose which scenario is to be laid out and ‘lived’ in the few short hours we find between now and when we are supposed to be refreshed; rip, roarin’ ready to go.

So what is it that remains when we awake, we arise? It is like the lingering weakness found after a flu, an aftertaste of something that did not tickle your taste buds but rather sliced them apart with some fake little Freddy Krueger glove manufactured from razor blades, string, and (of course) paper mache. Like smelling something that gave you food poisoning years ago and yet every morning you are forced into consumption; a cacophony of caterwauls conspire your consumption (not just what you consume but what consumes you - do not let the masked masticate, know the one who chews not eschews).

It is there almost every morning and really is a conscious effort to tell it to go piss up a rope everyday. Sometimes it is easier to give into it. To see the shadows in everything, hear the voices in noises that aren’t there at all unless, of course, the cats have hired the LSO and are conducting long forgotten works of Varese or Vivaldi in keys so harsh and inharmonic and dissonant that their resonance convince you of their realities, all while making the long dead composers flounder and fish about as if to say, “Hey, Fuckin’ cats! Stop playing our shit like that!” Of course I can hear the symphony complain about union requirements and wage scale subsidies as the feud between the dead and the felines commence.

Getting the eyes to close, and close well shut and tight, sometimes is the main chore in the downward progression of what the night’s perfume would like you to know inside your nose. Only the nose knows. From there on out it is a mudslide under the rain of a hurricane eye that never closes and only slip slides the mud in vicarious, vigorous, vivacious, viscous ways. So viscous. And the night progresses around your slumbering cavern, your hideaway of not now and never to be. An escape from that which is not there. Medicine might be needed; strong, well chemically manufactured with precision medicine - the ones that abhorrers of societal integration may have come up with years ago as some side effect or side bar of testing for higher grade polytechnic possibilities as a penance for the plastic they had promoted; the last remaining cling on of chromium distaste and disgruntled misled intentions. Medicine may be needed but only the slumber inducing ones help negate the need for the ones that enlighten or lighten up the load. A pack mule trying to sleep. Load up the Prozac, the Paxil, the Welbutrin, the Annafranil, the Zoloft, the Cymbalta, the Aderol; zigzag switchback the jackknife down the canyon, there is no harpsichord at the bottom. No music, no cats, no meds, just slumber, just diskettes.

Hide and hide and hide and pray that the one seeking has been decapitated at the pass and can not find his way to you with a map and even GPS. Nothing will get them, him, her there, to you - your mind; the diskettes load and reload and grind the gears of garrulous gaud and gaunt with no gauntlet to gaze or graze.

It never lasts long enough and when it does last long enough you are found in a day without the distractions and distasteful and daunting deities from which you hide your demise. I need to call Rent-A-Center and see if they are leasing out my mind. I think they might be, but that is only on days when I arise before the need is deemed.

The dreams and the delusion, the wishes and wants, the reality and the rancid reels; can they all co exist or is that what the reflection is for?

All of them blend too rapidly and repeatedly as they rouse the ruse, the rube, from his bed. Coo coo ca choo!

All the same, pay no never mind.

Like each note in a rapid fire shoot off and shoot out that resembles a chord but only at a speed that requires one to not listen in order to hear it.

Blend, meld, melt, mire, conspire.

A simple conclusion set towards a simple ailment.

Sleep.

Get out the propel and clean out the drive.

Stick in your diskette.

Download all of it.

Make it mold and smolder into slumber, no milk glass required - just fear …

That gel of grey smoke made blue through the penetrable lights shaded this way and that as they fell swoop and lollygag about in the air like they ideas of men who do not have a quill to scribe with or an ear to belabour; that air hangs low and holds each person in a freeze frame as they glide across the evening’s night, a night that no one would ever want to screw no matter how nicely it was dressed or much money it’s daddy had.

The cast down shell shake castanet click of the tiles hitting the pile. Indistinct shouts of this name or that colour, this hand or that season. The tiles all fall with the same sound regardless of player thrown or player thrown towards. ’Dig that out from the pile you’ve purveyed’. Simple statements like that leak from the cerebrum and onto the playing table as if the slip of those thoughts was punishable enough by death, but the thought alone would seal the dead, the fate. Pung. Kong. Never a King of mah jong I will be, but the sound of felled tiles I know too well.

Seasons swoop on through our car rides and place caution into the seats, the laps, of the drivers that careen all around us. Floating still in the glide of the never going to get anywhere delay of studious commute. Noticing all of the constricting conformity around us, the stranglehold of existence, the full nelson of forced compliance; all of which can be shut out in the mere drawing of a curtain call, the tail of a drapery being pulled in one direction and the one of opposing deed being done the same towards it’s counterpart. Bookends of light blocking necessity; a simple pleasure of choice - nothing is simple these days so pay homage to the closing curtain (reach deep into those pockets - dig so deep that the seam wished it had never smelled your fingers never mind having felt their push and prod, their poke). My pockets wish they were my date the way I look to pay toll these days.

Countdowns that days and nights never pay a speck of attention to. Nights and days do not have pockets, they alone have being. How much longer until that happens? Is it long until this will be over? Do we have a few minutes left for this? Could you spare a few minutes for that? How long? How much longer? Do you have a second? How about a half second? A millisecond, if you will? The face with hands never moves fast enough until it is time to notice it and then it is a ponderance of pining, not a true functionality of time itself or counting for that matter of which it has very little to do with itself, indeed.

I have come to find that trivial gibberish could become my own new language. A bit of poppycock and a tad of gibberish, a smidgen of tall tale and a good healthy splash of nonsense and it would appear that I have concocted a very good form of communication indeed! One that not everyone need know the clue or que or key to, but it is helpful in order to dig deeper and still the music will play whether anyone understands it or not.

I have found communication to be similar to a cribbage peg. With each and every word, or point, you find yourself verbally piggy backing another word that you are hoping will jump, jive, and jig about in the glee that you have made the dance work better than before and you now stand tall and firm in the shoes that have made more points than the run through before. Hole to hole. Peg to peg. Point to point. It all is a lot like dating. Never quite knowing how many points you will get, but comforted in the fact, at any one given point in time, that the number you have received will not be above 29 and never below zero. Always seeking out the illustrious 15 or 31 and then never quite knowing why (even after you receive the two points you don’t know - really know).

I have written more about communication than probably any other subject and yet I know very little about it as I tend to leave myself out of that loop and tend to hide out due to my disgust at it’s haphazard utility and heinous lack of precision. When I do pull back my curtain and get a few words out they do not seem to belong in the modern lexicon and my verbiage can be very antiquated. I still keep trying. I think a catchy epitaph will be what is required. Children with thick white paper and noxious black implements can take home rubbings of my prolific and prophetic words and claim that they understand them, which of course I will know they do not but their friends, their audience of pseudo-intellectuals, will not be the wiser as they will have never seen or heard the words at hand, never mind actually used them and done so correctly.

An elevator shaft away from either game and the falling, leaves at the roadside, it’s concepts of cribbage pegs with epitaphs and mah jong tiles that break apart smoked out hallways with their voices of which are never clearly heard. Fall, fall, fall.

I’ve said it a few times before and I will mention it in passing now:

Foreign music will show you if you really like the music you are listening to.

Scratch that ticket and bar belch away any over lookers that visually cling to your non scratching shoulder to see if they too could win just by knowing you or having bought you a drink just before your pre-scratched purchase. Stand tall on the saw dust as you rise from the stool. Look twice and duck for no reason. Go home with the losing ticket in your pocket. Laugh as you fall asleep. Know that they do not know. Tomorrow, they will all try to communicate better; none of them good enough for themselves, never mind you.

You dream of the girl that has never smelled the smoke, never thrown a tile, never cursed in Chinese (or Japanese for that matter).

The girl materializes with no cards or boards or pegs or counters to count the conversations that have never happened and never will.

Lips pursed just so, you hum. The vibration alone numbs your mind.

If she can speak then you are none the wiser. She can hear you hum and that makes her move.

You roll in the covers and play over and over again the song that coaxes her from her island hide.

Ipanema, goes walking …