It is still too hot and muggy. Zek has left but left the heat. The kitchen can not get far enough away. There are lots of things to talk about and write about but the heat is killing me. I will leave some of the colder topics for another time and take today to embrace the hottest topic in the current events category.

Gay Marriage Amendment.

It will not happen. There is no way that the 2/3^rd majority that is needed will be had. These stuffed shirts can’t make a luncheon decision about tuna verses ham, what makes us think they are going to band together on this very controversial subject.

That is exactly what the intent of this subject's revisit is all about: banding together the conservative right.

The REAL debate has now become an argument over a word. One simple word with highly religious connotations and connections. In a society and culture where we do not choose our words well to begin with, so why is this one word causing so much fuss?

We can not, as a general rule of thumb, distinguish, in everyday conversation, the difference between: Work and Job, Incident and Accident, Affect and Effect, Sensual and Sensuous, Awesome and Incredible. We are an illiterate nation addicted to the damn thesaurus and use that said tool very, very poorly. It is sad that a bunch of people, on both sides, or are not as bright as they would like you to believe and are going to argue over one friggin’ word and how to use it. It is like a room full of three year olds arguing over which side gets the car keys.

But here everyone is demanding that marriage be an umbrella term. For this I will dust off the ol’ leather bound Webster’s New Twentieth Century Dictionary of the English Language - Unabridged (co. 1952 World Publishing Company; Cleveland, New York).Incidentally, it has nothing to do with a black kid living in the Popodopaulos house. Ok Marriage. When I type that all I can think of is the wedding scene in the Princess Bride. Marriage. Seriously, this is a very long definition but it helps to know what we are talking about and you might find it worth the read or at least interesting. Before Malcolm Little could become Malcolm X he needed to learn all of the words and their meanings. He wasn’t so stupid in the end now was he? Let’s turn to page 1037:

Marriage (-rij), n. [OFr. mariage, from LL. Maritaticum, marriage, from L. maritus, husband.]

1. The act of uniting a man and a woman for life; wedlock; the legal union of a man and a woman for life.

2. A feast made on the occasion of a marriage.

3. A close or intimate union of any kind.

4. A marriage contract or betrothal. [Obs.]

“Marriage brokage”: the act of negotiating a marriage for a third party, or parties, or the fee paid for such negotiation.

“Marriage contract”: a) a promissory engagement to marry; b) a formal and legal contract specifying conditions as to property rights of the contracting parties.

“Marriage favors”: flowers, ribbons, or other gifts distributed to wedding guests.

“Marriage settlement”: in law, a disposal of property preliminary to, or as a consideration for, marriage.

“Civil Marriage”: a marriage legalized by a civil officer, as a judge or justice of the peace.

“Common-law marriage”: a marriage by mutual agreement of the parties without formal ceremony, and provable by their subsequent conduct, such as living together as man and wife, acknowledging their relation before other, etc.

“Morganatic marriage”: marriage between a man of high rank and a woman of lower rank, contracted with the agreement that neither the wife nor any offspring of the marriage shall ever inherit the rank, title, or property of the husband.

“Scotch marriage”: a marriage by mutual agreement between a man and a woman without being formally solemnized, such marriage being recognized by Scotch law.

Syn. - Matrimony, wedding, wedlock, nuptials. - Marriage is the act that unites two parties , and matrimony the state into which they enter.

Further down in column two we find the uses and meanings of “marry”. Since the word marry is used in the definition, let’s look at those definitions as well,  shall we!

Marry, v.t.; married, pt., pp.; marrying, ppr. [ME. maryen, marien; OFr. Marier, from L. maritare, to wed, marry, from maritus, husband.]

1. To unite in wedlock and matrimony; to join for life, as a man to a woman, or a woman to a man; to constitute man and wife according to the laws or customs of a nation.

2. To dispose of in wedlock.

3.To take for husband or wife; as, a man marries a woman; or, a woman marries a man.

4. Figuratively, to unite intimately or by some close bond or connection ~ “married to immortal verse” - Milton.

5. Nautically, to splice, as two ropes in such a manner that ends will pass freely through a block.

Marry, v.i. To enter into the conjugal state; to unite as a husband and wife; to take a husband or wife.

Marry, interj. Indeed; forsooth; a term of asseveration derived from the practice of swearing by the Virgin Mary.

Lot’s to take in, huh? A lot to know and put into perspective as well as needing to “marry” these definitions with the current interpretations and slang uses also used amongst us in today’s culture. Such as, “He’s a big Mary”. That does not apply. Well unless we are going to refer to the navy reference in definition 5 of Marry in which case it is just a big ol’ Village People bash, now isn’t it? NO! That is wrong and I was only doing it in order to shed a shard of humor into this very serious discussion. Plus reading definitions can make some people feisty.

The three definitions or references that would apply regarding gay marriage are definition 3: “a close or intimate union of any kind”. I think this works hand and hand with the figurative definition 4 under Marry. You can marry together flavors in a recipe. You can marry together different music genres on a mix CD. I am almost positive that is what is being pointed to in this definition. That leads us to the other two: Civil Marriage and Common-law Marriage. However these two word terms directly refer back to the first definition of the word "marriage" which require a man and woman, but we will bend the rules to make a point since the rules are already bent regarding these two terms. These two are what is on the table already in many states but with the word “union” used to replace “marriage”, a word commonly used in religious context. Why would homosexuals who are supposedly demonized by the religious right want to be affiliated with a word that is a word belonging to the church? That is like a Jew wanting to be a member of a National Socialist Workers Party?!?!?!?!?!?! It just makes no sense.

The big debate can only logically lead us to that of a fiscal nature. It must be about health benefits, taxes, estates, custody and guardian ship of children, death wishes, retirement, social security. That has to do with the civil marriage or common law variety NOT the other kinds that require a holy ceremony.

I understand that everyone has rights. I have two sets of unioned gay parents. I understand their points of view on this as well as the need to hold the sanctity of marriage high above just a hand out to anyone. Hell, most heterosexuals should not be married either it doesn’t make it right to decrease the standard of requirement or accomplishment just to let everyone into the club. That is what is happening to graduation standards here in California and pretty soon a High School diploma will mean jack shit. Do we really want marriage - the holy ceremony of union and dedication - to become jack shit as well? With divorce so common and multiple marriages plentiful along with the non chalant attitude taken when it comes to modern marriage; haven't we already degraded it enough. Maybe that is why it is so easy to let everyone do it. I want to marry my cat. Zoe and I will send out invitations soon, please RSVP in the name of equality and diversity!

We, as a society, degrade, belittle, minimize, shred, and piss all over anything that requires a set of standards or roles. We call this equality and freedom. I call it bullshit.

We are all human beings but beyond that we are NOT equal. We take the poorest and try to make us all that poor. We take the crazy and make us all insane. We take the stupid and dumb down all of our abilities. We take the extreme and make it common place. We are so different and diverse that we all now have little PC name tags tucked into the back of our shirts. All of our summer camp undies are sharpied with our own unique labels.

When talking to a fervent and passionate exclaimer of equality you normally find that from the other side of their mouth is being spouted the acceptance of diversity. How can we all be equal AND diverse? Simple. By allowing and accepting the differences of each individual along with the pros and cons of being whatever that is. Ask a handicap person how difficult it is to be different yet how rewarding the other areas that they excel in are.

I actually know of a couple that is refusing to get married until everyone can. Great protest. Was that thought up on the Bullwinkle show the day Rocky called in sick?

It's ok! Who needs marriage? We should all juast shack up and shag ourselves silly! Why not? Who needs anything having to do with family when we have SUVs, cell phones, crystal meth, and the Rolling Stone magazine. Everyone should have a big velvet shag den blaring MTV all day long with 9,000 phones that all dial in and vote on American Idol for us because we are sooooo buzy screwing on the floor to make children who will eat people alive becasue they will be too impatient to actually take the time to commit the sin of killing before they take part in cannabilism! Let the games begin!

We are going to rage on over the difference between “union” and “marriage”? Why not just count the chips and mark it up to fair play as opposed to the stacking of the deck? Not everything in life is a rigged game that we need to offer condolences and reparations for. Life is not fair. Simple.

I know a lot of you will not be happy about the words I have spouted off here. I spoke from the heart. You might also find it interesting, if you have even made it this far with out clicking me off your screen, that I do not think a constitutional amendment regarding this is a good thing. On a federal level we do need fiscal recognition of unions and marriages hence the dandy little license we all have to apply for when we go through the production of it all but beyond that it should be up to the states. Maybe some day the state thinking that I, and others like me, have will lead to a split in this country bigger than that between the Palestinians and the Israelis but it needs to be left to the state regarding terminology.

If there are a hundred people in one state and 99 of them go to church, hate abortion, despise gays, and like Sunday picnics for all the citizens. The one church scoffing, pro choice, homosexual who hates picnics should move to a state of like minded people. Common ground has always been the platform for gathering, thriving and surviving. You don’t see me moving to Harlem or East L.A do you? No, because I would be judged, disliked, and probably harassed and quite possibly hurt. It makes no sense. It would not be a pleasurable existence for me to live my days out enduring.

State issue? Constitutional issue? Am I insane? Do I hate people? Do I just have my head up my ass?

Answer them if you want.

Name calling is a good way to resolve issues with too much emotion. I try to stay smart. I try to use logic.

I’m here, and I am just me.

They don’t have parades or slogans for heterosexual white guys who just want to be left alone and are happy letting everyone go about their business inside their own abodes.

Maybe I should ask back Zek. He was doing a better job.

Cat in the hat? Nope just some familial pride. I’ll keep wearing that hat til Wednesday when maybe I’ll broach the subject of feminism and really piss you all off …

My regular political essays will return on Monday June 5th. I will resume my Mon - Wed - Fri schedule with bonus material on the weekends or when current events deem it necessary.

To share some of my head as well as a a few stories that related to music that I was listening to was and is appreciated.

I would like to thank everyone for the opportunity to share a bit of my other writings that are not so civicly minded.

Zek has been sent to sleep. Zek has left the building, for now.

Monday will see business as usual or unusual as it sometimes may seem ...

Ok when the kinky and the kink occur and let us all know where we stand. One foot in the muck and one foot where the Sun don’t shine! Watch those grunion run, watch ‘em hard and watch ‘em deep. There is nothing that can replace a short skirt, a bit of lip gloss, and a the wave of scent that scantily clad ones senses and takes you down a path of for ever forgiving fornication. Everyone has the urges, my dear, EVERYONE.

They wrap them selves around poles and posture the posterity of position’s pontification and pleasure. Please, please, send me to the planet. The granite planet Janet. Beat my bouquet, ok?

The froggy fell swoop of elbow and knee jerk that can be contained in the proclamation of the day. The regret of a wedding day. The taste of us all in our own mouths and made for TV versions of what our realities would once be. Never stray away from the cascade and the catastrophe of continuous and congruent continuums light. It shines bright through the darkness of every smoke glass moment of any lap dance and reality held with in the arms of a falsetto’s frenetic force.

Can man behave? Can man be one within the constraints of love’s existence? Can he still drink when not quenched? Will he behave to just be a good boy in knickers and flavor? A sense of school boy that does not exist unless you are Michael Jackson. I am more an Angus than a piddidle and poke, found in a magic land of nymphs and boy like statues wrapped in leather thongs. Sick. One and all.

Walk that mini skirt down the boulevard. Buy some Hawaiian Tropic and bronze that ass like that of Roman lick luster. Everyone wants to be a God. Too bad there is just one, or so I am told. Candy man anyone? Take a piece and pucker up. Make sure you swallow and smile and surrey sally all about with your sashay.

My first real date was one with the baby sitter when I was 14. We doubled up with my Mom and her wife. HA! The baby sitter was cool with the lesbian love connection aspects of the endeavor and was sympathetic enough to take part, via apathy - I am sure , in the atrocity of the nether region not found world of cloudy extravagance. We went to the Rocky Horror Picture Show at a midnight showing in Balboa. Complete with cardboard cocks and yogurt jizz. A full cast of scantily clad lovers and deviants all devouring delicacies as denizens of the deep throat dancing. Don’t let your meat loaf! HA, HA, HA! Zappa where were you? Maybe we could have had a fabulous 200 Motels moment instead of a denouement of deviancy and delectable dereliction. At that moment I would have even taken Eraser Head. But I got the picture show, indeed.

My Mother, who had never seen the show before, had her jaw in hand in embarrassment for the baby sitter not for me the child scorn. Of course with a penis I should have been comfortable. Hell, it is just tits and fun right? Tsk, tsk, tsk transvestite pleasure. Ahhh what a shame that it was my sexual reality virginity ripper reaper. With Mom in toe and the baby sitter blushing. Rouge would have never done, it was all natural cheek reddening.

After we sought out the grunion running into the sand in their slimy slick scale fuck of grainy sand screw. Procreation like sandpaper. Makes the bagpipes bag and pipe all at the same time.

Don’t dream it, be here!

When the phlegm fucks its way from the throat, you cough and wonder why it calms ones soul. Take me down and slap my ass. Call me bitch and throw me in the garbage. Where is Bush for my natural disaster? Or is Bush my natural disaster? Rose tint my world, keep me safe from the troubling pain.

How deep can my voice get? If I keep on down the yellow brick road of cancer sticks and coffin nails. Deep, deep, deep throat. Sock it to me Aretha. Make my shrine happier than most moist. Cast my velvet casket in the granite pleasantries of: “Go Fuck Yourself”. I need no sycophants. I need no disciples. I got me and the box to which I am placed. God knows who I am and what I have done. I need not be judged by you but rather him and myself. We are our worst critics until we die.

The pleasant guide of a morning gag as we drink the black and smoke the fag. How many times would death be wished upon us ala skull and cross bones found in a CO deliverance. Not Colorado boys and girls but rather Carbon Monoxide. Can you make a phone call in the middle of the night and find joy? Yes you can, oh yes you can. Can you drunk dial and make make sense: NO! Hopefully there is a middle ground right? That’s right I am not calling John McCain.

Wrap me up in the velour of night with it’s soft suede temperance and it’s glorious finger screw of how and why. Why do we? How do we? I can hear the crying in the distance. Is it smart? Is it bright? Does it take it’s toll? Much more than the time warp could ever proclaim.

Wrap yourself up in the leather bra. Squeeze and wiggle into that vinyl skirt. Black, black, black. Make the red of your lips redder than they ever could be on their own. We all need support. And we wonder why there are fix it, mix it, dix it, centers of drive through pleasures under a sign of efficiency. Make it work. Do it quick. Do it now. Just do it! No Nike needed unless it is a lyric of Glenn Danzig’s and we are all misfits.

Something tells me that answers are found where answers can only be found. In the ear holes of old men who think the great white steamer and a Cleveland steamer are the same thing. Show me a picture - I’ll connect the dots.

That big tie climb that brings us to the castle. Watch those grunion bitch, watch them run.

“Shake your onion, like a grunion, trying to spawn - Oh girl I like to spawn!”

I’ll pass on the sand.

That theatre and it’s burned down wreckage of an octogenarian octave of oh geez geezer gaits it’s way through the gates of gorging gaunt. Make it goth and wrap me up in ribbons. Make them black and red so I fit in, hoping I had pale skin. Bite me. Bite my neck. Take a drink and drink it up. Make sure I don’t stand back up afterward as you might find yourself living in Anne Rice’s vag. Yeah, that’s right, I am a bad, bad, bad boy. Sock it to me.

Einstein? No. Smart? No. Humorous? No. Good looking? No. Deep voice? No. I am what I am what I am what I am; I am what I am what I am. Buff son of a bitch with an outsider view and viewed as an outcast? Sure shit howdy. I am! Pass the red hair puppet boy, it’s time to go down.

Everyone wants an insight. Everyone wants to lick the flavor of the month. Lick it up because this is how I should see it:

"Frank N Furter

It’s all over

Your mission is a failure

Your lifestyle’s too extreme

I’m your new commander

You now are my prisoner

We return to Transylvania

Prepare the transit beam"

Make it happen. Squirt the guns. Light the lighters. Hold the newsprint high. Toss a wiener for me.

This is where I stand.

It is muddy and slick but at least I know where I have been and why.

Can you say the same when driving through the fierce storm of pelting rain in the middle of the night.

Where am I? I’m over at the Frankenstein place …

A flickered fancy of whimsy whispered within walls wept while found. So funny how one night, one moment can change the world. How granule our standing really is, as we think deeper about things that should be a simple passing.

Once the hazy flash of fogged up glass thick with the dew of love on a night when only the moon can laugh and smile down at the car in the snow. How sticky, sweet, and quick. Watch up. Gentlemen style. Be a man and become a man. Make it all happen in the soft sigh of dreams awoken to.

I am the Zek, coo, coo, ka choo!

Be careful what you wish for because you might end up inside the soul of that wish, being that wish, not knowing whether or not you will ever awake again. It really has nothing to do with fairies and fireworks on a Disney summer night. Explosions and dust and mountains of glorious entrapment behind a golden gilded curtain, all while the dwarves dance. Dance you tiny little men, dance!

The sweat curled up in beads that only salted my lip as if they had been fried. The parch of my mouth could pass as papyrus. Liquid fire and torched daytime nightmare. Every reach, every grasp, every move had been monumental. Too much. Too much to even dream of wanting to know.

Shake and shuffle those 52 bad boys. Wiggle them out onto the felt. Let me know where the ladies hide. Let me see where the little paper weight money tokens should be placed. It all comes up over. It all came up craps. With no more free drinks and plenty of empty pockets, where do you go? Axle Rose, where do I go now? When will enough be enough. When will sleeping-in just bring back my relative thoughts of day to day? Make the cards dance in case the little men can’t. Take home the ladies and hold them close. Never wake in the middle of the night, you may not like where you find yourself.

I want back my boyish grin. I want back where I once was thinking that I could be more than what I have become. Look high. Stare deep. Inward out flex. Take it all back and start me anew. Please …

I once was this. I once was that. Adrock did it with a wiffle ball bat. Could it get any more weird? Any more strange? Any more like Jazz that won’t be heard by kids who don’t care. Any more like the words I write that won’t get read. Any more like the books I know that my daughter won’t. I know I am going to die soon. I know it. I can feel it in the marrow deep like a virgin on a porn shoot. My days are numbered. Like a doctor of wisdom, “I’m your Huckleberry”.

How can a black and white screen and a bit of audio madness take it all away in the flash of a glance, in the eyelash dance between moments? Damn it! Am I that friggin’ bad? Am I to be dumped into the barrel of sin for the rest of my days and waking hours? Will James Joyce rise up and kiss my ass just for shits and giggles? Please, send him to me. I want to sock him in the jaw.

Send ‘em all to me. Line ‘em up. It has been a long, long time since violence shot through these veins ala F1. Change my tires. I need no more pits. Peel ‘em out and charge the inside. Pedal down and the fury so finicky that only the helmet can lick back at the sweet, sweet kisses of wind.

I want two rounds with each of ‘em. Then I want whole nights with their ladies. I want the world off of my shoulders. I want to stand straight again. Stand tall and not have to be so mad. There is a magenta carpet of fur on the animal in my belly. He bucks up toward my lobes. Scissor them up, man, I know too much.

My biggest complaint for so many ticks and tacks of epileptic value on the clock dial was my mind. I know too much. I remember too much. I care too much. I love too hard. Mostly I am exhausted. I took a bite out of life and French kissed it together with that McGruff dog.

Memories of swift blue skies and slow moving turquoise serenity in it’s liquid gyrations come flooding back into my now with it’s simple and peaceful name tag stating: Moorea. I wanted so bad to go back and live. I was ready to learn French. I was ready to fish and gather coconuts and star fruit for my meals. I wanted to teach English to the children and smile back to the ones that waved as I rode my bike to the school house under the shadow of Mt. Rotui. French cooked duck three nights in a row swallowed down with the help of J&B and a nipple lick of hundred dollar champagne. I held a dolphin in my arms. I hoped a pretty little Island princess would take me home to the tribal King. My back was tattooed there with a rake and a hammer with a coconut shell bowl of ink. A French man named Gilles banged and smacked and nailed the ink into my back as I sat bent over on my knees in a thatch hut looking out across the South Pacific at Papeetee. I could see the fish jump. The fishermen gale in glee. The reggae was interrupted with French monologues from DJ’s that wanted to make you care and live and dance. Under the Sun, under the Sun my friend. I wanted so badly to stay. I needed to stay.

I came home and died. A bit of me left into my daughter’s soul as she was born that following February. She is me. I hope she is not tortured as much. I hope she holds her cards closer to her chest. For awhile I let the whole world see them. I am an ass for such playground trust. The cards are tighter than twins now. Don’t look. Don’t peek. I will skin you alive if you do.

Playground psychotics my friend, simple psychosis. Let me sleep a night all the way through. Please.

Soulful treachery is treachery none the less. Cast me away into Gram Parsons soul. Hold me tight in his gentle voice as I set fire to the wander lust that no longer can sustain in my soul. Make everyone stop talking. I don’t want it to make sense anymore. I am reserved in my ignorant little island. I am not a good man. I am not a nice man. That is why the stares are so deep.

I have no more hope or glory. I have no more battles. The war has ended. I am not a docile vegetable. Hold the pillow tight chief. Call any vegetable. The vegetable responds to you.

I am no longer going to try to justify myself to anyone including myself. Too many stairs. Too steep is the incline. The only steep I want is that found in the procedures of tea.

This makes no sense to most of you. Where did all the good girls go? Where did all the songs they hum flee? My head set is broken. Someone mime them out as I stare through you, past you, in between the light.

Bring me back to Boston. Leave me in a Lincoln bar. Throw me down an alley in Baltimore. Fill your heart up and let your mind guide you through the avenues that I can no longer feel. I once was a boy, a man, now I am a scared trapped rat. You know what happens to a barn rat. They are shot. I can’t keep scaring horses.

Paisley, plaid, gingham, and hounds tooth day dreams left in sad song that over flows a bar bottle as the tears refuse to stain the mahogany that is carved with past purveyors in passing pauses. I can smell the peanut shell floor and the stale beer of misogyny in the urinals from a far. Rip that fiddle, boy. Hold me tight in the ass pocket of those blue jeans, baby, hold me tight.

Gram had it best in the song “She” from the album GP:

she, she came from the land of the cotton
land that was nearly forgotten by everyone
and she, she worked and she slaved so hard
a big old field was her back yard in the delta sun
ooh, but she sure could sing
ooh, she sure could sing
then he looked down and he took a little pity
the whole town swore he decided he'd help her some
but he didn't mind if she wasn't very pretty
for deep inside his heart he knew she was the only one
ooh, but she sure could sing
yeah, she sure could sing
she had faith, she had believing
she led all the people together in singing
and she prayed every night to the lord up above
singing hallelujah, ooh hallelujah
they use to walk singing songs by the river
even when she knew for sure she had to go away
and she never knew what her life had to give her
and never had to worry about it for one single day
ooh my but she sure could sing
ooh, she sure could sing
she had faith, she had believing
led all the people together in singing
and she prayed every night to the lord up above
singing hallelujah, ooh hallelujah
she, she came from the land of the cotton
land that was nearly forgotten by everyone
and she, she worked and she slaved so hard
a big old field was her back yard in the delta sun
ooh, but she sure could sing
my, my, my she sure could sing
ooh, yeah she sure could sing
ooh, she sure could sing

I wish I could sum things up as good as the men and women who hopscotch across my cerebral synapse paths.

Make it happen. Hear my plea. Someone, somewhere, make me know why, please. I can’t say please anymore. I am getting angry again.

Soft scents of beddy bye hold me close as I know the crib will not hold me anymore.

Hold my hand as I lay down to die.

The last words I want to come from my mouth are words to you.

You know who you are …

How many times will a government fall down and be picked up when it is a toddler? How many toys must go into the cribs of fledgling societies? How many free meals will a culture toss from it’s tray before it realizes going hungry sucks? Will the parents peer around corners in later years, like raccoons searching out left behind trash? Scouring and scavenging with their beady little eyes glowing in the surprise of a camera flash.

Strike me down and call me dead my brothers and sisters, I am free for now. As free as any man in a system of take down and take off. No spin off here. No spin around. Just a little bit of solace in a night where even the lighthouses are afraid to shine on through the fog and fear in the name of self preservation and perseverance.

Hold me down and give me the meds. Make me more than Geoffrey Rush and Alex Rufalowicz could have ever been. Make me ok. Make the Sun rise again. Make the Moon cackle at what once was in the bleary dead exhaustion of a night that can not grasp the insanity of the day.

Is it just another taste of MacMurphy in his splendid theatrics? Is it another lick at the nose snubbing rubbing mania of Jeffery Goines? I just want my cigarettes Nurse Ratchet!

Hold me down and wash me clean as the boys and girls on the playground laugh. Drill your Mother’s high heel up my ass as a sense of playground pride. When the attention of union teacher’s apathy is turned then run with the shoe to the bushes. Don’t worry how the boy will be when he is man.

I am a confused creature here in the world of WWW acceptance. I am the creature who shares a bit of spit in the mouths of all. Only when the reflection is seen do the vampires run, and run they do. Take flight, oh demon of night, to where no light will shine. I have been there. I worked graveyard for five years.

I have traveled all around this breast of Mother’s milk and seen it’s sights. From Boston to Eugene, from Tampa to Tijuana - oh no, wait Tijuana isn’t ours! Oh how funny one can be when the news grabs guttural gobs and gasps at the gazing glory of the grasp.

I sit in a pool of my lonesome with the keys to remind me that Herbie Hancock will always make sense. Coltrane, Gillespie, Davis - all in the mind whip flail of a prismed horn and piano moment. Wrapped in the pain and sorrow of what could occur around them all with the pleasant little summer dresses of happiness and youthful indiscretion that can only be seen peripherally.

Hold me down as the old man dies and wrap me up in a sarcophagus of yellow while the navel blood flows from one’s soul like the tears of Dionysus.

Planes, trains, automobiles. All one of the great sins of man that I have found glory in but not dependency.

I drove once through the nightmares of Robert Moog and slept in the valley of “where am I”. I drove from Worcester, MA to Arcata, CA in 56 hours, stopping only for the slumber of electric nightmare while the invisible children dressed in the plaids of deception crossed the hot black desert tar of night below the cold whipped war of wind in front of my speeding death. I was straight. I needed redemption. I found it at 70 m.p.h. driving into an America that had exploded in front of my very weary graveyard eyes. Like a cherub blazing into life fresh from the heat of birth, I found my refuge in an anonymity never found in a common place sphincter.

Awaking to the pale blue purple blacks of what night once was being masticated by the dawn’s early light. I found the Salt Lake all around me. Like an embryonic existence shunned by most grown men, and justifiably so at times. I moved on down the road. There were pasts to forget and tail to be chased like soft spots of classmates in a live or die death match of duck duck goose.

Where is the sense of judgment for judgment’s sake? Where will the great debate sink us all if never eyes are seen? If there are no pupils or whites or iris blooms than there will never be a slice of pie that can accommodate a family style table. I don’t care much for dessert unless there is a instigator. My life does not require the sweet things, yet I find them all around me. In smiles, in handshakes, in a wink of an eye. In a hot ass strutting itself silly up and down the ga-ga block of men who don’t remember their last lay. So said the polyester slack neglect of the grey haired men in their chess games and debates of why the rook should have been used or the point qualifying in the next round of letter tile toss.

Someone, someday will find this sorry ass and publish it right up the glory hole of America’s kisser and hope for the best as the elderly cry, the common man questions, the modern woman denounces, and the children giggle from a lark as they hide, belly side of a table with fine linen lace as a curtain to the show.

Will the tonality be lost? Will it be like me obsessively reading Dostoevsky or Pushkin? Will I be a new King Kong in one hundred years? Will the world end in Al Gore’s wet dream? Will we all melt away and shun from whence we came as the flesh melts from craniums past? Stand tall and proud. Wrap me up in a wet towel and show me to the bar. I am sure there is a flame retardant there. Something wet.

Take me back into days that left me spinning and whirling and swirling with the wonder lust of what once was. Why am I delving into the kevlar cave? Soon it is a done deal. Make me remember Zappa, Bukowski, Huxley and all of the felt time felt a lot feely touchy of fixations of fantasy past. Make the trip what the journey was. Gas me out. Dress me up. Call me Mother. Lay me down to die.

Why are the Vonnegut’s and the Updike’s, the Salinger’s and the Henningway’s all lost icons that can not happen? I long to the days where not just their styles and passion but their points meant more to me than the oracle of my asshole will ever know. Wrap me up bitch, bury me beneath a tree, call me a present and save the bow.

In infantile gestures, of nipples run amok, we shy from where the food is coming from. We rather attack each other with razor sharp claws and the grinning beaks of avian cock fights in back room bars where cocaine costs less then bets returned.

A common ground must be found but no common ground is big enough for all of us. Lou Reed had that almost 20 years ago. Why can’t we all just get along? 200 million gagillion billion trillion mega-maxi-million people can’t “all get along”. We need to save who we are. The boat is sinking and I am not going to ride with that Leonardo Decrapio guy - no way, no how!

My new homage to the American every man breathes up from the devilish lungs of one Richard Nixon, with all spouted, muffled, and spit drawn in and out glory, “ Cocksucker!”. Throw your hands up in peace to that. It is over, man. It is simply a done deal. What’s the deal you’ve been dealing me? Don’t let that deal go down.

Let sunlight splendors of dancing rays and glistening drops cascade into and caress my golden air and my lily white ass as I pray and hope for the night to come once again. Was I better off staring at Danver’s State Hospital’s pivots and points of gables gone past as I smoked at thee a.m. on my “lunch“ break? No. I got my Lady now. All the courts and crazed cacophony of catastrophic congeniality and congruence of congealing quagmire is worth being next to her breast. In the night, when the shadows are much more dim and the melodies are easier to hear.

Allergies and stress have made me deaf these days. I shout so loud. I scream like gargoyles released from the granite bondage of their homage. I am a different soul. I am a man that just needs to find the square hole. Long before Sarah Jessica Parker, I was and am the square peg. One big world of round holes with my little right angle existence. 90 degrees after 90 degrees and it is too hot for me. Heat beware - my cold ass is coming and it’s coming hard. I guess that makes me hot! Damn!

Blankets of velvet and velour valiantly envelope varying viscosity in the mind. Make this a bit more fluid than the horn players lips as he addresses the virginity of the mouth piece. Zappa said everything that I am trying to say in a song from the Waka Jawaka album from 1972:

And if a forest grows up
From the dirt on the floor,
Then the frog with the satchel had just
Dumped beside the door.
You just startin' to get worried,
You ain't going out no more
And it's confusin' to your mind ----
Just consider this:
You can be scared when it gets too real
You can be scared when it gets too real
But you should be diggin' it
While it's happening. (Yes!)
But you should be diggin' it
While it's happening
'cause it just might be
A one-shot deal

Someone save me. The windows are rolled up too tight and the keeper of the key has gone shopping for designer purses and shoes in the fog of scents and perfumes that can only make one hack and sneeze if they do not belong amongst the chromium and plastic. Roll down the window. Wave. Smile. Engage those gorged by gauntlets of gregarious garb. I’ll pass.

Make it all happen as if it should. Bukowski didn’t get it til 35. I still got time.

I still have smiles. I still have hope.

Wrap me up in that bloody yellow gauze. Know I will be just fine.

Here or elsewhere, Monday comes and it will come harder than ever …