Poem written on a place mat in Beaver Utah

Waiting for my fuel pump to be replaced
I sit waiting for my three egg omelet
waiting to arrive in Colorado via coffee
burnt taste of life waving its antlers strong and dark
like coffee and I sit waiting in this heavenly purgatory
once again where mechanics and angels envy each other
and the U-haul transience of the morning
like dominoes the seconds stack up in the spiraling
black sip of death to the flesh so the phoenix
can roller coaster out of the burning desire to live
in a freedom of zero need where the avalanche
is contained in the whites of the eyes
that gigantic storm of the spirit, that CMT
in the auto service shop of the soul of the pole
of the scathing history of snow
in the snow globe in the snow globe
of Beaver, Utah.
Ultimate escapism into the endless swirl of problems
deliver us from the necessity of the tow truck
begin the horrible extrapolation of the void
that ultimate companion the escort like the
gorgeous gravity of the highway the black weight
the sunken temple of ground zero ecstasy
the erosion of total minimalism
a New York City loft with no walls, no ceiling
just the Jurassic yellow light
on the glorious hard wood floors
The Timberline Inn where the vortex of the heart
projectile gushes into the morning pool of disorientation
the guide built by the ignorance of birth
starts to decompose and weave through the dimensions
trying to stitch rip consciousness from its bearing
to bear fully onto itself
the gaping starlit shelf
a tsunami culmination of the inner conundrum
where the temple drums usher
the advance of the ash gray sand dune
the solitary tidal wave, unilateral demolition
sweet sweet personal apocalypse
silver crank arm of the typewriter
the glorious bell of a new line
on the avalanche damage of a new white page
what a remarkable gift of eternal renewal
ripping each page out of the book
to cast into the fire
so only the true text will glow
like a city
like the wet dream of a CIA decoder
the simple chant of the God of death
the burning bridge into the black hole
where no light can escape.
Check please.

Post-It IV

the crickets
are louder than
the coyotes

Post-It III

smelt chaos hex
of leaves weaving
the flaunt of
pseudo ubiquity
into phosphores
cent chlorophylactic
dream catcher

Post-It II

a hammock for
the soul, an ocean
audio ocean of
air for Seamus
to step off into
like Indian Jones

Post-It I

the paintbucket blue
of the silverless
slab of wind swollen
anti braille filled
with the chocolate
soul of the monkey
graille eatery

Banyan Tree?

once again listening to Ne-Ne by Soulive. This is my new blogging soundtrack. This is the fluff that gets me into the gall of it. Kind of like the safety lecture before the airplane takes off. I have to vocalize minor things like my immediate environment, point to all the possible exits and flotation devices, oxygen masks and then fucking plunge in like a panther into a swan neck..... if you know what I mean :)

My day dream and major fantasy happened in Pasadena the other day. I was walking down Del Lacey Avenue towards Colorado headed to Old Town Music where I bought a black Kima egg to use at Evangenitals practice tonight. It was a hot day and I saw a tree right there and it reminded me of Siddartha, how the Buddha attained enlightenment under the Banyan tree. And I thought well what if I just sink my teeth in and pick this tree. Sit down and refuse to move until the ultimate realization of internal, heatless, smokeless light of God descends into the heart and mind for good. It got me thinking that the tree is probably arbitrary and how satisfying it would be to pick an arbitrary tree. Oh Holy Del Lacey river of pavement that connects all the driveways of America!

Well the saying goes "before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water, after enlightenment, chop wood carry water." But I would like my personal enlightenment to be closely tied with downhill skiing. Some kind of explosion in fresh powder with some ambiguity as to my survival.

Always moving forward even after the ignorance of enlightenment still moving forward, hawk-thrown into some wind tunnel where the sun is the soundtrack for the soundtrack of the wind and the roaring waterfall of the heart. These are dark amazing times. Amen sister!

listening to Ne-Ne by Soulive. Well now I am blogging. I have decided for this entry not to use my traditional line breaks. So technically i think that means I am writing prose. This is exciting for me. My heart is sad, finitely. My mind is like the moon. I am sweating in my office. But i just turned off the lights and lit the Jesus Candle. and now my writing can take off leaving the catepillar in the dust now a butterfly, i am in love with the sizzle cymbal, you just touch it and the whole universe shimmers, it's a miracle. Truly it's a miracle, the dynamics you play with mirror your life exactly, your feelings, your ritual, your own trance, you can get inside your instrument, shamanic shape shifting you can become which is why i want hand made instruments of beauty, crafted with awareness and love and made straight from the earth. God outside, go outside and watch a tree and that is how to drum that is your ground zero, the sensual tremor of the void flickering like sunlight on the ocean, that is the ground zero of music, the shivering silence made of light, and then when you foray into forte the F zone where the violence of ecstasy happens you remember it because you are sitting in the shade of a tree and then the tree gets hit by lightning you feel it, you feel the f more when you are relaxed, you feel sex more when you're relaxed and breathing into your crotch, well music is breathing into your crotch publicly being like a tree naturally giving and gentle and unafraid of lightning, welcoming the storm of feelings welcoming the violence of God and Creation welcoming the rising waters, and drumset is it's own universe and the guitar with all of its primordial darkness is its own universe, and the bass with its Lochness invisibility is its own universe, and the voice, what a miracle God has created with the voice, the silken thread like a phone line right into the heart the dark tunnel of the throat like a birth into the light, into the tides of incarnation to sail to its own annihilation in an echo against the wall to give back to vibrate the the fundamental matrix itself sending its translucent waves like angels into the void, that black swimming pool of the new moon, god bless that ground zero deeper than the effortless gifts of the trees, this is something to sing and rejoice about, we are surrounded by light, surrounded by love, and our deepest, highest, most profound desires, are cherished and cultivated by the Great Spirit and all the animals and all the plants and trees and all the elements are perpetually working for the construction of a temple within the black heart that we all share, eternal surely, surely not, surely, surely not, yin yang, night day, upstroke downstroke, get up for the downstroke. Listening to Ne-Ne for the third time. feeling the divine grace of bass, the smash ash bone blossom of the snare drum, feeling the rose-nectared tongue of the saxophone, feeling the sinews extending from roaring river of the guitar, Jesus what a miracle that everyone stands in their dark corner offering notes and gaps between notes and concocting and entity that lives and breaths, it's like puppetry in the abstract, pointing to the hands, pointing to the mouth, pointing to the lips, and then walking down the street, dancing on the benches because the ecstasy cannot be contained, this is the gift of music, the transformation of the environment from draught to monsoon, from heat to cold, restoring the balance in the battle of opposites, a harmony, coexistence really is the vision of music, all races, all times, all religions, in their highest glorified potential, music is the model for an exalted society, and that is why I have devoted and will continue to devote my life to this absolute miracle, in awe of the power of nature and its ruthless sublime law I in deed believe we are all blessed with music, SING!