Bejeezus Magazine posted my essay "The Real" on their website (originally in issue #11). Enjoy!
You'll need to scroll up a bit - the page I linked actually goes to the middle of the article.
And while you're at the Bejeezus site, surf around. There's plenty of good stuff here.
Peace.
February 28, 2009
February 20, 2009
Drive
Drive
reaching out, grabbing hold
a handful of animated air
when yr rumbling along,
80 miles per hour
on a two-lane road, not some fucking interstate
& maybe you’re roaring through a pine forest
early in the morning
riding the black tar ribbon
burnt into a forest of pine
you’ve got a ’72 Impala with a bored-out 350 under you
you’ve got coffee in one of those cheap travel mugs
& the day is sideways . . .
and the sun through the pines
as you scream south
is a flicker film –
there is a horizon always in front
and toward it we run,
always
speed is its own justification
it’s the noise, man
that’s life
north lower Michigan pine forests
a flicker
the oaks & maples of southern Indiana
a crazy flashing
like state road 45
between Bloomington and Nashville
duck down on Tunnel Rd
to get to the levee across Lake Lemon
flowing like a rain choked river through the curves of 45
screaming across the lane-and-a-half road over the levee
at a minimum of 90 mph
the lights on the opposite shore flashing on the lake
death is never real
so life has to be
blow the speakers
blow the engine
at the end
never leave a car with its suspension intact
reaching out, grabbing hold
a handful of animated air
when yr rumbling along,
80 miles per hour
on a two-lane road, not some fucking interstate
& maybe you’re roaring through a pine forest
early in the morning
riding the black tar ribbon
burnt into a forest of pine
you’ve got a ’72 Impala with a bored-out 350 under you
you’ve got coffee in one of those cheap travel mugs
& the day is sideways . . .
and the sun through the pines
as you scream south
is a flicker film –
there is a horizon always in front
and toward it we run,
always
speed is its own justification
it’s the noise, man
that’s life
north lower Michigan pine forests
a flicker
the oaks & maples of southern Indiana
a crazy flashing
like state road 45
between Bloomington and Nashville
duck down on Tunnel Rd
to get to the levee across Lake Lemon
flowing like a rain choked river through the curves of 45
screaming across the lane-and-a-half road over the levee
at a minimum of 90 mph
the lights on the opposite shore flashing on the lake
death is never real
so life has to be
blow the speakers
blow the engine
at the end
never leave a car with its suspension intact
February 15, 2009
I'm So Effing Cold
Computer problems here persist. Posts will continue to be sporadic, mainly because I hate typing long form essays on laptops. Keep with me, though - I'll be back on my horse soon.
Notes from a recent phone conversation with Matthew Pickerill Esq.:
Running down to Etown mid January the numbers on the dash hit negative territory. I was kinda curious how the display would look below zero.
The first week of February the temps brushed up against 70 Fahrenheit. Between those two events I was nothing but cold and miserable. I understand now why old people move to Florida and Arizona . . . besides taxes, that is. I'm getting old, and I can't handle the cold.
It's not as if I were reared in International Falls or something, but Northern Indiana is a lot colder than this. I used to bundle up & hike across campus in brutal South Bend winters without much thought. Hell, I used to enjoy temperatures around zero (yes, I would even have called it invigorating). But now, the cold is killing me. It seems as if the damn Maxx will never heat up - or, more accurately, it always manages to heat up about five minutes before I get to work. The electric seat warmers help a little, but not enough. I am so effing cold.
The cold shifts me into another sphere. I used to enjoy the clean high, the adrenalin rush of the body battling the cold. Now, it's just pain. I feel like I'm in the bunker. Cold shuts me down, makes me hate.
Fortunately, there's not much of this pain left for the season. I expect one last winter blast (traditionally around tournament time), then we'll be done for a bit. After a nice spring alternating wonderful weather with horrible storms and destruction, we'll be into the heat.
Until then, I'm done bitching about the weather.
In rotation:
Conlon Nancarrow - Complete Studies for Player Piano Vol. 3
Carl Ruggles - Sun Treader, Lilacs, Portals, Evocations
Henry Cowell - Toccanta
Hot Tuna - Double Dose
Frank Zappa - The Grand Wazoo
John Cage - Indeterminacy
Arizona Amp and Alternator
Effigies - Ink
Sun City Girls - Flute and Mask
Shuggie Otis - Inspiration Information
John Fahey - Blind Joe Death, The Transfiguration of Blind Joe Death, America
Skip James - Complete Early Recordings
Josh White - Free and Equal Blues
Green on Red - Gas, Food, Lodging
Gun Club - Fire of Love
Charlie Patton - Father of the Delta Blues
Scrawl - Nature Film
Deep Purple - Made in Japan
The Fall - Heads Roll, Live at the Witch Trials
2/6/09 revised 2/15/09
Notes from a recent phone conversation with Matthew Pickerill Esq.:
Running down to Etown mid January the numbers on the dash hit negative territory. I was kinda curious how the display would look below zero.
The first week of February the temps brushed up against 70 Fahrenheit. Between those two events I was nothing but cold and miserable. I understand now why old people move to Florida and Arizona . . . besides taxes, that is. I'm getting old, and I can't handle the cold.
It's not as if I were reared in International Falls or something, but Northern Indiana is a lot colder than this. I used to bundle up & hike across campus in brutal South Bend winters without much thought. Hell, I used to enjoy temperatures around zero (yes, I would even have called it invigorating). But now, the cold is killing me. It seems as if the damn Maxx will never heat up - or, more accurately, it always manages to heat up about five minutes before I get to work. The electric seat warmers help a little, but not enough. I am so effing cold.
The cold shifts me into another sphere. I used to enjoy the clean high, the adrenalin rush of the body battling the cold. Now, it's just pain. I feel like I'm in the bunker. Cold shuts me down, makes me hate.
Fortunately, there's not much of this pain left for the season. I expect one last winter blast (traditionally around tournament time), then we'll be done for a bit. After a nice spring alternating wonderful weather with horrible storms and destruction, we'll be into the heat.
Until then, I'm done bitching about the weather.
In rotation:
Conlon Nancarrow - Complete Studies for Player Piano Vol. 3
Carl Ruggles - Sun Treader, Lilacs, Portals, Evocations
Henry Cowell - Toccanta
Hot Tuna - Double Dose
Frank Zappa - The Grand Wazoo
John Cage - Indeterminacy
Arizona Amp and Alternator
Effigies - Ink
Sun City Girls - Flute and Mask
Shuggie Otis - Inspiration Information
John Fahey - Blind Joe Death, The Transfiguration of Blind Joe Death, America
Skip James - Complete Early Recordings
Josh White - Free and Equal Blues
Green on Red - Gas, Food, Lodging
Gun Club - Fire of Love
Charlie Patton - Father of the Delta Blues
Scrawl - Nature Film
Deep Purple - Made in Japan
The Fall - Heads Roll, Live at the Witch Trials
2/6/09 revised 2/15/09
February 7, 2009
Djangology
Djangology
Django before his left hand was crushed -
annihilating beauty,
Medusa sound's perfection
turns all it touches to stone.
Notes falling like burning sleet
define parameters of impossible song,
of crystalline sound, irreducible,
a shimmering specter on which none can bear to look,
the face of God.
It was God who crushed Django's hand
out of love.
Humanity has no room for such perfection.
Humanity demands more.
Django before his left hand was crushed -
annihilating beauty,
Medusa sound's perfection
turns all it touches to stone.
Notes falling like burning sleet
define parameters of impossible song,
of crystalline sound, irreducible,
a shimmering specter on which none can bear to look,
the face of God.
It was God who crushed Django's hand
out of love.
Humanity has no room for such perfection.
Humanity demands more.
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