backwards into the tube
closed inside the tunnel
falls onwards and outwards
the tunnel-pipe we peep through
away from today
charcoal eyes searching
connect with some
remembrance of another
looking to reconnect
make contact
and be touched
that way again
the clouds appear
and blocking the sun
and blocking the moon
and blocking the stars
they block the memories
of known things forgotten
charcoal eyes
remind
sullen acceptance
of clocks ticking
cars driving
planes flying
doors closing
goodbyes never said
heartbreak never accepted
dreams never acknowledged
tunnels never closing
the pipe inside the tunnel-cave
we peep through
and see today
Monday, September 27, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
dick dale desert sunset
high on a quiet desert plain,
lonesome staccato guitar
in hand
Dick Dale
rules this joshua tree empire
like a Machiavellian prince
of old
come to life
in the
here and now
in order to
totally kick your ass
lonesome staccato guitar:
ostinato crying
like the desert winds
in a black leather jacket;
the Dick Dale desert
stretches out
as far as the human eye
can see
quiet on the high desert plain
Dick Dale ostinato
lonesome staccato guitar
reverberates
through
sand rock canyons:
tube riders
on longboards,
horses hooves
beating ceaselessly
on Pacific Beach
desert sand
waves
lonesome staccato guitar
in the Dick Dale desert:
reverberation screaming
louder than
adobe
women giving birth
to adobe sons
riding longboards,
endless summer
setting on
Pacific Beach
desert sand
waves
Dick Dale desert sunset
cries Miserlou
"hup ho- Miiis-er-loooooo-"
quietly
alone
again
lonesome staccato guitar
in hand
Dick Dale
rules this joshua tree empire
like a Machiavellian prince
of old
come to life
in the
here and now
in order to
totally kick your ass
lonesome staccato guitar:
ostinato crying
like the desert winds
in a black leather jacket;
the Dick Dale desert
stretches out
as far as the human eye
can see
quiet on the high desert plain
Dick Dale ostinato
lonesome staccato guitar
reverberates
through
sand rock canyons:
tube riders
on longboards,
horses hooves
beating ceaselessly
on Pacific Beach
desert sand
waves
lonesome staccato guitar
in the Dick Dale desert:
reverberation screaming
louder than
adobe
women giving birth
to adobe sons
riding longboards,
endless summer
setting on
Pacific Beach
desert sand
waves
Dick Dale desert sunset
cries Miserlou
"hup ho- Miiis-er-loooooo-"
quietly
alone
again
Monday, September 20, 2004
plastic surgery reconsidered
Plastic surgery is often touted as a safe and harmless (as well as glamorous) method to "correct" or "enhance" percieved imperfections or flaws in one's appearance. To some, it is the ultimate luxury item: conspicuous consumption and a status symbol that accents the Cadillac nicely. To others, it is the fulfillment of a lifetime's dream: correcting the flaws and the imperfections that have annoyed and frustrated, sometimes to tears.
Unfortunately, like any surgical procedure there are hidden costs, risks and possible complications:
1. encapsulation: the body can produce scar tissue which surrounds foreign material. These scars (aka encapsulations) can distort one's visage in unexpected ways.
2. infection: like any surgery, elective plastic surgery entails the risk of infection. Five weeks of Cipro, accompanied with foul sanguineous discharge is not a pleasant prospect.
3. pain: if you enjoy sleeping in odd positions and popping Vicadin, elective plastic surgery might be for you.
4. financial cost: well, you know this one: $$$
5. emotional cost: pain, suffering, frustration, self-doubt...and, hopefully in the end, if everything goes as planned, satisfaction.
Many who have been under the knife would caution those contemplating elective plastic surgery: heed this warning.
Unfortunately, like any surgical procedure there are hidden costs, risks and possible complications:
1. encapsulation: the body can produce scar tissue which surrounds foreign material. These scars (aka encapsulations) can distort one's visage in unexpected ways.
2. infection: like any surgery, elective plastic surgery entails the risk of infection. Five weeks of Cipro, accompanied with foul sanguineous discharge is not a pleasant prospect.
3. pain: if you enjoy sleeping in odd positions and popping Vicadin, elective plastic surgery might be for you.
4. financial cost: well, you know this one: $$$
5. emotional cost: pain, suffering, frustration, self-doubt...and, hopefully in the end, if everything goes as planned, satisfaction.
Many who have been under the knife would caution those contemplating elective plastic surgery: heed this warning.
Universal Resource Locator for Sector Seven
Reverand Krogar's (aka Frank G) awesomely interesting experimental website: Universal Resource Locator for Sector Seven
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Lonesome Magic Vice Harvest
Like many in America, I am often enchanted by some new thing I see (or hear) on the television set.
One new thing that always makes me stop and take notice these days is a commercial for car insurance. In this commercial, different dogs are riding around as passengers in different cars. The dogs all seem to be exhibiting different emotions. The aspect of this commercial that catches my attention is not the visual canine imagery, but rather the soundtrack. The music behind the commercial is of a acoustic guitar and some dude whistling.
For weeks I have thought: "Man, I must remember to find out the title of that tune...it's a cool tune..."
So, after some diligent Internet researching, I now know.
The title of this catchy whistle-guitar tune is "Lonesome Magic Vice Harvest" by Alexandre Geindre.
This tune is found on a various artists compilation CD entitled : Fashion Week #1
One new thing that always makes me stop and take notice these days is a commercial for car insurance. In this commercial, different dogs are riding around as passengers in different cars. The dogs all seem to be exhibiting different emotions. The aspect of this commercial that catches my attention is not the visual canine imagery, but rather the soundtrack. The music behind the commercial is of a acoustic guitar and some dude whistling.
For weeks I have thought: "Man, I must remember to find out the title of that tune...it's a cool tune..."
So, after some diligent Internet researching, I now know.
The title of this catchy whistle-guitar tune is "Lonesome Magic Vice Harvest" by Alexandre Geindre.
This tune is found on a various artists compilation CD entitled : Fashion Week #1
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
return to the desert: September 2000
By September, I had been in Missouri for seven months. Mount Vernon, Missouri is located approximately 60 miles south east of Springfield, Missouri. I had my Missouri driver's license. I had worked a bunch of odd jobs. Looking for an answer, finding firefly front porch cigarettes so lonely. I was living with a misguided spirit again. The Midwest rains fell and tornado lightening shattered summer into fall.
Missouri wasn't right anymore. Living with an actress wasn't right anymore. Looking at a life so far from the Pacific Ocean wasn't right anymore. The movie called "My Life in Missouri" needed an ending.
I borrowed $500 dollars and Lesa's brother helped me build a box on the back of the Jeep pick-up so that I could pack up all my crap and leave. It was a sturdy frame thing that I covered with a blue water-proof tarp. Would it hold up to 1800 miles of American Highway in September 2000? My Fender amplifier would tell the tale.
The day I pulled out, it was raining. I was the foil in a front-porch heatbreak scene. Was I even there? Storm clouds rumbled in their rumbling Missouri way. Ciccada's buzz in the treetops. She says she feels like an old hat on a thrift store shelf: who will ever want her again? Melodramatic drama as her role in the show ends permanently: she finds herself written out of the script. Drunken recriminations in the arms of a Missouri State Trooper's hottub will ease the pain again (until his wife discovers the secret). Be careful, (especially if they own a Missouri car wash.)... Be careful, my friend.
By the time I hit Joplin, Missouri, the rain was over. Oklahoma Waffle House morning gasoline diesel driving. New Mexico has finally-decent Mexican food. Arizona egg-breakfast satisfies with cactus and Chollula sauce. Flagstaff afternoon is refreshingly cool and pine tree shades me over.
Joplin, Missouri...it was all over, all over, all over...
California Colorado crossing, then on to Needles. Midnight drive, overloaded, 98 degrees Farenheight at two in the morning.
The storms of Joplin, Missouri...no longer matter.
Barstow route 66 and Victorville...Boulder Road and Bell Mountain: headlights shine as semi-truck roars onward towards the Pacific.
Silhouette moon: all is quiet. Joshua tree silence moonlight blankets all. Streetlight glimmers.
Mojave desert, again.
Missouri wasn't right anymore. Living with an actress wasn't right anymore. Looking at a life so far from the Pacific Ocean wasn't right anymore. The movie called "My Life in Missouri" needed an ending.
I borrowed $500 dollars and Lesa's brother helped me build a box on the back of the Jeep pick-up so that I could pack up all my crap and leave. It was a sturdy frame thing that I covered with a blue water-proof tarp. Would it hold up to 1800 miles of American Highway in September 2000? My Fender amplifier would tell the tale.
The day I pulled out, it was raining. I was the foil in a front-porch heatbreak scene. Was I even there? Storm clouds rumbled in their rumbling Missouri way. Ciccada's buzz in the treetops. She says she feels like an old hat on a thrift store shelf: who will ever want her again? Melodramatic drama as her role in the show ends permanently: she finds herself written out of the script. Drunken recriminations in the arms of a Missouri State Trooper's hottub will ease the pain again (until his wife discovers the secret). Be careful, (especially if they own a Missouri car wash.)... Be careful, my friend.
By the time I hit Joplin, Missouri, the rain was over. Oklahoma Waffle House morning gasoline diesel driving. New Mexico has finally-decent Mexican food. Arizona egg-breakfast satisfies with cactus and Chollula sauce. Flagstaff afternoon is refreshingly cool and pine tree shades me over.
Joplin, Missouri...it was all over, all over, all over...
California Colorado crossing, then on to Needles. Midnight drive, overloaded, 98 degrees Farenheight at two in the morning.
The storms of Joplin, Missouri...no longer matter.
Barstow route 66 and Victorville...Boulder Road and Bell Mountain: headlights shine as semi-truck roars onward towards the Pacific.
Silhouette moon: all is quiet. Joshua tree silence moonlight blankets all. Streetlight glimmers.
Mojave desert, again.
Monday, September 13, 2004
return to the desert: 1995
In the mid- 1990s, it seemed like a good idea to move north and join a band. So I did. I loaded up the Jeep pickup, and moved to Emeryville, California. Back then, Emeryville was still a seedy low-budget warehousing district. My buddy said I could stay in the practice warehouse...a fantastic huge room with one wall of glass panes that overlooked the harbour and container ship loading/unloading area. The place had no heating or cooling...and just a refrigerator, toilet and two-burner hotplate. My pal, the drummer, hooked me up with a cool job working across the Richmond Bridge at the Birkenstock Warehouse. The place was awesome, an early 1960s Jet Age/New Frontier/ International Style/ LeCorbusier/Buckminister Fulleresque inspired warehouse of the future. I believe it was originally the Rand McNally Publishing House distribution center back in the olden days. Lots of bio-inspired hanging trusses, open space, cantilevered weight distribution etceteras. Anyway, I ended up working there as a re-soler for people's old beat up Birks. After about 6 weeks, I couldn't take that job so I quit, and then I decided that the city of San Francisco was not really the place for a poor dude like me. I was going totally broke every two seconds, it costs $10 just to take a crap in San Fran, let alone finding a decent commode...it was all, like, impossible.
Driving down highway 99 through the heart of Central California is a blessing. Twisting through the dry Tehachapis in September is a joyful adventure. Stopping in Mojave to fill up the gas tank again...the Union Pacific roars by, heat and desert dust accompaning the noise of steel wheels on steel rails. Lightning flashes above, the smell of creosote and rain welcomes you home.
Driving down highway 99 through the heart of Central California is a blessing. Twisting through the dry Tehachapis in September is a joyful adventure. Stopping in Mojave to fill up the gas tank again...the Union Pacific roars by, heat and desert dust accompaning the noise of steel wheels on steel rails. Lightning flashes above, the smell of creosote and rain welcomes you home.
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