- water, coffee, tea,water (in that order)
- a safe place to unravel
- the right view
- rememember where your body is
- hug fear
- keep light - don't overeat
- renounce carelessness
- excercise weak muscles
- carry koans in your head
- practice seeing without your eyes
- get close to life - figure out what this means
- hard wooden chairs at clean wooden tables
- memorize interior recipes
- carry always pencil and paper
- be a beginner
- forget your age
- forget where you are - from time to time
- build lists
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
My favourite place
just ahead of hell;
Old folks kill time
over Zellers coffee
waiting to die
drawn to the florescence overhead
mistaking it for heaven's porch light.
Nobody cares to use their feet
or legs or hearts;
They want to be carried
effortlessly like babies
coddled as they're lifted up
soothed from crying, screaming,
The Juice Bar
Heat-lamp warmed rotisserie wieners
turn like glistening warm turds
fantasizing about the bowels
of hungry, seething grandmas,
rocking sleeping infants
Everybody Loves a Winner!
Disgruntled box-store cashiers
for a breath of fresh air
balanced against pronounced no smoking signs:
Babies in strollers
bleat incomprehensible warnings
to bickering Slayer-shirted parental units
promoting future viewings
of Siamese-fighting fish
made of people
more than concrete,
words more than bricks,
misunderstanding as much as
trees or planks or drywall;
It runs on trust like electricity
and shocks me
at times into frozen states of mind
My home is more solid than many;
Winds and floods and storms
have not yet knocked it down.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Of being softly entered by a bee?
Abdomen pushing on her pistils
Stamen brushing up his knee
Antennae kiss and a flutt'ring of wing
Are all the goodbye she entices
But he's fragrant and sticky - streaked with pollen
Marked hers for ancient devices
As he wanders off to the next pretty flower
She radiates in the noon sun
Willing her perfume to the next passerby
And quaking in anticipation
Friday, June 17, 2011
Okay, I like curious people and you are correct to ask me because I have been directly involved. What is swampgrass or swamptrance, this music? I’ll answer your question with some more questions: Have you ever seen a frog explode? Have you felt the need to sing a beautiful song when you sink in something slimy up past your knees? Have you met water with a dehydrated, cracked and furrowed tongue? If so, then we are getting closer to the meaning behind this music.
There are ingredients, there is a recipe, not secret, but hard to come by. Equal parts catalystic banjo, born again harmonica, inside out ukelele, over-traveled guitar, random mandolin and historic fiddle, all roosting in a collective drum.
There is preparation: musicians first situate themselves without their instruments on a starlit prairie moonscape of crunchy pale grass by a pond. Mosquitoes have been partying there all day and stop for no one, but in the evening things are calmer.
This sitting, this huddle forgetting the morning’s hangover, is an important part for the befriending of a frog choir in the dark. How is this done? In the spaces between the human’s laughter, amphibious resonance is given informal bows. The human’s make an offering to their stomachs of rum and ginger. Acknowledgment is murmured that the 100 odd frog sound may be sinking, appreciative and/or alien in nature.
Their endless croaked messages blanket the ears on the hearts of the humans and incite mediation on metal strings with itchy fingers. It is all sustenance, the players return to the trailer porch, their stage, as full and inebriated as if they had each swallowed a hoary and fermented moon.
Ukelele, guitar, fiddle, mandolin and banjo exchange between players, between songs. Instruments must be held steady enough to transmit the heat still coming off the porch into the evenings coolness. It’s nice to do. The funk happiness and soothing raunch of the humans is an open sound. Tobacco floats through pauses. Talking diminishes.
If you hear it from far away, you might hear equal parts hoardes of strangely inviting, demented mosquitoes and the siren-thin chuckle whine of coyotes, demurring but demanding that you spend your time at your leisure. If you hear it from up close the sweetness of it might make you want to immediately copulate and conceive a child, where it’s stench and caterwaul might make you think some asshole bear has gotten insanely drunk.
Swamptrance, a music you will find when you travel far enough, where friends and nature and beer become surprisingly and/or luckily accessible. Hearing it, you might think of beet wine, the making, the drinking. Swampgrass is sure to cause female erections and bumblebees to fly at night; a simmering honey pot where burnt basil drowns.
If you could be on that porch with me you would understand that James’ rhythmic plucking of the banjo is an understanding unraveling. See him pour beer down to his insides and hear him burp again.
Where did Dave go? He sat just there, a human magician silhouette cranking out inspired gypsy melodies, crispy beautiful bright clarities into the night’s humidity. He arrives suddenly behind us, tall and slim, licking the frog he holds in his hands. The music that didn’t stop welcomes him back surely, it is mad as well and it triumphs.
This is the time in this frantic jam I am so drunk I can only rest my head against the back of the chair, gaze to the stars and enjoy the trip. Dave sits again and our song river floats down a new channel gurgling percussively.
Swampgrass attracts skunks and makes them think they can wrestle anything. They eye Brendan’s feet from afar as he breathes his harmonica into a life where it singes. He barbeques that poor instrument, sacrificing it to swampgrass, jungletrash, trancemash, to the slurring. There are rules to this genre, like vines that wrap our ankles to the porch and ourselves to the sound: you can float away, you can come down.
On this flat land under the big sky, swampgrass stretches leafy and bushy and spreads like a flatulent jam. You cannot put your thumb down on a definition, friend, or you would be cleaning that thumb for a long time.
From ancient picnic table wisdom, swampgrass or swamptrance, like Dave, smokes and disappears without warning, reappears and burns the evil out of souls.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
And don ye bear-proof suit
Pour claret on the grinding wheel
When rhyme-trees do bear fruit
Your sharpest tongues and keenest wit
Hack verily (and couplet-slice)
Do battle each for glory writ
For Bacchus! For our fav'rite vice!
Calm me now, oh breath's sweet air
A crescent moon, a setting sun
Pretty flowers and maiden fair
Like tree-sap words will run.
Not twenty count, but have I missed?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
LIST OF ESSENTIALS
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You’re a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven