(axe simile)

My brain is the plain breeze sipping of the sand of the place that once cried of freedom and the destiny that dusted a thousand good men and gave rise to a hundred worse.

This is the last dispatch from dixie.

Pork-round and peppered with talk of death and shiner-bocks. dogs yipping at my every want for canine companionship. a father now and again. step, etc. outside my door chit-chatting about things i dare not mention because my ears are shot, my eyes are fried and i suffer no powers of deduction at the moment.

All i want is to be at the show. in my home. where i can find soft skin within shouting distance.

Because though i have enjoyed these lone star moments (as awkward as they might have been. as wrought with inappropriate and ill-timed [perhaps not. perhaps it's just the late cynic in me who refuses to believe there will be a point in time where my life is so fixed on someone so far flung away i can't remember his face in photographs even as he sits right next to me] confessions in the car heading anywhere back from here) but this is not my home. even if my heart might rise under clear expansive skies, i am immured in the rats and concrete of my race.

My callow dream of a city.


(kicks in ole)

My brain is the fresh luminary skulking off the slot jockey whose only goal in life was to pass the time watching the sevens fly by night by night. smoke by smoke. hope by precious hope in the hundred odd rabbits' feet he'd culled underneath the years searching the vice that fit him fucking right win or lose so long as the time just fuking melted by so in the morning he could die thinking he hadn't wasted his life even if he wasn't worth a dime.

I suppose it's too early for all that. too late? fuck. i can't remember the last time a fast approaching 7am was a threat i had to reckon (sober) with. but at least i've got the dough to call my own. a few bucks to buy the cigarette debt. a couple beers and a cab to the show.

And a few more and a few more...

But that's tomorrow's insomnia. tonight's is a battle against the dawn and rockstar tearing it's way inside my already expanded gut (when i come home all i want in my life is a salad to call my own. some tofu, maybe. and a jump rope).

I only hope it ends soon enough for the moment. these eyes need not imagine anything more today.


(crash in verse)

My brain is a million bricks crashing through the back of the last dream i remembered green eyes more than heritage, soft hearts held faster than hope and the pursed lips of a stranger reminding me of all i miss.

I'm tired of fucking being here.

Tired, already, of hearing the fractured stories of a dying man (in pounds and hours now) trying to catch up on all the years we spent far the fuck away mining my own life in the niche of new york city while he fell in love and lost his mind and wound up here the fuck in texas.

It's all too much to relate this late, still settling in for another few days.

But, suffice it to say, i feel like a fucking bastard because i'm not, nor will i ever be, the son he needs. the one he wants. the comrade in arms to shoot the shit and carry his family seed into the future. the boy he threw catch with. the one who speaks fondly of him as he does of me.

I just can't.

It's too late.

And every moment i think we're finally happy. getting along all peach and keen he lands up on my mother again. or his. or something suitably awkward to ward of any chance of me responding anything but politely.

It's fucking hard, you know. harder than i imagined it would be.

Thank god, then for cats like mitzi. rocker chicks who remind us that in the endless spin of these late mornings, there's always wisdom to find a smirk in.


(bottom up done)

My brain is a strange fruit suckled from dead trees under the weight of a lone star breeze.

And yet, for some reason, i just can't fucking sleep.

That's really no surprise considering the casual time of most these missives but my shit remains jetlagged. bogged down by meat and grease and conversations, the likes of which i haven't really seen since the last goddamn time i took a trip into my familial past.

I suppose i'm learning things. not that i'm entirely sure i really needed to. words stumbling out from the mouth of my perpetually ailing father (in much a different way than mom's got of dying year after year after year). tales of women. certain infidelities. deaths in the line and genuine concern for those he left behind. or, really, who left him back in california some thirteen years since.

I'm not all that sure how i feel about it. him. his family. his life in the world's fattest state but i'm glad it's not killing him. that it's given him something to put his weight into and smile about when he goes rolling into sleep.

We'll see though.

Not to be overtly pessimistic, but i've got a few days left in this town before i rock it. a few more then before i have a chance to crack my stomping ground again and i worry that all this intensely personal banter might take a few years off my living end.

Still, it could be wonderful.

Either way, there's oklahoma.


(moot in the steeple)

My brain is that brat in the corner screaming insults at the wall just trying to get a rise from the cobwebs of memory he's sure might one day pay off in murky spades he knows he'll only use to dig his own unmarked grave.

I have wasted every minute of this day and i can't see as i give a shit considering in twelve hours i'll be (god willing this fucking rain abates long enough to get me on my way) sitting on plane, biting my nails and wondering why the fuck it is i ever bother to leave the city.

I'm not a very good flyer.

And right now i'm only half-packed, chain-smoked and shaking just enough to stay awake because i worry in the morning i'll forget.



Who i am. where i'm going. what the hell it is that keeps me time again believing i might save the world if stumbled on the right chance.

It's been three years since that particular resolution crossed my lips and i'd like to think that, somehow, some fucking way i'm actually here working on it but these days have been so fucking lazy it's amazing i'm still breathing. that i just haven't atrophied in this dusting chair. grown into these stained keys that haven't given life to a damn thing in ages but these wasted blurts of an inchoate daze.

Maybe texas will give them something to tap about.

Like finally being a son...


(stole an ounce)

My brain is the salt crush of the sea come off of western lands to remind me what it was/fucking is ot be be me even if i have to choke down a thousand awkward calls pretending everything is fine when all i want to do is hide back in my tired pock mark of a home.

So, once more, these lies are strange.

Remembering the dead. confounding the past and scrambling through the futures to find simple hearts that might fucking last a little longer than phone calls stuck in tired rhetoric...

Drunk. lost. and staple.

I am the third generation of failure in this home i call a pleasure club (for reasons that are hardly obscene) stuck once again in the the flailing arms of a woman who would remember me if given half a chance but until then she'd rather be the life of the party. the star of the show. the heart of the lonely club picture no one ever remembers (not through cynicism but experienced stupor).

And so i yield.

I quit.

To sleep and at dreaming something better than what ought've been.



(spare an ounce)

My brain is the crush of salt air coming off the long western seas where (they tell me) i'd find the last resting place of more than my fair share of the radical dreamer who once worked to save my life and died on a car ride.

My father was holding his hand.

I didn't say goodbye, of course. i didn't even know until two months later (three into my treatment) when my mother let it slip over dinner.

"They left Mark out at sea."

It seemed a romantic idea at the time, but these days i don't know if romance is really worth all that much of a good goddamn when it comes to my uncle being dead. not that i know what does.

Maybe nothing.

Dead is dead, after all and i'm alive. so is my father and the other four brothers (some of whom, i'm sure, where there that sunday). and that's for the best isn't it?

Is it?

I don't really know what i'm getting at. or where i'm trying to go. it just seems i don't think all that much about dying anymore though i know it's coming sooner for me, for us than most.

We smoke too much. drink too heavily. and just plain don't give a damn about what happens to our wretched bodies.

Fuck, that's grim.

The wrong line for a saturday i'm supposed to spend toasting with my confusing ex and the friends i sometimes call my own (even if that's now a faded claim) when all i really want to do is crawl into my head and sleep nice and lonely.

Maybe i just need a good stiff drink to help the cycle around.

(slip off early risks)

My brain is a lone man humbled in the wake of certain sweet perfections.

I don't ever care to know better...

(stall on the old blood)

My brain is a crack on the everlasting kiss. the moment missed in perfection. that beautiful fault of shaking fingertips. scared kids. hapless hearts too old for their own good and screaming out of the body worned by want and wishing for the miracle skin to hold a little longer. a little closer. a little more than the next...

Broke through the hangover this evening (hours and hours and hours after the fucking fact and now i might as well be drunk be the time is cold and strange enough to keep me wrapped in cigarettes and simmering beer) found friends. half strangers. folks that made me wish i wasn't born in the fucking right time (still holding haggard breath).

And what?

I was happy. i am. even crackled this morning.

Confused this evening and slippery.

Remembering why it was i stole the moniker of the rock and roll killing machine.


(behind the artful dodge)

My brain is a wine drunk stumble through the old banks i've trudged too well and too long (never wisely, it would seem as these histories repeat at a rate that would leave me shamed if there weren't so many other legitimate guilts to call my own if not so eagerly any more) in twenty odd years along the banks of the world.

And i can't say i've ever been the better for it.

All this thinking. fucking reflecting. lamentations on how good things were and what perilous regrets made me whatever man i could come to call myself in the morning with a sore gut and a strangled head wishing she was next to me when i won't even know where the hell i am. just that i have to crawl up. shower. sip. shit. shower and stumble off into the regulations of living a little less of a lie every day.

And that's just because i couldn't give a shit anymore what powers think of me. i'll never be among their ranks. i'll never own a company. command disdain from the petty ploys i throw stale beans at to get them to do the little dance they do so well when company arrives and needs cheap entertainment.

So why the fuck should i bother?

To climb the corporate ladder in the hopes some fucking boys club lets me slip through the cracks in the stained glass ceiling?

Fuck that.

If i'm a peon, i'm a peon. another angry white man pooling a less than average white wage in a world that has no place for such a stunning lack of color.

But how long can that possibly be enough for me?


(stumbled light switch)

My brain is a wax spilled on dead letters lost in the shuffling mayhem of a life on the lam.


I should only be so lucky.

For a brief moment this evening i am so fucking happy to be lost in this concrete rut of a stomping ground the world has called it's city for the better part of a lifetime because tonight i've finally stumbled around to fucking winning something (even if it's only ample beer) and though it really doesn't mean two shits whether i've won or lost a damn thing (and good lord knows i've known enough of both) it's nice to taste a shred of victory surrounded by those folks who really mean the goddamn most (even if they aren't pictured).

And now i'm shaky and elated. probably drunk still. cold as hell but happy with who i am and where we've come this far along the road past recovery.


(those naked hallelujahs)

My brain is a flare across the tundra crashing through the last throes of this next dying night. a swift symbol of the good fight. the hours spent in friendships. awkward contemplation. vodka. wine. and cigarettes that beat the band back to the garage days they never should have stepped outside in the first place.

And i just want to sleep it off.

No more thinking. no more wishing. no more pining for what i just need to wait on a few more days. half-sober hours in a half-drunk life doomed as any young enough to believe there's something beautiful in store still when all the world's a hot shot screaming towards that certain end our parents fought in principle if not in bare-knuckled, slackjawed practice.

Not because i've given up. hell, there's nothing if not hoping...

I'm just tired. happy at home and ready not to oblige another living human being if this scrappy hands can help it.

Though they've never been much of a guarantee.


(spurned enclave)

My brain is the shred of a libertine left after the cold war took what remained of the petty bourgeoisie and turned it into a pipe dream for global capitalism and the rhetorical death of the lone fettered masses.

Sometimes i wish i was french. in principal, if not in practice as i know as much of the lay of that land as i do the bible belt buckle bursting under the strain of a fattened west expansion that killed the dignity of this land and made it something disney's mania could feed off in the posthumous lust of the grave...

Please pardon the rhetoric. fuck if i know where it's coming from or why my fingers can't stop the politik from seeping onto unread pages the world would see if only there were a forum more appropriate for the rumbling addles of a side-burned boy like me.

What am i saying? this is my venue. broke and anonymous. helpless and free.

But fuck me...this was a love note. written from sense memory just like every one i've rat-a-tapped out in the dwindling hourly rate of a hundred blinks a minute.

To no end but a glimpse of sweetness of what the future holds. what it's revealed to me in winks.

Those stolen kisses...


(without the magic of intercepts)

My brain is a system blown on the back of graying stars (hidden in the magnetic rain and melody of the same sweet whispers of every night).

Revealing nothing but the familiar shell of a side-burned boy not so much immured in destiny as the belief that there are better things just so many miles away. tied in with kisses. buried under snow.

It's so simple to be a fool. so wonderfully perfect and blind to the weight of the world-weary scorn of those who've lost as much already, at least, and those who'll be forced to give up far more.

Even when i know they just might fucking be right.

I couldn't give a damn.


(harrows of outrageous fortune)

My brain is some tomorrow coming down to save the day when the rains settle in to wash away the sins we missed these years of trying to fight some good fight in the name of less pompous old men (for their time at least) for reasons that escape me tonight as they have before and ought to for most of those goddamn years ahead when as these stories go i should finally learn my lesson and make some fucking sense of why i stumble blind and hopeful through the world the way i do. why i smile shaking and soaking wet without a dime (but a few smokes) to my name. why i sing, half-tuneless, against the doldrums of living a stiff while i complete whatever the fuck it is i happen to be thinking, plotting, scheming, pissing away in a vice or three (four told, by last count).

Why i let life bite me in the ass and why i could really give a damn when i find time to lay my head down long enough to give my mind a rest from this rat-a-tapping idiot box or less sinister enterprises.

Heh. heh. heh.

A few minutes into ambled self-exploration and i'm already more concerned with the punk rock songs pounding my runt of a ghetto box.

Just as well.

Monday's just no day for a kick in the eye if it hasn't swung first for the teeth.


(any gilded sunday)

My brain is a sleeping switch grown rusty in the fresh days of fall when we sit back to the gridiron and i learn some fucking love of the game. learn tradition. the great american couch life of cheap food and cheaper beer. learn to scream for any given hulking monolith to break through a wall of sinew and steel to make a dash for glory and that thousand decibel cheer.

I can't say i don't love it.

Which is strange, i must admit seeing as i've spent my life a city rat loving pursuits antithetical to games of physical strength and agility. defensive lines and wide receivers. playmakers and sacks on the mvp.

A rote nerd, of sorts, beat down by the likes we all admire for being faggy or arty or just plain fucking weird and embittered for years because of it.

But now...now, i think i should really give a shit how many thugs took a crack at my skull and my pride and just enjoy a day in time with these rambling friends of mine. free of accomplishments and the aspirations that always keep me up at night.

Relish the chance to be lazy and give a day up to the game.


(run back off cupid)

My brain is an old familiar hum of unwelcome lights flooding in the barroom floor. reminding us our age and time and wants beyond the half-empty bottles littering the stage.

Not something to regret. hardly a lament at all.

Just a place and time i've known well over and over again. but at this moment i won't sweat. hell, i couldn't give a damn where the hour's found me or what a surprising grip i have on sobriety because the night was spent well and in good company.

Is there a better fate to ask for?

(and sure, there are ideas, but let's deal with the tangible and fucking curt realistics of this saturday in new york city)

Cold bottles and warm smiles. pop songs ten shouts too loud.

Life spilled out just fine in my soaking wet shoes.

Smelling autumn on the wind...


(sol only)

My brain is a late dawn flickering much sooner than i ever would've expected on an otherwise so fucking simple day of days played out like any other. morning, little deaths and yawns (though, i suppose, if i were to be frank it was that middle road that made us stand apart from the rest met with their hands in line and their hearts in the wholly fucking wrong place because it's the business sometimes to live the lie like you would any other time and i am only ever offered the rare occasion to cheat and stumble in happy as a boy lost in his first newtonian discovery only this time everything is real if not laid out quite so dramatically).

And now...

The air is thick and warm despite the season. the radio is crackling a worn mix tape. and all life has to offer is another cigarette before my big break into another last chance to sleep it off.

Hardly worth the pace...