12 22 2019 poem infantilized

Experimental Arts

Digital media can be art. Also, experimental music projects are happening here, in my studio. I embedded some youtube videos of poem readings set to music. There are other projects. Still pictures. Ink and watercolor painting. Sculpture.

  Check back here. I will be posting more video readings set to music.


  Thanks for visiting!

fiction series...

It ended before the dot com fuck up of the late 1990s.    There was this bunch of grizzled desperate former local throbs running open  mic night Saturdays at a bar off Carson Street.   A shit  hole.   

Me too, I was a another travelling desperate jerk off who had nothing better to do than try pulling fame out of the sewer with a Ronco Pocket Fisherman.   This hurt me.  I was an outsider.    An interloper.   The rest of the show tune mavens knew each other since pre-Vietnam.   All you had to do back then was conspire to dodge the draft at age nine to form life long, valuable platonic kinships.    I didn't have that luxury.     I grew up in a jerk water shit hole a hundred miles north.    People were Quaker-like, compared to where the music was in slummy Pittsburgh.   I had adjusting to do. 

Your truly was a lucky shining star for being eligible for the draft, and didn't get called.   Nothing works out better than that.   Frankie was in the state side army through the war, Mikey was an illegal alien, so he got out of it all together, no fault, and naturally Lavoris had nothing to do with the military, no one was sore at her for any of it.   There was a lot of grumbling, from the 1960s through the late 90s.  

Here's where human relations with Sinsemelia Jones was a problem.   He did close work in Cambodia, so even book learning didn't fully eradicate some deep recondite hostilities.   He didn't hate people, like me, for not going.   But the fact remained he had his singing career stalled gruesomely, while frivolous jerk offs stayed in their communes and played protest shit.     Here's where two more or less comrades have to live with a sweating, viscous interpersonal grudge.   I can be a diplomatic little motherfuck.

Social work.   Assholes everywhere should be doing more of it.   I spent a little extra time admiring his tripple humbucker famous person electric guitar, and aknowleged that my import copy of it was shit, shit compared to what he had.   We both knew that, though.   He appreciated what I was doing.

fiction...

Lots of people push or throw their spouse, friend or rival down a couple flights of stairs.   But when Sinsemelia Jones did it, he picked the person up and aimed.   If you ever threw paper wads in junior high, this was like a person carroming inside a waste receptable, right beside teacher's desk.   People didn't refer these things to the police.   Worse run down stairs if you snitch.  


Once people come to terms with stardust, they are no longer bound to maturity.    It's intrical to Broadway show tunes.    Lavoris crackman is pure stardust, which is why no one tries to fuck with her, Mikey would visit, but people would hate any bastard who was wrong towards Lavoris.    Rare woman that looks radiant with a bullet hole in her prominent chin.    She was shot in the face, and it had no negative effect on her singing.    The lord proves facts in some fucked up ways.  

We all had more or less some degree of stardust in us.   Everyone has to slap people around sometimes, unless there's a case of total stardust, such as Lavoris.    In descending order, Frankie Primavera has it, yet he takes shit off of Mikey Mumbawumba, the more dangerous of the two.   I take shit off of Frankie for the same reason, and keep as far stage left of Mikey as possible.    If either one of them say it's my fault the evening program, like the Show Boat meddlies we presented together, wasn't fab,  it's on me, just like it really was my fault.   Like I'm going to tell Mikey he's lagging on the coda progressions.

Continuing saga: Open Mic Night fiction,fiction,fiction

I guess everyone knows but Sinsemelia Jones once accused me of stealing his guitar, didn't, and we wound up on half warm speaking terms years later.    I was playing this hybrid import with triple humbuckers, and it looked exaclty like his real deal  expensive glam ax.  Or close enough to rouse suspicion.  From across the room at open mic night.    I'm glad he beat the person who really did steal his instrument to shit.   Even that can bring people closer together in a slum.   Unifying stardust could choke you to death.   We had hard knocks  in common.

Another club favorite, Mikey Mumbawumba, was sneak attacked one night at the club.   I'll get to what happened to the prick who stole Mikey's Haitian Curse.   So he claims, he was gifted  the instrument by a wizard during a machete massacre.   He probably bought it at a pawn shop.   Doesn't matter.   He's very vindictive.    He and I are on chilly speaking terms, in a no fault way.    I've seen him act rude and surly towards Frankie Primavera, which is wrong, but that's rocket engineer's measuring.   Mikey is pugnacioius.  But very courtley when he's in a duet with Lavoris Crackman.   They love doing Broadway showtunes.

One night I was playing what I had, Frankie was on bass, Lavoris was singing, and Mikey was playing this guitar he claimed a swami conjured out of a barrel of copper heads.   Ms. Crackman was radiant, the bullet hole in her spacious prominent chin accentuating her long boned elegance.  She sings Mac the Knife.   Makes you bleed.   That night she was on Somewhere Over the Rainbow.   That's a bone crusher.

You meet some interesting stand-over per sons when someone like Sinsemelia Jones or Mikey Mumbawumba is looking for a stolen guitar.   Mr. Jones brought his friends when he dropped by my crash pad, looking for his ax.    That came up daisies.   Mikey's pursuit is worse because of the voo doo.   Even if it's BS, it draws creepier goons than Sins' pals. 

A lead came in that night.    Some asshole was planning a machete massacre, and may have stolen Mikey's guitar.   Some sort of synchonicity horse shit.  Bastards always think they have a better chance of having their way if they have the right talisman.   It's genie-in-the-bottle garbage, and Mikey's guitar doesn't give a fat shit about their stupid massacre, but who ever stole the guitar should have been worrying.  


...

Another Micro-festo. That's a puny, soft manifesto. Real peaceful-like.

Yours truly is moaning again about a tri-plex of dreadful big deals.    There's crises in validity, ethics and human relations.   Being a life long voting Democrat, a puny, mournful one, it's been my recurring thoughts Dems should have been tending to these existential conquistadors, rather than running an all day, everyday hate  the President campaign.    One can despise and reform at the same time.   

It might have been better to adopt a more benign and sociable mentality towards an administration that's whack.   It might be better to sustain a civil continuum of recommendations.   Alternatives.  Maybe skip the 1984 style three minute hate.   Been my misfortune to see business and professional networking smooshed in Godzialla's grimy toes.   A massive hostile environment got outta' a sci-fi flick.    Us poor lousy folks on the fringe can't function in politically polarized communities.  

Dems should do two things.    Agree on what their candidate should do, and resolve the three things I'm moaning on the loudest:  validity, ethics and human relations.  This isn't all Dems, people all over the place morphed into lying, cheating bastards.   The tri-plex of beefs.   Try to iron 'em out.

The Lyrics

see that knave
decked out in silk
in his alabaster cave
drinking strawberry milk
don't talk or wave
the knave he silly
give him what he wants
psycho-billy
just chill alone
don't ya' piss and moan
that boy is cornpone
see the pitchfork in the hay
he'll pick it up one day
don't tease or wave
to that college boy knave





Relocating


floating the ohio river
in a flax colored tractor inner tube
whim of oxidation and wear
designer rings of algae
duck  masterpiece radiating
the sailor dude wakes to what resembles a flood
 but it's a row of industrial buildings
Bates exit to town
diminishing for five miles
to an ink dot
it's the same trip as last time
the sailor is slightly Iron Eyes Cody
aspect of treasure maps a pin point
push pins in heaven get pulled
the sailor got Gor-Tex
he feels he's breaking even