Lab

Why have the qualms of my lost barber, whose stolen skin made eager prancing on the mince of hopheads. This is not the choking of gaunt horses that flail onto the skull of my sweetest bizarre. Lovely damnation pecking on the faded tattoos of your late night adolescence purge, the petty a most intrepid affair. It commands dramatic somatic intention dementia dailies serpentine notion with diseased pirates groping the last punk-rock-girl right out of town. Plagued guardian shakes the loose tooth beggarly on common tattered trauma. Pounding through the achy market square on a devil’s promenade boogie in the dreamers that lay soiled under the antique nook. These are not your dwellings. These will not be your homes from homes. These are not your salad days. Stalked on stagnant waters put down the fires malignant grooves and to release out from the mushroom’d stratums copious corruption spawn newest memory. They have killed the sweet Ohio with curses and a leaf blower.

4 Track @ Northside Mar 31

On Saturday the 31st the 4 Track All-Stars ( www.myspace.com/4trackallstars ) will be playing the Northside Tavern (www.myspace.com/northsidetavern ) I will be doing a track with them titled
America which has been featured on this blog. I hope a few folks can attend and enjoy the fantastic show.

Sing'ing

Was a wave in the stoop that made a jilt then to a jangle, when the olds' came and pleaded roller-coaster hills. Smiles, my smiles hopped a crawl on the hairs on eager neck to tumble down my crown to brow through furry face. Dancing like a 40’s musical with tight slacks and awkward shoes but my breeze to this a sorbet, clean puddle on a busy street with props and all. A six figure shootout with a backyard ending, please-ing symphony prestige. What was it Piccadilly, a word or sound? Perhaps a curve or the shade'ed disguised as erotic silhouette. These from sound or vision that hounds out the Bop; an American boy on the fills from proud to the pleasant. The universe screaming that landfills aren’t for lover but we seem to crawl our night’s from end to end with remnants and odor wondering why our days become the gaze of curious’er and curious’er-Unfulfilled. But now, on the pavement, bumble’d and swerving like bees in the ghetto a waltz has on to the most of comfort and thrilled. No longer peasants grabbing for broken radios and almost used up pied pans but a gorgeous Frankenstein built and spilt onto the novel night air; an apparition that only a lover or mother could love...
And I am Sing’ing.

The Parade is the Thing

St. Patty's Day Parade in Cincinnati.

Kilts, pipes, drums, beers and....

Shriners!!!!

Ran into old friends and had pints.

Not a bad day at all!!!

America

In through the howls from Americano
we crave a dreamful mellow -
as peace will cleanse abject treasons
it slides tight her gale to the sinister side -
codes slang a pristine militant state
the machine makes assault on piteous pasts -
dilemma make the airs our permanent enemy
as midnight vertigo blues paint havened style -
it begs the last suburb for sweet baffled ignorance
ember’d on eternal epoch binge -
Swell my diatribe on the brow
hold loose coined illusions
by hustlers that game on renegade -
the childhood truth covet fades into that long good night
it is a simpleton means now
like dullards that come home to roost
purge for the last pure vurtue’d harbor

***
Flunked logic explored
Abu Ghraib flair bizarred
habeas corpus ignored
with no stringent damnation,
true corruption was spawned
wire-tapped for their lord
lies smuggled a pawn
C.I.A pour le monde
pimped you in on the static
now you lost like an addict
burning from the inside numbing in on the zeros
vultures plague from the sky
philistine so sublime
it’s defacto control while we beg for a hero
Now they shot up their sheriff’s
and killed all of the bailiff’s
then they rolling it out like jackals with merit
better hope for the lotto
for you down on the blotto
for speaking your peace
and asking what, when, where and why
champion stoned it alive
daring you to survive
when will we ever find our new America

Into the fodder

To be of such simple thought:

Still with very humble mind and eye I am a typer with the zombies for melody

we will see who makes this a burn or breeze - capture a reel sprite and all the world is a birthstone

But for now; You are killing your lover - http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/16545178/from/RS.5/

Rockets on Bibles

As if it skipped for a second
Maybe it was in shadow
or a film cut to an edit
that makes you paranoid
Nervous
Shy
Could have been half way
to the moon by now
but instead she is almost
to Colorado
Now the violins have taken you from the stage
and they are taking your picture for the advert
Dumb
Mad
The dancing girls need a minute or two
before all the glitter
stockings and toys swoon them to blush
she could be minutes from being your rocketeer
and the smell of her on your arm gives you the songs
and slowly in the back of the mind
her gone would make
you a second class citizen again
as it glides to feet that jump
the unsettled ease to fall back to bed
and play out like millionaires on vacation
it shimmers as you confess and her
kisses, so softly makes the swim
You can almost taste it
Like sea salt from the ocean
a slick breeze that hums out silly tunes
creeping out widows and old German statues
silk skin and stares that mean everything
She remembers your middle name
To Fall
To Fall
To Fall
To Fall