Too Many Spirits

Not yet spring and the clubs are filled
with fat cubs lusting through winter, the longing thrust
and everywhere the golden calf of desire
rises up but I am drunk, once more,
smiling like a fool and so it is that
everything is make believe — laughter, the life, the disease.

Somehow I am not convinced,
a girl rests her head on my shoulder and hears a song
of rain with a sunshine gait, mistakes it for
heartbeats because we are drunk,
caught in the wind and leaves, and
everything else is make believe — laughter, the life, the disease.

So we stand in a room with many walls,
against the pillars of smoke and watch the men who
pose like statues, the women
who love them, everyone is drunk, but even so
it used to be poetry before this:
everything is make believe — laughter, the life, the disease.

* * *

Need to cut back. On all of it.

Weekend in Brief 27

If it is not written, it is forgotten. The few I remember:

JAN 31 Brick by Brick for Joey Youngman w/ K Dub and Lisa.

FEB 08 (??) Party @ Onyx Room for local house DJs. DJ Sneak @ Belo.

FEB 16 Alex’s BDay Party. Cab tailgates and limousines, awesome strikes Confidential Room.

FEB 22 House grooves @ Excelsior w/ the usual suspects.

FEB 23 Jack’s w/ Irving, Jason, Christine, Jen.

Angel Addict

Elsewhere there is light
But the man upstairs screams every night
In want of mercy or what; he casts
Himself against the floor, great crusading flops
Thundering to drive the demons out;
Here in 207, the walls shake with righteous
Fury, but in heaven or some place else
He drinks and screams and wrestles the divine,
Vomits his gods clear across the balcony,
Moaning until the police arrive.

* * *

Moral: Don’t do heroin.

Epilogue: He never came back.

Harry Hippie by Bobby Womack

Everybody claims that they want the best things
outta life, (ha) but not everyone, not everyone
wanna go through the toils and strifes.

Like this particular fella, walks around
all day long singin’ this song
sha na lah dah dah lah dah dah dah dah

Harry Hippie, lies asleep in the shade,
life don’t bug him cause he
thinks he’s got it made.
He never worry about nothin’ in particular
Oooh he might even sell free press on Sunset.

I’d like to help a man when he’s down
but I can’t help him much
when he’s sleepin’ on the ground.

He’s like a bottle in water
Harry just floats through life
Walks around all day long singin’ this song
Whoa, whoa, whoa, ohhh yeah

Mary Hippie, she’s Harry’s lady
Panhandles pennies just to feed Harry’s baby.
She can lie down a story so incredible
Man, you wanna help her take the food
home and put it on the table.

I’d like to help a man when he’s down,
but I can’t help ya Harry
if you wanna sleep on the ground.
Sorry Harry, you’re too much weight
to carry around.

But he still walks around all day long singin’ this song
Sha dah dah dah sha nah nah nah nah nah
nah sha lah lah lah lah dah dah dah

Street child, street child, tell me where
will you be goin’
when old man winter gets his horn
and starts blowin’
Will you hang around LA
or hitch a ride on a freeway
Meet an old familiar face in a new place.

I’d like to help a man when he’s down
But how can I help him
if he’s somewhere outta town
Sorry Harry, think I’m gonna put you down.
Sha dah dah dah sha dah dah dah dah
sha lah lah lah lah dah dah dah
Everybody help me sing this song, oh yeah

End of an Era

It is the end
Of all things, the book, the road, the shivering saber
That put out the vestigial eye; when I was young
I clung to hope and could raise the dead, the sun,
The son that might one day return home, prodigal
They would say and a black lamb would quiver readily
Over a spit. But in the middle of the night, I have gone

Again, leaving in the absence of home or foundation,
To tell you that little did we know what little we
Did know had broken out like plague over stones;
From these sticks, our women lament and our men
Look onwards, the decadence, the flame, the heart
And see an open wasteland spreading over.

But, really, it is not the end
Of anything, maybe a sentence, a street, a shovel
That stole our song; I have grown old, reaching
For the hollow itch of a phantom limb to scratch
Away the living, the moon, the mountain that became
Our throat; sorry, they have said, but nothing ends
Not even time. And in the middle of the night, I go.

Whirl Winding

how long before our eyes found weeds
creeping up these doorsteps; did our footsteps
always echo so loud,

a setter yips into this californian sky,
by miles of kelp strung by sirens in tight-fitting ties,
we have hung
the sun from the rod that brought forth an ocean;

so you settle to sleep with secret silence
of stars and whispers, your mystery will be maintained
with a dagger and a twist, and a face like

brutus who knew to weep even on
mornings woken up, bleeding down the sky,
hands held out to hold
back the emptiness of a nation.

likewise steam, though voluptuous, is only steam
haunting rooftops while banshees shriek in the streets,
fog without memory or reason.

but the thirst quenched by moses still parches,
we belong to a nation that sows the rows
and rows of dragon’s teeth,
to wake with an ache to sleep away the lethian drought.

life was too long, too loud, when
we felt the shutting of its chambers, first the atria,
then the ventricle,
gorgeously red against an orange and twilight california sky.

[Original Post Date: 01/19/2004]