sockmonkey

After all these years...

I'm  old.

I write.
I paint.
I write.
I say.

I look.  I listen.  I write.

Some have heard what I say, but don't know where it came from.

Some have read what I write, but don't see more than ink.

Like that comforter just out of the dryer on a rainy day.
Like that old cat that you find, sick, in the alley, and make him a box
to lie in...

Like that straight~banged pin~up girl, named Angie...
That you take care of when she's ill...
Or that little dog that ate the retro divan...

You're real.

Thank~you, Johnny.  For reading me.  For being from another time.

For being that old preacher man
that you can never quite get out of your system...

No matter how far you go into the world of standing behind Wanda Jackson.

And belonging there... Like the Cadillac Angel when you're drunk,
is how I put it once.

Anyway, thanks.

You make this time, where I'm not sure that I am,
or that I belong,
really,
seem less alonely.

There are posers...
And then there are you's.

To you, and your lovely.
~Never a photo that you can tell~
~Always sleep when you think you cannot~

~Cake~

(Hey, there's this guy, Will Elliott... on my friend list... 
 Listen to his music... I did, tonight, and realized, again, that he is not from here or now... so much... but from somewhere darker, lighter, farther, nearer...

somewhere.  He's from somewhere.)

Currently listening : Queen of Rockabilly By Wanda Jackson Release date: By 23 December, 2004

10:09 AM - 0 Comm

You, mine, Sweet and Beautiful Lover of the Summer
You, Ink Spilled Upon My Breast
You, who I would ask.
"Who will take care of your heart when I'm gone?"

We danced on paper
We danced through wires filled with sound and images
We danced with words and with sex
We danced sharing food and sharing a bed

We danced in the love of chickens
And pretty red~haired girls playing trumpet

We danced drunk
We danced sober

I will never forget
Ink Spilled Upon My Breast

What you have taught me

About hair products

This is a photo of the band, "The Year of Acceleration".
About two years ago, before the band became popular or known,
Scott, bass, read one of my journals.
He left a comment...
He would like an antique perculator.

I put one in a box.
I made a treasure hunt downtown.
It involved cabbies and hotel clerks, bartenders and strippers.  It took some time, and effort, but Scott has, now, an antique perculator.

thunder popping outside
like someone's paying for a murder.

raining pouring outside
like the world is paying for it's sin.

doors all open to this old
lim poy chinese market
that i live in.
trout fishing in america lies here,
unaffected by the storm.
his ears are too big for his head,
and his head is too big for his body.
a silly gimpy dog.

this time i have real coffee
from that old electric perculator.

i still may walk the shiny streets
when the rain has stopped.

go down to the grill.

on the way i'll look through the windows
of that old warehouse on the corner,
and see the guys 
who are practicing to be seattle. 

i'll sit at the counter
on that sticky vinyl
and watch the punks and derelicts
leave the bars.

i'll wear long sleeves
and be anonymous.

another perfect tucson night
to waste here in the summer.

~cake~

I just wrecked "Pearl" in the ice. 
Typical Tucson Idiot.
I did not know until yesterday,
that Scott works at a body shop. 
He remembers the perculator.
He will look at Pearl, Monday.

Gratis.

I just read a review of a band done by Dr. Dude...
(He's a DJ, now, and stole my radio show name and concept... Oh well)
Anyway, he didn't talk about the music, much,
but he did point out that one band member
continued to mis~pronounce Tucson... Tuk~son,
and that the 'base' player spit a lot when he sang.
That's right, the 'base' player...
over and over and over.

So, not only did he become, in my eyes, the bully in the school yard, that made fun of the kid who didn't talk right, but he stupidly mis~spelled bass while he was doing it.

Perhaps it is shallow of me to think that this is funny.

Or, perhaps, I will always think that you should use power wisely.
By the way, his last review is of Wanda Jackson,
but I found myself cured of ever wanting to read one of his reviews, again.
I think if he somehow disregarded Miss Jackson,
I would not be able to contain my disgust.

~May we all be judged with the dignity that we lend uthers~
~C~

Currently listening : American IV: The Man Comes Around By Johnny Cash Release date: By 05 November, 2002

Thank~you to my beautiful friend, Daniel.
He wrote a song for me,
And though he has played guitar and banjo in my home,
every February for almost ten years, now, he cannot come this year.
He made it so that I could put the song on my music list, here.

Gifts of words, of paint, of clay, of oranges and tequilla...

Gifts of promises of grill burgers and of extra fries.

Gifts of some small note or photo.
Smooth, cool stones found in my pocket.

Gifts of cut paper and of hurts that sting like paper cuts...

Gifts of laughter and of watching football.

I love you guys.

Gifts of music.
Gifts of gas, when I've run out.
Gifts left on doorsteps or in my mailbox...

I know too many saints.

~Merci~