Greetings from the wasteland and hello from the high rooms. I’m writing this from the War Room, a kitchen in an apartment of the last Confederate Governor of the U.S.’ old place, in sweltering downtown Austin. I’m writing it on a Monday so I can get the world off my neck. The afternoons are best for poetry but I blew it out yesterday with a poem so bitter I won’t be able to share it with anyone, except maybe the Devil himself. Although, when it comes to offending folks, the creation of Art usually wins out. As it does over: sentimentality, decency and even privacy-yep, all of these and especially privacy are rolled over in favor of getting product out. Be it a poem, blog post, Youtube clip or article-content trumps everything. Which isn’t to say I wanted to hurt you. That’s not true. There are some of you I was trying to hurt. At least I’m not trying to offend. Whoops. That’s not true either. What do you want from me? I’m a digital garbage man so stick out your can. If I don’t put out at least 600 words a week, black detritus piles up in my mind and I start weighing heavier and less savory options, if you know what I mean.
I started this blog 7 years ago, emulating Dr. Thompson and all but killing for his place on the pulse, his connectivity and prescience, his wit and high drama and even his gloomy war drum tone. His predictions always came home to roost, leading Frank Mankiewicz to dub him the “least factual but most accurate” reporter on the Campaign Trail in ’72-and we all know what’s happened since then. Trust me on this, Brother, if it got too weird for Hunter Thompson then you know we are in for one hell of a ride. Nutter’s Rule. I’ve written on it before. A future on the order of raining frogs and swarming clouds of locusts is all but imminent-because that is the power of dreaming and it’s all those Nutter’s could hope for. The music they play in mass alone should hip you to the sad imagination of folks who don’t have premarital sex and are afraid to die. In their defense, we’re all afraid to die-it’s just that some of us have the sense to understand the Wisdom that living their way is just like dying, so we may as well get on with it, which is probably what Dr. Thompson was thinking on that black day in Febuary 2005.
That’s what is wrong with my generation but don’t get me started on my generation. Or, do. It’s only Monday. My next 600 ain’t due up until sometime Thursday, and that’s plenty of time for me to examine my place in this culture and where I fit in to my Generation-because I certainly didn’t know it or fit in at the time. Shaving your head and donning braces and boots wasn’t popular where I come from. Neither was skateboarding, or doing anyting except getting your 12 year old girlfriend pregnant and drinking a case of Bush big boys at the trestle on a Friday night. Playing in a band wasn’t either, believe it or no, at least not the type of music we were playing-but we did it anyway. Of course I’d want to go back there, like the song says, but if I can’t then I’ll settle for the attitude we had back then. Because goddamnit, the Buddhists were right, attitude is everything. We did shit back then, that no one else was doing. Because we were bored and our parents didn’t care. We smoked and drank post-Nevermind, and we wrote. Those journals are gone, or burned, or on a shelf in a cold garage in Middletown, Delaware at my father’s house. It’s a shame what happened to those journals and the young idea is gone. We’re all alone in the New Century but connected somehow in the hall of mirrors of social media.
It’s all fucked and I guess it always was. The real kick in the balls is that never stopped me before. I haven’t been breathing right for the last year and a half. It’s been a long time that I should be far from here. I got a Monk’s Robe Orange 2009 Honda Element with 53,000 miles and some hail damage on it that bothers me way more than it should. I’ve got 64 copies of All in the wind’s pressing of 150 left, and orders are still coming in. I’ve got clips of me reading and telling stories that I shouldn’t post if I cared about certain poets in my commnuity’s feelings, which I don’t, so I will. In 23 minutes I’ll have to report back to my boss, smoke him out and make a dinner run. 5 years ago I walked out of the food service industry for good. I threw out my serving blacks and began the search for meaningful work. I’ll let you fill in the blanks as per if I’ve ever found it, and offer that the only meaningful work there is is for yourself. You can be a slave in the service of another but you’re still a slave. You can draw your own conclusions, of course, but I should’ve been gone 2 years ago, when I looked back at my life in horror and knew that if I stayed any longer I’d only be dying.
See you coming out the grave, motherfucker.
Going for the Throat 