Splendid Isolation

I was in the garden hosing the Neapolitans when she yelled down to me from the fire escape.
False flags, she shrieked, 2 dead! And 3 bombs!
I looked up into the white oak.  He likes the dark ones fucker.  One peep outta him and he was done.  I had my finger on the trigger.
Ok, I say, and aim my gun at the rainbow Kale.  Fire.

I don’t do news.  I don’t care about the world.  This is just another post from a horny hapless journalist who spends most of his time stanchioned up in the high rooms of a dead confederate palace drinking with a hardon and a hashpipe. The concerns of my days here in Paradise are few.  There’s these precious words and there is the countdown to Maduro time.  Aho.  At this late stage of the game a cigar and a 6pack is all that gets an old pervert like me through the day.  I also have an unconscious devotion to tomatoes.  And a woman.

My heart goes out to those who find they’ll be missing someone for the rest of their lives.  But I’ve got to turn away from the pedantic punditry&big business of news reporting and the battle cries of  armchair revolutionaries and the bleeding hearts of an Army of loud&well-wishing  Americans.  I got little time for jibba-jabba and the news makes me dull.  My time is running down and I’m busy keeping my loved ones close b/c I know I’ll be missing them for the rest of my life when they go.

The door slammed shut behind her and it startled him.
Aho.  Morning fuckface.
The hot sun was climbing.  Fuck it.  I decided to take it up to the Office, try and get some work done.
Rejoice, I say, you live another day.
I’ll see you tomorrow motherfucker.

Taking The Weekend Off

The wire was dead down here at the office on Friday.  This much madness was too much sorrow. I broke code and dodged deadline. Silence isn’t a good trait in a self-proclaimed iconoclast writer. My silence was the result of a tie between my shock and utter apathy about current events. It’s a great big dirty world. The news was bad. I was sitting at the writing desk among the empties. When I attempted to reflect on current events a dumb boredom clamped down on me like a migraine. The upside down American flag in the back room rustled lazily but told me nothing. Me&Steve Earle were yelling back at the bastard grackle and I was bored. The grackle yelled and me&Steve Earle hollered back. Then the phone rang.
It was American Book Award winning poet and friend, Lamont Steptoe. Said he was just checking in. He told me I should send off a poem to the 17th annual Poetry Ink Anthology coming out in April. Deadline is next Friday. He asked me about what was going on in my life while offering me the wisdom of Etheridge Knight and Sam Allen and hipping me to the 7 universal roles of a poet. He said something to the effect of do your work for three decades or so, and things will start to happen. What a godsend that man is. A cherished friend and something to look up to. His call was a much-needed shot in the arm. After hanging up with Lamont I felt redoubled, at ease. I knew I could rest in my work, wherever I am in the world and whatever I am doing.  A poet.
Then the editor came by and we went out to the big poetry show. Bedpost Confessions‘ Poetry Show was a high night of art and hilarity. These ladies know how to throw an intimate and inclusive event that never compromises the art of performance. I mean, how many times have you gone to a slam, a spoken wordoff or whatever-the-fuck, and ended up feeling so alone&isolated that you began to wonder if Plato was right? Sweet, sexy, revealing, as dark as you want and fucking hilarious. Well done, ladies. Well done.
I was particularly impressed with the poetry of Ms. Jenna Martin Opperman and of course I was reminded of how so very special poet Lacey Roop is. It’s not often that a poet can simply make me happy. Fill me with joy. What a blessing she is. Look out for these performers and this series. They are up to something good. For true.

Saturday the Editor&me went to a songwriters circle at the Saxon. We dug on tunes from the mighty Jay Sims&friends over Lonestar big boys.

Now the weekend’s over. And I’m back at the desk. There’s still plenty to be outraged about. By dodging deadline Friday I managed to avoid having to touch on the crime of the century or the brownshirt humor of pop culture and the voices of those railing against it.  The world kept turning and grinding out the days of our grisly plight but I had to recharge and redouble. Had to bask in the love for my people before I felt ready to get back in the game.

I’m ready now. Christ.
Vox populi vox dei.