Beautiful Friend

Let’s focus on the steak, not the peas.

-Minchia

Liberals want our country to be more like Canada. Conservatives want it to be more like Mexico.

-Realist

Raising a kid with medical needs is a very, very steep climb in the best of circumstances, and so when we say Medicaid is like the handholds that you’re using to scale up and get your kids to help-without those, there’s nothing below, there’s no safety net once those supports get pulled out, you just fall off the cliff.
-Robert Howell 

If they were to collaborate they could strangle data access to parts of the internet, it’s not an understatement to say they could influence history.
-Elliot Brown

One need only look closely at such drag queens as Michelle Visage or Violet Chachi on the RuPaul show to suss out the cruel, cold-blooded lizard that lurks behind the eyes of the Illuminati elite.
-Stephenson Billings

What the hell.
-Jared Yates Sexton

I wish I had let go long ago.  Not long after I quit smoking I began to experience a shortness of breath.  I’ve had to teach myself to sing again.  Psalmships’ “Little Bird“, again and again.  Up high in the mountains of Minerva and out here on the blistering plains.  What felt like the broken middle finger on my left hand has moved to the thumb on my right.  If it’s arthritis, then, what the hell?  I should’ve never quit, shoulda kept drinkin’ and womanizin’ and waking up dead in a dead confederate palace, with my pants at Kim’s pool and the aching yellow sun splitting my skull like a shiv, until I could down 400mg and tell her to get…OUT. It’s painfully apparent, these are the end days.  I should’ve never left the life but I wish I’d let go a long time ago.

The stupid truth is the life never helped me let go either.  I was as hung up then as I am now and drugs never worked.  You’re not going to believe me but I could never enjoy myself on drugs because I knew it was only a drug.  How terribly unfun and what a fucking drag, eh Brother?  The closest I came was on mushrooms down at Stone Harbor, on the shore in the dark, with the Reverend and Butch as a storm rolled in. I lost myself that summer but never before and never again.  I’ve kept myself locked tight, fought against it in my 20s but embraced it until now.  I perfected my isolation and my Father’s poker face.  Like him, the world only hurt my feelings and to be obvious was to be played. What the hell? How did this thing rear and turn into a psychoanalytical journey and examination of why I’m no fun but still wishing for the days?

Oh well, if it brings us to the truth then I can live with that.  However we got here, we’re here, and these days I prefer to drink dark coffee with honey, read the news and pretend I’m smoking cigarettes in my mind, like a mid-life Cassavetes and type here in the center of a crumbling palace amidst:  piles of poetry collections, poster-pressed covers, a copy of Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl, CDs and receipts and guitar strings, stacks of typed and handwritten poetry-edited in red ink, the trusty NAS plugged in and humming beside and a cold cup of Italian Roast, in the blasting AC in what I thought at one time was the center of the Rock and Roll universe, in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country-the Pearl of the South and the Velvet Rut, Austin Texas Hippie Town U.S.A.

Incidentally, that moniker and euphemism for the good vibes and pretty white girls that grow on trees down here has become outdated.  All the hippies live in Smithville now and I’m outta here, too.  Call it The City of Izods&Boots, or, the Town of Technocrats or simply, Bro Country.  Call ’em the New Rich or Fancy Dog Walkers, call ’em whatever you want because I am outta here.  It’s been a long time that I should be far from here and 5 years since I wrote that elegiac paen to my departure from the barrio.  Facebook says I been on there 8 years today, which makes for an interesting capsule of my time down here-beginning with my very first post, a video of Cory Branan singing “Survivor Blues” and ending with, well, “The End” by The Doors.

I’ve learned a lot.  I’m a different man.  I’m making the seismic changes that come from staying in place.  It was real and it was fun but it wasn’t real fun.  I’m staying on this side of the river but I am getting the fuck out of dodge.  I’ve got 4 gigs booked in the next 2 months and 2 pages of contacts on legal yellow, letter-sized paper.  Work in media suits me.  I don’t mind the world, from a good safe distance, and writing about it transforms it somehow, makes even the horrid and unconscionable worth going through.  I’m a fire walker on here, a hard bitten scoop in the hard lands.  And, lovely and overwrought I bring it on home to you, good Reader, my Friend.

See you in Hyde Park motherfucker.

Run, Rabbit, Run

And the harder it gets now, the softer I sing
cause the fight to be human don’t mean anything
-Justin Currie

The budget blueprint is for the guidance of Congress; it is not presented to the president for a signature or veto and does not become law.
New York Times, 4 hours ago, on January 12, 2017

…the vote-a-rama is a wholly symbolic exercise, political theater.
-John McCain, R-Ariz.

Once a picaro, always a picaro.
-Thrall and Hibbard’s thesis on the nature of a Picaresque novel

Fuuuuuuuuuck.
-Brother Ignacio on Facebook last week

I feel the absence of Dr.Thompson acutely.  More and more and every year, the man and his work is the only rudder I can grab a hold of to steer me through the polluted black waters of the New Century.  I suppose there’s Ian MacKaye.  And Brother Don.  Which is to say the only faith I have in these dark times is in the hearts and minds of great men and women who’ve managed to keep their eyes and hearts open.  For me it’s been a journey back, I’m often lost in the blast, not as confused as angry, but it’s an anger that can shut the whole thing down.  It’s unfortunate, but not permanent, and my facilities may come back just in time.  Nobody knows what will happen.  The only thing we can agree on is an uneasiness in the gut as we brace ourselves for the terror of a country rolling backwards into the type of oligarchy I’ve been dreading my entire adult life.

I have a tendency to duck out, hide away-not so much in apathy but utter disgust-a muted outrage.  I’m good in the clutch, I’m steady, but the day to day bores me to tears.  My point is I’ve had to read the same article on NPR at least 5 times now, and I’m still not sure I understand it.  Politics are made deliberately obtuse, which doesn’t make it any easier for a zen outlaw and escape artist born in the Year of the Rabbit like me.  After my second go through of the article, I searched online for a great quote from Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, which led me to William Brinkley and spidered out into unrelated research and ended in a flame war on Facebook with a stupid twat and eventually plugging in my strat and doing some Stinson, Waits and Psalmships covers.  It’s almost 3:30 in the afternoon.  I’m exasperated from waking up at noon to hear the news, and vague and obtuse writeups on NPR and the New York Times.  Can this qualify as activism?  Am I done now?  Can I have some time to myself, take the day maybe, lay in the tub with a copy of Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail?

I am disgusted with myself.  Outraged at the world and about at the end of my rope here, at Going For The Throat.  It’s been happening for a while, probably concurrent with the tidal wave of dread that came over me right after I turned 40.  There was gratitude-and a real sense of power, standing in my kitchen, the last night of my 39th year.  I started to run myself through the ringer, you know, how I do, but then came something else.  You feel an ease in parts of your body you didn’t know you could feel anything.  Know what I mean?  There are parts of us that are so wrapped up in responding to stressors created by the mind that we don’t even know are there, let alone utilize, strengthen and nurture.  Aho I did not expect something positive to come of this post.  It was practically a resignation letter.  That is the power of writing, my Brother, my Sister.  You’ve got to clear the chamber. There is a diamond of you, buried ‘neath the toxic retelling of tired stories and lies.  You are not this detritus of the mind.  You are not your mind.  You are.  Unless you’ve made your exit-downing a bottle of barbiturates, running a garden hose from the exhaust pipe in through the window of your car, or turning the business end of a shotgun on yourself and pulling the trigger-like those 3 writers have.

As sad as it may sound, if not killing yourself is the one great thing you’ve managed to do today, this week, this year-than you can be glad.  I sure am.  But don’t worry about me.  This is not a cry for help.  I may be tired of my own bullshit and have to call myself out in public like this for getting frustrated at the news and dumb girls on Facebook but I won’t be checking out any time soon.  I’ve got work to do.

See you at the readings motherfucker.

Please join Jim Trainer this Sunday January 15th, at Malvern Books, as he and 100 other poets read as part of the National Poets Protest Against Trump and on January 22nd at Kickbutt Coffee, for his featured reading at SpokenandHeard, with wonderful poet G.F. Harper.  

“My comrades in arms, I bid you farewell.”

Honored to have some parting words featured, for what could be Psalmships’ last release, at psalmships.com.  Psalmships is songwriter Josh Britton, often solitary and sometimes accompanied by a cadre of low lonesome instrumentalists, moaners and crooners-including: Mike SloMo Brenner, guitarist and singers Brad Hinton, David Janes and Mike Batchelor,  bassist Phil D’Agostino, drummer Daniel Harvie,  Emily Shick Bolles, Kevin Killen and the haunting howls of Liz Fullerton and Chelsea Sue Allen.

Self credited ghost folk, Psalmships’ catalog is a sprawling song of longing and heartache.  Picking up where The Sweetheart Parade left off in 2009, Britton fell deeper and deeper, through valleys and heather, tracking beast and bird through the frontier, and came through with an empty Cathedral Blues, the soundtrack of freezing in the summer and burning throughout the winter.

“Obvious+Unafraid” is Psalmships 8th self-released work and eleventh overall.  These are the lights phantoming on the fringe, ever receeding and coldly burning, the limits that break our hearts open so that we may be vast and only.

Order “Obvious+Unafraid” here,  and pay for it what you will.

 

One From the Heart-The Sweetheart Parade “Sings Like A Priest”

Sweetheart Parade
Sings Like A Priest

Recommended for the dissolution of your marriage.  Listen with rusty glasses of bourbon while the wasted winter cleaves a cold white chasm between you&yr love.
Your sweat tasted like snow,
pines singer Josh Britton at the beginning of album opener Wren, and it starts the fever dream.  You’re on the train platform with her.
You’d be riding for days…
Britton and Laura Walsh sing haunting harmonies.  The kind you find yourself singing,  suddenly awake and alone on your bed at 2:30am.  The fever dream over.  The nightmare beginning.
I don’t know how this blackbird died
he must have fell out of the sky
This album places you in its Backyard, looking down at the dead bird, under the heaviest of skies, buried there in sorrow&snow.  It is then that the Sweetheart Parade gives you the Shovel.
Sings Like A Priest is a stout&frigid listen.  Its sturdiness comes in equal parts from Britton’s chunky barred chords on a dread nought, Daniel Harvie’s malleted&muted thump&wash of toms&cymbals and the solemn upright electric bass tones of Johnny B.  The reverb-soaked leadwork of David Janes on guitar and atmospheres of old, lost radio that bleed from track to track and mingle with the syrupy-sweet melancholia of Slo Mo’s pedal steel curate loneliness to surreal degree.

This is boot-gaze.  Indie music with some bassy balls.  Neutral Milk Post Punk fittingly self-credited as ghost folk and sadder than Death Cab For Cutie on a morphine kick.
This album has got it-the strange power of any great album to always take you on its journey-subtle, unsuggesting
and happy with what you find there, even if it is your own heartache&ruin.
All the reasons you should leave her are within these 8 tracks.  Recommended repeat listening to prompt, ease and navigate your mutiny, with tattered sails and a bitter cargo in the heart.
The best things always end when I’m sober…

To listen and order The Sweetheart Parade Sings Like A Priest click here.

Sings Like A Priest celebrates its 10-Year Anniversary with a deluxe reissue, complete with additional and live tracks.  Available here.

Not But For a Night

I’m as guilty as you are. My hands are shaking,
there’s a new curl in my lip. All night we stitch
our eyes through the air; I can hear what you’re saying,
but only the curse words, and I’m simply miming “Kill me”
at the bar. And the heat is on, so we’re forced to raise
a forearm to our brows, and you mock fainting; I pretend
to choke. People are noticing. You’re as guilty as I am.

by Josh Britton