whiskey at the whisky, relinquishing control, giving over the torch to a new harmonic melody, interested in the way the mind works after such large quantities of tranquillizer and the results are not looking too good so far for you. Floor beneath my feet slips away because I did not pay the bill. But why embarrass me in front of everybody? There is no rush to escort me off the premises. I am aware of consequence and I was offered marijuana under the stairway leading to the stage. I am no different, in a sense, to the pcp maniac who talked enthusiastically to himself despite if anyone truly paid any attention. We heard his voice from down the echoing street. Hair is wet in the rain. Sarcasm is infrequently registered on first acquaintance. You can never be understood, though you are surely a poet. The way you mold your words around phrases, all matching in theme and meter with other nonsensical phrases, though writing it all down might seem something coherent and wondrous for the expression of the abstract. A new expression of an old intoxication. Something sudden present despite a long and barbaric past prior to attention. This attention is all any of it matters in the reams of history. This man has no one else writing of him. No clear evidence will ever come across my desk. Rambling about hot sake and then marijuana and then the freedom of speech in the name of the almighty, oh lord jesus, but he did not follow us to his car despite saying the word 'premeditated' multiple times in our company without any subject or noun to lead or follow. His problem as a prose/poet begins with the fact that he himself lives outside of context. He lives beyond structured lines that help writers so well to achieve dreams in definite spaces. Walking across vast plains. Lighting cigarettes with a small bundle of sticks and rocks, like cavemen. Saying weird things but I find them interesting, says someone also in the shadows.
The nebulous jazz fusion but with perfect control. They collaboratively trained for sleep deprivation in the face of an undisclosed reality. (foot goes numb from tapping on the ground. a poem about the mental and emotional investment in the right kind of listening.) no cover but you will have to buy a drink and that turned into four and then it was discontinued. The beer glass by the trumpet-player's foot determined the length of the second set. Organically it somehow became empty and they killed their instruments in unison. There is a telepathy going on between them and a naturally rising and falligag cadence, with rhythms in between the brain waves, dotted eighth notes and new songs learned too quickly and with a bored patience. Huge meticulous crescendos. Musical ideas contrived and thought up quickly together at a too-rapid pace. Call out others for smoking inside and make dry humor jokes about sleeplessness or song titles. That's the humor. Song-titles. Otherwise they are majorly confused and anti-personal. Musicians who do not give lessons. Musicians who play better than anyone but have no recollection of such performances. It cannot even be conceived in them. Jazz lessons. Feed that animal burning to rupture skin inside of you. It is a black out and a lapse of consciousness. Falling into a state, cohesively, of lucidity though fogged out by genuine experience. This is the vacancy buddhists search for. Follow the train of thought. The same absence felt by a jazz musician the height of musical improvisation is similar to the 'flow' the essence of life made forcibly automatic in beautiful esoteric moments.
There will forever be the small blonde under the stairwell. Complain about the rain. "I was born inside of a rain drop and now I'm falling." Who knows, who cares. There is a stifled greeting in the air found of breaths taken... (suddenly a flash... of absurdity... strangers entering my life simply to be written about... they are avid readers of my bullshit and enjoy the honest yet abstracted approach I have on things... on occurrences in my daily life... all of those filthy missed connections... they read and love all of my bullshit... they come from the city into my life in droves... drones... and wish to be written about individually instead of as one dark mass... though it would at first start as individual meetings... names rarely mentioned. but why? there is no why. it should register in a similar sense. Always there will be the too-drunk girl falling over and pressing her tits against things 'on accident'. She has dark hair. I can't remember her name and she never tried to remember mine. Always the dressed-to-impressed rock scene and the semi-conscious girls who join in this late. That blonde will always be there. She will always have short hair. It will never grow. Smoking weed against best wishes talking about the prime time out of a given day for big hits and that rhythm simply sounded false. I tuned out, naturally. She looked at me once or twice. Probably because I talked in metaphors or strange plays on words which most people never notice or hear. They simply tune out. Like I do in conversations about tv shows. She speaks in rhetoric and no one ever understands any of the fuel in her.
City of devils.
