Here's what I can tell you. The night was shading toward late, the June air outside my screen door was blue-black and humid and the grey grass beneath that night was long, moist tendrils because I aint cut it and it was late. I was watching a cowboy film and then I just sat there drinking Dos Equis and feeling kind of arid.

Tell us about the android and the mutant some more Mott and the magic guitar player headed for the mountains. If it takes place 3 hundred years from now how can there still be an America. Oh there can be, fucker, there can be

for anyone wondering what the aliens might look like

Monday morning and blank as a sheet of Xerox. As antiseptically oriented as a store bed on display. Droning on and out like the voice of an announcer on NPR. Nasal People Reciting. Yeh. A human in one moment wholly defined by a sensation of having to urinate, but not wanting to bother. Sitting before a computer in an air conditioned business environment and therefore in better straits than the vast statistical majority of other humans on the planet, on the continent, in the country, in this very zip code. 26th of jejune. Ice. Huck.

rapid jacket stripping

landed sentient bile migration
get away from the cities get away from
the humans they are
insane

did the android think it or did
the alien. (I'll tell you
later)

he plays, you go into a trance

lyrics from old songs writ by Cromb

I got bitter bones inside my skeleton...
I got a taste for pain that's licking up my life...
Bring out your dead and cry these tears no more...

*

I'm a cannibal, an unhealthy animal
Who yearns to die on his own damn time
You're head's out of reach, baby,
So is mine

I don't want to frighten you
but it's something that I'll do
It'd be easier not to try
But I like to see you cry

I wanna spend the night with you
You are many, I am few
You are like two thousand strong
Why can't we just get along

I'm a bucket
You used to fill me with your rain
I gladly would be filled again, but that's understood
Since you slipped away, I feel like I'm no good

I don't want to frighten you, etc....

*

Last time I saw you was an ember August night
And you were riding down toward the mall on your bike...
They say it takes all this time to find yourself
I don't believe it. I want you more, I want you more

*

Child, who are you?
Child, who are you?
Child, who are you?
Child...

You carry too much
You carry too much
You carry too much
In your ocean's shell

You leave too much
You bleed too much
You need too much
In your ocean of self

*

You're walking away, turning back
What am I supposed to say?
I feel your love stealing away
But who's the thief? It's not easy to say

who knew

back in the day I could easily have written some crap about an empty cage but then I have to pause and think about what that image might mean and why it has cropped up on a morning that's otherwise fairly bland, no hangover whatsoever, no thoughts really to speak of, just feeling jealous at life because I'm not out on the river at this moment and fishing. or at home playing that 12-string Yamaha acoustic I bought 3 weeks ago when I decided that guitar playing etc. is it turns out the linch pin for me, the thing that holds it all together. You can get awfully negative thinking that something has passed you by and that ain't the Way, not at all, not at all. Nothing has passed by except what has passed. 34 is supposed to be a hella year though man; 7 is one of my luckiest numbers uh huh uh huh an empty cage what it means is that some wild entity has been let to creep free.  and sure, the world's going to hell too. that's part of it

reading material for you

yeh

Cheap red wine and red Indiana dusk and Camel Lights lit one after the other and anxiety on the gray carpet up on the 7th floor of the residence hall, yeah, that was Cromby all right. I seen him. And then he went to play his acoustic guitar and sing on the curb in front of the bar. Drinking beer right out there on the sidewalk at midnight. Why he not do that no more? It's cooler when you’re 22. Why he not just get in a blues band back then and wear sunglasses and ape Angus Young back in them days? If he could have achieved promiscuity it would have been easier. Natural. He should have gone to the guitar, harder. Could've led to him rolling down some highway outside, say, San Diego, in a red Mustang, headed back in from the desert. Blues, blues. Hair down to his ass. None could believe his slashing guitar. He plays, you go into a trance. Beizart. Years and years later Cromby'd make it out West and realize how wrong he'd been about the whole scene just based on what he'd heard. Man you could've gotten truly fucked in a pair of deadly obsidian eyes, black glass, her cocaine blood. When he crossed the border into Kentucky though, rolling in his white '89 Nova. Woof. Down into minor key hell in Sandy Springs Georgia. Unto dreams of apocalypse. In a Georgia jail. Sweat bees attacking him early early in the morning on a high ledge along the Chattahoochee. Buckhead Fred said calm down, be cool. Cromb fell down and broke the dude's spare fishing rig. Oh well. Then Cromby was Nipwilliger sitting hangover blasted over his dollar meal at Wendy's. You know I was Nipwilliger. Legerdemain. No, Beizart. But who is he now. Yeah. Flash, he's passed out on top of his Stratocaster in the 8th Ave. subway. Wow. Wham, the aliens got him, cloned him. Took the clone to their planet. Left Cromby with a telepathic link. You can't refute this. And they wonder why he can't concentrate at work. Actually, they don't. He got them fooled. Who da fuck Cromby? Really man. Fuck

After I've simplified everything
I'll meet you back here

Could be tomorrow
Could be next year

I bored myself into submission.

a needed fulmination of common sense

falling prey to

this guy

for no particular reason except that of Friday

vicissitudes of
temperament
and in daily routine
are what keep fucking me up

mental productivity
is an oxymoron
manual productivity
is a bitch

poetry is a channel
much like
need

Never was I so happy to see a May pass by