Another day at the office!
Just another trip around the sun, just looking forward to enjoying the next 1 to 31 more trips!… Happy birthday to me!
Silence is golden, The wise mans abode The poor mans dreams The rich mans convenience and The foolish mans casket.
The build up and follow through roll the rivers and roads raw dogs and boss hogs fog frogs get flogged in the bogs of Arkansas pomp and circumstance lyrical radio rants dead leafs that enhance bubble gum girls and battle boys rowdy rangers black balled head bangers and I’m chillin with the 82 class of Sanger. Time to put the party on a hanger.
“You, my audience, are all a bunch of poppaloppers. A bunch of tumbling weeds, tumbling ’round, running from your subconscious unconscious minds…. Minds? Minds that won’t let you stop to listen to a word of artistic meaningful truth…. So you come to me, you sit in the front row, as noisy as can be. I listen to your millions of conversations, sometimes pulling them all up together and writing a symphony. But you never hear that symphony… You haven’t been told before that you’re phonies. You’re here because jazz is popular, jazz has publicity and you like to associate yourself with this sort of thing. But it doesn’t make you a connoisseur of the art because you follow it around. You’re dilettantes of style. A blind man can go to an exhibition of Picasso and Kline and not even see what works. And comment behind dark glasses. Wow! They’re the swingingest painters ever, crazy! Well, so can you. You’ve got your dark glasses and clogged-up ears…. You become the object you came to see, and you think you’re important and digging jazz when all the time all you’re doing is digging a blind, deaf scene that has nothing to do with any kind of music at all.”
Charles Mingus addressing the audience at the Five Spot in NYC.
Wax museum manicures and the Highest Grade Dubs rolled down streets while you were Cursing at me, Pedestrian! I guess I didn’t mean to drive that slow /Jack White never borrowed your Snake and Dagger! /Scapegoats and Irish Hagglers, roped rangers with their Flower Power and immaculate conception of pacified realities/ So close to the truth that Socrates was really guessing about the answers and hitting home runs when he put a fist to his chin/ the same fist applied to her eyes wide kaleidoscope cranium/ Knock em out the park she says while her naked tongue sheds tears from the pain of tracheotomy penetrating the wind chimes of her once virgin voice box, spilling the viral venom of hard rock and tough love/ the kinds of things Don King would wear around his neck at a charity event to show that he really belonged there! //Do you like Dags? / The pig harvester Raging sausage fest/ Sporting the halitosis hemorrhoid of a breath/ A faded Pinto of Cadillac proportions/ When the rain came trickling down from Mount Sinai/ Oh how they Love their “the-at-tricks” gleaming teeth and limit breaking beauty/ I’ll take three the hard way and say hallelujah when the rapture of Jack’s Smirking Revenge comes downwind/ Blows the whistles and bells ringing/ Everyone said their prayers for the Nimble, for the pristine rat on steroids and stilts/ The equivalent of an all White Jackie Brown/ plastic Hair and nails, Plastic eyes and snout, Plastic smile and shoes that couldn’t hold the crown of a Plastic Tree Trunk legged Lust Mop!/ And here I stand in my Self-Righteous rigga-me-ro!/ can’t you hear it now in the sweet by and by/ nah They won’t even know what hit them like that girl and her throat babies last night./ I realize that it’s High Noon Sunday and the races are over/ I put my Faith in a Smiling Hound and won/ Those poor bastards are done/ The rapture happens every day/ when some Holy Fuck forgot what game they play./ That’s Life Mutha Fucker justice served Poetically./ John b. Nimble will be put down quicker than a Greyhound Business trip/ and I get to Grin my teeth into another chocolate Payday.