Age And Delusion

,Books rest akin to athletes who have run their races. Frank rubbed his palms and fingers across pages, gone yellow, marked in time. Frank waiting to die, his music, the lingo of his generation dissolves in a fine funnels of mists. Buildings, gray markers the granite cracks, are the only things anchored in time. They will last longer than Frank. Frank finds himself staring, eyes parked on various items knowing they'll outlast him. They'll be in the air, feel the heat from the sun the cold of winter. A body bundled, hanging in a doorway swing in silhouette. Frank was drawn to it. The beer bottle rolled from the palm of Franks's hand. Sitting there he recalled the first time he popped his cherry at 16 with Janna. . . . The lights came up and Frank stumbled to the street. The beer joint a half a block up the street was bathed in yellow light. Frank found himself very thirsty.

1Hit Wonders

They took the stage, aged "One Hit Wonders," their skin happy to be under stage lights again. The band, singers no set order. I'm producing the show. It's playing in my head. You could hear Cliff Knoble and "The Horse" to "Where A Flower In Your Hair" Scott Mackenzie. Artifacts like tattered bits of paper and cloth. Reproductions of long gone buildings on Sunset Blvd. rebuilt in my head. Transparent somehow so real my fingertips can dance over the granite blocks at Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard. No 1-800 number and $9.95 needed. Sit back, check the road and listen to the one hit wonders in my head.

BBQ

Frank waited in line. The windows on each cubicle were filthy, glazed white ribbed glass. They gave off vibes of boredom and misplaced authority. A fat woman, black butch hair stubbles of hairs on her upper. She told Frank to sit down. He held his paperwork in his hand and a black pen, stamped on it in gold letters, "Property Of US Government." Tiny by breads of sweat started to pop up over her lip like some source had turned on a small sprinkler system. Frank felt pity and boredom for her in her tight blouse holding two large masses passing as breasts. Frank knew they were implants. She had black and gold pins for years of service to the Feds. Frank hated interview shit, however it was the only way to keep the unemployment checks rolling in so he filled out the form. He slid the papers across her desk. She flicked her pen. Her faced turned red. I'm not sure I understand one of your answers." "Getting blasted and chasing pussy. Mam, what is it you don't understand?" The woman behind the desk started a Tsunami of sweat pouring across her greasy, dark hair. Her elephant size dimpled arms rested on the desk. Frank thought, if you could stand the flab hanging on her, she be would be like working your way through a fat covered spare rib thick BBQ sauce and pan grease along with buckets of cheap beer. There was nothing there except to get it off and move on. Although, Frank wondered if she could get something over on the Feds? Before leaving he handed her his paperwork, "meet you at your place at 7 tonight," he whispered. She gave a little laugh coming out like Tommy Gun onG helium and slid him paper with her address scrawled in childish handwriting. After 2 six packs he knocked on her small apartment door. Three hours later he stumbled out of her coop, BBQ juice dripping from his face. The last site he remember this fat body sitting cross legged on a day bed holding her fat little feet with sausage fingers. Frank stumbled down her driveway turned and retched so hard his stomach felt like it was being forced out his mouth. He had defiled God's oil tanker. Punishment? To be set a drift in a moral dingy on the universal sea of shit.

TRAIN TRACK

Bolted down, a rust burnt frame, like an overcooked french fry The box ,once painted fresh green now covered by and gang art and graffiti, lurches like a stumbling pachyderm against the mid day shimmering sun, The cars's jerk forward banging and screeching brining the three struggling men in to Frank's view as he sat among the brown weeds and oil covered earth. Sounds of flesh under truck tires wet and sucking chicken bones cracked splintered thrown in a huge grinder. Taking it no longer, Frank pushed up from his knees, galloped down the hill like the four legged beast he became He wades in the feeling fresh air on his blood cut knuckles. Through rage and injustice Frank puts the two thug men from a bad early MGM movie down. The first one small, almost underdeveloped with a high forehead and short deformed arms. The other reedy, thin and a natural shark type likes to partner up with other feral human beings to drink the honey pot dry. Frank hoped they had a good taste; he hoped it would be their last.

Shit.

Things were going great yesterday. Great rehab at Panther with Luke and my publisher Michael came by with great books. I fixed a post and read. Things were the best. It didn't hold. Last night I fell at 2AM. Mary had to call the EMT'S. They wanted me to go to Rose. I wouid't go. Doctor's appoientlment today. OVER AND OUT. Does any of the above make sense?

Dig This

I've been doing most of my poetry and prose right off the top of my head on the blog. Not a good idea my publisher Michael tells me. Too many mistakes. Rather than blow the whole thing up like Mitt Romney thinking economic stimulus is handing a rich slob a check. I'm going to stop. Fix the thing and then move forward.

Mary And The Finial Bell

A Jewish rich Westwood-Hollywood life. Sunday dinners with Annie, Grandpa Bill holding my tiny child hand his limo following behind the two of us. Swimming pools, insects skim off the warm blue chlorinated water. Mom and dad yelled and fought. I stood on the stairs of our 2 story Brentwood home. My rigid mother, voice like a North Korean propaganda machinte small North Dakota voice behind clenched teeth locked down in anger. A Sothern California rush of wind and autum leaves my LA life reduced to a dream. One day "You People" flopped in to my world. Angle boy searching for a maid more than a wife Sunday old woman trust fund money. He came with his 2 little piglets. A third spawned from the devil's seed to be be his bitch in Organce County. Years of crushing blows to my self esteem, like a boxer who can't answer back,I'd search for the upper cut for 40 years, my wife Mary my cut man and life coach. If it were not for her, I'd never gotten up to answer the final bell. The Pigllets and "You People's bitch counted out and set a drift years ago down for the count

Christ Child

Frank crawled downn the ally on fours a dingy yellow ligh bulb guides his way. Dirty rubber tubbing wound around his bicep needle hanging in cracked dried blood. Tears, sweat and dopamines make him reach for the Chist child's lovin hand only to find no child. No light of redemption. Frank sits in the alley dope blind demons working his head while world rigor mortises sets in.

Poetry,Prose Pomes

Sure! Add trees, mountains, streams, birds, the moon, However, LEAVE THE REAL WORLD OUT. No divorce, credit card bills, fucked up boss downright ugly AuSchauwitz like life.

Life

Ya think anyone cares? New rehab place for my hip operation. I go today. My emotional mood could tip either way. The hospital fucked up my meds. I'm on the bi polar rollercoaster. The sound of a steel guitar note saws through Frank's gut. He knew what he had ahead of him. He'd gotten Winnie June preagnant, not out of love, but lust for those legs, those thighs, those feet. The kind of love that turns you into a human jack hammer. Out in the parking lot of The Gold Cup Bar and Music Emporium among the gravel, beer, sweat summer dressed Winnie starts to fight. Three months with child she knees Frank in the nuts. He sinks to his knees. Seeing bands of bright red pain he takes a wild round house right connecting with Winnie June's stomach. She doubles in pain. Frank watches as his young son drools down June's legs in a mass of red blood and egg white placenta. Frank stumbles towards his Buick, up chucks, calls 911, for June, and speeds off. Jail time is there spreading it's legs. Franks doesn't know how to get there and doesnt want to find the road to it. Haggard on the radio "I Take a lot of Pride In What I am. Frank doesn't nod.

Swimming Blue

Polished, cold blue steel nudging the rib of Mr. Wall Street hand over the expensive, buffed calf skin case. Motel room dingy smelles of stale smokes, stale sweat, fake love. Frank sleeps and rolls among stacks of green and dilaudid popers storming his nervous system like anarchrist soldiers. Death a short swim to the other side Of the light. Frank has plenty of pills and plenty of green. "It's a crazy world pops and there comes a time to check out.

Eye Catching Patterns

A gun, a bag, some muscle, plad coat headed for Jax highway. Buckets of beer the slumping sound of a dead body on car horn. Hand gone cold and blue beer warm and stale. The 9 milimiter says nothing in eye catching smoking patterns

Radio Today

CC Fires all Humans earning a paycheck

Tom Casey COO of CC explained that after multiple exhaustive studies they discovered the root cause of Clear Channels cash flow challenges stem from the hiring and retaining of employees. “Bob and I looked at the matter and felt employees or “parasitical maggots” were draining the company of cash which would otherwise be used to artificially exaggerate the stock price and lure more dim-witted investors to the table”. CEO Bob Pittman could barely contain his excitement as one of his hairs fell out of place during Friday’s press conference; “This is good for Clear Channel, good for the industry and good for my insatiable hunger to make more people unemployed and secure the most money for John, myself and Tom”. 
All Clear Channel stations will receive music programming disseminated to their empty stations using an I-Tunes on shuffle from one computer here in San Antonio. Mr. Pittman said that all their only remaining employee Ryan Seacrest (KIIS-FM) will program and voice track pre-scripted entertainment from Los Angeles. “This is a dream come true for me since I’m sick and tired of walking down the hallways feigning interest in employees by saying little things like; how was your weekend, how’s your dying aunt Esterita, great trend etc.” Pittman adds; “the only thing that could have made this change better is if I personally got to kick each employee in their respective private area or cause some kind of injury as they left.  CC Spokeswhore Cindy Olivera followed up the announcement with reassurances that this move would free up Clear Channel to provide more local content and also promised to make available thousands of empty radio facilities around the country for use as new homeless shelters.
 
We compiled a list of all the Clear Channel employees national and local relieved of their duties and published it for your convenience on our website; weowneverything.com
 

HAZY, LAZY DAYS OF SUMMER.D

Endless blue sky ready to be scooped up like sherbet. Clouds appear and spread like white and brown foam. The highway worn gas pump clicks the price like an ancient inarticulate set of gears. Frank watches the attendant,a kid, uses the window washer and bucket. The eye watering, Mr Clean stench is weak. Frank figures there's a good portion of water in the bucket instead of cleaner. The suns' warmth wraps around Frank's arms. The station attendant struts up to the car; smile on his face. Twenty minuets later he's slumped against the Flying A pump hands pressed to his head. Dark velvet red blood drabbles from betweeen his rigomortis. Frank counts the money. It's another lazy, hazy highway day.

I have a Frank story in my brain He wants out, I want to let him out. I'm to sleepy to throw him the key. I keep plugging my collection of poetry, "Death Dance." The reason. There's no other way to get the word out. More later.

Where's Frank?

Frank stories? You bet. No Frank now. I'll have one soon, some poetry and other babble. By the way buy my just out poetry collection "Death Dance" from Howling Dog Press howlingdogpress.com. JM