spontaneous prose

I mentioned that when Chicken man Ken and I were barred from entering The Press Room we held a mini protest and read a poem on the street. The bouncer was not amused or entertained.
"We're with the band." I moaned.
"The band is already playing."
"I don't hear anything. Let me in."
"No."
"I'm going to have your job!"
blah blah blah...

But now two days later I'm wondering, what did I read? Because my Portsmouth Poem II for Ken's enjoyment and pianistic talent was still in my apartment...I never took it with me though I printed it out intending to practice our performance. So...what was I reading? This was in the back of my mind for two days and I seriously thought I was loosing it. Maybe I recited the Portsmouth Poem from memory. Or maybe I improvised something...that's possible. or maybe...wait...what is this crumpled piece of paper stuffed into my leather jacket? It's a street map of Laconia, NH and...on the back...oh, my. Is this what I read? Yes, it is. Written by two different hands I see this ragged poem was composed on the street or in a truck with a bottle between our legs, or maybe at a bar where we would be soon evicted from. I'll scan it in one day so you can see what we produced...but since that won't help you read it I will now translate.

First, you must imagine the scene of Daniel Street, me and Ken holding each other up as the bouncer bars our way, revelers in green walking by, pushing past into the bar ("Why are you letting them in?" "They aren't plastered." "Bullshit!) and so we read this out loud, yelling, stumbling over words, asking to get arrested. Have I painted the picture? I will remind everyone that I have had far more days that were nothing like this one so don't get all Woodrow Wilson on me.
Now for the text by me and Ken:

Here I sit in the hands of company that may
have or not destroyed the next job I am scheduled to paint.
"Do you have an acoustic piano?" he asked (With a camcorder in the client's face) as we took the check from the bloated bloke.
We anxiously sped off to the bank in which the check was drawn.

We reached the cashier + made the trade and broke the system of red headed sluts and cunts and the other jailed men we forgot in our time. The check was not canceled and so we are now obligated to do the work. And so we will, in torn jeans and on borrowed time. We walk the brick sidewalk and take down the wall-eyed common man. Flags wave but the station house is empty except for forced laughter and tears.

But yet for the grace of my lack of better judgment my ego swells with the thought of bringing down the press room as I pulled out my verbal shank and stab your ears with my beckoning voice that will tatter your broken soul, rendering it useless. Forgone opportunities has me not for my own good.

The bridge is up and the water is high. The lions are in town.

Painting by numbers

Number of times my boss looked at what I was doing and threw up his hands and said, "Whoa, whoa, wait...": 5
Number of goofs: countless.
Rude remarks to client: 0
Rude remarks while client wasn't listening: 43
Times I painted the wrong color on the wall: 2
Times I tried to pour one color of paint into a bucket full of another paint: 1
Times I felt like I was getting in the way: 10
Years of experience I have painting: 5+
Years of experience my boss would estimate I have: 0
Number of times I thought, "What does it matter, a bookshelf is going in front of this wall anyway." 15
Times I used the word "sabotage": 2

I am a useless painter. I don't know why I don't get it but I end up using too much paint or too little paint. It's frustrating because I know I'm actually messing up the job. It's simple, you put the paint where there is no paint. But there are all these lines and when I go over the lines I start to see new lines and so on. It never ends. And soon the paint is so thin I see the paint underneath...and what was the name of that song I was listening to the other day, was it Footsteps or Horizontal or...
"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?"
"What?"
"Oggy, you're painting the curtain."
"But you said the whole wall."
"But that's the curtain."
"It's connected to the wall."
"Just...go stand over there...be careful the paint tray...ok quick go get a rag...quick...watch the wet brush!"
I'm hopeless. When it comes to painting I am illiterate. A menace.

Fort Stark

Moments after I took this I fell into the ocean...




We're all familiar with that Rose Lane military establishment, that Gettysburg of my youth, Fort Stark. Well, this is what happens if you try to go home. The best thing to do is let it be subducted into the pages of history. Let someone else find the Titanic. Because although you will keep these places on cerebral life support, they will eventually drag you down also and all that will comfort you are the sharp rays of light from the banks of the other world, blinding you, forcing you to your knees.


OR you can stand tall against the elements and pray the wind is at your back when the waves breach the bulwarks. The light you see may be another ship burning, or it may be the direction home. Either way you must be bold.


Here's the monster's cave...

The weight of the world is on Ken's shoulders. He looks like a plumber checking out the diameter of the pipe he needs to pick up to put Fort Stark back together. But really he is saying a prayer for those who went before us. By the way, those tiles are pure asbestos.

Ti Jean 1922-1969

Against all odds, waking up with sockless Chicken Man Ken vomiting in my bathroom (some guys get girls underwear on their floor, I get Ken's filthy socks) and nearly fainting on I-95, napping in a rest area mid trip, navigating the 85mph Haverhill traffic, I made it to Lowell (Where everyone apparently doesn't know that the white figure on the walk sign means walk)... to summon Kerouac's spirit and was even driven to the Edson Cemetery by the lovely Claire...who read a poem left by Amy on the stone. Claire and I dined at Life Alive, a raw food eatery in Lowell that had damn good wraps and soups and grain salads. Any place that prepares quinoa is worth a visit...although Claire is probably thinking that answering personal ads that have the word "lunatic" in the title probably isn't a great idea. I think my whole chicken farming documentary should be a secret until it is actually completed. I've got the majority of the footage of chickens and goats in the can but the way I described it today was like a terrorist plot. The Kerouac plot is at Lincoln and 7th in the Edson Cemetery on Gorham rd going south out of Lowell downtown. Bring a pen and a poem.

St. Patricks Day Called and it wants its vodka back

The goal was to get kicked out of the Press Room but they did me one better by barring me from entering at all...so I read my poem in the street until the police came.
Then I got boomed out of Booma Post.
And in a dirt bag bar like the Daniel Street Tavern I somehow made enemies...like I'm the asshole all of a sudden.
"That's it. You need to go." Said the bartender as I reached for the zippers on her tartan skirt.
"You so want to kiss me right now, don't you," were my last words in that establishment.
This lass was not flirting in any way, shape or form. This was a picture I took as I was dragged away.
Note:
The best back up plan I've ever heard for a man shot down is, "I thought I saw a green light." Saying that on St. Patrick's day is even more clever. The woman will think you were either too dumb to see she loathed you from the start (which is flattering to her) or she will be flattered that you saw the green light she allowed for an instant but your methods were clumsy and not worthy of her. There are one liners for offense and defense. The modern man should be familiar with both. All bets are off if you've had too much to drink.