When You're Lost In The Rain In Jaurez

they sat together in the park
as the evening sky grew dark

there's somethin in those two lines. somethin like the patience it takes to really watch a sunset. somethin like holdin hands for the first time with someone you love or at the very least pretty damn sure. somethin like knowin that everthing is gonna be ok. somethin like that which doesn't happen all too often and not enough.

i pick off the hours like a sniper at a half click out.

and i smell the smoke in my hair, smoke from another fire i set alight, hot oil on the coals and incense in the blood - this ain't holy service and it ain't whole no not while somethin's missin and not while somethin's amiss.

i contemplate the droppin of my g's and realize that doin so is another false somethin but recognizin that voice out of the ether makes me remember that i do come from somewhere and somewhere is where i'll one day be.

how long will i be ridin?
how long must i keep my eyes glued to the door?
will there be any comfort there, señor?

i was once told that home is a place worth dyin. i didn't believe it for the longest of time, and i still don't know that i do and fully, but i can say for certain that i've finally come to the point of understandin. i've finally come to the point of knowin that home ain't just somethin imagined, ain't just somethin pulled from nothin. home is a place worth waitin for. even if it ain't never gonna come.

music of children pulls me out but only just for a moment. a switch to the next to hear the soft tones of french into the most american of english puts me back on track. just a quarter past four minutes is all it lasts, but if i had my druthers i'd stay there indefinitely. but there it is, the soft blueglow of sunrise pokin through trees in front of what i currently call home, so i s'pose that means the end of one more ramblin.

i'm at the end of a rope that i didn't even know was there 'til i was nearin the end. but ain't that how it goes?

when i was sittin in front of a fire tonight i remembered a lyric i once writ:
home is where the heart is
read crocheted mantle piece
and that's all i could remember. but i s'pose that's all i needed to.

So Proud To Be Alive

bird faces, iced hair
pink and white
tights like sex
of the unknown kind

south loop train stops
for college girl mysteries
for high skirts
hiked up high

like the first minute of
a public transportation porno
stop after stop after stop
getting more and more

dense crowded intense
faces tired and hispanic
black and beaten down
young and hormonal

this...
is chicago
birthplace of house
and of slam

of improvisational
of sound design
hog butcher for the world
mecca of and for the midwest

"voices of broken hearts,
... voices singing, singing
... silver voices, singing
softer than the stars
softer than the mist"


blues brothers sunglasses
spring time's 'a comin'
and on a mission from god

A Psychogeographical Saunter-Step

wait... no just wait. Do you hear that? No, really try. That's Moscow in the telephone, and they're waiting for a reply.

Now i've never been to Moscow. Mike has. I haven't. But i've known city streets like you wouldn't believe. Europe. North America. The Caribbean. South America. Australia. The Pacific. Don't believe me? Check the map. And with a fire amidst face and belly i've walked those streets looking for something, for anything really, trying to find more than just the next stop on the itinerary. Prostitutes in Valparaiso. Blind harpists in Quebec. Cabbies in St. Kitts. Homeless in Memphis. Coconut vendors in Tonga. Drinkers in Filey. Lovers in Paris. Pretty much what you might expect - more so if you expect the unexpected. Now. All of this has left me with no more than party conversation and dinner party stories, but here's the thing: I'm no storyteller. Like Dylan in the movies, i'm a farmer... and who ever heard of a storytelling farmer? What it comes down to, what it is that matters, is home. And where is home? Your guess is as good as mine. What does one do without one? "But surely!" you'll say, "One must have a home!" Well that's where your exclamation gets a little sticky. Because fact is: one mustn't. Or not necessarily must. If i were once again a college freshman i'd write a dictionary entry for "home," but those days are long since past and sadly. If i were a crocheting housewife i'd point to "home is where the heart is" above the mantle and say that's that. C'est ça, c'est la. But again... not so simple, pas si simple.

In his Introduction to a Critique of Urban Geography Guy Debord wrote that psychogeography, "could set for itself the study of the precise laws and specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behavior of individuals." Ok, ok, i know i'm defining like a college freshman (and Guy Debord no less), but there is something to this. He goes on to write, "The adjective psychogeographical, retaining a rather pleasing vagueness, can thus be applied to the findings arrived at by this type of investigation, to their influence on human feelings, and even more generally to any situation or conduct that seems to reflect the same spirit of discovery." Pleasing vagueness? Yes. But if you want direct straight arrow aim-is-true bastardized some kinda direct: The streets we walk make us who we are. I'm gonna write that again if for no other reason than to drive the point home and hard. The streets we walk make us who we are. Now. Like i said: I've walked streets. I've seen alleys and avenues. Boulevards and back gardens. Cross ties and cul-de-sacs. Have they made me a more of a person? Hell, no. But have they made me? Most certainly.

In Kushner's adaptation of Corneille's L'Illusion Comique there is a line spoken by the Maid, Lyse - and so well spoken - "To want. But to want less." It's one of the vaguest, most difficult to judge lines in the genre of modern classic theatre. "To want. But to want less." It isn't a strong character choice. Where does she draw the line? What is the difference in want and want less? Here's the tough part: there isn't. There is no line. There is no Haussmannian boulevard to barrel through the vague declensions of human desire. And that's the goal/problem/paradox of psychogeography. The smallest something is something, and the greatest something is still nothing. We can walk the streets of the world, Broadway from Battery Place to Yonkers, the grid of Chicago, the Boulevard Périphérique from Porte de Versailles to Porte de Versailles, but where does that get us? The same place from which we started, that's where. But with a something else.

What is that something? "I'm not sure of... i can't remember the name." And oh yes oh yes it's a nameable thing, but no one can remember the name. "It was down the street from my apartment. I used to go by there pretty often." Nameable but unknowable. "Once a month or so." Every so often we lock into these places. A name, a smell, an odd convergence of light. "It was set back from the street in a courtyard garden." And we think, if only for a moment, that we are home. "A courtyard garden. A winding path. A stone gazebo. A..." And the transmission is lost. But wait... something from the ether... something... "Beautiful tall windows and red stone walls." And the signal fades.

But if you listen close... you might hear Moscow in the telephone. "At every step, the riddle of human behavior and the nature of love appeared bound up with Russian." ...What?

Resignation of the soul? Or spirit of discovery?

"I never went inside. It was clear to me i should keep it as it was in my imagination. The most peaceful place."

Les Communards Sans Soixante-Huitards

we roll from banlieue to arrondissement avec triumphal arch all electric magentic cord attached to the back pulling it down in the process all the while a fuck you smeared across lips, and
- you changed your hair
- yeah
and then she was off with age old an older than expected but still not so very old yet not so very young should'a seen it wish em the best hey when's the wedding!

and we were left with the before all a beers bar sittin waitin to be somethin useful when all of a
- i know you!
- yeah you too!
and that was that.

next!

so this is what is a community... les commune? fuck i cain't keep up. just simple southern boy whooo-wheee just country boy tryin to keep from gettin too overwhelmed... when the reality is somethin more like: yeah. i got this. we run this town. the music playing in my ears is more like:
assassin for hire.

the ring road our castle wall parapet. we. are. les centre ville.

have you seen the city on it's own and famous holiday? i have. it ain't nothin all too much worth shakin over. i promise. grab a seat. watch a firework explosion and boom. that's all they is. the wine and roast chicken is worth more a somethin more for payin attention to.

- let's do this again.
- i like that idea.

you see... sometimes the painful tortured oh-my-god-how-can-i-ever-face-this-shit-again becomes the: yeah... alright. And against all better judgments. How does it happen? If you don't know then i'm not telling.

oh alright.

fine.

here goes:

¬ a couple outside relationship working
¬ a headphone music loud experience
¬ a new hair white t-shirt
¬ this time baby i'll be bulletproof
¬ questionable decisions
¬ bad decisions
¬ a vague email that is undecipherable to the point of giving up on
≈ is what is.

there you go.

oh is that not answer enough for you?

well goddamn aren't you a needy fucker.

let me put it likes this:
we roll from banlieue to arrondissement avec triumphal arch all electric magentic cord attached to the back pulling it down in the process all the while a fuck you smeared across lips.

still not enough? that's too bad. because that's all you'se gonna get.

Nothin' But Clouds Of Blood

and i can't help but wonder what Ginsberg thought on and upon and around during his own long walks home after late nights, evenings, soirs, nachts und noches with his very own stumble-step versions playing in repeat. did he come up and over with new thoughts poetic and plain filled with mixes and free and friendly given him by accidental neighbors in squalid flats of lonely dive?

now seems a moment in worth staying in and on of peripatetic lifestyles neither rich nor famous to discuss another cityscape love song but i'll suffice it to say - and with words of another - "well the winds in Chicago... have torn me to shreds."

and if you've ever wondered how deep is deep:

well there you go.

and if you think this unsatisfying in the most, least, and any other wayst, well to that i'll say: yes. yes it is. it's all unsatisfactory. factory burning bright.

"well there's too many people.... too many to recall."
and somtimes you're mistaken for strangers by your own friends,
and the smallest voice can take you to the worst of places.

The Fish And The Cow

the sun is out in a far southern corner of my window to the point that slightest head motion forward blinds and reverse does opposite - but isn't this just the natural way of things? and it leaves in its shadow everything all a blueish white. and it leaves a parallelogram projection screen on my wall with dazzling shadow effect. and the leaves... well, there are none to speak of. a coffee and leftover lentil breakfast the first thing in my stomach since white wine and fine french cookies; rosé wine and a dinner of pork, sauerkraut, and potatoes; red wine and paté, cheese, and crackers. there was also the simmered veal bones, but that's not finished, not even yet. the entire experience now just memory and list. a catching up, a getting closer. the process measured in hours, the meal, minutes. the end rarely more than the means. but isn't that just the natural way of things? at least as we see them? did i forget to mention the bread?

Angels On The Console

unknown Japanese candy, spindle cells, cheap red wine: and i go slouching toward Bethlehem. the signal chain is faulty and i'm the only one who knows it. multi-adapted many cable run and there it is, the beginning of the universe in one more room while i lie awake trying to crack the electric code. i'm told that thoughts can sometimes suppress feelings, that we can't, like a dog, just hump every other dog and see what happens, that our social interactions are very complicated. well... yeah. and dancin, oh how they dancin.