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.

The Birds Will All Fly From My Head

readin out loud

i cross the yellow snow of streetlight fantasies
passion plays of late night winter
and i try to remember clever alliterative lines
from late last night as i saw them running
to get home together
to fall into bed faster
to be closer that much sooner
but they were only running to catch the bus

late night transit before bars and boys and taxicabs home
a night out on straight streets
grid locked, land locked except for a dead lake
and too many legs of the same damn river
"this winter shit has got to go" she said with such conviction
but go where?
this winter shit was here before any of us
and is most likely gonna be here long after

it's simply the acception we gotta do to live
in this downtownish concrete kinda city
and $30 for a gallon of caramelcorn?
fuck that hot corn and burnt sugar
enough to fill a milk jug
no i can't i'm a man of principle
even if i am wearing a dr. pepper hoodie (a woman's, an ex's)
over a ravaged gap sweater (discounted, 8 years old)
and under a track jacket (polyester)
i still have principles

i step outside for my legal break and i wonder what's become of mehrdad and his american dream - well let's be honest his american dream home because isn't that what it's all about? i mean he could be sellin crystal meth to nine year olds but it's really about the house you live in - when my train of thought gets derailed by a leather jacket twice my size vocal exhalin the beer or maybe just the outdoors climate that seems to have settled in so i do a semi-sidewalk street flick and out and stumble step back in to my snifter of beer, beer so strong they serve it like brandy and i'm thankful for such cause anything more and i'd be on my ass sooner than i could stumble home and then a skirt steps in front of my window all dark haired tattoed and gum spittin sexy, probably turns her vowels into diphthongs and her men into assholes but damn if i don't want to get to know that fleur di lis on her forearm a little better, but wool coat over steps her and its probably for the best cause i got me a lady damn fine one at that and my own personal lydia-the-tattooed-lady steps back into the insides pullin heels like this were a airport check in and i can't even imagine the face i'd pull bein out on a social occasion with that, fleur di lis be damned, i'll get my own before i get to know that one any better.

and this seems like a time for tellin: i'm still a sucker for curly hair and red hair and boots knee high, for pencil skirts, for accents un-american and eyeglasses, my god talk about spectacle, but then again i'm just a man and i s'pose this makes me a sucker just on general account cause those of us at least what are the decent ones are decently enough well and awares to know that ain't what makes a something into a some kinda thing like and whoa. that takes a little more and not too little after. and if we're lucky there are still surprises - a day called in sick to spend in bed with our own lazy selves, underpants smaller than expected, an extra bottle of wine purse hidden and secret - but that ain't never what makes it some kinda thing worth havin because that is something undefinable, something unknown until you're in the very midst of, until you've washed up on the shore and realizin that you're no longer drownin, no longer lost at sea.

The Gift - Part ?

we walked in to a cash in hand beer and a shot sit down but in the meanwhile passin,
- somma dees guys couldn sell life insurance tuh duh Kennedys.

which seemed a hard foreshadow to what i'd been waitin to tell her my own self. my very own life insurance policy if that's what you could ever really in good conscience call it.

and so i did. did that which i'd been plannin for but with poor less than a plan.

and she shot back a quicker draw than i coulda ever gave her credit
- how can you give the gift a Death? what the hell even is it?

i said nothin but a shot sip and stare but she with a shot swig and stare down,
- a gift is somethin but Death that ain't but a nothin and that's the why we the livin have so much trouble understandin. people adapt, learn to cope, learn to deal, learn to live with all the things that happen but Death... Death is a no-thing and when someone goes off into the never quite it of it we lose with them all ability to adapt and we lose that pocket of every thing that was them and that cain't be a gift. can it? sure you can give the gift a life it's the most meaninful of which is why Death is the least of, an approaching negative infinity a boom, no, anti-boom a sucking sound and done and done. it ain't a somethin i can appreciate and it ain't a somethin i can thank you for and it ain't even hell a some thing but a no thing. a less than every kinda thing. it is only that which i can accept because that's all and only what Death is, a that which we accept cause in the face a it there ain't no response.

and then in that staredown the tamale guy showed up. rurnt everythin. makin life beautiful again,
- hot tamales! ¡pollo! ¡puerco! ¡y queso tambien!

six for five and another round. her tab.

we eventually walked out into what we'd been hearin on the jukebox weather forecast,
- well the winds in Chicago... have torn me to shreds.

------------------

we walked into the buildin with it smellin all a steak frites at the bottom and cheap vanilla candle at the top and we still went to bed that night and we still went together. an undress a teeth brush a customary fuck but how could it be anythin more than just bodies when somethin like this had come up? and in certainly less than casual conversation.

- there's some kinda things... you never can... kill.

and then in those late night hours, after what two such as ourselves often do in those hours the very same, there came quiet like and straightforward a simplest of sayings,
- i loathe your methods but hell if'n i don't admire your ideals.

and somehow we fell asleep with limbs all a tangle soon to be numb in later night hours when you wake up just enough and only to realize why it is you're wakin up.