Shin deep in Ira Keller’s Fountain and the middle of the night’s never been so quiet.
Gas tank’s drained bombing up the mountain, the summer’s waning and I’m trying to fight it.
Birds elude the attack that’s mounting and the wile in their smiles don’t try to hide it.
Honeybees, honey please, these streets are our playgrounds, you’ve just helped decide it.
Let’s have a brief talk about Rage Against The Machine. My absolute adoration with this band goes beyond all things I consider important in terms of musical science or their talent for playing varied styles of rock, punk, funk, metal, soul and hip-hop.
I’ve little idea about how to explicate why this musical band is so fundamentally sound or how each of their songs tremendously evolve from the first intro and hook to the final pounding note. Like a thrown fist through a Molotov cocktail.
Rage rocks so much beautiful, angry violence that when their music plays, I swallow pride and relinquish all possession of physical restraint. Rage’s music makes us want to learn, enlighten and burn things down. We find brutal passion in Rage’s songs, we dig in our bowels and bring our frustration and fury to the surface like smashmouth weapons, seeking to slaughter those who turn blind eyes to the unspeakable plight of others.
I could write all night about why this band is sick beyond all comprehension and how their sound became a vision of political outrage and musical evolution, but I’m assured that it’s all been done.
All I can introduce is how this band reminded me of how terrible American foreign and domestic policy can be and how sometimes the only way to think is to rock and how the only way to live is to scream.
It’s hot. People you know are stripping down and running through fountains in the middle of the city in the middle of the night. Fountains you didn’t even know existed though you had passed by this very spot on Front Avenue many times and just missed it. With a bit of convincing you realize that this decision couldn’t have been a better one and despite later riding home on a motorcycle in soggy jeans, you’d do it again a hundred times over.
Texting is vexing and I’m tasting her hex
thrown in my mouth like how violence becomes sex.
Wrestling with decisions, to devour or protect?
As I try to shake her words and the intent they reflect.
Stalker, stalk her, swinging in a tree
Kay eye ell ell eye enn ME.
Connections in directions we don’t always see
in the face of temptation we fight,
fuck and flee.
Her walk is a sway like how trees bow and bend
delivering that look as she sharply intends
to mock the way animals attempt to be men
and her age betrays youth as it always has been.
Hedonist heeding this, clamoring for vision
feeding this, needing this, a delicate incision
opening the skin and bleeding sweet suspicion
as the walls tighten down ’round this secret little prison.
Paralyzed larynx, anaphylactic shock,
All we did was go for a walk
my buddy was having a ball
running up and down downtown blocks.
Panic occurs in degrees.
When my dog drops and seizes,
Panting and frothing, eyes dying to breathe
is when I’m frantic and on my knees.
Cold towels, tears and prayers were all I had. And he used them all to barely escape the woods.
Keep thinking the dog is right around the corner as it then occurs to me that I’m alone in my apartment and no one else is here, or was waiting for me, or coming home, or walking around the corner. Lifestyle changes are wonderful but can also be tremendously difficult, changing a Lifestyles is even tougher due to the spermicide and the whatnot of the thingajiggy. Being lonely is similar to being alone, but with much more time to think about events, people, choices one’s made all good and bad. Vastly more space for the swallowing and digesting of the pills for our ills, without delay or distraction. No one nearby to offer suggestions or delusions. When a young buck becomes an old dog overnight the days now come even faster so each moment better be savored for every sweet morsel they are.
Waitaminute. We’re still talking about the dog…
I measured my serotonin levels the other day and it turned out that I was a bit on the low side. Then I checked my dopamine count and it was also slightly pallid so I decided to take the ol’ scooter on the highway and hang out slightly to the right of the 140 mark just to make sure my blood is still percolating.
Sometimes when I blur down the left lane I think of the motorcycle riders that like to weave in and out of traffic at high-speeds on their crotchety rocketys and that type of riding gives my kind of riding a very bad name. I like to go fast. I like to go slow. I like to go so fast that the fear and loneliness that lies in the universe is left way back over my shoulder but I also need to languish in a ride and soak up the sights, taste the world, smell the air and gaze up into that sky I want so bad to be in.