Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Wind is emotion, spun itself into oceans,
the desolate mother sea on gothic granite,
mountains dismantled one grain at a time.
Crystal plumes rage against gargoyle crags,
the animal truth of annihilation, the stars,
the asteroids, the cosmic blast.

You stare at the overpass and hope
twinkle won't toss a lit cigarette on your city.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, and it begins,
one note clipped, one full of flavor in some
broken back alley of musty industrial revolution,
and new constitutions shoot from fret boards.
Ye olde classics got genius in that cannon fire,
but we got the soul food shimmy shake quake,
the gospel, the word, it starts with nothing,
bad luck, bad moon, and the first note.
Everyone got a come to Jesus moment.

Not sure how rock fit space, or space fit rock.
Elvis hated the air-conditioned hum of Las Vegas,
so he grabbed a mic before the blues split town.
He was no Memphis Slim, but that record bumped.

Not sure how space enfolded rock.
It had a bounce to it, like some shrill beehive bop.
She drove a Plymouth Satellite faster than the speed of light.
We got meters bouncing on vacuum tubes, needle in a groove,
a teenage Venus dancing to bomb shelter bombshell blues,
and Bond, James Bond in turtleneck shoes, and she's gone,
out past Texas or Mars, or one of the seven stars.

The Fenders twang and surf between B-movie classics,
teen werewolf surf hippie cowboy drug films, order now,
drifting on the coast, a cloudy van, yellow brick road,
in God we trusted, oh no, linty pockets,
the President's fat budget is busted.

The road finds a more subdued knowledge,
a world of highways, junctions, rails and trails.
Prospects are better on the far side, Sri Runovayonda.
The guru is as restless as you, down from bench country
to share a plate of beans, you had many conversations.
And thunder envelops the desert, ride the ripple
like a train whistle out of Texas.

jam B Da Bomb!!!

jam B its own thing, if jam is on.

jam is God & all his children singing voicing dancing hey man there is a party going ON -

www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRVPLPFoJL0

the epicenter of the epiphany
or world out of balance
a Hopi Indian word that describes
a congruent concept of analogy
for a living ghost city in the middle of
nowhere and everywhere
where one armed bandit
throws lemons and cherries
and 777's where nobody
ever sleeps in their perpetual sleep walk
on the moon carpet, while Elvis impersonates
himself, with a heart break hotel mantra
and Fear and Loathing is sung all the live long day
pass the gray Poupon of condiment propaganda
out the long black Limousine of history
and let the day of death dance go on into the night
that never ends, but on the edge of gypsy luck town
the moon as big as a UFO imagination sits just on
the outskirts of reality floating above a horizon
always just out of reach for the lone cars
driving crazy down the road to eternity
window open in an abandon shack
out on the desert floor drinking
the howling wind like pure purple whiskey
of stars

ambitious in scope and fluent like the jam filled canyons of time....the Jammo Grande

jam mix
1st thought
formless
sizzle
swizzle
thoughts poppin
snap
crackle
unleashed
deep mind
better to perform
word visions
crowd pickins
depth charges
continue formless
block rant
x edit
flow
thats the key
punctuation?
alfred e.
newman
turkish taffy
yum
blazing
mind wheels
wind down
listen
theres a hummmmmmmm
i watched the butterflys
roam the billionaires property
all colors
big and small ones
thought of u sticky
jam on me!

no swirl can compete
noise v.s. noise
chance grabs maybes
one path absorbs another
heading nowhere
extending everywhere

From the savage heart of the American dream,
from creeping lounge singers and stale air,
past pawn shops and a beige stucco ocean,
we dig the rock, the shape of stardust.
He lived in a one-room cabin for years
and tried to raise gold dust.

Do miners write poetry? Are they obsessed?
We dig rock, on the shore of curvaceous sweeps,
as east flows into west and back again on the arc,
where seekers came to live, and the big strike
lay just out of reach under a nameless peak.
But hardship came with blasting caps anyway.
Nothing is out of reach deep enough in rock,
where auburn tides roll and recede
on lucent seas where no sea exists.

Hold a finger to the dry air.
Come in and watch the Screen
scream at you, and all you wanted
were the riddims, the pulse,
the jam river flowing on.
And so it shall be.

Oh, and the butterflies,
almost forgot the butterflies . . .

i want purple whisky!
i want black butterflies!

i like jammin
down the river
with a cooler
of beer and
a smile that knows
no end

i want rainbow laughter!
i want horizon hug!

the world is goin crazy man
try think happy thoughts
floating

note for note
i float, i float
i wrote a song
they called
a poem
i roam alone
smilin
blazin filigree
u got to agree
that its all
so brief
beyond belief
when u put on
those sailin shoes

shoes punch toenails
wanna escape? yeah man
fast fleeting feet

I put on
those sailin' shoes,
out to sage and back,
and we never grooved
before like a jam,
like the curves
and cliffs, and
all the roamin'
as it had to be.

water bobbin obstacles
solid ground quivers
follow the one with the fins

A jam is a jam is a jam
and we jammable, we not
slammable, programmable,
dancing in fields of moonburn,
the pure joy, the walls of cliffs,
so many crisscrossing vectors
and heavenly bodies.

A jam is a jam,
and if you get what I am,
I am the fury trying to congeal,
to repeal the pent-up, bent-up
erection of everything denied,
the right to simply be a child,
to dance and play.
It's all a play,
in play.