Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

In my inner stitching it makes sense in bunches. And then... nothing. How can I tell time without a woman? April May June. Some cheap mic Louis Armstrong bombast knockoff is playing on the stereo-- well it used to be. One speaker is dead but the left channel still kicks and cheap mic Louis thunders on... "I gave everything I had for twenty pounds of thud". Like everything I should have written. I could be a cheap mic Howlin' Wolf, which brings up the great Paradox. We need no one and every one in the same instant-- we just can't agree on the instant, what with all the blip-vert lawns to mow.

Have you played music that went on forever-- glorious, devastating medicine to swallow, like the Military Channel?-- nothing and everything to do with gasoline-drinking Zen hoodlum poets and their sketchy antidotes. We make it too complicated. I need a woman simple as horizon haze. La cosa nostra, the accelerating time gangster. See, I'm stuck in this neon rust loop parody, in this post-ocean ocean, and my woman is on the shore. I need all of my Zen tricks just to wave at her. And it was such a simple assignment going in, to live.

I need a woman to solve the paradox, who is the paradox. I just need a woman. And a better sense of time. And wisdom like a billboard peeling twenties on some wind-scorched ridge. If a tree fell in the timeless, did it happen? Back in Muskogee Uncle Jim taught me how to drink and be real proud, but that was before the rusty ocean and my girl on the shore. Now I wander back to the shed and drink panic straight from the still. I want my funk uncut. Panic stills the logic, so why argue? I need a woman to be my memory, to be the other voice, and it's game time.

I need memory to erase memory. Anyway, it's game time and there is no crisis. No crisis! Crisis is just another pot-smoking Far Left code word fabrication. Trust me, there is no crisis. Except I need a woman, and that's a bit of a crisis. Crisis Crisis Crisis. Maybe Crisis is my woman. I like how the word rolls off my tongue. And she was right under my nose the whole time! My fair lady Crisis, I offer this humble Howlin' Wolf bombastic rock. I'm mad as hell and I'll keep right on taking it. And it's a lovely spring-fresh morning, not even close to autumn. Orange.

I wanted to be a sunrise - or a sunset but I got stuck at being high noon at the alamo. Then I was dead and now this comes along. My long ago grandmotors told me I could dance with the bones of snake-eyed women, "All you have to do is move your feet", they said. So I did & all our bird feathered earrings & pictographic tattoos went whirling in the wind. Whisping like smoke. I don't have enough teeth anymore for this kind of thing, mnaz, but I sure enough like to read it.

hey, I would give you my number if you were in my city, but you´re not!. Look around & good local luck!!!!!!!

Gracias Arcadia. I'm barely in my own city these days, but you've inspired me!

mingo... many humble thanks. Yes, I confess... I was drinking a little vodka on Saturday and listening to some LOUD James Brown and Horton Heat and Hank the Third, and this thing kinda wrote itself. I kept jotting down mad profundities on bill envelopes, and then I tossed it all in a bowl like a nice rancorous salad . It seemed deeper when it was still on the envelopes... o yeah.

and Tom Waits. I forgot Tom Waits..

what's he building in there?....

even more interesting after reading your origins on this piece... cool!

nazz,

This piece is a joy. I mean the way it twists your head in an easy way.

During the first gulf war, I lived in the same house with Jimbo Wallace. He is the bass player for Horton Heat. A very laid-back madman if that's possible. The 'Rev' (Jim Heath) is also a friend. They are some of the hardest working musicians that I know. They need women too....haha.

story time:

One day when I was living with Jimbo, a semi-good-looking redhead showed up on our porch with a suitcase. She was a hairdresser who could have used a hairdresser. She announced that Jimbo was her boyfriend. He was on the road at the time. We let her camp in his room. She was an incredible bitch and we developed an immediate antipathy. When he got home, he asked who this bitch was. He was doing one-nighters.

Thanks L-rod. It never ceases to amaze me-- your many connections to the high-powered rock 'n roll universe... Did Jim do his Southern preacher shtick when you hung out together? Ha!

Laid-back mad intensity, or controlled, relentless frenzy is a good way to describe a lot of their music. They rock as fast and as hard as any punk band, especially on songs like "Baddest of the Bad"... with the languid, laconic lyric "I lie around here and I just drink beer", drifting through the band's scorching workout... I faded that song into Hank III's "Straight to Hell" in the mix... one of my best fades ever!

jus a little lovin...don't we all. even if we have. it's a longing that never leaves...or maybe it's an attitude. heh

orange = energy...drive...oh wait you already do that...

forgive my disconnected connections. i liked this piece mr. mnaz. write on...ride on...right on...

Mnaz, I need a woman like a hole in the head. But I'll keep on keeping on. I dig your spatial anomoly. The vistas take me beyond the need for woman into the vasty dimensions of time and space. Keep on truckin dude.

John

Thanks Smile & John. Hey! What happened to my loud-music-tangential-lyric-rocketship-whiskey-sauce-Zen comment? oh yeah, the big server hiccup... Well, it's good to see the place back up and running..