some kind of thundering

it’s not at all the way heartbreak is a steel slice through the muscle. It’s not a cramp. It’s a slowly dislodging splinter. The one you gave up on but never meant to let linger inside of you. But it’s too hard to cut it out.
But then you romantice. You hope it’s oak and charred to the black it makes your skin breathe. But you drink bourbon and feel right again. No pain.

But gasoline will never smell the same, however pertinent, however putrid, addicting. However screaming of beauty and fire and self-
Skin will never be so sweet. No touching of teeth. No midnight withdrawals. Nothing keeping me driving straight. I was the younger, sober brother for a while.

Holy, Sugar, Honey, Ice Tea / I guess that’s a prayer for a player like me / In my church clothes baking buds on the bible / The sweet temptation of my grand daddy’s rifle / Got me thinking ‘bout doing a jihad with these guys / Who only True Religion look better than Levi’s / Who baptize glass with beers and blood stain / You preaching to the choir that praise the drug game //
// Hallelujah // ‘Til the cops cuff me in the back of a cruiser
Ask me what I can do, not what I do, lovely girl, lovely wake of the sun through semitransparent fabric. I can commit to memory a whole page of the directory in three minutes flat but I am incapable of remembering my own telephone number. I can compose patches of poetry as strange and new as you are, or as anything a person may write three hundred years hence, but I have never published one scrap of verse except some juvenile nonsense at college. I have evolved on the playing courts of my father’s school a devastating return of service—a cut clinging drive—but am out of breath after one game. Using ink and aquarelle I can paint a lake scape of unsurpassed translucence with all the mountains of paradise reflected therein, but am unable to draw a boat or a bridge or the silhouette of human panic in the blazing windows of a villa by Plam. I have taught French in American schools but have never been able to get rid of my mother’s Canadian accent, though I hear it clearly when I whisper French words. Ouvre ta robe, Déjanire that I may mount sur mon bûcher. I can levitate one inch high and keep it up for ten seconds, but cannot climb an apple tree. I possess a doctor’s degree in philosophy, but have no German. I have fallen in love with you but shall do nothing about it. In short, I am an all-around genius.
Vladimir Nabokov, Transparent Things

Time to run until yr legs fall off kid, even if it’s just 400 meter ovals, ending where you began, except tireder. Three square meals a day, even if one is just a pbr in the shower. Time to hold someone even if they just keep talking and all you want is the silence and the warmth and the unspoken understanding. Time for coffee in the morning and at noon and then in the late afternoon and then right before you have to drive to work and it’s gone cold but goddamn coffee is coffee and you never did turn it down. Time to cry in the bathroom at work for a couple days with immunity because fuck the taste of coffee in your mouth just reminds you of death. Maybe the right phrase is buck up or pull it together or just cool it you stupid shit. All of the above. Once I thought I’d be lucky to die. Often actually. I’m just lucky I can feel this. That another tragedy didn’t just pass me by like a bullet grazing the shortest fairest hairs on my cheekbone. Time to let the blade sink in and pass through, heal with the full consideration that the scar will be gruesome and only available to show to those who would touch it like it were a hole they wanted to fill, and then act as though it weren’t there until someone were to fill it. That’s how it works, right?


Today was such a good thing. Every last Sunday of the month is Yappy Hour at Garage Bar. Come. Sit. Smile.


Calvin and Hobbes


Hiroshima, Mon Amour dir. Alain Resnais (1959, France/Japan)

With your "stomach problems" how do you deal with them during tours/traveling? I too am one who has an awful stomach and it prevents me from comfortably traveling. Thanks.

Definitely one thing I’ve become used to in my life is that traveling comfortably is pretty much impossible. With my condition, long drives are pretty disastrous and road food doesn’t help either. Neither does the fact that a tour for me is more a parade of self abuse than anything else. It all takes it’s toll in different but equally sick ways.
That said, I’ve become pretty adept at hearing the things my body is saying to me, especially on tour. When it’s time to cool off, rest, get some sleep, not drink, spend some time horizontal in the van… That kind of thing, I know it and I try to take care of myself. Otherwise it’s just kind of a crazy whirlwind and my body and subsequent pain it feels is just collateral damage.
But I’m not dead yet so I must be doing something right.

Favourite Bands in no particular order:

I. THE SMITHS: [1982~1987]

If I had to explain why The Smiths are the most amazing thing in the world it’s because they reach into the part of you where you feel the most weak, vulnerable and unacceptable and glorify it, make it heroic.  With me it’s beyond just having a favourite band" -Russell Brand

i had that dream again. just for the moment between waking up to close the window when i heard thunder and the last vestige of sleep wore off.

clouds dissipating on ohio valley spring afternoons. oversleep while a few raindrops slowly paint the backyard as seen through windows a brighter distorted greenish heaven. diamonds glued to the trees and buried in the lawn, streaks of silver growing out of sunburnt early blooms.

in my heart of hearts it was the cyclone though. the muddy grey torrent. tornadoes dancing slow, uncontrollable death waltzes on my countryside. i woke up still shaking. i woke up and i missed you.