The Restricted Area

The marina was open and active.
Hookups and fill ups.
Took a ride to the flag pole.
Old glory whipping like a slapper.

The restricted area was off limits.
No trespassing or entry.
Violators faced sure prosecution.
The canyon was closed off.

Lush greens were layered.
Showers fluttered weakly.
From the west.
Busting from the edge of the clouds.

Reached for a Bloody Mary.
The Germans just keep coming.
Got the Serena Blues.
There are no gazing starlets.

We have been ignored.
The Joker, the Queen, and the drone.
Our future is closer than ever.
Closer than it's ever been.


Galaxy Explosion

...that west Texas rained on air.

The kind that rarely produces rain...

...when it does it gushes down.

With a galaxy explosion far away...

...the ground drinks it fast.

The dust and dirt becomes mud...

...in the suburbs it flows smooth.

The city planners did fine work...

...cement will divert the floods.

Trails all up through there...

...everything connected in the end.

La Cerveza del Pacifico on ice...

...limes cut big and juicy.

Fought the truth of middle age...

...crossed my heart and made words.

Shook the life out of my mind...

...made mistakes but nothing too bad.

Know its always gonna be me and you...

...walking the beats of each other's tune.


The Junkyard Court: Strawberry Cream

At the 2018 Wimbledon Men's Quarters the bracket rings true.  All the hustle, all the troubles, all the smashes, all the clashes.  Left is Fed and Nadal, of course.  Easy like.  Fed will demolish the lanky South African Anderson on his way to the title.  Like mowing, his grass always smells cut.  Nadal gets washed out by Del Po, the red dirt still sweating out of his system.  Novak looks good, but stressed.  He plays Kei Nishikori, the Japanese serve return master coming back from injury.  Hungry, very hungry.   

The token American is Isner.  He should be celebrated wildly, his career is the lone notable male American tennis career of an entire generation.  Many records, that serve, Miami.  He's tall.  Maybe Querry, maybe his career is notable.  Stevie The Grit will always be beloved.  Sock stinks.  Lets move on.com, please.

(Sorry Wayne, referring only to singles.  Your boy's accomplishments are incredible, especially Bob, who teamed with an almost 50 year old Martina Navratilova and won the 2006 U.S. Open Mixed Doubles title.  So much hardware.)

First time Wimbledon Quarterfinalist Isner plays Canadien Milos Raonic.  Isner will be destroyed.  He is happy and satisfied with what he's done.  It is his nature.  After Miami, he flopped.  After 70-68, he flopped.  Raonic has too much game and John McEnroe still echos in his ear from his time as his coach.  Definately has more swagger than Big John, whose shoulders must be worn completely out.  His trademark between the legs bounce prior to his serve is classic.  And very cool.  Of course, Fed will strawberry cream either of these North Americans quick in the Semis.

With Fed in the final, and the eventual winner, the runner up will be the Argentine Del Po, who made it there by forehanding Kei off the court.  Kei, who steadily battled a crazed Novak to get to the Semis, could only look over to his coach, Michael Chang, and shrug.  That forehand of Del Po is an all timer.  Maybe the US Open for Novak, but whose gonna beat a rested Nadal in New York?

Then the alarm went off and I woke up on a Tuesday.  Maniacal Monday was over.  Sweet Jesus, Serena's gonna win another title!  That moon was just a sliver this morning.  Looked like a spaceship coming through the sky.  Wonder if Del Po won his suspended quarterfinal with Gilles Simon.  He was up 2 sets to 1.  Think it's about to come on.  Can't quite remember that dream, but it was weird.  All the Wild Boars get out of that cave?  Fed might win this.


Electric Element

Please keep it to yourself.
The outrage and opinions.
This is the Social Outcast System.
Welcome back for a return engagement.
They got numbers, they got taste.
Miles is using the silence.
Like a sillouette, the outline decides.
Love is love.
Affections and passions and obsessions.
However it evolves.

The end is already confirmed.
This fleeting space of time is free willing.
And free wheeling!
The tracks can be popped at any time.
We are speeding along, rushing.
Mechanically, breakdowns will occur.
Even with regular maintenance they occur.
The engineers are worthless.
They can only operate.
The mechanics must be summoned.
Wake them, whatever it takes.
Bring the light over, it is dark.
The sky is space all over.
Very clear, due to early rains.

Tomorrow might arrive.
It would be another miracle.
Like every breath taken.
Like everything seen.
Or heard, or felt.
The big bang is not a sufficient explanation.
Evolution alone indicates intelligence.

The dumb remain the same.
Static, airless, stale.
The evil become monsters.
Imposers and imposters.
The chicken live in caves.
Nomads, always running away.
The sad have given up.
Frowns and moans and wasting time.

It is a chemical condition.
An imbalance in the brain.
The leveling begins with water.
Pure as possible.
The most electric element of all.



Made many words that were deleted.  
Gone, every letter and all the lines.
Too true, too sad, just too much.
Shout to the happy and feel.
See their smiles shine.
Caught a big mess.
Know my rights.
And my lies.


Those Old Ways (American Fans)

Was nothing 'round here.
There was no shops or lots.
But we got nothing to fear.
New thoughts and robots.

Back roads still the same.
Lord knows I'm still to blame.
Those old days, those old ways.
Toss them all in the flames.

Cause its all gonna change.
Boats will dive, cars will fly.
And its all pre-arranged.
Our tribal vibe of light.

Oh, the days of the Walkman.
We were all American fans.
Those old days, those old ways.
This land is our land.



Splash Art

Story of life.
No win situations and refusals.
Back ain't got.
Manipulations of later accounts.
Less and less.
Respectable and free as possible.
Ghost writers.
Flying high with speeding words.
Perfectly sane.
Loving the crazy and the normal.
Unattended to.
Only conditional conditions exist.
Truth or dare.
Twist and shout for the get down.
Disco is real.
Outrageous myth of the good life.
Hippie eyes.
Occupying thoughts with activity.
Watch the glow.
Those mustangs have held up nice.
Splash art.
The roads are old and broken here.
Orange zones.
Lake Carolyn is surrounded by lives.


Float The Blue

The Mandalay babes were tucked in the dark luxurious room, beauty rest is at it's most powerful on Saturday mornings.  After a night of being somewhere else, after a night of long talks about things only sisters and mothers should talk about.  Combined, they know it all, everything there is to know.

The controlled emotions of competition, finding the weak spots, climbing out of holes, gasping for calm, a faint vulgarity.  Caught up and hung around like a straggler, went deuce juice to get back in it.  Made my mark with the service shot, snapped and curving.  To have victory, to compete successfully, even barely.  It is the shit.

Float the blue, let it carry you away.  Sad eyed woman turned happy eyed, regal posture, dignified and accomplished.  Portugal will need to score early.  The Uraguans will panic.  The cost of losing is practically a death of sorts.  Failure hasn't been considered, they have been told of their own greatness.  To lose is to be surprised, devastated.  Portugal must score early.

At the end of the road, looping tunes of real scenarios.  Lonely horn solos.  Tossed away to the Goodwill, heart a mess, wondering what happened to the dinosaurs.  Just blood and bones, the late night show in Oak Cliff.  Might be the last we see of him, but probably not.  Lake Michigan is too cold in the winter.  More to dig around here.  Good thing the law will be around.


Superiority Complex

...the sturdy and nervous Germans were everywhere...surely the Sweeeeds felt their insistence...the rights of the European thugs...with their superiority complex...

...the Benz and the Beemer...master mechanics, evidently...my affinities, and loyalties, are with Japanese...this Mockingbird Station scene...


...to Trinity Hall...the flowing flags, the striking colors, the corridors...obstructed sight lines and standers...they used to make telephones near here...

...during the wars...that gal never missed a day...Nila, the great matriarch...walked over from Highland Park...


...across the North to South highway...penalties are killers...shoulda played it clean...the hooking kick to the far upper corner of the net and the crowd errupts...

...hugs and fives and bumps and wows...the 2 o'clock beers were wearing thin...some fish and chips...water does the trick...


...a delay to acclimate...the Texicans would have a team in this thing...the Texicans would probably win it all...the cup of the world, baby...



Like a skeleton or a frame, built upon.
Decorated with colors and jewels and jazz.

Notice existence, it is all around.
Here to be discovered.

Relationships form from curiosity.
Maintained by considerations and love.

And love is kind.
And patient.
And many other things, humble and gentle.
Soft, without edges, smoothed over time.
Until it becomes constant and eternal.

From some cosmic place.
Floats around between all of us, ready.

The get down is our obsession.
Quick pops that move and describe.
Images of nirvana.
Knowingly unattainable and unreal.

The mind gets involved.
Its rationality deciding or not deciding.
The body can be tamed.

Complications and woe are karmatical.



Let the exploiting begin.
Fresh meat on the border.
For the idiot winders.

An orderly process.
Enforcement can be ugly.
The irresponsibility of it all.

Flee, flee like the migrants.
Those thieves run the place.
Busting the seams.

The shamelessness and hypocrisy.
Those 80 million were separated.
Violently, willingly, mercilessly.

The rejected miracles.
Literal creation.


Rebel Yell

Take your rebel yell.
Take it somewhere else.
Go on a protest march.
Like when they burned all their draft cards.

Fighting over the news.
Its a silly thing to do.
They just pulling your chain.
For the money, for the story, for the fame.

At the end of the night.
When the sun shows its light.
Everything seems fair.
Low clouds early, by noon they'll clear.

Even if we pout about.
If our love ends up in shouts.
Our time is ticking away.
The seconds, minutes, hours, and days.

Yes, let the rebels yell.
Just yell somewhere else.
No more noise pollution.
No more self righteous illusions.


Red Light


Red light's been on.
Been on for years.
Stop what you're doing.
Do it more, my dear.

Wanna go go.
Wanna wanna go green.
Need to ride a little while.
Need to hit the sheets.


Been sitting at this red light.
Wasting my appetites.
Watching lovers go by.
Trying to stay dignified.

At the yellow caution light.
Try not to brake.
Accelerate, move along.
Avoid this static state.

Like its never gonna change.
Time just idling by.
Stranded on this city street.
Lord it just ain't right.


Tangles Of Vines And Brush

     The drift of the aged, unwilling to battle the currents anymore.  Go on along for the ride.  Float that water, stay alert.  Scream laughs maniacally.  Hollar.  Only the banks can save our lives.  The east bank is peaceful, a beach leading up to rolling hills.  Green and lush.  The west is full of tangles of vines and brush.  Right up to the water line.  Massively tall trees.  Dark, like a jungle.

     Scavenger birds circled, knowing another's death was near.  The scavengers die too, eventually.  An ocean will be found.  Washed out with the mud.  Worn and weary, exhuasted and spent.  The afternoon is not full of romance, the best is yet to come.  The sweet evening, the mad night, then the dreams.  Daily, every hour.  The things done, never assured, never imagined.  Experienced is all.  Felt.

     Turn the lights up.  Get the cameras in place.  No talking on the set.  Actors, take your spots.  Actresses too!  Your lines have been memorized, need your best delivery.  3, 2, 1, go.


Coin Bits

A second level ledger and utilization.

Selling power for coin bits.

The transactions always run.

No inconvienience will be allowed.

No time, no trust, no inflation.

But, the stashers!  What of the stashers?

All us mortals.

The off blocks and off chains too.

Decentralization of the decentralized.

Each central to its own culture.

None identical.

Generations of evolution.

To give up the bucks.

No bills, no green, no bread.

Completely fraudless and true.

These are only the escavators.

Demolition is underway.

Next, the foundations, pipes, lines, terminals.

Then, the framing is done.

Measured and attached together.

Ready for the skin and final touches.

Make it all work under one roof.

Give up controls and manipulations.


Absolute scarcity.

If we solve for this 51%.


I Like Ike

Mostly, we were quiet.
No one could fully understand another.

They could only imagine their emotions, they could only guess at their thoughts.

Speculations of motivations.
The sunken treasure is still there.
For the taking, for the effort.
Whatever it takes.

Nobody is on standby.
It is only us.
We must determine our own fate.

Wash out the washouts.
They will never storm the beach again.
D-Day is remembered tomorrow.
Europe had to be taken back.
And was.

I like Ike.


Two Number Twos

Got two number twos.
Now you know just what to do.
Drain your brain.
Let your mind do its thing.

Always been smart.
IQ seems off the charts.
Nerves are normal, babe.
Breath it out, let em fade.


We just sat around.
Sat waitin' for the testing to go down.
We just sat around.

Was early Saturday.
Made sure we weren't late.
Original photo ID.
And a certified receipt.

Guess the colleges wanna know.
If you ready for the show.
Got nothing to lose.
With your two number two's.





The Freeze Brain

++Came in low and early, before the wave, before the simmer, before the sizzle.

++They will burn off quick, those north moving clouds.

××Then the clicks everywhere, the freeze brain, fans and mists.

××Watch it blue up, like the gulf waters of Galveston, out of nowhere.

÷÷The inland life, let the sweat shake out in the swamps, let the mud creatures get muddy, let them have it.

÷÷Build on the hills.

--The floods will come back one day.

--For now, extreme degrees and ozone colors.

==Acclimate like the birds do.

==Sing when the sun rises, eat late, play the wind.


Bicycle Kick

As usual, the ride was smooth.  Shaded trails with curves and dips.  Cutting through the thick woods, full of lowlands and wetlands.  Along Wilson Creek, then up the hill, to the cotton mill.  Watching out for poisonous water moccasins.  They are all around here.  For now.  Arrived thirsty, a bike race was under way.  We wheeled through the crowd and the marked off track without stopping.  Through to the brewery.  The black, the wheat, the make-it-a-double.

The operation, ever changing, ever growing.  Organically, and from without.  The iron art foundation, layered with modern creations, music always.  The PA plugin is all.  No DJ, no spinning, no talking, some heavy metal.  The back patio, covered with tin.  Fountain.  Cool corner, outside lounge.  The wino bottle tree, the monikers.  Organized the parts yard, spruced up just enough.  Fermenting more and more, innovating processes, ambitious, real.  Games.  People of all sizes and hair color.  Young and old.  Smoke coming from smokers, the 10 dollar plate.  Some even witnessed the legendary Gareth Bale goal that won the Champions Leauge for Real Madrid.  Appropriately, on a bicycle kick.  God bless the American soccer nerds and their European punk idols.

Moderation and its challenges, a ride back.  An easy cruise initially, lingered at the old bridge, wheelies and figure eights.  Navigation of intersections and automobiles, back through the trees.  A turn off, a tip of the hat, then back south. Up Sorrell Hill to Hardin.  Parched, burnt, out of water, miles from home.  Exhausted legs, shoulders tensed, sweat still pouring, the beer of 2 hours ago drank, tasted, swallowed, absorbed, affected, and cleared.  Extreme rehydration measures performed immediately at home.  50 ounces of water, 3 cold fruit cups with heavy syrup, brisket and sausage, followed by a cold pool soak.  Followed by a hot tub soak, followed by another cold pool soak.  Followed by 10 hours of sleep.


Essential Ingredients (Product Of Texas)

Just at the right time, at the perfect time, the fruit is ready.  The ripening process.  Survived the winds, sat up high enough, those low hangers were just unlucky, and the fate of the dropped is awful.  The whole ruin process stinks.  Ants and their running around and nerves.  The queens must be demanding.  No rest.  No relaxation. 

Sitting in the middle, firmly attached to the tree.  Strong limbs, sunlight gets through mid morning and afternoon, the heat's not so bad.  Early dews and plenty of water.  Sprayed good for pests, bugs, and the like.  Chemicals.  No spoiling, only tended and farmed.  Only preparing.  Invested in the yield.  Harvest time will come, but not yet.

Then, one day, when glory has been reached, when taste is at its best, the plucking.  Cleaned and washed, wrapped in white, and sent away in a limousine.  Unspoiled.  Full of vitamins, essential ingredients, and flavor.  A pie, a salad, a cake, a smoothie.  Raw.  Bursting, producing smiles and yums.  Product of Texas, made with care.


Golden And Really Riffy

And from the bushes, music.
Golden and really riffy.
The crew cut warrior squinted.
The colosseum was around them.
Canines rested and watched, panting.
Musical instruments were all around.
Horns, strings, gongs, and chimes.
And oh, the chimes did chime.

Then circles upon circles upon circles.
And a streaking white line.
Glares beneath the shades.
Upside down, counting.
The bizziness of the business people.
Such a waste.
Unhealthy and destructive.
Proven over and over, time after time.

It's only money, and money is easy.
The suckers, the worried, the insecure.
They will spend their days worshiping it.
Things are afforded, things are deserved.
Floating in judgement, silently.
No shock, no surprise.
Scattered and cleared, only blue now.
And cool.


Sensing other matters as priority, tucked back into the literary corner.  Not to work something out, clear thoughts, or provide any therapy to the situation.  No, more of an indulgent, and indignant, acting upon an opportunity of time.  This word habit, this tapping, this quiet paragraph.

Round the edges smooth, level the scene.  Go sharp and quick, the structure should be respected.  Early on, especially.  Abstractions come from it, not the other way around.  Keep the beat.  Seperate truth from speculation, distinctly.  Imagination and style.  Facts and a few figures.  Quotes.

The candle, the lamp, the sun.  Light the way.  Glow.  Digital documentation and cloudy archives.  A place to write.  Know when to break.  Feel it.  An unfinished something.  Will never write the last word.  Or the loveliest word.  Or the most true word.  That is left to others.  At another time.


Then A Cosmic Collision

Construction of the progress.  Never ending.  Mother nature has her evolutions and she has her eruptions.  Boulders flying, lava creeping, the earth is smoking. 

Clever they are, the doomers.  The science they invent, so uncreative.  We spun slower then, our trip was longer.  The age of the ageless.  Easy, restful.  Then a cosmic collision, a bump in the night.  The air collapsed, some life escaped, spans diminished, heaven is near. 

Less is more.  It is better, our sorrows are brief.  From the little big horn til now, our entitled rights.  Our destiny.  Our greed.  Like the stashers, the grubby selfish, like the true person in all of us. 

A precarious road.  The southwestern way, the direction of the Baja.  The Pacific blues, where the sun disappears perfectly.  Perfectly, every day.


Roman Gonzo A

"Empire Memories" by jpg

...these thoughts in my head. Weirdly, all being translated in real time from Italian.  Keep cash in the front pocket.  Walk the old Roman roads, rent a Vespa GS160, drink only wine and water.  Avoid the dust, it is full of empire memories.  Don't faint... 

"Lefty" by PeoplesDuke

Returned from the night out.  Witnessed a street brawl outside a trattoria.  50 meters from the Trevi Fountain.  Keck says "a fight".  I look forward and see 6 people squared off and fighting 3 on 3.  Tables get knocked over and women and kids are screaming.  Next thing I see is a "lefty" holding a fully cocked bottle of wine.  He hurled it at the head of his opponent.  Opponent ducks and the bottle comes straight at us and shatters at our feet.  The chards of glass and wine spray towards us hitting our legs and soaking my shoes.  I jumped into a small leather goods shop while Keck continued to watch the melee unfold.  One of the combatants made a run for it.  He was chased down by the shop owner who picked up another wine bottle.  The shop owner caught him from behind.  Keck said he was running full speed holding the bottle by the neck above his head like he was doing the DoubleV.  In a forceful single blow he smashed the runner's head at the temple.  The fella fell head first into the cobblestone street and layed there unconscious.  Keck thought he was dead!   The two friends tried furiously to drag the lifeless body to safety.  They moved him a few feet but he was too heavy.  A minute or two later he reanimates.  He ducks into a local creperie and the staff helps administer first aid.  All activity ceased for several minutes on this busy street.  Oddly the bottle used to bash the guys head did not break.  It lay undisturbed next to a pool of blood in the center of the cobblestone.

"Something's Happening There" by jpg

The people of this world await.  Somehow drums are beating, somewhere the bass kicks in, something's happening there.  No falsehoods.  No bluster.  Italy.

"Al Dente" by PeoplesDuke

He insulted the chef's Spaghetti Carbonara. Claimed the pasta wasn't "al dente". Crazy.

"Awesome" by King James

Fucking Awesome!!!


The Other Way Around The Sun


Venus and its shining light.
At the center of all our nights.
Goes the other way around the sun.
Beautiful view.

We all know, the secret's out.
Fighting wars on shaky grounds.
Won a battle, but we're never done.
Just old and used.

Everyone gotta different take.
Think it through in an altered state.
Analyze that piece of your mind.
That makes it blue.

Lets all get together in love.
Have no fear and never give up.
Vibing, vibing, shaking and jiving.
We always knew.




Russian Fish

Pay attention.
Worried faces and grumpy grumblers.
Look into the world, see it from out there.
Obsessions and small minds.
Covered in dirt, tasting of boredom.

At any time, in any place, with or without interpreters, did you ever talk to a Russian?
Tell us more.
Clarify please, was it Russian fish or Russian fishing you discussed?
Both, o.k.

Sputnik was 61 years ago, cosmonauts and astronauts, from Ike and Stalin, to Reagan and Gorbachev.
The cold Reds and their old iron grip on Eastern Europe.
Money ran out in 91.

It is a modest country, mostly.
Now, they know, deep down, that capitalism is the way forward.
Middle classes.
Figuratively, fires burn within them.
Glowing and red.


Magnificently Mellow

Blood flows through the body, filling veins with needed elements to function.  Air is essential, oxygen and its big O.  From trees, from all around, in the water, ice, and steam.  The atmosphere is under pressure, the mounting carbons, the diminishing ozone. 

Constant evolution, survival, and life.  Never just a rock, that is for other places.  Intelligence and souls live here.  Knowledge increases over time, exponentially.  The discoveries to come are indescribable, they are inevitable, they are magnificently mellow.  Time has no value, the end of it marks the beginning of perpetual existence.  Where linear thinking is impossible, where understanding makes us selfless, where fear has no place.  It will not be here.  This is merely an incubator of sorts, complete with climate control and nurses at the ready.

Learn how to play nice, boys and girls.  Sit quietly and eat your snack.  Walk in a straight line.  Hold hands.  Nap time.  Get ready for pickup.  Load up your backpacks.  No fighting, no whining, shhhh.


The Junkyard Court: Grass Transition

Everyone knows who owns the clay.

Nadal even looks red.

His dark Spanish skin wrapping his used and busting muscles, which connect to his sturdy bones, all controlled by a white hot nuclear reactor flame of want to, need to, have to, and will.

His 11th Barcelona title, coming after his dominance in Monte Carlo, gives a good indication of who will win the French Open.

The ball whizzes off his strings, it loops high, and falls quick and sharp.

Nicking lines, biting down, going deep, severe angles.

Every point is fought for desperately, no mistake is tolerated without disgust.

The routines, the tics, the picking.

Scrowling around, rarely smiling during play, saving the beaming flash of complete joy for hoisting big silver trophies.

Ten at Roland Garros, eleven is likely.

The grass transition is the question for Rafa, will he win again in his whites.

He plays like he thinks he is the best tennis player ever, and knows he is the best tennis player now.

He is ranked #1.

Perhaps he will play Federer after Paris.

Perhaps he will win.



The dim lits, not needing much to see forward.  Conceding the developments to inevitability, searching for the way through.  This is not just a ride going round and round while spinning.  Dizzy.  Nothing is repeated in the same space.  Unoccured time is the only true frontier.  Even the oceans have been scanned.  Space is known.  The poles.  To explore the future is to anticipate.  Technology, culture, relationships, and nature.  Each impacting the other, minimal autonomy.

Technology must be freed.
Late adopters are late.
There is little to gain.
The fear of it should be overcome.

Culture is our known existence.
Music, styles, priorities.
Demographics and insecurities.
The art of it all.

Relationships light the minds.
Individuals electrify each other.
Sharing the emotions of life.
Security, affection, envy.

Nature is a constant reminder.
Its beauty, its noises, its age.
Everything without thought.
Perfectly inconsiderate.

The futurists talk of trends and business and politics and other trivial things.  Predicting for money.  Like a fortune teller or tarot card reader or some other mystic.  Candles burning everywhere, made up like clowns, suckering and shaking.  Open your own eyes.  Cause and effect.  Explore.



The Block Age

The block age.
Chained to the past no longer.
The speculators are raking.
Seven thousand percent return.
With some luck and calm.

Trust is irrelevant.
These transactions are instantaneous.
A constant state of things.
No updates required.
The reconciliations.
Back office nonsense.
Modern day pushing paper.
The roll back and the buy-in.
Middle people get eliminated.
Cut-taking on top of cut-taking.

This is main line.
All states are transparent at all times.
The utility of it all.

Nakamoto, Szabo, Buterin.

Programmability of exchanges.
And work proof.
Public permissions of the crypto kind.

The Sound Must Sound

.hastily arranged, rearranged somehow.
.arrivals delayed, equipment loading.
.cracked the drinks, drank the Kool-aid.

.domestic communications, and life.

.down for the breakdown shakedown.
.then a fast patrol, low-riding, coasting.
.felt almost fuzzy headed, heart beating.

.flea is certainly a fine, fine bassist.

.more Kool-aid, goes down good and easy.
.plugs and wires, the sound must sound.
.amplifier cracks and crunks, cord abuse.

.never play with a pic, just never do.

.adjust to the rhythms, tried to get through.
.bodies out of sorts, our minds distracted.
.dogs howled, birds kwacked, we slacked.

.floated back home, exhausted and empty.


Red Mud Gonzo: Ten

"Grand Slam Noise" by jpg

...time to eat.  Tennys is hungry.  Even as a kid his moms said.  Hungry.  Nervous, always moving, just ticking all the time...  But, The Grit is The Grit.  A declaration before the match is due.  More research, 4 hours left.  The tournament magazine has a spread on the Finals Sunday Brunch at the club.  Everybody wearing what they're supposed to wear, not the same, not conformed, just above.  Yes, above.  I am intoxicated, to attend this brunch one day is a goal.  Begin with the end in mind.  Elevate, above the rest.  Tennys is hungry, yes, his mom likely snuck him a plate from the brunch.  He most certainly did not attend himself.  Obsessive pre-match routines, rituals, and yoga poses.  Then he eats.  Already making grand slam noise, which was a surprise.  Whose Sandgren?.  Now we know.  But, The Grit is The Grit...

"Sweet Slice BH" by TTop

Should be a great match...the Grit has that sweet slice BH.

"Joey" by peoplesDuke

Her name is Joey? I never knew this. That's awesome!!

"Joey Dean" by jpg

...Joey Dean.  She was a blaster on the court.  Leauges, etc.  Flat serve.  Whammer forehand.  Most likely, I play tennis because of her.  Great net player.

"On To Monte Carlo"  by jpg

...the end was euforically sad in a way.  The Grit defends.  Knelt before the match in obvious prayer.  When it was over, the eyes cried.  His father had passed suddenly, soon after Stevie won the USClay Court title last year.  Tennys was there to console.  No quick shake, but an embrace, a head pat from the defeated, along with just the right words.  A 3 setter that could have gone either way.  The Grit took that Red Mud Cannonball run.  Hung in the air, suspended in slow motion, then crashed through the surface of the River Oaks pool.  It is tradition...  On to Monte Carlo, it's just part of the tennis pro deal as Wayne says...  

The whole media operation, led by Pete Holtermann, are the electric glowers, the up-to-daters, the latest breakers, the on-the-record quoters, and the smooth floaters...his team seemed capable, controlled, and empowered...  Also, before the Red Mud Gonzo line closes, a thought and a prayer for Barbara Bush, in the final stages of an incredible life...  A great gal.


Red Mud Gonzo: Nine

"Cool Cats" by jpg

Russell Seymour and Dick Landenberger are Hall Of Famers, inducted, immortalized, permanently.  They know the game, and they marvel at its evolution.  The equipment, the giants, the scene.  Much has changed.  However, the traits of the greats are the same.  Tenacity, endurance, merciless, controlled simmer, deuce juicers, door closers, heart breakers, hate to losers.  These Texas Tennis HOFers, Russell inducted in 99, Dick in 01, earned eternal admiration and honor.  They still play.  Evidently, the over 80 division is active.  This is our future if we are fortunate and take Russell's advice to "Keep playing!"  Their jackets were sweet.  They were rightly elevated and strutted around the River Oaks grounds without even trying to strut.  It's just the way the naturally walked.  Still strutting.  Cool cats.  Dick mentioned playing the red clay of a River Oaks years back.  We were in the stands watching Tiafoe and The Grit.  A gathering of these TTHOFers was taking place all around us.  It was incredible, the vibe became too much, just too much.  Wayne called out their attendance from the PA.  Surely there was a luncheon, perhaps some wine, for the men and women of the Texas Tennis Hall Of Fame.  And their guests.  Jazz trio tapping, bopping, and popping in the corner.  Imagine the stories, a few are likely still rivals.  Grudges, perhaps, but much more forgiveness.  Some gone, memories still electric and known.  Fit, personable, smooth, and engaging.  Still climbing stairs, still coming into the net, still going for lines, still overcoming, still enduring, still hitting VVinners.  Double V.  So Vantaggio..  We are now friends...

"Art Hookup" by griff

I wanna cruzr' bike like that. So Walmart rig strip it down then what?  I don't have the art hookup like you do.  What if I bring my survivor '77 BMX original CYC stormer!

"99 Bucks" by jpg

...99 bucks.  Stripped it down, took off reflectors and fenders and chain guard, of course.  Added the foam.  Cali-style. Upgraded pedals and grips.  Dice air covers.  All In, another 70 bucks...  West Texas broke Blues.  Almost.  Good for suburban riding...  HellYell is for the dirt!  ...prolly cost about what a bag of top level golf clubs cost...

"Time To Eat" by jpg

...The Grit is The Grit.  He finds ways to win in Houston.  For his past 8 matches here.  Or 9.  A brawler, a sprawler, and an occasional mauler.  In his 12th set of the tournament, Fritz finally went down.  His future is very bright, especially when his net game improves.  .......A proven red mud champion, Stevie The Grit will need every edge he can find to defend his title against Sandgren in the final.  Tennys is hungry, his mother knows.  Time to eat...

The Ballad Of Moe Action


Few years back he was a company man.
Came early, stayed late, always gave a hand.
Til one day, when he had that infraction.
No mercy, no love, take a hike Moe Action.

Became a lawyer to defend his good name.
Claimed that company should be ashamed.
No due process, just assumptions and talk.
Cashed his check cause the company lost.


Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action, Moe Action.
(Less Talk) (Less Talk) (Less Talk)

Then old Moe started reading the Word.
Felt like something in his soul was stirred.
Few years later, gave all the world hope.
When he humbly agreed to be the Pope.

Ditched the robe almost immediately.
Instructed everyone to get off their knees.
Can't move around til you're off the ground.
Moe Action, The Pope, with Vatican sounds.

Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action, Moe Action.
(Less Talk) (Less Talk) (Less Talk)

Tired of Italy, hung up his Pope hat.
Damn pickpockets, those thieving rats.
Mastered Kung Fu, now he fights crime.
Moe Action protects the world at night.

The sleaze, the squeeze, he's seen it all.
Moe ain't surprised by the devil's call.
It rings it beeps it notifys our eyes.
Full of hate, got no grace, just full of lies.

Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action (Less Talk)
Moe Action, Moe Action.
(Less Talk) (Less Talk) (Less Talk)


Red Mud Gonzo: Eight

"Bluebonnet Seeds" by TTop

Something has my stomach all messed up...Woodys!  I still would like to get some bluebonnet seeds if possible.

"Corporate Maxed" by Matt

I've listened to Corporate Maxed like 5 times today.

"Tracy Lettuce Down" by jpg

...Bluebonnet seeds, yes.  Ennis is the recognized Bluebonnet capital of the world.  It's true.  Must have been the 'already chopped up " brisket.  Should always have them chop up brisket from the slice.  To be seen, and admired.  Ribs were chewy.  Tracy lettuce  down. Avoid Woody's.  Pete Holtermann, and his Holtermedia operation is top notch...so happy I won the 7th game...  Tired, uninspired, but tennis satisfied.

"Hmmmm, Zeballos" by TTop

I forced Jack to focus mentally on his next opponent...Hmmmm, Zeballos...this is coaching.  Fritz dominated.  He is too powerful for Sock.  The scream.

"A Slammer" by jpg

...a turning point.  'Slam the door, Taylor!!'  Vantaggio fans will not be muted.  Listen.  ...3 three setters.  To get to the Semis.  His confidence seems to be on the rise.  He wants to play.  This is all predictable, his influences are positive, his potential is potential no longer.  He slammed the door on Sock.  A slammer is what Fritz is, a slammer...

Red Mud Gonzo: Seven

"Curving And Green" by jpg

...electric avenue was literally below us.  Another day was being charged up.  The wires were connected right across the massive river oak.  Its limbs sprawl out vinelike, moving and curving and green.  Airports are everywhere, this place smells of monetary transactions, this place looks orderly, this place sounds like pavement and rubber.  Catching up with the media team.  Impressive operation, open and welcoming.  Quiet at first, til the talking started.  Questions are easy to ask...  Sprawl.

"Moe Action" by OneFineGringo

If I were a pope, Indian chief, wrestler, or lawyer, I would go by: Moe Action.

"The Press Don't Got It Easy" by jpg

...Eddy Grant will forever remind me of Houston.....think some players may come in.  While I'm waiting.  The press don't got it easy...girl with the red bag is so glowface...Tenny moves in nicely.  Forward.  Forward.  Distracted, however...  And that is an ender for a top 10er.  Normally..
Kudla quick, smooth.  Karlovic has the best serve in the history of the game and is a net artist.  Stoic.  Taller than Isner. 
Keck 6-1.  Up 6-0 after 6, I took the last fucking game.  Took it.  Vantaggiolike...

"El Rey" by CB

Just twisting that knife.  I love El Rey.


Red Mud Gonzo: Six

"Houston Calling" by CB

Houston Calling…Houston calling.  The week came, the opportunity lost.  The beauty of the red clay.  The opulence of River Oaks CC . The fashion show with Fernando.  The level of play of the game we love.  The intrigue of the event and it’s surroundings slips hour by hour until next year. I worked, but Houston Calls.... Next year.

"Wayne's World" by jpg

...alot has happened. And it ain't even 2.  Wayne Bryan is an authentic person.  As nice and cool as he seems.  He thanked me for writing my articles.  His boys are headed to Monte Carlo soon...part of the tennis pro deal, he said.  Such a pro.  Prepared, calm.  Magnatism.  He is a father figure to more than he knows.  It is truley Wayne's World in Houston... We are friends.

"Night Owl" by peoplesDuke

What is his writing style? When does he do it? Is he a night owl, quietly pecking away after midnight or does he arise at dawn with the cock and gently open the laptop with coffee on the table and softly type HST Gonzo prose that resonates with those who have ears that hear?

"The Button" by peoplesDuke

It's all Vantaggio all the time once the Summer line drops. Either you're with us or against us!  The time for choosing is now.

"Kung Fu" by jpg

Don't you know I know Kung Fu?  Space black pupils are looking through old, old oak trees.  From above.  The top of Montrose.  Tennis courts across the street.  15 gamer at 8am.  Backhand has been resurrected by Coach Billy.  CB.  Breaker one nine, this is a radio check, come on.


Red Mud Gonzo: Five

"Tournament Media Director" by jpg

...this Pete Holtermann guy must be busy.  Three unreturned emails providing the requested followup info, describing the freelance project I'm delivering for the Vantaggio Magazine, and expressing my intention to be mannerly and respectful.  Weeks ago I followed the application procedure for press credentials as requested.  They acknowledged, then a probing followup from Pete.  I answered, waited a day, provided additional context, waited a day, and finally sent another reminder.  Nothing.  A bit disappointing, especially considering Pete has the title of Tournament Media Director.  Surely he has some sort of staff seeking, and needing, empowerment.  Must be an oversight, clearly he doesn't have time to respond.  We'll seek him out upon arrival, needs to be prompt, hoping to get access to the noontime annual fashion show at River Oaks.  Always mindful of fashion when freelancing as #TheJunkyardCourt and was hoping to gain access, especially since I'll have a Vantaggio Senior Exec with me--TTop.  Its not only the story, it's the capitalism too.  Contacts are gold...

"Grit, Ernie" by TTop

Brown clay, Grit, Ernie, chance for greatness...someone has to win.

"Father John" by peoplesDuke

I'm really getting into Father John Misty!  Dude is a freaking genius. Do you dig it?

"In Sync" by CB

Your biorythyms are in sync.  Ride the wave.

"New Firestones, Moonroof" by jpg

...this Fritz is frazzled, frizzled, and free-wheeling.  Sloppy and wild, but beat Smyczek anyway.  Barely, very barely.  Must sleep.  4am wake.  6am, south to Houston.  Driving, coin flip loser.  New firestones, moonroof, player profile reviews.  Observe, observe, observe...  Note, note, note.  Mentally, literally, obsessively...  Weirdly...

"The Place To Be" by TTop

The second doubles match on court 3 is the place to be...Kudla is so Vantaggio...


The Junkyard Court: This Ain't No Exhibition

    The Northern Irish are scarred people evidently, pick a side or not.  It doesn't matter.  That was years ago.  It's proven all the Irish and British men can come together and defeat the rest of the European men in golf.  The since disbanded Seve Cup was played bi-annually from 2000-2013.  It featured the islanders against the rest of continental Europe.  Only eight events were held, the island boys went 6-2.  Seve Ballesteros knew the island fire, knew why punk rock was born there.  These people have lived on their heels for millinias.  Fending off Viking raids, many times unsuccessfully, old entitled Romans and their vast kingdom, Germany's blitzkrieg bombs, various religious claimers, and countless other recorded and unrecorded scenarios.  No wonder the initial American patriots, and others to other places, went floating for a calmer life, almost undercover as colonists.  Most stayed where they floated.  Not sure they all got what they wanted, but America is America.  Still searching west for calm, all the way to California.

    Rory McIlroy is now more Floridian than Irish, geographically anyway.  His golf record is titaniam, already worthy of legendary status. Only 28, he's likely to add more valuable hardware.  Perhaps later today.  Already, money is no object.  At his age, the simple  power of compounding almost assures he will be a billionaire one day.  Maybe he already is.

     He seems tremendously honest, with his priorities, goals, conduct, and answers to questions.  Once asked about the Ryder Cup, he termed it an exhibition, which the golf bluebloods scoffed at.  How dare he call this exhibition an exhibition!  Samual Ryder, an English businessman and early golf nut that made a fortune selling seeds, would have likely not been offended by the term.  Also, Rory once had the nerve to say he preferred playing golf in 80 degree weather and little wind.  Hmmm, me too.  After chunking a club into the lake st the 2015 Cadillac event, his supposedly controversial comments were (brace yourself):  It felt good at the time but now I regret it.  Frustration got the better of me.  Again, the uptight scoffed.  At what?  Immediately, my mind  is reminded of the satisfaction felt at destroying a Babolat racquet just a couple months ago.  A put away volley clanked off the frame and into the net.  On break point! An hour later the action was regreted, frustration did get the best of me.  If I'm honest.  Secretly, I know I could do it again one day, and will want to, and will feel it logical and warranted.  I hope I don't, but if I'm honest.

     Yell in his backswing, McIlroy might just stare you down and tell you to frack off.  Probably have to be around him some to follow his accent, but he's relatable.  Even his well publisised engagement-abandonment to Danish tennis professional Caroline Wozniaki seemed like authentic cold feet.  After a short phone call, his final twitted sentiments wished Woz all the happiness she deserved.  Since then, Wozniaki won her first grand slam title, historically reclaimed the #1 ranking, and became engaged to David Lee, who played solidly for the last Dallas Mavericks team to really put up a legitimate fight.  Happy events, all.  This Rory is a prince, his wish for her came true.

     For what its worth, Rory's professional golf results have slipped since, his main achievements attained during the same time frame he was with Woz.  Something about the Danish.  From Gorm The Old to his son Bluetooth, and the rest.  They usually get what they want.  For better, or for worse.  Maybe she placed an old Viking curse on ole Rory, but probably not.  She doesn't seem that type, a friend of Serena, a gracious and graceful lady, a humble tennis princess.  But, even a humble tennis princess must be a killer competitor.  So Vantaggio.  Jason Keck, co-founder of Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company, calls her Woz.  It is a term of endearment.  Her endorsement brand is strong, her capitalism value already proven, her magazine images lengedary in their own right.

     In truth, Rory's had some injuries, something about an ankle or muscle pulls of various sorts.  Probably got brainwashed by weightlifters and started bulking up.  He doesn't seem to talk about it, which is respectable in its own way.  No excuses, no reasons, only results.  Rory too found love since.  This time the feet were fine, rings exchanged, and all endured a likely long, long Catholic wedding.  Reminds all of the famous old Irish folktune:  "Oh, the Os!  Oh the Micks!  Came to America to find our chicks!"   Mrs. McIlroy is a New Yorker.  And Rory is back in the final Sunday pairing of the Masters, golf's greatest prize and the final trophy he needs to earn golf's Career Grand Slam.  Sarazen, Hogan, Player, Nicklaus, and Woods are the 5 names on that short list.  Honestly, I hope he does win it later today, I'll miss it due to a Nantucket jam session, but it will play out and be reported out.  Men From Nantucket may even cover 'Oh, The Micks' in his honor.  If he wins.  We should know by 6CST.  He's chasing an American, Patrick Reed, and other Americans lurk, but I don't feel unpatriotic.  Any more than hoping Roger Federer smashes Jack Sock or pulling for Caroline Wozniacki to win the 2018 Australian Open.  This ain't no exhibition!  Honestly.


Strut If You Must

Switch on over to the other side.
Talk that talk for awhile, spew.

Assume absolutely everything.
Give nothing, it's all believable.

Seen a movie like that once.
Plots and angles, two hours.

The lone stars stay alone.
It's just not worth the trouble.

All this fighting and frowning.
A wasteful and sorry condition.

Thrive, be alive, glide and slide.
Strut if you must, shake the rust.

Through the fear, through the still.
Cause the whirl, light the night.


The Junkyard Court: Deuce Juice

Down down down.
Love 15.
Love 30.
Love 40.

Back against the fence.
Then a gift.
15 forty.

Free swinging winner.
Cross court.
30 forty.

Need a big first serve.
Got the ace.
40 forty.

That's some deuce juice.
Get it to even.
Deuce juice.
Keep on believing.

Now its all tied.
Looked em in the eye.
Bout to let it fly.
Bout to make em cry.

Then I dropped a drop.
Like I was taught.
Heavy and dead.
Ad in.

Time to pronate.
Deep knees.
High toss.
Inside out.
Line was caught.

Winner, winner.
Taco dinner.
Dripping deuce juice.
Dripping, dripping.


Blinking (At The Scene)

Broke left before it broke right, then up.
The curves roll true, they are predictable.
Dawn confusion and the only known road.

Cigarette butts everywhere, stinking trash.
Very little maintenance, very little effort.
Like a rusted out truck, left to rust more.

Wild observations of literary routines.
Struck with the saving grace of words.
Thoughts revealed, a spring scrubbing.

The motivations of others explored.
The assumers and the make-believers.
Only the good are good in this sad world.

Call out the officers, sirens wailing loud.
Blinking, blinking, red, blinking, blue.
Fires could break out at any time.

Everything will be fine, no nothing.
Rattling experiences for the young.
At the scene of a report that's been filed.


Hours Of Hush

Don't squander the hours of hush.
When the mind wanders back.
When it has a chance to recall.
The brain will remember for you.


Somehow, the vague is made light.
The murmurs of our real home.
All the laughing and jovial noises.
Music is constant, like in movies.


Breathe and fortify the blood.
The oxygen will let it work.
Tenseness will eventually collapse.
Then, the brain is tranquil.


Now the mind can understand.
It can become thoughtful.
Considerate, and lucid.
Perceiving various points of view.


From each angle they are studied.
Each intermingled with each other.
Creating more and more angles.
Which are sent, unconstrained.


Only determinations seperate.
Continuations and perpetualities.
Obsessions and involvements.
Designed to automatically repeat.


The Junkyard Court: A Recognizable And Distinct Gesture

     The bird gesture is so universal, one clear meaning worldwide.  Regardless of technique, the middle finger is known.  On the other had, the peace sign seems the same as the victory sign, or the literal #2, as if a point guard were calling out a play.  Close the peace sign fingers together, flip up the thumb and you naturally have the guns up sign.  Texas Tech, I think.  But, back to the bird for a moment, the hysteria it can cause, the rage from where it comes, the full double bird.  My father, a tough man, once endangered his family by trying to run a trucker off the road for flipping him the bird.  He wanted him to pull over and fight.  This went on for 20 miles, at 80 MPH, passenger window down, my father leaning over my mother and screaming at the alarmed trucker through her open window.  He was not pulling over for his beating from this crazed man.  My mother was surprisingly calm, my youngest older brother was ready for action, and I was observing the insanity, completely involved.  Eventually, things cooled, the trucker sped ahead, no doubt regretting shooting that particular bird, and we pulled over for gas and snacks.  "The bird must be the worst thing in the world," I thought.

    I've never given my father the bird, but it has become my favorite gesture to use for net tape points won while playing certain tennis opponents.  The 'excuse me' wave gesture always seemed insincere.  In fact, most can't even look their opponent in the eyes when performing this sham gesture.  There is no truth in it.  Also, why not the gestures when the tape shots don't dribble over?  When they are rejected back at the player who hit the shot, disappointment and woe is real and tragic.  Perhaps there is a statistic regarding % of tape shots won.  It is a skill at which certain players are likely superior due to topspin spin rates or net clearance ratios or contact point.  Or all three.  Nevertheless, it is odd.  If we really all wanna be apologizers on the court, go all in.  Double down.  Apologize for winning the racquet toss.  "Sorry, guess I'll serve."  Apologize for an ace.  "Gosh, I really smashed that, fully extended, optimum torque angle, boom.  Sorry, bet that surprised you.  Big point too.  Aww man.  Bummer."

     If tennis is a game of matches, determined by sets, determined by games, determined by points, then all points are appropriate for celebration.  This is nothing more than math, keep the hurt feelings on the other side of the fence.  Perhaps the bird, or double bird, is too provoking for effective use on the tennis court, but the birds have their place somewhere.  As with most things, selective and modest use is best.

     For Vantaggio, the peace sign seems a natural fit.  No other Tennis Apparel Company has an official gesture.  To make it a recognizable and distinct gesture needed for the differentiation, the functionality, and the persistence worthy of the Vantaggio brand, perhaps the Double V should be considered.  Double down.  The familiar peace-like gesture with the two fingers, palm facing out with the second V formed overhead by the forearm, elbow, and flexed bicep.  Think of it.  The Double V.  Marketing gold.  T-shirts, logos.  Deodorant companies everywhere would line up.  Magazine covers everywhere of winners sporting the brand through this Vantaggio gesture.  Endured.  Overcame.

     Finally, be careful to whom you shoot the bird.  Its passive acceptance should never be assumed.  And further, if you're going there, amplify it with its twin, the double bird.  Look them in the eye while gesturing.  Double down.  That's Vantaggio!

*Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company has expressed 'concern and alarm' regarding use of any bird gesture on the tennis court.


Pacificos And Mojitos

Pacificos and Mojitos.
Running through my veins.
Relaxations and pontifications.
Nothing but a numbers game.

Walked right to up the edge.
Where all the scenes can be seen.
Wanna get a good long look.
Look at all the beauty queens.

Cause beauty is everywhere.
The mountains, the trees, the seas.
Reminded of the glittered nights.
All the beauty we could ever need.

Wasn't hard at all to decide.
Saw that picture of that mojito.
But I always like a Mexican beer.
So had a Mojito and a Pacifico.

Broken mint leaves and limes.
Makes all the drinks taste loud.
Like they been made so fresh.
For the shadow mafia crowd.

Pacificos and Mojitos.
Running through my veins.
Relaxations and pontifications.
Nothing but a numbers game.



Enjoy Our Joy

So many times we forget to smile.
Take it all for granted, no high fives.
Don't get twisted, don't get annoyed.
Honey just remember to enjoy our joy.

Think of the time wasted on worry.
Sweating details, always in a hurry.
Devil don't know, neither does Freud.
Baby all we gotta do is enjoy our joy.

Watch the morning appear if you can.
Watch the sun fall into its nightly trance.
Telling all you girlz and telling all you boyz.
If we wanna live right, lets enjoy our joy.

Glad we can walk and glad we can see.
Happy we can talk, happy we can breath.
Thankful for nerves, thankful for noise.
That's how we gonna enjoy our joy.

And when we're sad cause someone's died.
When we moan and grieve thru teary eyes.
Even when our world seems destroyed.
Never a bad time to enjoy our joy.



Let The Poets Poet

Let the poets poet.
Let the knowers know it.

Full of defiance.
No self reliance.

Whiners gonna whine.
Whine all the time.

Bout being mad.
It's all gone bad.

Think bout the float.
The ride in the boat.

Over all the oceans.
All the emotions.

Let the rappers talk.
Ain't nobody's fault.

Just somebody's truth.
Just somebody's roots.

Ashes, eventually.
Warmed us, temporarily.
Lit up, desperately.
Burned, completely.



Defenders Of This Galaxy

/\--The strategy is clearly sufficient for the current times.  It will never be outdated, it will never fail.  Memorable, chronological, and easy. 

The brain squashed and twisted, the heart cold and tense, the eyes wet and puffy. 

/\--Stored in a box, the defenders of this galaxy, finally cornered and defeated.  High scored.  Dug in and digging more, beeps and rings and bells. 

Getting chased, getting caught, name the game.  The maze is possible, the door can be found.

/\--Creatures of the night come out, crawl through the brush, tiptoe across the clearing.  Life awaits, blood runs warm, thoughts activated and loose. 

Truth is rational. 
Truth is reasonable. 
Truth is rare. 

/\--Minds are not right, this place is unsettled, all voices won't be heard today.

The Long Yawns

A whirling beginning, loud and ambitious.

Let the relaxations begin.  The long yawns and wide stretches.  Groovy music, retro rap and red dirt alternating on random play.

Coughs and noises, sounds heard nearer the stage.  Up close, to see better, to slam dance, to nod and bop. 

Obvious declarations of woe and discontent, politics just below the surface, the guns put away, but close. 

Smoke the ribs slow or fast, just make sure they're done.  Never undercook swine, it will roil the stomach, it will toil the guts.  Get the coals hot, the heat will kill the poison. 

Machines break, and good mechanics are hard to find.


Babbling And Dabbling

Babbling and dabbling, rambling throughout.  Sort of a back and forth, sort of a dance.  Something fine was discovered.  Discovered and found.  What about the music, what about the sounds.

Intelligent, operating with the future in mind.  Instincts just ignored, get lost. We passed the midway, turn this thing around. Go the other way back, continue to learn.

The air is wet, dripping with rains and heavy with fog.  Like cold soup.  The bankers lined up with starch and cufflinks.  They all had cash, flash, and manicures.



This Is A Free For All

And for all the pleasures out there, thank you!

Long morning of joy.  Even more as days of blues, or ails, or tragedy are known, and will be known again and again.

Many can't take love, how it is selfless, how it is pure, how it never needs anything in return.  Not like a consumer in a love store, each item of love costing something.

This is a free for all.

People are freaking out everywhere.  The injustices are thought of, from far away, from within, everywhere.  Rage and hostility, sent by screens and holograms, yelling and tapping into the late night.  Until the exhaust of making everything known finally surrenders to sleep, our most natural state.  Quiet and dreamy.  There is rest for the weary too.

The righteous and the unrighteuos agree--salvation was the fairest act in history.  No need to come and get it, no need to make it happen, no need to pray for it, even.  Done been done.  Long time ago.

Read about it.


A Bust



Never hesitated much.
Seemed like a pointless waste of love.
Perhaps that's why it was a bust.
And now we're free.

Because time never takes sides.
Its loyalties are deaf and blind.
Makes me wanna keep trying.
Makes me wanna breath.

Giving it all up to the young.
The future they create is their own.
We shown them everything we known.
They know the creeds.

Enjoy the music while it lasts.
Make your peace with the past.
You can play it slow or play it fast.
Don't matter to me.


That's why maybe I don't want to get too close to you.
To know the end of love ends with hearts broke in two.
Only we can decide if its worth it to.....
I'm asking you.


The Junkyard Court: The Complete Obsession With Opponent Destruction

     The old shall rise again.  For those who think 36 is old.  Consider Roger Federer, the oldest man, at 36, to earn the #1 tennis singles ranking.  The next oldest was Andre Agassi at 33.  No fluking that, no fleeting summoning of old glory, no joke.  He has come back to dominate his sport for an extended time, winning 3 of the last 5 grand slam titles, demonstrating his excellence, sportsmanship, emotional steadiness, and fluid grit.  His reaction time advantage still intact, it has always been the foundation of his game, allowing for the trademark extension of his form.  The fully mastered backhand, the active feet, the timeless serve.  Once, long ago it seems, Fed was put out to pasture by some.  Even then he was widely acknowledged as the best ever.  But pastures aren't for Roger Federer, he will gallop away one day, no fences, no gates.  The best ever, for sure.

     Surely, Serena Williams is his tennis icon soulmate.  The sport is fortunate, these icons are worthy of admiration on many levels, especially the complete obsession with opponent destruction.  Physically, mentally, strategically, absolutely.  In all ways they are destroyed.  On all surfaces the icons have prevailed.  Hemispheres, continents, indoors, or out.  They have been grand, slamming the doors, overcoming, enduring.  And, they are both so fly, so Vantaggio.  Mommy Serena will be #1 again, and daddy Fed could hold on to the top spot til he's 40.  Or beyond.

     Less about them, more about the opponent.  Maximizing their own games, sure, but also minimizing the games of their opponents.  Serena's glare, Roger's tactics, Serena's hammer, Roger's one-hander, Serena's class, Roger's class.  High class tennis killers.  Even in defeat, the class shines.  And even defeat is not wasted by either.  It is captured and used to fuel the complete obsession with opponent destruction.  Yes, Roger and Serena, the King and the Queen of all the courts.


The Most Pure Thought

Because trust must never be analyzed.  To even think of it is to doubt.  To even consider it is dastardly.  To resist is the hardest thing in the world. 

Trust or not, it doesn't matter in the end.  It's only faith, and we are incapable of it.  It can only be given to us.  It cannot be mustered or summoned or called upon.  We have no part.  Trusting that fact is impossible and tough to comprehend. 

In that way, everyone has trust issues.  With somebody or something or something else.  To know this, to be convinced of this, is a true gift. 

A peaceful ambivalence towards justice, revenge, and greed.  Unoffended, untrusted, settled.  Got some freedom of speech up in here!  Sing it, yell it, cry it, moan it.  Spoken or unspoken, either way. 

But, first thought is not always best thought, despite what those writers wrote.  It is, however, the most pure thought.  It cannot be trusted.


The Lowry War Blues


They mixed up the colors before anyone.
Indians, Mulattoes, Irish, and the blondes.
In North Carolina no need to pretend.
Nobody cared about the color of your skin.

His paw and brother were taken and shot.
Said they was part of some Yankee plot.
Henry Berry Lowry vowed to make em pay.
The Lowry War is known to this very day.

Robbed the wealthy class like Robin Hood.
Scuffletown folks were bout out of food.
Killed the head of the Klu Klux Klan.
Escaped to the swamps with all his men.

Grey men with chains arrived in the night.
Took the Lowry wives, locked em up tight.
Henry sent a note, say he'd spare their lives.
Better let em go or no one stays alive.

Of course they were freed right away.
Everyone knew Henry meant what he say.
By all the powerful he was surely feared.
In '72 Henry Lowry just disappeared.

They mixed up the colors before anyone.
Indians, Mulattoes, Irish, and the blondes.
In North Carolina no need to pretend.
Nobody cared about the color of your skin.


The Moon Is Involved

A new frame is all.
The colors are still bright.
Eyes still twinkle.
The joints roll and hit smoothly.
They make all the moves.

Like the James Brown slide or the moonwalk.  One, two, three, four, five.

This place really is paradise.
We went there in our dreams.
Innsomnia must be the worst condition.
The body should snore regularly.

Straight through, naps mess with the moods.  Like tides and eclipses, the moon is involved.

What's left is time.
And time is an opportunity for anything.
Especially for the free.
Who don't care so much about most things.
Only being free.
Like in dreams.


Texican Birds (Kickapoo Stories)


Gonna tell you the story of the Kickapoo.
Tell ya bout what the Kickapoo went through.
Much to ponder, how they were made to wander.
Hear this story bout the Kickapoo.


Out of the blue the French arrived.
Wine on their breath and ice in their eyes.
Freezing cold they were buying skins.
Figured they'd prolly never see 'em again.
Brits came through, always picking fights.
Joined 'em and fought on the losing side.
Then John C. Calhoun came up with a plan.
Remove the natives from their native lands.

Telling you the story of the Kickapoo.
All the things the Kickapoo like to do.
The way they whistle, where they settled.
Hear this story bout the Kickapoo.

Kennekuc went to Kansas, a peaceful man.
Kickapoo Prophet and his peaceful band.
A few came to Texas, got in the horse biz.
Then Mexico, near Santa Rosa de Muzquiz.
Never forget the Battle Of Dove Creek.
Rebels picked a fight, went down in defeat.
Wander to Oklahoma, lands on reserve.
Or to the Rio Grande like Texican birds.

There's more to this story of the Kickapoo.
Could tell you Kickapoo stories til were blue.
In the hills of Coahuila, they hid Pancho Villa.
Sierra del Carmen nights of the Kickapoo.

Get Off

This life is temporary, like a far away night it comes and goes.
Time is short we see clearly, wanna go go go, wanna hit the road.

Take off your stupid mask.
Shake off your stupid past.
Fuck off, you're free at last.
Get off, better do it fast.

These crimes a coincidence, like a wildfire out of control and hot.
These times and these incidents, like it's all one big movie plot.

Take off your stupid mask.
Shake off your stupid past.
Fuck off, you're free at last.
Get off, better do it fast.


Near The Oxygen

/\/\/\==All the animosity can be rolled up in a massive ball.

/\/\/\==Add in the ridicule and rage.

/\/\/\==The grudges and revenge.

/\/\/\==Roll it down the Rockies, from the very top, where the continent divides east from west, how the water runs.

/\/\/\==Let it go, down the slopes, it will splinter any tree in its path, it will crush anyone or anything as it gains speed.

/\/\/\==Nothing will stop its decent, gravity always works the same.

/\/\/\==The weight of the sphere cannot be calculated.

/\/\/\==No scale will work, it is the heaviest object on earth.

----Heavier than all the concrete buildings of all the cities in all the world.----Heavier than all the water of the oceans.----Heavier than all the steel, all the wood, all the plastic put together.----

/\/\/\==The air is chilly way up in the atmosphere.

/\/\/\==Light, floating, like feathers.


/\/\/\==This is where love and forgiveness are suspended forever.

/\/\/\==Near the oxygen, where we can all breathe easy.

The Junkyard Court: Between Hippie And Preppie

     Somewhere between hippie and preppie.  No pastels, of course.  Ever.  Pastels have no pop.  They have no place in tennis.  Prints should be banned.  No prints.  Multiple logo placements, multiple logo sizes, multiple logo colors.  Androgynous bias, with functionality and styles.  Reasonable fits, slenders have no room.  Only tights should be tight.  Inhibiting the extention needed to play true tennis is a tennis apparel crime.  Minimize the cotton.  It is a fundamental fabric, but only appropriate as part of a blend.  100% cotten or the ridiculous combed cotten are also not appropriate.

     Inevitably, shoes will be developed.  Make them durable.  That's it, durable.  The rubber and the upper.  Leather has been rendered obsolete.  It is a nice development for the cows.  They would much rather their skins become couches or automobile bucket seats or motorcycle club jackets.  Either way, like racquet grips, leather is no longer needed for tennis shoes.  Shoe color is a matter of personal preference, which can and should, be varied.  Dark or light.  Bright or dull.  Narrow or wide.  No pastels.

      Thermal wear should be very smooth looking, appropriate for any occasion, versatile and effective in a number of conditions.  Chills, winds, mists, and rains.  High quality zippers and tie strings that never recoil.  Collars are cool and an opportunity for innovation and distinction.  Again, any design interfering with the technical or athletic requirements of the player is fatally flawed.  Functionality at the bottom of any pant is important, and go deep on the pockets.  Yes, the pockets must be deep.  Deep enough to hold many balls. On both sides.  Drills, efficiency, e tc.

     Marketing should be constant and focused, all channels coordinated, interconnected and similar, persuing multiple creative avenues of apparel opportunities.  Rowing teams, table tennis, sponsorships, customized event attire.  Deliberate and recurring re-evaluation/adjustment  process must be scheduled early on.  Incremental changes over time.  Nothing, nothing is sacred.  Disciplined and illuminated communications.  Candid.  An offensive strategy to maximize and diversify tennis league enjoyment should be deployed quickly.  Utilizing all methods of cultural influence to inspire the ovarall mission of the brand.  Music, literature, art, dance, and glowface.  Clean, easy, obsessed.

     Roger Federer, the best.  A true slammer.  20 slams so far.  Impossible backhand, easy easy easy.  The king of the down under.  Internal disgust of mistakes, they are never accepted, only endured.  So Vantaggio.


Clear The Landing Area


Theirs the whole time.
Nothing is different.
Just realized.

Clear the landing area.
We're coming down.
From space.

Call off the celebrations.
Until after recovery.
Soak awhile.

Clock all the participants.
Watch them hustle.
Young glory.

It's the outlandish truth.
And the ramifications.
No fear.


Beatdown Haiku

Broken and dragging.
Mortality of it all.
The toll, the beatdown.


The Junkyard Court: This Potential Madness

     Clearly, the chronic perceived potential of American male tennis professionals will be smashed by the reality of their awful and pitiful collective outcomes in 2018.  Sure, millions of dollars will be won by them, and a few will earn their way into the top 50.  A few.  But no one will be a major, or even minor, threat for a grand slam title.  Not since Andy Roddick's 2003's U.S. Open glory has an American male won a grand slam singles title.  15 years, a wasted generation, a failure of the USTA micro-culture, a shame.  Watching the 2017 Laver Cup illuminated some of the problems.  Strikingly different from the American female players, the men are uninspired and, frankly, a bit goofy.  But, why?
     Certainly Isner epitomizes the era, no evolution, so golly gee, so beatable.  And, seemingly, fine with it.  It is true that the meek shall inherit the earth, but they will have no grand slam titles.  These days, when an American male makes it deep into a grand slam bracket, it is always a surprise.  The names are familiar, and somewhat accomplished.  Stevie Johnson, perhaps the grittiest American male player, is easily the most decorated college player ever.  Sam Querry, the first American male to play in a grand slam semifinal in over a decade in last year's Wimbledon tournament, holds the all-time record for consecutive aces with 10.  Of course, Isner's 2010 Wimbledon first round match with Nicolas Mahut is legendary.  A match that took 3 days, over 11 hours of court time, and featured 223 total aces.  Isner won 6-4, 3-6, 6-7, 7-6, 70-68.  He lost in the 2nd round to Dutchman Thiemo de Bakker 0-6, 3-6, 2-6 in 74 minutes.  Quietly, Isner was forced to withdraw from the doubles bracket that year due to a blister on his toe.  Surely, his partner Querry was supportive and felt bad for "Big John".  Jack Sock, the current top ranked American at #9 in the world, is the current yankee king, but he's never made a grand slam Quarterfinal and his elbow likely wont have a long career considering his extreme whiplash forehand motion.  Ryan Harrison's 93-129 decade career match record indicates no real potential.  Donald Young peaked in 2012 with a world ranking of 38 before going on a 17 match losing streak that he's never completely recovered from.  In his 14 year career, he has never won a ATP singles title of any kind.

     The perpetual next generation, who knows?  Jared Donaldson, who I personally watched get destroyed by Argentine Maximo Gonzalez just last year in Houston, once beat Belgian David Goffin in 2016.  Frances Tiafoe, the third highest ranked teenager in the top 100, has lost 29 of his first 38 professional matches.  Taylor Fritz, already married with a family at 20, could develop quickly.  He's got good bloodlines, his mother Kathy May was a world top 10 player in the late 70s.  Perhaps some of her American female mojo will help destroy whatever virus has infected the men and Taylor will break through.  However, speculation just feeds into the chronic perceived potential narrative of American professional men's singles.  Do something!  As the U.S. tennis public, we should be able to reflect back with pride, remember the highlights, revel in the victories.  But there are none.  And it will be no different in 2018.  Thankfully, the always sobering Australian Open ends this 'potential' madness every year.  They are what they are.  And I don't know why.

**If either would agree to do it, Serena or Venus Williams should be the next Davis Cup Coach.  Something must change.


Nothing Is News


Wish we had a place we could forget it all.
Plastered all over TV's on walls.

Now we see the snakes slither up the hills.
Money's dried up, no more bribery deals.

Like that trash magazine says trashy things.
About all the people that we trying to be.

All the sanctimony and hypocrites.
Hard not to feel like we've lost our wits.



Oh, they said that, it offends me.
Oh, I demand an apology.
Oh, the world treats me unfairly.
And I cry like a baby.

Create a place where nothing is news.
Only daily bread and nothing to lose.

Let the young take over as soon as now.
Maybe the old can get along somehow.

Keep my mind on word and word on my mind.
Love all my loves with the rest of my time.

And if I die before I wake.
Know that I died with a smile on my face.



Jutting Jaws

     Funky gyrations and closed eyes.  Marvelous band culture, encouraging, interacting, laughing.  Heads, spinning on the necks, side to side, swirling.  Jutting jaws.  Attired in yellow and lit up, like an angel of song.  To the point, singing in the high zones about no worries, bad babies, and sweet clementine.  Voice like a masterpiece.  Gone and away, but always with herself.
     Fell in love with tunes, obviously.  To sing, to tell, to whisper, to yell.  An expression making an impression, allowing the space for another expression to emerge as an impression.  Creative art inspires performance art, inspiring other creations.  It's a circle in a way, but more like a long string that twists around to form a cylindar.  Nothing is the same.  Requires constant motion or the entire structure collapses.  Observe constantly, consider everything, wonder loudly.  Take note, jot down, tuck away.  Lines, words, hums.  Somehow.
     Still young, now she is seasoned.  Open to everything and intentional in her explorations.  More curiosity than advice, more love than hate, more light than dark.  Relational blues, wavering melencholy, and independance.


This Pasture

Sure, the sky's not falling.
But it's cold for sure.
Like a normal chill, no wind or nothing.
Sanctimony is hard to watch.
The righteous are so sure of themselves.
This pasture looks good.
Roam around the fence line.
Away from the bullshit.
Catch a glimpse.
It is a sin not to hope.
As Hemingway wrote.
And tragic too.
Sad, almost.
Snap out of your trance!
Cynicism is a type of poison.
Laughter, hysterical laughter, instead.
Thankful for the true comics.
Knowing hypocrisy and the obvious.
The funny parts, anyway.
The streets of voices.
Protesting the protest of the protest.
Never stop protesting, it is a responsibility.
Mobs are different, they must be disbanded.
They are after blood.
They have no humor.


Corporate Maxed


Not gonna take that call.
Not gonna care at all.
Not gonna lick no boots nor beg nor crawl.
Not gonna care at all.


So corporate maxed.
Need to relax.
So corporate maxed.
Need to relax.

Feeling unattached.
Feeling kinda trapped.
Feel like I might need to take a long nap.
Feeling kinda trapped.

Just corporate maxed.
Need to relax.
Just corporate maxed.
Need to relax.

Realized the game.
Always ends the same.
Slick and on point, no need for any blame.
Always ends the same.

I been corporate maxed.
Need to relax.
I been corporate maxed.
Need to relax.