.and the other side of hate.
.part of the soul now.
.shapes of all kinds.
.the tender hearts.
.the cold ones.
.turn away turn away.
.look to the stars.
.on a clear night.
.away from noise.
.only music and nature.
.resting in love.
.resting in love.
.teach your children well.
.they are being kept from trouble.
.avoid the pit.
.and the falls.
.mind games forever.
.until the age of maturity.
.until the age of reason.
He walked in and the 7 foot guy stared him down. Started and listened in amazement. Who was this skinny white boy with Unc? Smothered his shoulder with his hand after the performance. "You turned me around son, I didn't know what to think," he boomed.
"I learned from the three Kings--Albert, Freddie, and Elvis. Martin Luther And Martin Luther King. Jr and Sr too." He talked with knowing confidence. The place smelled of chicken necks and the guitar players coated their fingers with chicken grease. This was in the backwoods. The hills of Tennessee. Where the Cashes come from. Self sufficient and musical people. This is not Nashville. These people made Nashville. Players all around. That Gibson box was tuned in. Learned to play every note. Studied the theory of music and heard sounds. Not a follow me man. "You say you play better than Jimmy Hendrix. Really? Let's hear it." He was older now. This was years later. "Now Jimmy wrote the book. There is no doubt. Had to go and off himself. Intentional or not, He was reckless. Can't be drinking too much prior to a performance. Can't be sloppy. We move forward, we don't look back."
Buzzards was a lake bar. Near pottsboro and pink. These texoma boys flash cash around. Floating the waters while the red river dies. Beach camping bums and stripper fillets. Green waters and hundred pound catfish. Cold and windy on granpappy point. The Munson place near the cliff. They never heard a big sound. They never heard the doctor on the keys. Three piece county bands with honky tonk covers and straw hats. It was buzzards. Big red loved the guitar. I'm playing one for him. And the strings were pulled off. Bended and mangled and shredded. Burns run come down. Sleep the next day.
Playing the glow gig set and this gentlemen walks up to the stage. He calmly straps on the electric guitar and begins to ensure proper tuning. I have just completed the opening song, swaying California brown, and the place is full of anticipation. The opener is a ripper and my sideman was playing nice long slide licks. The bar was ringing noises of commerce. I'll have another, make it two or three. Once he's satisfied with the sound of the telecaster, he proceeds to play the introduction to the second track, north end of Erwin park, the most local of all glowface songs and my favorite to sing. He seems to know it and the minor chord laced solos and improvisational sounds we're filling the entire room with melted wax. Incredible, I thought as I signaled the slide for some butter knife whines. The protest of the protest song went on for an hour. The gentleman would not stop. I was pouring sweat and exhausted. We had played the entire album, finishing with a remarkable rendition of Rankin Blues. He made up notes, he tore off the paint, he made the chandeliers cry. All songs were played without pause. It was like one long song. The place smelled of mushrooms and beer. The man finally unstrapped the worn out guitar and placed it back on it's lonely stand. He walked through the stunned crowd, out the back door, and down the ally. We stood there amazed, not knowing what had happened. The slide player was hypnotized. The crowed was silent as he left, but glowing brightly.
He came from the end of the road. Near the washed out bridge. Where the leprechauns howl.
...drop and give me 120...
......only so many hours in a day......
...cheer up and take a break...
......find an acoustical room......
...the moderately priced ones were upstairs...
......a trippy 12 string......
...these high end boxes sound nice...
......and the room was clear......
...a cross was attached to the wall...
......the runners were warming up......
...they were all heroes...
......love life renegades......
...outlaws of adriatica...
.the mornings are short.the restless always wanna be somewhere else.that broadcaster was right.he told of the greener grasses on the other side of the fence.he warned of the days prior.the ruin and the rot.he lived it too.the liars, the thieves, the killers.we know them all.and we are of this sorry world.we bathe in the mud.the first step of humility.but the mud is also good for the dark spots under your eyes.the crying stained skin.it will rejuvenate.old people just seemed like they were always old.never did we imagine glory.but we are closer than ever.our restlessness turns into anticipation.run to the light.the shackles will break.the fence will be opened and we will fall down in the lush and moist green green grass.turner's falls are worn down.chickasaw lands are untouched.only long gravel roads.brush fires in the distance.those casino lights were blinding.parking lot was full.new york, rome, paris, london.always wanna be somewhere else.spur, galveston, brazos river, austin.always wanna be somewhere else.vail, destin, estes park, new orleans.
.in the middle of some bad days.
.karma no longer matters.
.the cold accumulates.
.covering the entire land.
.revolutions and uprisings.
.the loud louder than ever.
.they will talk of billions and trillions.
.millions no longer matter.
.it will be stars in the eyes.
.the younger folks are gonna leave.
.the path of least resistance.
.the women are gonna run to the hills.
.to hear birds and watch suns.
.profits are high and lines are low.
.the computers must go on lock down.
.reboot in the night.
.shut the propellers off.
.drink a warm drink.
.investments of time and money.
.shadowy figures of love.
.we stayed there for hours.going somewhere else seemed like madness.we had it all.provisions and ice.waterproof boxes and airtight bags.music and frisbees.sunscreen and sombreros.days afloat.chunk the tequila in the river.it is the devil's liquid.visions and fever.cold sweats.fell out of a jeep onto the beach road pavement.blood gushed from a head gash.left to live more years.
.secret hallways all around.doors that open by themselves.there is so much light.it is blinding and relentless.but it is a cool light.pouring some needed element into our bodies.we are mere reflectors.it is not our own.the source is never seen.flashlight eyes.
.she really captured the wrinkles of experience. .and he painted those portraits on cardboard. .route 66 never gets old. .all the thoughts in our minds. .they were very colorful. .the modern version of on the road. .glowmachines and shades. .old dallas avenues and one way streets. .the west end is vacant. .echoes at the Plaza of the Americas.
.go on and pick a fight.
.wasting your time.
.cowards and talkers.
.citizens are concerned.
.aint nobody crossing the border.
.unless some dan guy lets them.
.if he can get your vote.
.the us mail is a relic.
.mailboxes should die too.
.the printing press served it's purpose.
.like cave walls, tree leaves, and scrolls.
.transferring knowledge is over.
.what we do with it all.
.is the inquiry.
.one day, all the information and images in the world will be accessible by everyone. even the poor people! the best search engine ever created will be attached to our thoughts through brainwave reading devices. thoughts will automatically trigger the search. the depravity of man finally transparent. and woman. our selfishness unavoidable and encouraged. our questions immediately answered. our desires immediately satisfied. the preoccupation will leave the world quiet. music will make no sound. talking will become obsolete. trees will thrive. holograms will represent us in other places. suffering will continue. despite our plead for perfection.