Ivory

These strings are attached.  They are the only thing keeping this house of cards standing.  Flimsy relationships and sabotage, breaker one nines with radio checks.  Dreads and woes.  Mistaken identities and hacker nerds.  Details upon details.  Crooked cops and rambling tragedies, silenced by the dirt.  Chatterers, shatterers, and climbing the ladderers.  Crusaders of justice, the worst of all, justifying their own crimes with self-righteous smugs.  The servants are quietly among them, watching and waiting meekly.  They will inherit this earth.

The secrets of Highland Park.  Even the rich get old and wither.  Shine on that cool wind.  There is almost no one to trust, almost no one with good intentions.  Most are preoccupied, fearing the unveiling of their daily truth.  Their regrets, their envys, their desires.  Unspoken, bound tight, kept.  Left honoring the past, cynical about the present, and dismissive of the future.  Almost no true friends.  Look for the lights, seek the givers, love the forgivers.

Blow a kiss over to the Chamber of Commerce.  They will grease it good.  Tax breaks, insider insiders, nights on the town, get the rocks off.  Just an interested observer's take.  Like a trader's market, where scores are tallied and cash is stacked.  A traditional approach, a smoky back room.  Time is about negotiation, the reason the wheels move slow.  Less of a hit, more of a drag.  Less of a shot, more of a sip.  Wait it out to get paid out.  Hold it up to get loaded up.  Shake it down for the get down.  Reel them in for the fix is in.

She is running with her plan.  It is the priority situation, anyone could be played, paid, made, saved, or laid.  Drown the guilt in the holy sea and let the water of earth take the blame, forever the essential element.  Double the hydrogen to oxygen and you got ice, steam, and water.  Slick, hot, and clean.  The reality of H2O's importance is obvious and beyond discussion.  Go with the ivory dress for sure, it is pure and elegant.  You will radiate and glow.  Like a light.

Professional Night

"Hey man, gonna see Bob Schneider at The Granada on professional night."

Professional night?  What's that?

"Never heard of professional night?"

Nope.

"Ever heard of amatuer night?"

Sure, New Years Eve--amatuer night!

"Right.  Bob plays Austin on amateur night every year.  He plays Dallas on professional night, the night before amateur night.  Full band, always a tight group.  Ollie's got the moves.  Slow motion and exact.  Bass player got the bass player sway.  Top of the line players, all of them.  Bob is a master, funny as shit!  You should go."

Gonna be a lot of people there?

"It's Bob.  It will be packed.  The professionals of Dallas know what's up on professional night every year.  It's Bob, man!"

Sounds like a lot of people, not really my scene.

"Not your scene?  Not your scene?!?  This ain't no scene.  This is tunes.  Tunes is the thing.  Nobody gives a shit about a damn scene.  Don't be such a dope.  Come on!  Go."

What's it cost?

"What?!  Seriously.  20 bucks or something."

Drinks?  Are they pricey?

"You sound like the biggest amatuer.  Nevermind, forget I brought it up.  Watch the weatherman talk on TV about temperatures and pipe wrapping and the homeless."

Yeah, need to rest up.

"Why do you need to rest up?"

Going out on New Years Eve.  Gonna eat and drink and dance.

"Of course.  Where?"

The Airport Hyatt.  Coupon said they got a buffett, an ice sculpture, and a free champagne toast right as the clock hits 12.  A big countdown!  And DJ Brickhouse is rocking the music.  Think we might UBER.  Getting a haircut, maybe.  Wanna look sharp.

'Cool.'

Wanna go?

'Fuck no.'

Blood On The Tailgate

DD7GG7x3
DAGD

Before we saw the sun.
Was cleaning my gun.
Under the moonlight.
Was setting my sights.
Sure to shoot em clean.
So they die right on the scene.
Now there's blood on the tailgate,
and that's a damn good thing.

Set up in a blind.
Sipping mellow moonshine.
Being quiet as cats.
Almost took a nap.
Suddenly a rack appeared.
The shot was there, the view was clear.
Now there's blood on the tailgate,
and that's cause for some cheers.

Late in the day.
Kneeling on some hay.
Long bows strung tight,
Like to arrow one out.
Let one fly, shot it just fine.
Smooth release and steady eye.
Now there's blood on the tailgate,
and that's a damn good sign.

*co-written with Corey Baker.

Vantaggio

Vantaggio, Vantaggio.
It's your advantage, time to slam the door.
Vantaggio, Vantaggio.
It's your victory, overcame, endured.

Many, many tennis apparel companies will promise many, many things.  Modern fabrics, more modern than the previous modern fabrics.  Lighter apparel, so the weight of your sweat is spilled on the court, not retained and carried during play.  Fashionable and tasteful styles, with sensible tailoring, double stiched and reinforced.  Ample colors that pop, in a certain kind of way, cool and worldly.  Yes, many, many tennis apparel companies will promise these things.  Many.  Only one delivers---Vantaggio.  Its your advantage...

Vantaggio, Vantaggio.
It's your advantage, time to slam the door.
Vantaggio, Vantaggio.
It's your victory, overcame, endured.

GDCGx4.

*Commissioned by Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company.  This is a JingleHut creation.

Certain Kind Of Magic

CG

What you wanna say.
What you wanna see.
What you wanna find.
What you wanna be.

Where you wanna go.
Where you wanna fly.
Where you wanna run.
Where you wanna lie.

GD7CG

And all we ever wanted was a certain kind of magic, yes a certain kind of tragic understanding of our minds.

Why you wanna hurt.
Why you wanna bleed.
Why you wanna slide.
Why you wanna need.

When you wanna shine.
When you wanna freak.
When you wanna love.
When you wanna meet.

And all we ever wanted was a certain kind of magic, yes a certain kind of tragic understanding of our minds.

How we gonna know.
How we gonna wake.
How we gonna jam.
How we gonna shake.

Are we gonna dream.
Are we gonna raise hell.
Are we gonna think.
Are we gonna tell.

Wild Chicken

Some version of a vision is all we need to get started.  From there, the wind will help us, the tides will be perfect, the moon will light the way.  Not reacted to, but absorbed quickly.  It's merely information, nothing changes.  We go forward.  Again, with the wind.  Breezy and fresh, a rush of coolness to the stubborn and dumb.

Automatically, we reach for the duct tape.  It has been proven time and time again over the years.  Minor repairs, major emergencies, airtight seals, apprehensions.  Available in all colors, however, silver is by far the most popular.  Some day duct tape will be obsolete like wires are becoming, but it will take awhile.  Decades, maybe.   

Run for the money, hustle all you want.  Rely on the lie.  It is a trap, a waste, a folly.  Make peace and money will run to you.  Care less about it, be careless with it, it is completely irrelevant now.  Everyone will be tested with poverty and prosperity.  The poor have been told they are less, but they are not.  They will own the earth.

Because many years ago on a farm near the Missouri River, a wild chicken laid a beautiful black egg.  Different from the rest, utterly unique.  The one.  Understand what is needed, without words, with love.  Tired of being tired of, let the interested find each other. Western madness is our only chance,  please summon the driver.

Asylum Seekers Beware

1.  It's all relational manipulations and The Chinese.

2.  Interrogations and confidence shakers, then the fidget's betrayal.

3.  The wine's effect, and the get down with the get downs.

4.  She ain't no coward, sister.

5.  Camping out at Camp David for the dignity, sleeping in deciding rooms.

6.  Power never lasts, the greed and paranoyia are too much to overcome.

7.  His only light is dimming, everything else is already dark.

8.  Toward the rocks they are led, near the cliffs of the Pacific Sea.

9.  Asylum seekers beware, your paper means nothing now.

For Reasons Of Reason

In my mind, it is complete. You are either in or out.  Your thoughts are captured, or not.  Activity can distract, but only for a time.

In my heart, the blood gets pumped.  Out to the senses, which know what they like.  Feel it, the heart is where feelings are sent from.

In my conscious, the running feud.  These days must be lived, but there are others involved.  This is not a solitary situation.

In my soul, the truth is clear and known.  But it doesn't take sides.  It has already won, and urgency for love is its preoccupation.

Keep the brain in control and thinking forward, memories can be recalled later as needed or wanted.  Erase the meaningless.

In my logic, it is absurd.  And quite unlikeky.  For reasons of reason and delusional tendencies, this is my mirage.

Tumble down slowly, with all the dignity you got.  Walk it off and whistle a tune.  The world will still spin, gravity will save you.

The General Slayer

The general slayer.
Don't buy the protocol, don't buy the sleaze.
The broken mend.
And they are made stronger from pain.

Then justice is served.
Karma is nothing more than inevitability.
Cold and unapologetic.
Strut and swerve through the in crowd.

Support each other.
Common grounds, get on the road.
Find a way through.
The pity of others is a shock to the soul.

We are forward.
Toward the signs of the times and love.
All is past.
It only existed and now is forgiven.

Silence is not brave.
Amplify it up to rock out the house.
Make the smoke count.
It will smooth the mind with calm.

Gone With The Wine

C.              F.               G.
Well, the glass was tipped.
F.                                 C.
Til all the drops were sipped.
F.                                  C.
Til the eyes dried shut.
C.              G.                 F.            C.
Til the tab was paid up.  Paid up.

Gone with the wine.
Tasted the earth's decline.
Tasted the rains.
Tasted the shames.  Damn shames.

Tune in to the sixer.
Playing tunes, sweet sister.
Playing Anson's blues.
Playing Texas truth. Fucking truth.

Take the county road.
Drive slow and low.
Drive curves and turns.
Drive til you burn.  Baby.  Burn.

Once I had a dream.
Saw colors never seen.
Saw people full of lies.
Saw salvation's disguise.  Disguised.

Such a proper life.
Til time comes to light.
Til fear seems to win.
Til the devil's revenge.  His revenge.

And days just go by.
With those neon nights.
With those sounds of loss.
With those nails of the cross.  Nails, man.

It all seems forgiven.
Just a bit out of rhythym.
Just a bit out of line.
Just a bit out of rhymes.  And times.

The Actual Deal

In every story, true or not, there is a common thread.  A point to the telling.  A reason for the remembrances.  Like it was, with flair and embellishments.  For true non-fiction is never enough.  Some mystery must be present.  Some intrigue.  To not risk is to give up, to quit.  If we can trust anything at all, now is the time.  Love is worth it, truly it is the point of it all.  Nothing about lust or power is considered, or meaningful.  The contrary perceptions are the real thrill, the actual deal.  The uncurious assumers can take a flying fluctuation.  Make it about something very specific.  The cards of this house have gone deep into the brains, where thoughts originate and bloom, where the dots connect and create something new.  From this, relationships can grow strong.  Not the fleeting associations of the insecure and desperate, but knowing unions of common respect.  Complications all around.  Avoid the downers, girls.  They are a total drag.

Smooch

A fine place of work it was.  Enough action to keep interest high, money enough to thrive, a future to make so.  Possibilities and opportunities, people known for years and years.  Then the silver, then the lips.  A kiss off for the trouble, a smooch for the rest. 

Many days.  Many.  Ready, confident, going along.  Tell the stories, crack them up.  Draw thoughts from others and encourage wildness....within the confines of respectability and laws, of course.  Times, man, times.  Removing doubt, predicting, knowing. 

To the new age, and far ahead.  Catch up to now and you are only way behind.  There is no significance anymore.  What's done is done, what's past is past. 

The lights are still on.

Your Sweet Delights

Ain't got no moves.
No jukes, no jives, no gazes in the eyes.

Only thoughts is all.
Of love, of light, of your sweet delights.

Forget the schemes.
Be blonde, be blue, be happy and true.

Crack a big smile.
Through lies, through sneers, through whispered smears.

We could create pure trust, where nothing is held back and everything is unmasked.  It would be difficult, the survival instinct of pride has captured our natures.  A good life is not good enough, a complete life is what we want.  An exhausted and used life.  One that is not remembered, or emulated, or admired, or rewarded.  Only completed, without fear, without regret, without apologies.  The senses are where the wonders lie, identify our sweet delights through them.  What we like to taste, what we like to see, what we like to hear, what we like to smell, and what we like to feel.  Isolate, then combine, then isolate, then combine, and on and on.  Solitude has its limits, we are made to share.  Our soul is fed when we give.  Something divine is at work, these mysteries are always interesting.  And then the thinking begins.

A Crypto Future

Reminders of a recent past.
The one you forgot and still can't recall.
Like the story was never told.
Or never happened.

Write a crypto future.
Governments will struggle to keep control.
Centralization, diminished.
No paper pushing.
No middle squeeze.

Confusing and wild.
Like other changes within and without.
The open roads are there.
Take a thoughtful approach.
Enjoy the day.

Time is the thing.
Its allocation, its use, its opportunity.
Fall in or decide for yourself.
Arrangements and accommodations.
Compromises and agreements.
The sensible way.
To boredom.
And fear.

You are the user of your time.
Every second, minute, and hour.
Every day, night, week, and month.
Then, years go by.
And you are not dead.

Positively 4th street honey.
Bobby's truth.
Shout a tune of rebellion and evolution.
They are deserving of nothing.
Open your mind and force it to experience.
Then, close it to create.
Pure art.

No Man

     The reign of Queen Rachel has begun.  This killer of Kings, this punker of Princes, this demoralizer of Dukes, this executioner of Earls.  No man!  No man could beat her this day.

     In the Valparaiso Sports Hall of Fame the name Rachel Janssen is enshrined, her accomplishments documented, revered, known far and wide.  A literal Crusader.  The put-away artist.  The set-up specialist.  Think of nothing, she said.  Perhaps watch the strings hit the shot.  Pray.  Simple basics was the only solicited advice she offered.  She wanted every point, she loved to play, she was sleek and swift.  Precise and merciless.  To win a single game against her in the morning round was the highlight of my peasant effort.  King Of the Court 10 ended in historical fashion.  A woman wears the crown.  Queen Rachel.  Immediately, the ramifications were clear.  Marty The Missing no showed for beers, King James' bid for the elusive 3rd title ended in discrace, and JD Miles is singing the Bag Of Ice On My Big Toe Blues.  The Queen only shrugged, accepting the accolades and responsibility in easy stride.  Like her game- graceful, classic, constant.  In truth, the tennis kingdom was ready, another breakthrough, long overdue.  Billie Jean King, tennis culture is freed!  This, however, was not about show business.  Commerce was not sought, statements were not made.  Only points and games to be won, and they all mattered.  All of them.  They mattered most, evidentely, to Queen Rachel.  God, be with her.

     Prince Fess serves the tennis kingdom in his princely way for an unprecedented third time, his gentlemanly exterior hiding a vicious tennis nature.  Keck played him tough, but he was too formidable.  Sellars, jacked up on testosterone, succombed to the experienced Fess, and Frankenh felt the blade end of his royal knife as he played in KOtC for the very first time.  The most lethal and loyal of all the royals, Prince Fess don't mess around.

     The Kid is the Duke.  The Eagles finally fly high again.  With the notable exception of 2- time Prince Dayton Hancock, their royal record has been inconsistent.  After disposing of Bobby Pierson's mixed doubles game, Duke Tyler tied Frank Friday 5-5 in their afternoon Mahut after falling behind 3-5.  It proved to be the difference, despite Frank's triumphantly celebrated moulette of Vito.  The kid showed grit.  And grits are good.

     The bottom courts, the ones with trash on them, the ones with deep cracks, the ones where vulgarities are allowed, was where Earl Joseph Vita did his dirty work.  Sometimes, royalty is taken at the expense of blood.  Royal history is full of the decapitated heads of family members.  Bill Vita's noggin was cut clean off by his brother.  2-8.  Brutal.  The royally, and perpetually, tough Bob Rodgers ruined my chances for Earl with a lethal mid court game.  Even a headless Bill tied me in our Mahut.  To be clear, I did not lose to Earl Joseph.  He clinched mathematically with a 3-4 loss to me.  Congratulations man, hope it helps your brand.  Vantaggio!  Advantage Joe, for now.

Allow a moment for nostalgia as we've redefined scoring methodologies and cultural taboos of tennis, reclaiming its glorious future.  Always know, the past should only be remembered, not protected.  Always forward.  KOtC 10 merely represents a royal foundation.  Collectively, 160 tennis warriors showed up on those ten mornings, 960 mahuts were played in heat and wind and chill, 9600 games were decided in all.  Ten Royal Courts of all shapes, nationalities, personalities, skill, and genders were made immortal, remembered forever.  May all the royals be blessed, may their subjects be grateful, and for Christ's sake----May God Save The Queen!

The Modern Court

Only delusional dreamers would try that.  Who, in their right minds, would attempt it?  Take on the established, normalized cultures of our lives.  To resist expectations and surprise.  Outlandish.  Usually, wrapped in prestige, tradition, and respectability.  Just enough righteouness to keep it sustained, just enough for a slow, but steady, growth.  Keep it together for a hundred years and no one on earth will know an alternative.  Nationalism, religion, economics, political philosophies, relationships of all types.  And, yes, scoring methods. 

The morning of King Of The Court 10, a rejection of the numbing scoring systems of the past, a repudiation of idleness, a slap at subjective ratings and carpetbagging strategies.  A flip to the USTA for propping up this nonsense through fees and grants.  An app could replace the whole operation.  Along with the Isner Scoring Method, a tennis revolution could emerge in America. 

If tennis is to thrive and realize its potential as the greatest sport in the world, it must bloom.  To gather for a common reason, to exhaust the body, to test the mind.  No sitting around, no excuses, no whining.  Only grunts and screams and slams and drops and slices and down the lines.  Some loves and deuces and moulettes.  Overheads and bailouts.  Wides, longs, and just missed.  Double faults.

Watch the ball to the strings, take the short angles, limit the backswing, and finish the motion.  The morning is here, the future is unknown for now.  Royalty will be decided by early afternoon, they will be celebrated and toasted by dusk.  The modern tennis court.  The Royal Court of KOtC10. 

Mahut!!