The Great Wake 52: Noise Is A Choice

 

Made to work, that's for sure.  Spend too much time thinking about circumstances and regrets and ramifications, your age'll show quick.  'Money's just something else to burn, better burn it slow.'  Tell me again and again, watch it smoke.  Smell the electricity fire. 

Ice is what cures, the vegetable bags, wraps, and tubs.  Shock the knots.  The colder, the better, as long as there's sunlight.  Usually, you're not freezing, you merely feel like you're freezing.  Once the teeth chattering calms down, it's quite nice.

Noise is a choice.  Keep the sway, let music smooth out the day, make the skeleton tap, groove over body.  Lyrics are easy, the words mean nothing, the singers make the tune, dig the drawls and hums, imagine the instruments.  Keep the beat, keep the beat, don't stop, there is no stopping.  It's a soul experience.

Christmas On The Farm

Christmas on the farm, we got holes to dig.
Christmas on the farm, scratch my belly, make it quick.
Christmas on the farm, get some table scraps.
No time for fetching, got no time for naps.

Christmas on the farm, maybe I'll get a toy.
Christmas on the farm, I'll try not to annoy.
Christmas on the farm, and if I chew your shoes.
Remember, please remember, Jesus died for me too.

J6 Clowns

Bring the TV cameras around.
Turn his volume up, turn her's down.
All blue up in here, this old DC town.
Ready for the show, they're the J6 clowns.

Listen to 'em preach, listen to 'em whine.
Gotta be smug, gotta take their time.
Trash the citizens, ignore the crimes.
They tell the story, they blow our minds.

<Chorus>
We don't listen to 'em much.
Mostly out of tune, kinda in a rut.
No one dances, nobody shaking their butts.
It's not dangerous, it all shush and fuss.

Lots of talk about democracy.
Like we need a lesson from the DC freaks.
The video showed it was nice and neat.
Trail went cold, so they sprung some leaks.

As time goes on and we know it's a scam.
Most know already, use your brain, man.
People waking up all across this land.
The J6 Clowns are a washed up band.

GEmAmAmx4

<Chorus>
FCx3
GC

The Big Rig

 

AE/ADD7/AE/DEA

The big rig, don't matter if you vote.
The big rig, jam it down your throat.
The big rig, it's in the tabulators.
The big rig, punked the demonstrators.

DA×3/DEA

The big lie is absolutely true.
The big lie is absolutely true.
The big lie is absolutely true.
The big lie is absolutely true.

The big rig, appoint a junk committee.
The big rig, credibility is shitty.
The big rig, cover for their grease.
The big rig, distract us from the thieves.

The Great Wake 51: Hunky Dory

 

The real news is the news, so flimsy and destructive, so partial.  An industry without integrity or authenticity.  An open flesh wound, we can see the bone.  Get a tourniquet, we might lose the leg, but we must stop the bleeding.  We must.

The local outlets have been poisoned, weather is their only hook.  Papers still get thrown for creep's sake!  To ink up more fingers, to lull more minds, to wash.  Always washing.  This is no business, it's cover for organized criminals.

All is hunky dory anyway.  We laugh at the spectacle, it's a sideshow act.  The dulled drone on without us, without curiosity, without clarity, without courage.  Waste your life on worry and regret or get a grip and go.  It's a wonderful life.

The Great Wake 50: Infinite Spectators

 

Go for the tangible, actually make a difference.  We'll send over word next time we need your nonsense.  Infinite spectators must always pay attention, they must always know.  Extreme observation is not for everyone.  It's a mad and made up world.

The problem is not only lack of system, but lack of reach, too.  You said it, brother.  System first is best, then the reach.  The other way would seem inauthentic, forced.  Make it part of something bigger, a project, a creation.

The dearly departed shall not be regarded as broken hearted or somehow martyred.  However lazy, memories a bit hazy, we ran with the crazies and hung with the shadey.  After all this, you'll be sorely missed for your bullet point lists and clever disses.  Ho hum, hum bug, raise a coffee mug.  Maybe a big group hug, ho hum, hum bug.

The Great Wake 49: Sugar And Pills

 

The light of the actual truth, which we knew.  Change the subject, start lying and gaslighting, you're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong.  Shame is your tax, money is your toll.  Pay up, give us our money back, we'd like a refund on our funding.  Send this demand to the Undersecretary Of Underwear immediately.

The dull and dumb are all for it, like a movie audience, they are hypnotized, jacked up on sugar and pills.  They're covered in popcorn, they smell of sanitation.  Baggy eyes, frail and mushy soft, filmed teeth, unflossed and yellowed.  They disrespect, they snivel.  No excuse for ignorance.

Bring the robots online, they will improve the situation.  Take the wheel, but don't stall us out in the bad part of town.  Send reinforcements, mechanics and programmers.  Parts is always a challenge.  One day, fusion batteries will solve alot of problems.

The Great Wake 48: Cootie Carpet

 

Spick and span in here, that new cootie carpet is nice, lots of government cash, lots of cootie money.  The grey blue shade is perfect and the foot feel is cushioned.  The design is designed for durability, wall to wall.  Mark down another, those test results keep coming back, influenza never paid this good.  Spread out.

Buy some extra machines and instruments.  Only the finest for our office, these visits are important.  These viruses are on the loose, the boosting and quarantining are like spitting in the wind, but they spit in the wind anyway.  These are doctors.  They fear the law, they fear the suit, they just want to doctor, probe and prod and cut and stitch.

Get the old batches out of here, the vials are tainted, the serum is dated, the needles look rusted.  Make room for the new juice, electrolytes and growth hormones, DNA strands from vampire flesh.  Might want to stock up on sleeping pills, pep pills, and lazy pills.  Patients come in droves to relax, that's when we bring in the cosmetic surgeons.  That's when the real money starts rolling.

The Great Wake 47: Satellite Star

 

Load up the productivity, need to clear the line.  Sleep is concluded for the day, ramp up another hour for tomorrow.  Today's gonna be a breaker.  Dial in some caffeine, an extra punch.  Make sure to get grilled salmon for lunch.

Oxygen is the main ingredient, a constant stream, an unconscious life preserver, saving you from breath to breath.  Clean the pumps obsessively.  Cardio the vascular, keep the blood running, the mind can process it through.  Hang upside down, let gravity bleed, too.  The microchips are protected, waterproof up to a thousand pounds of pressure.

Wires are obsolete.  Link it up you satellite star, bite it with your bluetooth.  Two chatters for volume control, one for rewind.  Jawbone music, that's it, move around, sway, pop, chop.  Look at it go, moonwalk into a two step followed by a twirl.

The Great Wake 46: Stupidity Is A Permanent Brand

 

Scared of words, moron.  Small brain and small gut.  Cry a pool of electric tears, unplug a year too late, behind the times again.  Think of old words, liberty and death.  Old as time.

Decadence went wrong, like it does.  Eventually, it develops on the extremes, boredom strikes hard.  Then justifications and irrationality.  Covered in some sort of intellectual robe, covering up the naked, frail minds; boney and hollow, rotted and moldy.  Smelly.

Shame now chases them, stupidity is a permanent brand.  No rebellion in their deactivations, it's all surrender.  Dopes of the uncool kind.  Karma will hound them always, it will growl and snarl.  Diminished, without reason.

The Great Wake 45: A Morning Dash

Flash it like a morning dash, a window jump, a rude awakening.  The scoundrels usually show their ass, eventually.  The lowest form of human, a slave to themselves.  Preserving their dignity like squirrels hide nuts.  In dark holes.

Scrutiny will be avoided, it will point back.  Like a defeated zombie.  There is nothing more for them to say, exposed and shamed by rational thought, which is free thought.  Untouched thought.  Unaltered.

The screams, the squirms, the slips, the slanders, they are all expected.  The unexpected will be wilder, more elaborate than can be imagined or invented.  Take no color side, no blues, no reds, the edges cut like broken glass.  Gonzo it out.  Think.

Sweet Tea And Beer

Coffee taste so damn bitter.
Even when you add some sugar.
Hot tea is for english wimps.
English punks and english pimps.
Orange Juice makes me pucker.
Citrus is a motherfucker.
Dr. Pepper tastes alright.
But makes my stomach tight.

Goes gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.
Goes fizz, fizz, fizz.
Makes me burp, makes me hurt.
Makes me take a wiz.

Gatorade ain't bad.
But electrolytes are a fad.
Bottled water seems a scam.
Like Perrier from a can.
Wine's not my kind of drink.
Whiskey took me to the brink.
You asked me what I like, my dear.
Guess I like sweet tea and beer.

EAE/DAEx4-AEx2/DADA/DE-

*Cowritten by Corey Baker.

The Church Of Crystal Methodists

 

Sitting in the pew, didn't know what to do.
Crying and wailing, saran wrapped food.
Night before, heard all about the whores.
Beers, smoke, and those jail house doors.

The matriarch had to depart.
Something or other about her heart.
Everyone agreed, she was the best.
At the Church Of Crystal Methodists.

City slickers and nighttime tricksters.
Friday night hitters, no boot lickers.
Chicks from town, liked to get down.
Tried them all, they all balled around.

Amazing Grace at the top of her lungs.
Dancing with snakes, speaking in tongues.
The night before nobody got no rest.
At the Church Of Crystal Methodists.

Grandson scored in the football war. 

Grandpaw left, slipped out the door.  

Wondered why he left him behind.

Maybe it's just the sign of the times.

Limo ride gave us story time.
Noses got broken, she tanned some hides.
4th kid got madder than a hornet's nest.
At the Church Of Crystal Methodists.

Escaped by a hair, before the last prayer.
Puddle of sorrow from the brother's tears.
Sent my best, and my condolences.
The whole thing was really quite a mess.

Left them there to grieve and stare.
To think back when they all had hair.
Then the preacher thanked all the guests.
At the Church Of Crystal Methodists.

Oh, fuck it all, fuck it down the hall.
Fuck the money, fuck all you all.
Fuck her exes, they was mostly from Texas.
They lost the fucking battle of the fucking sexes.

Jimmy passed out, after swerving about.
Snuck into a room at his Hobbit House.
All still wearing our Sunday best.
At the Church Of Crystal Methodists.

GCFC/FCGCx2

FCx3/CFGC

*Cowritten by Kent DeVille.

My Wayward Son

 

Stories never told, history never known.
Up here he ate his humbled pie.
Winters in the cold, chilled him to the bones.
Fall of '22, we said goodbyes.

Staring into the flames, fireplace night.
Go move the woodpile, my wayward son.
Didn't need a cane, could take big big bite.
Fastest he ever seen a human run.

Serve him up some beef, fed off the land.
Slice a sweet onion, slice a tomato, too.
Check his dancing feet, two stepping man.
Always seemed in a good, good mood.


Went up to the cold.
Left his Texas home.
Went up to the cold.
Went to be alone.

CGAmF

The Great Wake 44: The Why War

 

Wonder why we're fighting an undeclared war against Russia in Ukraine.  The Why War.  Wonder why we're sending billions of dollars to Ukrainians with dubious connections and troubling associations.  The Why War.  Wonder why we're expected to wear the light blue and yellow.

The Why War.  Wonder why the shit hit the fan when we started asking questions.  The Why War.  Wonder why obvious bribery is expected to be ignored.  The Why War.

Wonder why we still have NATO or the United Nations.  The Why War.  Wonder why all those people died and all those cities were destroyed.  The Why War.  Wonder why we've been betrayed.

The Great Wake 43: Unfortunate Reality

 

Generation of political pretenders.  Not one is righteous, yet they all claim righteousness.  Not one is honorable, yet they honor each other.  The game of clones, the shit show.  Our professional government class.

The range of emotions is complete, we accept this unfortunate reality.  The shock left quick, returning periodically, but gone completely now.  Anger is a pointless emotion, we ditched it, channeling it into effective mockery.  Depression is about silence and those grease lickers tried to keep it quiet, then tried to keep us quiet, some sort of massive public depression.  Acceptance is more than an emotion, it is the end of the range, then it goes off to pasture and other pursuits.

Into the magnificent future, our landscape awaits, full of hills and deals, thrills and chills.  It's the only rational way forward, we must scrub the canvas clean, a November power washing.  Between the cracks, into the pores with chemicals, down to the microscopic and microorganism level, down to the basic elements.  Then, another power wash, don't want to paint over it too soon.  Only when the canvas is clean, dry, and ready do we paint our masterpiece.

The Great Wake 42: True Spirit Of Humans

 

Try to imagine a pointless brain, confused and conflicted, without direction, full of fear.  Danger here, spooky things there, down in the basement, cooking up the medicine.  And here we are with a wide open day, cracked by the sun, positioned perfectly for perfection, just streaming along through space.  Think thoughts of truth and hope, truth with hope, they can exist together, they should exist together.  One is hollow without the other.

Truth cuts with a sharp blade, few want to know it, really want to know it.  The slice or puncture is only the beginning, the pain comes next, and the speed of pain can be surprisingly slow.  Of course, the bleeding is the worst part, gushing blood, red and clean.  Then the pressure is applied, disinfectant and bandages, the body works it, too.  Immediately, the healing starts, and truth usually heals, but not always, not without hope.

If it's hopeless, it's hopeless, hopelessness has it's own truth, filled with woe and acceptance, sooner the better.  But hope is in another sphere, another galaxy, it is the true spirit of humans, there is no other explanation for our existence.  Anticipation for what's to come, without manipulation and deception.  Believing light cuts dark like truth cuts lies.  Those that know hope will know the truth, and the truth is glorious.

Rivers & Bridges 8: From Here On Out

 

Some say love, some say rivers, some say forget about the sea.  The sea will be, despite you and me, rivers will ramble, the sea will be.  But I say wait, let's talk straight, what's caused all the rocking waves.  Storms and winds, broken limbs, lighten bolts and thunder hymns.  All we got is from here on out, all we got is from here on out, maybe one day I'll look back and simmer, but all we got is from here on out.

Listened to the talks, walked and walked, know all my fatal fatal faults.  Sent to the deep, shivered under sheets, made my money without much greed.  Got years to grow, more road to go, more laughs more cries, more Holy Ghost.  Learned 'bout trees, the way they sneeze, the noise they make with their falling leaves.  All we got is from here on out, all we got is from here on out, maybe one day I'll look back and remember, but all we got is from here on out.

Hump your left rump, on the dancing front, right one follows with an easy bump.  Now shake your hands, like a crazy band, like a beat up, fucked up, Peter Pan.  Then Bob your head, maybe Infidels, Slow Train Coming, better hit the trail.  Get your sleep, dream away the creeps, life's too short for some drama king.  All we got is from here on out, all we got is from here on out, maybe one day I'll look back and wonder, but all we got is from here on out.

CGFCx4.-FCx2.FCF.GC.-

Rivers And Bridges 5: Right At Dusk

 

Once, when I was a kid, I read a book about an old, retired quarterback named Bart Starr.  The 5 in the number 15 caught my eyes, Speed Racer was my thing, "Go Speed Racer, Go!"  Among other topics, the book explained the Ice Bowl and how my team, the Dallas Cowboys, had lost, and Bart's team, the Green Bay Packers, had won, allowing them to move on and win Super Bowl 2 against the Kansas City Chiefs.  The frozen tundra, Vince Lombardi, -15 degrees, -48 wind chill, one critical offsides no call, and what could have been, what should have been, that day in 1967.

It was the coldest New Year's Eve in recorded history at Lambeau Field, the game began at 1 p.m. and finished right at dusk.  Several players suffered frost bite, seven members of the pregame marching band were transported to local hospitals due to hypothermia, and one elderly fan died at the game due to exposure (she froze to death).  The contest was full of slips and calls and fumbles and weirdness; before the game, the heated coils under the field malfunctioned, dooming the high flying Cowboys in the end.  "The better team lost", said Tom Landry years later, he credited Lombardi with instilling belief in his players, and belief was the difference he concluded.  Maybe, but sour grapes are sour grapes, I wasn't even alive and I tasted those grapes reading about Bart Starr.

And here I was decades later, in another century, browsing around the huge souvenir shop at Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin considering purchasing a vintage Bart Starr #15.  I had just driven Hwy 2 across the Upper Pennisula, down the western, sandy coast of Lake Michigan, and took the exit to see the famous field of frozen tundra.  It was a Thursday, right at dusk, I was on my way to Tigerton, Wisconsin to visit my dad 60 miles west, I had to hit the road, I came to my senses.  Screw Bart Starr and his bullshit Ice Bowl quarterback sneak!  I settled on an official Lambeau Field pancho for my neighbor, a gawdy long sleeve t-shirt, and a green cap with the famous "G" on the front, they were closing up, I took a piss, and then I stuck a Jankee Roots Bike Gang sticker on the western side of the stadium on the ceiling of an old turnstile entrance, then I bolted.

The Great Wake 41: Municipal Outlaws

 

Grab the barstool and lift it high, that place is getting smashed.  It's no spot for a person like me, insults and whines, insecurity and woe, the lame of it all.  There is no path forward, we are pioneering, we are chopping the wood, clearing the trees, vines, and thorns.  We built this city, we'll build another.  Tunnels and paths, completely complete, municipal outlaws.

The best way is transparent, proof of work, cut out the fluffy floozies, rut out the huffy who's whoosies.  Make it snappy, the crimes of next century await.  Information as an angle, as bullshit, as a tool, as bullshit.  Believe none of it, you hypnotic nods.  Proof of truth, slash the money chumps, cash the honey humps.

No longer are we down.  Full stop.  Red.  No green in sight, caution, caution.  Yellow.

Rivers And Bridges 4: The Dang French

 

The ferry ride over to Mackinac Island was about 20 minutes from Mackinaw City, which is where Mackinac Bridge launches cars, trucks, motorcycles, and tractor trailers over Lake Michigan and into Michigan's rugged and green Upper Pennisula (The UP).  The spelling and pronunciation of Mackinac and Mackinaw was confusing and awkward until a shop keeper on the Island set me straight.  "It's pronounced Mack-eh-naw, like ball, Mack-eh-naw, " she said again slowly, "The Island was named by the French originally, the 'c' is silent, when the English took over, they spelled it like they heard it.  It's aww."  That explained it, the dang French, the dern Brits!

I thanked her, she had already talked me into some matching gloves for a toboggan I was buying.  "Gotta get the set," she insisted.  They were a dark burnt orange, I dug the color, I was easy.  A few days later in Wisconsin my dad wore them trying to keep from freezing, he dug the color.  He was skin and bones, had two blankets and a hat on, it wasn't cold, he was dying.

No motorized vehicles allowed on the island, but for $5 extra bucks, I brought my bike with me on the ferry.  It was like a dream, an ancient Great Lakes harbor town with horse drawn wagons and bicycles everywhere.  And fudge shops, and historic forts, and old church steeples, and the Grand Hotel, and other hotels, and a plush golf course, and paved trails.  I rode around the island, 9 miles in all, the backside was native shoreline, took some side roads, walked the Spring Trail's 207 wooden steps to peer through Arch Rock, sat in a grass field, bought some fudge, and made the last ferry back with time to spare.  It was grand.

The Great Wake 40: Maximum Boogiemax

Anything from the Department Of Anything cannot be trusted.  This is liberty 101.  Only A smidgen of scrutiny smashes any notion of integrity and public service from the current DC Department Of Swinging Dicks And Chicks.  Our employees.  The cream has dropped to the bottom, it's curdled and bad, it's no good.

Announcements are meaningless, memorandums are random, news is old, and no one follows up like they promise.  Criminals will return to the scene of the crimes, election after election.  First, the breakout, rashes and lesions.  Then, the open sores, the puss, the scabs.  Finally, the pick off, back to pink.


Maybe one day your vote counts 0.95, perhaps your favored staus gives you 1.05 VR (Voter Ratio).  Boost your VR with vaccine loyalty, mush media viewing credits, electric vehicle ownership, air conditioning minimalism, and meat disavowment.  Max out your VR, Maxine and Max, vote like an American.  Of course, it's maximum Boogiemax.  Viruses (both kinds--computer and cellular), bombs, bankruptcy, shortages, and Russians.

Rivers & Bridges 7: Poor Ole Miss

 

Lit them up in the trenches, but that was all fun and games.  Mostly, it was about his teammates.  His raw temper, later tamed, helped.  Poor Ole Miss, got crunched into the cold, snowy 1961 Cotton Bowl mud.  Mauled by the 'Horns.  Knocked out.

Then the knock up, unexpected, time for business.  Fuller brushes didn't sell themselves, Austin city work wasn't bad, but hot and too smelly.  North to cool Denton, a management wiz, graduated with honors.  Mean and green before Mean Joe Greene.  First round draft pick of Texas Instruments.

Two decades of TI'ing in Dallas, Sherman, Lubbock, and Midland, narrowly avoiding the Phillipines.  Then 3 decades cranking out telecommunications switches at DSC, being a hired consulting gun for The Thomas Group, and wrapping his 50 professional years as the top sales person for Texahoma Oil & Gas.  The man knew W-2 Forms.  Money was easy, he said.  Earn it easy, spend it easy.

Rivers & Bridges 6: Always Slipped Me Twenties

Driving through Ennis, Texas.  Gonna be a parade today, The Spirit of 1976.  Tried ranching cows on the side, think he broke even, but we always had meat.  Ran them TI production lines, had to ban all spit cups one time due to a spill that shut down the operation.  Dipping was still allowed, true dippers drank the juice anyhow, he reasoned.

With some cash to flash, it was a 280ZX.  Uncle Lou set him up right, silver with wings and a back grill, ditched the fly cover, felt it took away from the look.  Got my first speeding ticket on Forest Lane in Dallas, cruising in that car.  Wasn't supposed to leave the McKinney city limits, but whatever, it made perfect sense at the time.  Always gave grace and mercy when I got busted, always bailed me out of jams, always slipped me twenties.

Went crazy, then found his way back to sane.  He had all the times, went to Timbucktoo and back.  Broke some hearts, broke some bones, broke some pride, couldn't make a 4-foot putt.  Calmed it down in Wisconsin, his decades in Texas wore him out good. Dug the Lord, believed it all, every Word, Word.

Island Of Mackinac

 

Seen 'em all my life.
On maps and spinning globes.
Big bodies of water.
Up there where it's cold.

Ontario, Erie, Michigan.
Huron, Superior, too.
Took a driving trip.
I was just in the mood.

Islands, rocks, and cliffs.
Beaches of every type.
Native American paradise.
Stolen in the night.

(Chorus)
Went over to the Island of Mackinac.
Never forget what I saw.
Don't miss the boat, don't be late.
Those old Great Lakes are really great.

GCDGx2/CGx2-CDGC-GDCG/

Rivers & Bridges 3: Water Never Dies

 

Couldn't get out of Nashville quick enough, rose at dawn and blazed north over the Lyle A. Fulton Bridge.  Had my money, had my technology, keys, bike, stuff, it was a nice little spot, on the southern bank of the Cumberland River, right on the Greenway trail, away from the neon.  The town was best in the day, took in a round at the Ted Rhodes Golf Course.  Ted was the first African-American professional golfer on the PGA in 1948.  The Nashville native was Joe Louis' personal golf instructor, valet, and playing buddy, the Jackie Robinson and Sachel Paige of golf rolled into one.

Then the rivers one after another:  Barren, Green, Nolin, Salt, Ohio, Muscatatuck, White, Driftwood, Salamonie, Wabash, Little, Kalamazoo, Grand, Looking Glass, Maple, Chippewa, Au Sable, Sturgeon, and finally, the Indian River.  Not to mention the creeks, brooks, forks, runs, ditches, and gutters.  Water moves in this country, searching for the sea, ready for anything, overcoming cold, overcoming heat.  For now, all we can do is build bridges, but we'll die someday.  Water never dies.

I'd rented a motel room in Indian River, northern Michigan was a desired location for many reasons, especially in September, before the weather turns harsh.  Earnest Hemingway spent his childhood and teen summers in the area (from 1900 to 1920), inspiring much of his future writing content, especially the Nick Adams Stories. Before being sent off to WWI, before being wounded, before A Farewell To Arms, The Sun Also Rises, For Whom The Bell Tolls, and The Old Man And The Sea.  Before he offed himself.  Mackinac Island was cool, too.

Rivers & Bridges 2: Squashed Beer Can

 

I was a mixture of panic, determination, and bafflement.  First night in Nashville and I lost my money clip containing my cash, my cards, and my ID.  It was nowhere, it was gone, it was a disaster.  The details are too inconceivable to explain, but that money clip was found on the 3rd floor of a parking garage, left there for a full hour while I drove around downtown, frantically retracing my movements, ransacking my condo, and searching every conceivable interior space of my 2011 Toyota Camery.  As I drove up the 3 floors for a final peek of my last known parking spot, I prayed specifically over and over, "God, please let me find my money clip, please God, let me find my money clip."

The ramifications would've been extreme, all remedies seemed outlandish, it would've been a road trip ruiner for sure.  I was hard on myself during the search, vulgar and unrelenting, tunes turned off.  As I got to the spot all I could see was what looked like a squashed beer can.  Upon closer inspection, and with squinting eyes, I muttered "Good Lord" as my body released all its tension.  Found my money clip on a 3rd floor parking garage in the middle of Nashville, untouched, intact, a miracle.

The next night wasn't much better.  I was looking forward to catching a show at the famous Bluebird Cafe.  Surely, Sunday night would be a light crowd, perhaps even a chance to jump up on stage and play an original song, or two.  I naively miscalculated, the small venue was flooded with people, there was a long, sad line for suckers without tickets, my 2nd, and last, night in Nashville was a bust, too.  Neon shrines to Johnny Cash and Kid Rock lit up Broadway and 3rd as I called it a night, but they weren't around, got no plans of making it in Nashville.

The Way It Goes

 

GC
GDD7
GC
GDD7

Couldn't find it anywhere in Texas.
Looked every place I could find.
Scattered all over the state.
Lost my peace of mind.

Oklahoma was another thing.
Didn't stay there very long.
Side-eyed stares and grudges.
Thinking they been done wrong.

Avoided the law in Arkansas.
Even though I hit the gas.
Cooled it down with the Velvet Underground.
Passed all their state trooper traps.

In Tennessee, no need to stop in Memphis.
That place has slowly died.
Guess they never got over Elvis.
Don't think they ever tried.

Kentucky with its wooden fences.
Louisville looked a bit glum.
Indiana, heard about its basketball courts.
Don't think I even saw one.

Get me to Indian River.
Where the lake perch are fried up right.
Over near Mullett Lake.
Those North Michigan nights.

CG
DG
CG
DCG

That's the way it goes.
That's the way it goes.
I'll be down the road tomorrow.
That's the way it goes.

Rivers & Bridges 1: Party Pontoon Saloon

 

I've concluded the worst drivers in the world drive Dodge Ram pickup trucks.  In a hurry, unaware, and utterly oblivious of others, they seem to all wear mirrored wrap around glasses, tailgate relentlessly, and pass on two lane bridges.  Go on by, here, go on, rush, you're first, see you at the stop light, Jackson!  I brushed it off somewhere near the Red River in that brilliant corner where Texas meets Oklahoma meets Arkansas, north of Interstate 30, on the rolling, curving roads, through Albion to Broken Bow, then over to DeQueen.  I was on my way to Nashville from north of Dallas, and at the beginning of a 10 day solo road trip to spend some time with my father in Wisconsin; taking the gonzo route, taking my time.

Rolled into Music City around mid-afternoon, checked into my rented riverfront condo, and took a late afternoon ride through the nearby downtown area.  Nashville does it right with the bicycling scene--paved paths, navigational signs, cool bridges, and a flair of art throughout.  The natural beauty of the hills and trees and cliffs centers around the Cumberland River.  Steady moving and full, it's still a working river.  Barges of all sizes, carrying lumber, oil, and dirt.  The irony of moving dirt on a barge down a river.

Of course, there was the cliche Party Pontoon Saloon boat to ruin the calm.  Lit up, blaring new country, and full of maniacally laughing tourists.  Nothing wrong with tourists and laughing, but keep it low profile, start out low key, fall into the local culture.  In truth, the boat mirrored the Nashville nightlife: Crowded, expensive, inauthentic, and bland.  Trying too hard, just let it flow like the river.
 

The Great Wake 39: Tar Pit

 

The shouters must be shouted down,  somebody's got to do it.  We the people's roar can drown out any shout, the decibel level is 11.  It's cranked up like never before.  Public noise violations are at an all time high.  The bottom is booming, the treble is hissing, the reverb is echoing.

We the people are not reading the news, we are not hypnotized by the breaking headlines, we are deciding on our own, paying attention.  These American tyrants got to go, they must be sent off, exiled and reviled.  They will drag as many as possible, dragging is what they know, but their fingernails are getting brittle, the tug-of-war is too much.  Into the tar pit first, then the feathers.  Make a spectacle of their spectacle.

Ignore the sheep, they are sheep, they do what sheep do.  The shepherds are what matters, skilled and protective, they are like shadows, they know the angles, they know the sun.  Their work is done in the dark, while the herd sleeps.  The sheep know nothing when they wake, they just start eating.  They have wool over their eyes.

The Secret

The secret is music.

The Great Wake 38: Clear The Stink

 

No one escapes the wrath.  The tossing out is set to begin in sixty days.  To the street with these fools, leave them on the pavement, mercy is for the humble.  The robotic trash truck will come sooner or later, don't get near them.  Nasty.

Gurgling words, not understanding definitions, unable to articulate syllables, coughing goo into a hanky, eyes squinting through surgical lids.  This man is shrinking, this man is little, a mental breakdown, a puke, an asshat.  Turn up the red lights, that's what really gets him off.  Same as his son, laptops and lap dances.  And yellow pills to avoid a bodily function mess.

Bribed and blackmailed, he'll read anything off the screen.  Hide behind brain decay, hide behind a cootie mask, take no questions from the truly curious, answer for nothing.  The mud awaits, plenty of gutters around, drain the city.  Scrape the scum, no chemical is strong enough to dissolve the filth.  Clear the stink.

The Great Wake 37: Lame, America

 

Shell of a corrupt, career politician performing at a 3th grade level.  Lame, America.  Pigment pimps respected for their courage in stirring the spoon of open racism.  Lame, America.  Celebrations and parties for the right to exterminate a fetus.

Lame, America.  Obvious FBI hoaxes and bald faced lies accepted as rational fact.  Lame, America.  Poke the police in the eyes, then razor wire up the capital city and hide like a pussy.  Lame, America.

Gulp up the media mush, vomit out the talking points, and refuse questions.  Lame, America.  Exploit envy and hardship, talk all folksy, kill Ukrainians and Russians, bring up democracy.  Lame, America. "Patriotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel will cling," said Bob Dylan.

Stale Coffee

 

Aww, shucks.
That's just my luck.
Starbucks won't take my bucks.

Oh, well.
Their coffee's stale.
Starbucks can go to hell.

GC.DC.GCDG.

The Great Wake 36: King Of Crumbs

 

  
The King Of Crumbs, helping working people, leading with courage, signing orders, making it so, winning.  Look at that stride, check out that smirk, he's one classy fellow.  Much of what we think we know is false, our brains have been implanted.  Dull out the debris with breathing and imagining, meditation to eradication.  Don't squander the truth.

Only the monks really know, the ones that clear the mind of distractions, remove desire from life.  Needing only essentials, and wanting only essentials.  They go without blubber and hair, they're out-of-the-know, they learn the secrets, they've gone beyond envy and greed, they know time.  Wait for it, count it out, these days got numbers on them.  Until we sleep.

Call it out, it's an effective method.  To their faces, without a hedge, without anger.  With apathy, in fact, these are merely the cares of this world, after all.  Lying creeps with a hungry and gullible group of weak, lazy, dim nitwits chanting 'yas, yas, yas' mindlessly at their glowscreens.  Fools care about those people.

Back To Back Pockets

It was time to rewind, to back there in time, where my mind was blown by far out phones and far away moans.  The riffs in the night, the distant sights, all together on a mystic flight.

This market mess, this national test, the money must go someplace else.  Back to back pockets, like bottlerockets, knocking it.  Completely rude, these bitter blues, this old lying news.

EmAmDAm

Carrot Cake

 

Heaven ain't far from here.
Finish without any fear.
Let your hair grow out, let you're mind blow out.
Put it in another gear.

Time to beat on conga drum.
Gather up all your crumbs.
Float the toxins away, sweat it out today.
Your blood needs a morning run.

(Chourus)
All the people on this earth living easy.
We're a soft, whining, selfish old bunch.
Tuesday morning listening to some ZZ.
Think I'm having carrot cake for lunch.

Here's the laughs and here's the sorrows.
The highs and the lows.
For this wonderful life, we pay the price.
And everybody knows.

GCGG
DCGG
DDCC
GCGG

CCGG
AmAmGG
CCGG
DCGG

The Great Wake 35: Stuck Up

 

There was no congratulations with the concession, just a bratty, smug acknowledgement of defeat.  A sore loser afflicted with hatred, a has been, a never was, a spoiled daddy's girl.  Abraham was a serious individual, he was removing chains from other humans, he wasn't involved in charades.  He wasn't a clown.  He wasn't a traitor.

Regardless, there will be an exploratory committee.  The last gasping must occur, the suffocation must do its thing, the plug must be pulled.  Humane and dignified, off into the great news yonder.  Tell us, tell us how you became so disliked.  She was probably that girl, that woman, all along -- stuck up.

Seemingly, the personality of a projecting psychopath with a common sense deficiency.  No self awareness.  Humorless.  I'm no shrink, but I've been around since the 60's.  There ain't no future in hate. 

  

The Great Wake 34: Red Rats

 

These feds are red rats.  See how they act, ignore what they say, the only way to identify a red rat.  At night, cheese hanging out, beady eyes, little red rat sounds.  The light makes them scatter, they hate the day.  Dependent scavengers, living off floor crumbs.

There will be no comments, these are investigations, they are on-going, they are sensitive in nature.  Sources will piss on us, they will leak to us, they are well placed.  Interviews, interrogations, subpoenas, statements, memos, notes, toilets, flushing.  It's a puppet show for dumb people, with lollipops and talking points.  The dumb want to sound smart.

The rest of the country is rolling its eyes, our intelligence is being avoided.  Too involved with enjoying life to worry, but the day of voting vengeance is nearing.  No unity, no way.  Not with red rats.  Not with them.

IRS Audit

 

What the hell is up with the FBI.
Why they sticking fingers in America's eyes.
Thinking they got something they're trying to hide.
Stir it up, spring a leak, caught in a lie.

Ain't so sure about the justice folks.
Seems to me they've become a national joke.
Lawyers, guns, and money just like Zevon wrote.
They're too bribed to count all the legal votes.

Bust the backlog, come on, use the robots.
Tax collectors and their money shots.
Summer's ending but it's still damn hot.
Burned the IRS Audit that I got.

We know all about your patriot games.
Use the flag when it shields the blame.
Fool our eyes, and mush our brains.
Anonymous been naming names.

CAmFC

The Great Wake 33: Squint Your Eyes

 

Wake up and go walk, the pouting must stop.  Call it whatever, get a pep pill, drink liquid energy juice.  Sit Indian style for an hour.  Splash your face with ice water, suck down a pot of coffee, the fun has just begun.  Wide eyes, the bushiest bushy tail you got, on alert, aware.

The making of martyrs is usually incidental, rarely does it happen on purpose.  Isolate the revolutionaries, encourage the revolt, get it over with, watch it in pixel time, frame to frame, virtually and otherwise.  Monitoring and plotting, planting the seeds of division, disrupting the peace.  Creating chaos and doubt and confusion.  Squint your eyes, just a bit, bring it into focus.

The reaction is coiling, like Newton knew, the longer it lingers, the tighter the spring.  There will be no minor improvements, the restoring of America will begin with a demolition, a complete demolishing.  It's the only way to clear infestations for good.  Rest, enjoy the receding heat, they lie when they say life sucks, they lay in the dark looking at the ceiling, they worry, they cry.  Liberty yawns.

Max Chillax

 

Turn off the clocks.
Live by the sun.
Wait 'til darkness falls.
We'll have some more fun.

That's when we really rock.
To the booming drums.
Hear the midnight call.
Ain't even close to done.

That's when we Max Chillax.
That's when we get on down.
That's when we Max Chillax.
That's when we make our sounds.

We down to our socks.
Wait a minute, Hon.
That against my law.
I got an only one.

Before we hit the box.
Before the morning comes.
I'll say I never saw.
I'll put away my guns.

CFCGC.

The Hook Of Texas 14: Perpetually Incomplete

Monday morning at the Gage Hotel in Marathon is its own thing, the serenity of the lush gardens, the large and numerous shaded courtyards, the quiet of the town, the shadows of the sunrise, the Glass Mountains to the north, the Chisos Mountains to the south.  Check out time was 11am, I departed at 11am.  The art on display inside the hotel is among the finest and most valuable on earth.  In the late 90's, Houston oilman, J.P. Bryan, bought the place and restored it to its luxury desert oasis status.  Its been voted the finest hotel in Texas twice, I could have walked around for days dazing and gazing and buzzing.

The coffee was good, the sticky buns were sticky, a 6 foot taxidermied mountain lion stared down at the lounge from an antique hutch.  I packed up my car and left in a state of rested peace, the shunpike drive home was 9 hours, I breathed easy and deep.  Then, as I headed north to Ft. Stockton, another member of the fuzz in a decked out suburban gets tight up on my ass for a couple of miles, backs off, does an illegal U-turn, and heads back south, just like in Marfa days earlier.  What assholes.  They ran my plates every which way, I was disappointed I didn't get stopped and eyeballed, figured I was on some sort of neon blue outlaw list, guess not, guess I need to get busy.

Missed out on return visits to the Museum Of The Big Bend in Alpine, the Chinati Foundation in Marfa, the telescopes of the Davis Mountains, and the Mystery Lights Viewing Deck, but there are only a finite number of hours and this 2nd trip to the Hook Of Texas was for tunes and tune folks.  Other places were left to the future, among them:  Balmorhea, Blackjack At Lajitas, Cibolo Creek Ranch, Castolon, and the Boquillas Canyon Trail.  These travels seem perpetually incomplete, like ever-expanding space or everlasting life, or both.  Not an escape from anything, not a getaway, but an experience, an instant in time, a joy.  A song.

The Hook Of Texas 13: Delicious Musical Blur

Meeting and talking with Butch Hancock between sets at the French Grocer in Marathon, I eventually solicited his creative advice.  He took it from there.  It's really an overall thing he said, the tone of the song must be it's own.  Townes Van Zandt once told him he could use any word and any word could mean anything.  His main encouragement, emphasized and repeated to me, was to remain open and aware, perceive the world, capture this instant.  He once wrote a tune by creating one line a day, easist one he ever did, let it come to you, he said.

Viva Big Bend was winding down, Butch was doing a Sunday nooner show in Marathon.  His son, Roy, accompanied brilliantly with clean and unique stratocaster, it was groovy, it was the red cherry on top of this regional musical experience.  I spent the two previous days and nights in Marfa attending shows, recording a bootleg project, and riding my bike around the entire town.  Several sources had warned me of the aggressive traffic enforcement and I'd already been tailed earlier in the week by the local fuzz as I drove north to the Prada store beyond Valentine.  The decked out Suburban followed me close for 3 miles, tight on my ass, then backed off, did an illegal U-Turn, and headed back south.

The weekend shows at Planet Marfa and the Lost Horse were one big delicious musical blur.  The Texas Tycoons, El Combo Oscuro, and The Watters were my favorite acts, in that order, but nobody was better than Butch in Marathon, he sang 'em easy come, easy go, set 'em up, let 'em flow.  After his performance, I checked into the famous and luxurious Gage Hotel to rejuvenate.  The pool was cold, the fried quail wings were scrumptious, the courtyard gardens were lush, and the room got dark dark.  Woke from a 4 hour cat nap at midnight, missing the Sunday night finale at Railroad Blues in Alpine, my time was up, I missed my gals, I missed my dogs, I missed home.

The Hook Of Texas 12: Cool Marfa Morning

The previous 44 hours were loaded, this cool Marfa morning on my rented patio offered time to give my senses a break.  My eyes that saw the Grand River's work in Madera Canyon, my ears that heard The Blan Scott Band's tasteful version of Silver Wings at Planet Marfa, the buds that tasted all those Modelos and limes, the nose that knows the smells of the Terlingua gas shack, and all the other feelings.  They have to rest, too.  Chinati is later, for now, town dogs were barking at each other in the distance, back and forth, communicating with intent.  Just a cool Marfa morning.

Geology has a way of expanding your scope and in the hook of Texas, down where the state digs in, the geology keeps coming.  Windows down, windows up, radio, no radio, moonroof, sunroof, it didn't matter, all the miles were lit, all the miles delivered.  From Persimmon Gap, I drove around the Rosillos Mountains, over the Tornillo Flats, through Panther Junction, right up to the Chisos Mountains, and past Croton Peak.  Describing further would be plagiarism, all the words have been tried, it must be driven, hiked, rode, or floated to be understood, even photographs are a cheap imitation.  Everything is enormous.

Then, an afternoon of music on the Starlight porch, which turned into 7 hours of timeless space once I started playing and getting to know Davis.  He'd been in Terlingua since he was 18, almost 30 years, Fort Worth was not for him, he was solid on the porch cajon, we created a tune called Little Truck In A Ghost Town.  It went a bit dark, but ended with the lightness of optimism, any ole thing could be a story Davis said, and he was right.  The local folks were far out, Davis introduced them one by one, I listened to them banter, I tagged along, I kept going to the icebox, I asked questions, I chimed in, I held back, I hung out, I bought a koozie.  It was all decided by dusk:  Some dude named Dakota couldn't be found, architecture is relative, there's a reason we haven't gone back to the moon in almost half a century, tall girls are treated unfairly, movie set crews are full of jerks, and Davis was retiring to the Sea Of Cortez.

The Hook Of Texas 11: The Alpine Flood

The rain came down hard, the storm formed right over the town according to the doppler radar.  Thunder echoed off the mountain walls, wind raced through like left jabs, lightening struck like right hooks.  The Alpine flood lasted an hour, enough to close several roads, knock down a few power lines, and cancel the night's baseball game.  I jumped on my bike when it cleared out to survey the damage and ride around, get some miles.  Credit the city planners, the water drained out perfectly, a really fine drenching, another successful flood.

The late afternoon was cool, the rain took all the heat, Fort Davis, 25 miles north, was likely getting punched in the face at that moment.  I rode over to the magnificent Holland Hotel, where Viva Big Bend set up their box office, I still had to get a ticket.  The Billiards Room made a good headquarters, I purchased a general admission ticket for $60, they were out of the $105 VIP tickets, but besides some VIP happy hour and a free t-shirt, I couldn't figure what made the VIP different.  Mine was a blue wristband, their's was a yellow wristband, maybe that was it, identify the riff-raff, not a bad plan.  Both these wristbands, blue and yellow, allowed entrance into any of the Viva Big Bend shows through Sunday night.

This was no fenced in, flopping in mud, stand in line festival, Viva Big Bend is spread out over four towns in three counties, this is a driver's show.  In Alpine, Railroad Blues, Spicewood, and the Old Gringo; in Marfa, the Lost Horse Saloon and Planet Marfa; in Terlingua, Starlight Theatre and The Porch; and in Fort Davis, The Chateau Wright.  In addition, there was free shows all over, a Ukulele workshop, a free BBQ, art galleries, and incredible postcard views.  Damn gas prices, fill er up!  Estimating 500 miles, seven venues, and twelve bands over the next four days and nights; check out at the El Viejo Adobe is 11 o'clock, gonna miss this place.

The Hook Of Texas 10: The Old Gringo

At the top of Hancock Hill in Alpine is a heavy, old metal desk and I hiked 2 miles to locate the famed piece of furniture and give it a sit.  It's loaded with graffiti, stickers, declarations of love, and several RIP's.  The plastic chair is broken, but it still sat fine, my lunch view was insane.  Losing the path at one point on the way up, it was solo off trail hiking, but I had water, I had electrolytes, I had my directional wits, I was calm, it was quiet and colorful.  The brush was full of thorns, cacti of numerous versions made the terrain seem almost lush, especially far off, and I could see far off in every direction.

After a rocky decent, I took a needed rest to rejuvenate my eyes and clear my mind of the vast scenes.  The trip north to the Davis Mountains the following day would light up my senses once again.  Then it's south to Terlingua for a night to observe border realities and the darkest of dark skies.  From there, back up north to mystical and colorful Marfa for two days of bands, art, and freelancing.  This is a roadtrip of smaller roadtrips with the El Viejo Adobe serving as a peaceful home base, initially.

The afternoon was for beers and tunes.  Dropped in on Harry's Tinaja, recorded several tunes at The American Legion, then ended up at The Old Gringo Biker Hotel to hit the stage for a few songs.  Opened with Dark Sky, then the anti-classic rock classic, Neil Young And His Needles, and finally, Only A Woman to clarify the national gender debate.  The response was positive, a harmonica player and drummer jumped in quick, some in the audience were shook, there were hoots, there were hollars, everyone listened, an accordian player told me he really dug my stuff.  It was a wakeup call, an announcement of proceedings, moaning vocals, lingering notes, violent strums, booming tamborine foot stomps amplified the hollowed stage, it was time to get it on.

The Hook Of Texas 9: The Sky Was Everywhere

 

The Viva Big Bend brochure was an impressive piece of printed marketing.  It was jammed packed with information regarding the much anticipated music festival -- schedules, venues, maps, bands, shuttles, frequently asked questions, merchandise, sponsors, pricing, whisky advertisements, and the festival logo.  Since winter, this return trip to The Hook Of Texas was imagined.  Alpine local, Barry, had mentioned the event when we closed down Harry's Tinaja the previous winter; there and then it was decided.  There was more to see, there was more to hear. 

And here I was, same pad to start, El Viejo Adobe, across from Sul Ross University.  Drove in around mid-afternoon after cruising through the Monahans Sand Hills by bicycle and having my mind blown again by the horizontal and vertical scenes.  Big Bend was south, the Davis Mountains were north, Marfa was west, Marathon was east, and the sky was everywhere, electric blue with pillowing clouds.  The land was greener than before, but still rough.  Good for poking holes in, good for oil, good for natural gas, lots of storage tanks and pipes, lots of trucks.

After settling in, grabbing a few provisions from Porter's Supermarket, and eating a small bite, I headed out to Kokernot Field to take in the Alpine Cowboys vs. Austin Weirdos minor league baseball game.  It was the 75th Anniversary Night and besides the incredible beauty of the ballpark and its surroundings, the game delivered and the brisket nachos hit right.  Tough start for the home team, but they made it a game at the end with 4 runs in the 9th to only lose by five, 9-14.  It was their third loss in a row, but they got three more shots at the Weirdos before the Weimar Hormigas come to town for a weekend series.  In all, 23 runs, 28 hits, 8 errors, a few spectacular plays in the outfield, and several awful calls by the umpire.

The Great Wake 32: The Son Also Rises

 

Now comes the blackmail, inexplicable decisions are proof.  The bribes, we know.  Stupidity is the ultimate cover, brain decay sympathy gives a measure of grace, initially.  The dumb president strategy.  Brilliant in a way.

Only a person with no dignity and low class would go for it, to be known for being an idiot.  To have "Fuck" added to the beginning of your name, to get in trouble, to stink out the Pope and Queen Elizabeth.  The blackmailers are putting it in the face, rubbing and rubbing, smashing the nose.  The bribed have no way out, they are stuck in the shit, up to the eye balls, they can't even smell it anymore.  They become it.

But the heat keeps coming and eventually burns the scheme.  The son also rises, crack pipe in hand, surrounded by prostitutes and razor blades.  Then, spotted on front row at the White House honors ceremony.  Touching people.  Whispering into his father's ear.

Neil Young And His Needles

 

Tired of listening to the Beatles.
Neil Young and his needles.
That was in another century.
Years ago before technology.

Media is our modern fiction.
Another humanoid addiction.
Stories with a fucked up plot.
Twist your mind until it rots.

Tired of listening to the Eagles.
Classic rock should be illegal.
We've heard it a thousand times.
Memorized every damn rhyme.

Said what they had to say.
Said it loud, said it in their day.
Broke some strings and popped some amps.
Did some drugs, put em in a trance.

Tired of listening to Pink Floyd.
Brain Damage gets me annoyed.
Bricks in the wall are crumbling.
Thought control is rumbling.

Take it to the Board of Truth.
They decide facts for me and you.
They cash their checks on the side.
They hide their bribes in plain sight.

EDEA

The Great Wake 31: We're Not At War

 

But, we're not at war.  There's no declaration, we have no stake, nothing to gain, no boots, no heels, no nothing on the ground.  Only suspicious reasons and dubious rationales about the fate of democracy, uttered by criminals and gropers.  Stealing our money tank by tank, we know gas should be 2 dollars a gallon, if that.  Oily bribes lead to oily blackmail.

Pull up your pants old man, your ass is hanging out.  No way you could run a gas station, updating prices daily, stocking the shelves with goodies and cold drinks, keeping the bathrooms clean, lottery tickets, cigarettes, vapes, rubbers.  No way.  Leave the gas stations alone, fool.  Go back to studdering sanction threats, shaming caucasians, and smelling up the place.

All the country is holding its nose, even the hypnotized.  After abortion, guns, air, and vote counting went bust at the Supreme Court.  Guess those robes have some juice after all, about damn time they called it clean.  The legislative branch gets pruned in the fall, then this country could work it's way back, but it's still gone for now.  Up and gone.

The Great Wake 30: The Funk Brothers

 

No buyers for what they're selling, might as well put it on clearance.  Clean out the inventories, this product is a bust.  Whacked and crunchy, like eating sand, like New Coke, like a pet rock, like hair mousse, like parachute pants.  Grab a mushy tomato, this joke has no punchline.  Pelt all those involved in the debacle, use up the whole crate.

The Supremes left it right there, the sixties were the sixties.  Decide for ourselves, but cut the middle grease, ditch the schemes.  Baby Love and that polished Motown rhythm and blues.  The Funk Brothers were pros, they came to play.  Diana Ross never had it so good.

The brutes are replaced by robots, the brains are replaced by microchips.  This system needs a cold reboot, unplug for 5 minutes.  Cycle it through and relaunch.  Back to the original settings.  Like new.

The Great Wake 29: Pure Paradise

It's tight in here, but there's room to grow.  Squirming and kicking help as long as I keep my head down.  Don't wanna go the breeched route, only four months left, roughly 120 days.  Look who's counting, look who's waiting, look who's floating, look who's growing.  Honestly, it's not bad in here.

She had the calamari last evening, makes my arms and legs dance, the sauce was a sweet marinara.  Some white wine would've been nice, but she won't drink a drop.  Said she's gonna drink an entire box when I'm out.  Not sure what I'll eat on the outside, hope it's good, hope it's in stock.  That cheeseburger she ate the other day was pure paradise.

One day I'll take her to lunch, me and her and that dude with the muffled voice.  Not sure about him, seems obsessed with high gas prices.  Can't quite make it out, but seems to blame a guy named Puck Moe.  Who knows, who cares, I'm sleepy.  See you on the outside.

The Great Wake 28: The New Intellectuals

 

Expand your outlook, then look back, from the outside, observe the mad.  We can see it clearly, there are no surprises.  Time and reproduction, demographics of the bloodlines, the other side of lust.  Nationalism on the trading block, the t-shirts are ready to ship, through air, over water, underground.  None of this is fair, but nothing is fair.

Hypocrites are the new intellectuals, they got it figured out.  As I say, not as I did.  The elevated class, sniffing their own asses.  And each other's.  In all their different lifes:  social life, sleeping life, travel life, virtual life, relationship life, culture life, political life, benevolent life.

Continue to notice, the backlash is predictable, humanity is like the ocean.  We are still babies in our knowledge, we have much to learn.  Some think we know too much already, but that's crazy, we learn more each trip around the sun.  The seasons are the teachers, it's a simple evolution.  Summer is just beginning, it's gonna to get hotter.

Yellow Iron

 

GCDC
GGCC
DCDG
CCGG

Heard those stories bout yellow iron.
Caterpillar's coming to town.
Had enough of Chicago.
That machine is all broke down.

Got earth to move, got earth to dig.
We set our stuff up right.
Things to build, roads through hills.
And those bright Texas nights.

DGx3
DCG

We dig with yellow iron.
We dig with yellow iron.
We dig with yellow iron.
We dig, we dig, we dig.

Looking for a bottom of this market crash.
Enhance my portfolio.
Prolly be a month or so from now.
Buy CAT at its low.

Sell high, sell high, sell it high.
Cash it for some quick gold.
Or ride it for half a decade or more.
Be rich when you get old.

Only A Woman

 

A woman's got those eyes.
Take you on a ride.
A woman's got that smile.
Gives it up with style.

Don't get me started 'bout their skin.
And the signals that it sends.
Feel it in my bones, ya know.
Takes my heart, rocks my soul.

A woman's got those curves.
They don't need to say a word.
A woman's got that hair.
Flowing everywhere.

And what about their complex minds.
Cut a man down, then be so kind.
Makes no sense, but it don't have to.
Only a woman can cure my blues.

A woman's got that thing.
Makes me move and sing.
A woman's got that taste.
Don't let it go to waste.

CF/GCx2

FC/GCx2

Everything Will Orbit

In the twilight we'll look back like we know, but we don't.  We'll develop philosophies all our own, claiming ownership of our thoughts.  Like our own small dominion, our own private paradise, our own world.  We'll be at the center, everything will evolve around us, everything will orbit.  Reason is lost on the night line, when the sun sinks, when darkness wakes.

CG

The Great Wake 27: Peaceful Stomachs

 

Clean up the mess, darlings.  Should be just a few more months.  It's for the common good.  No one will take the fall, it will disappear into soupy haze.  The smell of the times.

We're loaded to the purse snaps, we got them good.  Left them whining and complaining, unable to move on, holding on to old grudges.  Sulking.  Like 5 year olds grounded from their toys, pouting and simmering.  Red faced.

For us is the cash, the dough-ray-me.  That's what spins the world, that's what spends.  Security and ease, peaceful minds and peaceful stomachs.  As just as anything else is just, we justify.  Better to take than to get took, we reason.

Gulf Of Gonzo 3: Beach Disco

 

Sunk into the crystal white beach, just a hop, a skip, and a jump, over to the Emerald Coast of Florida.  Gulfweed was floating ashore from the Sargasso Sea, a region of the Altlantc Ocean framed by four currents, the only sea in the world without a land border.  The lush plants were signs of a healthy and producing ocean, don't believe the hype, the water of earth is in top condition.  The waves were cresting and crashing, looping and busting, popping and locking, then finally, gliding and sliding onto the sand.  Beach Disco.

Starts with a uh-huh, rolling in from the deep.  Then we get the boom bam after it reaches its peak.  After that it seems to sizzle, as it fizzles to your feet.  Reaches far as it can, where land and water meet.  Then that wave rides back out again, wants to rock around some more, wants to find its disco friends, left them on the ocean floor.

And each wave has a story, none the same.  They go where they go, playing their music, dancing and swaying, like a soul train.  Keep the gravity right where it is, screen out the trash idiots.  Our tunes are louder, our drinks are better, we'll sleep regardless.  Consideration is the beginning of class.

Gulf Of Gonzo 2: Mercy Walks The Planks

 

We went where the French were quartered in the late morning.  Tight roads, colorful buildings, steel railed balconies draped with colorful beads and spanish moss, restaurants, courtyards, inns, art galleries, salons, bars, old fashioned beggars, soap shops, dog shops, hat shops, dress shops, and more bars.  Jazz, zydeco, and booming paint buckets echoed through narrow city block canyons, huge magnolias covered green park squares.  A toxic mix of odors combined to produce a smell of basic puke, a smell that could not be ignored or avoided.  America's drain, dump your trash in the Mississippi and it'll find its way to New Orleans.

People keep coming down, hustling, looking for big easys, looking for kicks. Cry babies keep moving.  Andrew Jackson knew the importance of the town, he recruited natives and Lafitte's pirates to help fight off the Brits after they burned down the White House.  In the end, they were too prissy for the swamps, they were no match for the locals.  The redcoat survivors were sent back to their little king.

Was good enough for the man in the long black coat over on Soniat Street, he don't care about war.  Float your illusions of grandeur and evil eyes back to Europe, all diseased with conceit.  What was it you wanted, tell us again, we forgot.  We're shooting stars living in a world where mercy walks the planks, ain't no use jiving, ain't no use joking, they all got broken.  Ring them bells for the blind and deaf, ring them bells for all of us who are left.

Gulf Of Gonzo 1: Musical Grafitti

 

We were wind driving, swirling through east Texas between an 18-wheeler with log chips flying out and a jacked up black suburban with illegal dark tint.  Television was kicking in with Marquee Moon and the gals were in various states of sleeping, navigating, joking, and leaving their worries behind.  Their baby was boarded back in Dallas.  Suddenly, we ran up on some tire debris, all over I-20 ahead of us.  Nothing to do but glide through it, gonna be some rubber on the road, I assured them, be calm, no jerking the wheel.

Real life driving lessons aside, the time for lessons is over and done for now, their life is ahead, and they are formally prepared.  Now the settling in, the removal of testing burdens.  No presentations, no deadlines around here, shake it off in New Orleans.  The Paladar 511 is ready to serve, the wagyu was sliced atop a bean puree, arugula and grilled turnips, and small maple bacon chunks.  Grilled to medium, it was scrumptious.

These streets ain't made for walking, it's a destination town.  We scouted it out, got some places in mind, it's all loose, sticking together, got a blade close.  Lie to bums, gals, simple and quick, "I got nothing, man."  Instead, save your money for the musicians of the night, listen for the jazz bopping and chopping and popping.  Like musical graffiti.

The Great Wake 26: A Moron Will

 

A moron will march for death.  A moron will deny their private parts.  A moron will eat media mush in their oatmeal.  A moron will burn a flag.  A moron will step on a crack, breaking their mamma's back.

A moron will buy the t-shirt, the one that must be bought.  A moron will yank their own chain.  A moron will honk their horn in anger, like a road rage yell.  A moron will whine alot.  A moron will nod and nod and nod and nod.

A moron will not get the joke.  A moron will talk alot about hypocrisy.  A moron will find patriotism eventually, though not all patriots are morons, or even many--most patriots are authentic patriots, the morons among them are easy to spot.  A moron will sound like a moron.  A moron will assume you are a moron.

The Great Wake 25: Ashes In The Air

 

One day you realize the good guys were the bad girls, and the good girls were the bad guys.  Looking back, it all makes sense, the total eclipse of the heart.  But that means nothing now, this is our time still, this is our woke up call.  Let the summer simmer, exhaust your grievances, wail and moan, march and chant, wear your costume.  All in good fun.

Burn ban in the west, winds are whirling wild.  Smokey smells, charcoal ruins, ashes in the air.  The California Governor is in his forest fire jacket again, his camera crew follows him everywhere.  In San Francisco, he built the largest tarp city ever known.  He seems an ugly, ineffective man of unusual inauthenticity.

The boom balloon deflated, the helium got sucked up by the gigglers, the bull headed yappers who buy, buy, buy.  Stick to the plan they'll say, history is on your side.  The fat is best cut after the grilling, let the juices fry.  Sear with the high heat all over, trap the flavor.  Make every bite count. 

The People's Mob

 

Then the People's Mob took over.
Rationality became so fly.
Pragmatism in the afternoon.
Flashlights through the night.

What we saw in the capital halls.
Like it was written for the movie screens.
Insulting my intelligence.
Think you know what I mean.

(Chorus)

Make way for the People's Mob,
we coming through in waves.
Had it with your bribery racquets, your needles and your chains.
Back to basics now, we know our time got robbed.
Now's the time to testify, answer to the People's Mob.

Thirsty for war, thirsty for whores.
Greased up, paid up, your time has passed.
Wonder where they got all that dough.
Think we should find out fast.

Tell me the who, wanna know why.
Put 'em on the stand, make 'em sweat.
Interrogation of the tyrant class.
You ain't seen nothing yet.

EAx3

DAE

(Chorus)

AEx3

DAE

The Great Wake 24: Apart From Conformity

 

The weak imposters, talking about javelins and stingers, not considering the death they endorse.  Their podiums and prompters are disappearing, they will be run off.  But they don't know peace, they will attach their doom to others, they are heartless, soulless, and brainless.  Hooked up, hooked on, and hooked out.  Caught.

It's called the Declaration Of Independence for a reason.  Apart from authority, apart from royalty, apart from conformity.  Leave us alone to live and to die, we'll get by fine without you.  Cut the tax, Jacks, you don't own us.  Truth be known, we just ignore old uncle Sam, he blabbers and points fingers with his dumb hat and goofy scowl.

We'll get to the whole truth, beyond speculation, beyond a reasonable doubt.  It'll involve money and death and other details, it almost always does.  Dark is no match for light.  We've been sold out, inflation is pure math.  The crooks must go down.

The Great Wake 23: A Certain Method Of Thought

 

The detecting is automatic now.  The best kind of automation, automation of the human mind, thinking through a process and pathway, a certain method of thought.  Starts with the push, the reason we're being swayed.  For money, love, or hate, it's one or more of those, could be all three.  The motive could be the only thing that's true.

Note the audience, could be mere validation for those already convinced or casual proclamations to sofly nudge the go-alongers.  Flimsy stuff.  A more independent thinking group, a rational and curious group, requires other actions.  The identify and avoid tactic is the most used. Can't fool those listeners, those with one raised eyebrow, those unconvinced, those with tuned senses, those that ask.

False until proven true, the new news.  And, of course, the proof is false too, and must be proven true, and the proof of the proof and so on.  There is plenty of light in fiction, it's non-fiction that fools.  Make it all up, blame the sources, blame the screens, blame the rich and poor.  A decision has been made on your reporting.

Turpentine

 

Take some more soma, gonna sit right here at home ahh, all alone ahh, on my phone ahh.  'Til the morning cracks, when the sun slacks, watch your backs, we're being tracked.

Fall into the grey, let come what may, what's that you say, stay away, stay away.  Don't try so hard, let it fall apart, it's just another start, another color chart.

You smell like turpentine.
Just like turpentine.

Break the mold, ditch the old, my blood is cold, won't go where I'm told.  It's a poisoned drink, makes ya think, makes ya think, takes you to the brink.

It's all a big mess, this diplomatic address, this hornet's nest, we should all care less.  The end ain't far, a few years is all, another ride in a car, another fight in a bar.

CG

DCGx2

The Great Wake 22: Send Powdered Milk

 

Peek-a-boo, we see you.  The professional panicers, the loons, the irrelevant.  We've moved on, we're not in a war, we say what we want to say, we call it like we see it.  Like always.  We ignore signs.

Watch that looting, the market crash and grab, just like televisions from Target.  Same element, masked Mercedes theives.  Snagged all the bread, guess they got mouths to feed.  Woe to the underprivileged, send crates of peanut butter and jelly, send powdered milk.  This will be a managed decline.

Might as well jump, like 1984.  We've seen the toughest around, roll with the punches, put your back against the record machine.  You know what I mean.  Ignore the worry, ignore the anxiety.  Fly above the story. 

Three Dead Skunks

 

Maybe it's the goo on my shoe from the backroom hairdoos.
Could be some old food voodoo, maybe their bread is turning blue.
Couldn't really tell what made the smell, but it smelled like hell.
Air was stale like sour milk pails, like a stinky, moldy jail.

(Chorus)

Paid my green fee.
Didn't look like many trees.
Just a slight southern breeze.
But the stink almost knocked me down.

Jumped in a cart about to start, loosening up all my body parts.
Broke my heart, they had no scorecards, keeping score in my head is hard.
Hit nothing but junk, score was sunk, water balls went kaplunk kaplunk.
Was in a funk, was playing like a punk, then I drove by 3 dead skunks.

(Chorus)

Rest of the round no putts went down, almost par'd 7 but the ball lipped out.
This small town, hard pan ground, 9 hole course we somehow found.
It was going to pot, place smelled like rot, took a snowman on 8, then took a shot.
By 9 we were fine, we'll remember the time, Blanket Muni Golf Course, the scene of the crime.

(Chorus)


GCDG

DCx3
G

*co-written by Corey Baker

The Great Wake 22: Ignite The Breath

The acquisition is first.  Then comes the demolition, which includes the clearing of debris.  Next is the cleaning and disinfecting, the scrubbing and scraping.  Dig out all the dirt and grime, from the corners, from the creases.  That's how the stink is fixed.

Now that we have fresh air, the renovation can begin.  Start with a skeleton, bare to the bones.  Shake, rattle, and roll.  Smooth the edges, repair the ligaments and disks.  Stuff in the organs, glands, and various veins, removing all obstructions.

Wrap it with ripped muscles, pull them tight to the bones with tendons.  Cover it all with thick skin, the most durable type kind of skin.  Tune the six senses to a fine tune, balanced and common.  Load the brain with knowledge, flip the heart pump, ignite the breath.  Wake, speak freely.
  

The Great Wake 21: Scribble That Reality

 

"Mr. Nick, Mr Nick, tell us about that song you wrote," the reporters were relentless.  "Nothing new, really, just a plead for pragmatism, just a frame of clarity, just a folk tune.  Three chords and a mock, rolling in the rock, watch the shooting clock, here's one for the drop.  Do it, just like that.  Dribble that melody, scribble that reality."

"Call me Peace, please.  Mr. Nick is my father's name.  He's got more scars than me, but I got some.  In the end, war has blinded, war has ruined, war has done no good.  The diplomats of the world have mostly failed, got plucked and greased.  On with the future, cut the anchors, leave then at the bottom of the ocean, let them rust to nothing."

"What are you implying?"  Most reporters are dumb, missing the opportunity to understand for themselves, missing out on the thinking, wasting brains.  Dull.  "About the grease or the pluck?"  The press room went silent, glazed eyes were everywhere.

The Great Wake 20: Asia Major

Kittens and puppies stuffed in bags to suffocate, these are the unholy for sure.  Without soul, these humans, without soul.  Asia Major has a major problem, their days are numbered, like everyone elses.  The hazmat suits, the smog blocking face masks, the humorless smirking.  That charming Chinese culture.

Like the Hero Of Kiev, his country wrecked, blood on his hands.  Like the Old Man In Moscow, still sucking that Stalin tit.  Like the Ole Skinny Dipper, nothing but a pervert.  Like The Natoists, always gearing up for more greasy war.  Like the Techno Nerds, trying in vain to be cool.

The twist is still to come, this plot gets thicker.  Grubby finds the money, and we can print and print for now, shrink and shrink, oh sweet Venezuela.  They are stealing it now, high inflation is an unarmed robbery.  Next is unrealized gains and a 401k tax, or some other heist-like maneuver in the tax code.  Good bye blue skies, good bye.

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty Two

 

"Like The Joker" by King James

I'm now gonna be pulling for the Sabanov doubles team going forward.  Never heard of them before this trip.  And, they are Serbian like the Joker.  Greatness!  You couldn't pay me to watch that singles final.  Ugly tennis, but congrats, Opelka.



"Ivan And Matej Sabanov" by AJ

These crosses were gifts from a Serbian player I coached back in California.  If these had been in my bag, I would have given them to Ivan and Matej Sabanov. Great guys, God bless 'em.  So pure.  So skilled.  Big future.  Idemo!

"Grooving The C Spot" by jpg

Missed it, was busy losing 4-6, 1-6 to some Brookhaven 4.0 aces.  Played decent, only one double fault, but they broke my serve into shattered shards.  Net wizards, lobbed us.  Team won 3-2.  Undefeated so far.  Moving my shorts, not my shirt.  Grooving the C spot...the wins will come.



"Texas Chain Serve Massacre" by jpg

At least Opelka has murder within him, a killer must kill, and does kill.  Along with his Dallas Open win, he completes the first ever Texas Chain Serve Massacre.  It's never been done, the double homicide.  I was going for Isner, but I'm glad the kid won it.  More to come, Opelka goes for blood.

"Review of 1118 Peveto Street" by jpg

Location is important in Houston and this spot was ideal for a 3 day visit to the US Clay Court Championships at River Oaks. Close to Kirby Drive.  Super nice accomodations.  Clean, comfortable, and cool.  Backyard patio very comfortable. Appreciated the guitars, played the one in the middle for a few tunes, including the live debut of Margin Squeeze.  Fine A/C.  Hosts were great, laid back, friendly, and helpful.  Close to Whole Foods and Brenner's On The Bayou.  Straight shot to Irma's.

Donkey Day

 

Nice this morning, spring is here.
Starting today gonna have no fear.
King is coming, He's on his way.
Lay down your palms for donkey day.

Like it said in the prophesy.
Gonna be saved by the Prince Of Peace.
Gonna ride in and make them pay.
Lay down your palms for donkey day.

Crowd didn't know what would go down.
Figured Jesus would take the crown.
But later that week He was betrayed.
Lay down your palms for donkey day.

Had to be done, had to bleed in the sun.
Up on a cross on a hill he hung.
His final breath means we was saved.
Lay down you palms for donkey day.

CFC/GFCx2

Red Mud Gonzo: Twenty One

 

"Prince Of A Guy" by AJ

Absolutely a prince of a guy. Very serious.... serious about going to a movie in an actual theatre right now to prep for his next match. Then he will go back to Canberra and hibernate until the grass court season.  Nick moves in mysterious waze.  Same specs, leather and overgrip as my sticks. 

"Not A Bad Life" by King The Todd

Cool. He seems like a good guy when he's not in a match.  Kind of strange that he's opting out of the clay court season too. It will be funny if he wins this clay court tourney then skips the rest.  Not a bad life.

"Double Edged Swordsman"  by jpg

Punked his way out of a doubles win against the Sabanov Brothers, such a double edged swordsman.  Nick plays with fury when on, plays with extreme apathy when off.  His partner, Jack Sock, played awful, just awful.  From my courtside seat I observed.  Kirgios chattered constantly, his eyes darted, his ears heard everything.  Fucks wern't given, then fucks were given, then fucks were spoken, then fucks were yelled.  He's in a good spot, River Oaks will feed his soul.  Hope he wins the singles, but Garin is nails.

"Crazy Man" by King James

Tiafoe forehand... crazy man...

"Yoko Shrieking In The Background" by Amos

Steve Vai, his role with the Czech Republic declaring independence (until his opinions got him in in hot water), Tina Turner and the Ikettes as background singers on Over-Nite Sensation, jamming live with John Lennon (and fing Yoko shrieking in the background), the Turtles singers (named as Flo and Eddie due to lawsuits), etc, etc, and the music!  Indescribable....