jpaulgorman

  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 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 'ya

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

  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

  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.    

  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.

  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

  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 suc

  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.

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

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 enforc