The Junkyard Court: Deuce Juice

Down down down.

Love 15.

Love 30.

Love 40.

Back against the fence.

Then a gift.

15 forty.

Free swinging winner.

Cross court.

30 forty.

Need a big first serve.

Got the ace.

40 forty.

That's some deuce juice.

Get it to even.

Deuce juice.

Keep on believing.

Now its all tied.

Looked em in the eye.

Bout to let it fly.

Bout to make em cry.

Then I dropped a drop.

Like I was taught.

Heavy and dead.

Ad in.

Time to pronate.

Deep knees.

High toss.

Inside out.

Line was caught.

Winner, winner.

Taco dinner.

Dripping deuce juice.

Dripping, dripping.

Blinking (At The Scene)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hours Of Hush

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

Scamper.

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

Straggle.

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

Scuttle.

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

Saunter.

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

Sashay.

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

The Junkyard Court: A Recognizable And Distinct Gesture

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pacificos And Mojitos

Pacificos and Mojitos.

Running through my veins.

Relaxations and pontifications.

Nothing but a numbers game.

Walked right to up the edge.

Where all the scenes can be seen.

Wanna get a good long look.

Look at all the beauty queens.

Cause beauty is everywhere.

The mountains, the trees, the seas.

Reminded of the glittered nights.

All the beauty we could ever need.

Wasn't hard at all to decide.

Saw that picture of that mojito.

But I always like a Mexican beer.

So had a Mojito and a Pacifico.

Broken mint leaves and limes.

Makes all the drinks taste loud.

Like they been made so fresh.

For the shadow mafia crowd.

Pacificos and Mojitos.

Running through my veins.

Relaxations and pontifications.

Nothing but a numbers game.

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Enjoy Our Joy

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

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

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

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

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

GCDG
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Let The Poets Poet

Let the poets poet.

Let the knowers know it.

Full of defiance.

No self reliance.

Whiners gonna whine.

Whine all the time.

Bout being mad.

It's all gone bad.

Think bout the float.

The ride in the boat.

Over all the oceans.

All the emotions.

Let the rappers talk.

Ain't nobody's fault.

Just somebody's truth.

Just somebody's roots.

Ashes, eventually.

Warmed us, temporarily.

Lit up, desperately.

Burned, completely.

EmAmDAm

Defenders Of This Galaxy

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

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

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

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

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

Truth is rational. 

Truth is reasonable. 

Truth is rare. 

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

The Long Yawns

A whirling beginning, loud and ambitious.

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

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

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

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

Machines break, and good mechanics are hard to find.

Babbling And Dabbling

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

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

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

CGx3
F
 

This Is A Free For All

And for all the pleasures out there, thank you!

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

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

This is a free for all.

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

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

Read about it.

A Bust

EmCGGx3
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Never hesitated much.
Seemed like a pointless waste of love.
Perhaps that's why it was a bust.
And now we're free.

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

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

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

(Chourus)

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

The Junkyard Court: The Complete Obsession With Opponent Destruction

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

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

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

The Most Pure Thought

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

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

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

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

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

The Lowry War Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Moon Is Involved

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

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

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

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

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

Texican Birds (Kickapoo Stories)

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

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

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

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

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

Get Off

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

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

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

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

Near The Oxygen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

/\/\/\==Weightless.

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

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

The Junkyard Court: Between Hippie And Preppie

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

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

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

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

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

Clear The Landing Area

EmGEmAm

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

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

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

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

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

Beatdown Haiku

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

The Junkyard Court: This Potential Madness

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

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

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

Nothing Is News

DD7x2
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Wish we had a place we could forget it all.
Plastered all over TV's on walls.

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

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

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

(Chorus)

AmGx3
AmGAm

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

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

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

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

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

(Chorus)

Jutting Jaws

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

This Pasture

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

Corporate Maxed

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AEx3

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

DAx3
EDA

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

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

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

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

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

Silver Leaf

Waiting in Denton.
The days of idle.
More dejection than direction.
More anonomous.
The solitude is not lonely.
All the people of this place.
From everywhere!
Serving Hoochie shrimps.
Big and fishy.
Dollar Lone Stars.
Tunes on the back streets.
Turning a Silver Leaf this year.
That Jaffe gal got the sway.
Hope her voice is pure as it seems.
Eyes of creation.
Never close.

Minds Burn (Revolutionary)

These changes coming.
Like the last time it all went down.
Revolutionary.
Only the cowards are running.

And we awake after the dreams.
If we are lucky.
Dreams not finished, and worse, ones not remembered, are the true tragedies.
But they are not real, only hopes gone wild.
Even when dreams are dark, we search for light.
Always seeing our way through.
If only we could know each other fully.
Not all silence.
Not all wondering.
Just enough, though, to stay on our minds.
Because minds are curious.
Minds burn.

No ridicule, it is utterly pointless, diminishing everything.
Understand, instead.
If important.
If meaningless, ignore.

Free To Be

     To be or not to be?  That is the question of our age!

(contemplating for an extended moment)

     Be is the only choice for the attached and sane.  Not to be is avoidance of reality.  We are beings.  Even in choosing not to be, we are participating.  We are being.
     Silence, maybe, but that's its own kind of delusion.  Words are real, and should be spoken selectively, read deliberately, written obsessively, sang manically, and prayed graciously.

*We are lucky to be here.
*Being here is miraculous.
*Let us be for a moment.
*Human beings are being crazy all over the world.
*Be what it may.

     To have been or not to have been seems a better meditation.  Of memory and evidence.  We either been, or not, but we always be.
      To not be is not any kind of question anyway.  That's just a choice.  Usually, we are on automatic, we choose to make our choices by habits, boundaries, prevailing thoughts, algorithms, and conventional wisdoms.  We are free, but we don't always act it.
     Free to be free or not.
     Be Free.
     Be.

Pardon Me

Teleprompt it, no yielding either. 

Shot of paint never hurt anything.  See right through it, think about not thinking if you must think. 

Dark night for this soul, wondering how to finish.  Losing must never be mentioned.  Shake it like you mean it, rub your eyes.  It is one nation under wood.

A legacy of nothing, it's only an act.  We're fixing it.  

Conquest is all, justice is for the birds.  Reading your face, back at work.  Mortal tongues awake and enjoy the rest of the party.  

Hard to know who to trust.  The Madame Secretary has fallen.  The sea at night, and stupid love.  The power behind the power.  The dust will settle.  

Pardon me.  

The situation room.  

Cigarettes burn.  

My turn.

The Short List

There is no mystery now.
Assured of the reality.
It is what it seems like.
Hope is for others.
Only existence from here.
Keep life on the short list.
It is worth the trouble.

Beyond Navigation

A.  The other way around, certainly not through the front door.  Wait for the room to clear, we'll meet in the Jefferson Study.  Please, do have some lunch.  And a bit of warm tea with a spot of lemon.  The chill is to the bone today.

B.  Not a beggar, she can do without.  It is all merely information.  One step closer, towards destiny, towards fulfilment.  No dancing, it is too crowded near the stage.  Only groovey head nods and hand gestures, yelling is not communicating, enjoy the noise quietly.   

C.  Understood by only a few, those who think common sense is just common, conventional advice just conventional, and thoughtful approaches just thoughtful.  Measured, deliberate, and predictable.  Robots have no imagination.  

D.  Which lie to expose, go home and give it a good thinking.  A fraudulent pretender you are no longer.  You can get everything you want in this life, and you can want what you really want.  God is a giver. 

E.  We use time creating nothing.  We don't follow our hearts and seek the normal path, the worn path, the mindless path, the easy path.  Wheels are turning, but there is no road.  We must liftoff and fly, the terrain is beyond navigation, the air is our only chance.

Thaw Out

Impossible to be the same, taking things for granted, praying for provisions and protections, instincts left stranded, doomed and tombed.  Habitual affections are no longer, like a march toward nothing, the decline accepted, even anticipated in a way.

Unsanity.

More noise rock is needed, more head banging, more rough riffs, more stomping.  We can take space rides later.

Love slowly and quietly, they say.  Let it simmer and saute.  Let it work up to the right heat, never have to turn it down.  It will not burn, it will be perfect, delicious on the plate.  Even the last bite will be warm.

Orderly disorder, escaping for a time, confined by outer boundries.  Freedom, only an illusion, practical and common, a mere sense of serenity and comfort.  Our dreams were realized, they came true.  The stars will stay where they are, far away, glittering.

It is calm, but a cold snap is arriving.  Wake early and write.  Thaw out.  Get a fire going, put your hands up close.

No worries, no worries.

Others will be thinking of themselves.  Our intentions only curious, our observations only considered, our opinions only formed.  It doesn't matter.  Very few are listening, even fewer are caring, and none are saving.  The saving's been done, we can spend it now.

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!!