Hitchhike to Breakdown Street

Shalom ya'll!

Ya ready to actually really watch Rome fall?

We'll funk the neuronic system

Since sister Sara Tonin always does listen,

So long as all of the ears are

Open to hear. . .

(Please, without fear).

Never has to hurt

When ya fall in the dirt,

So never say never - 

Never drop the ball.

That Johnson was magic, 

Third parties know how to party, ya'll.

(Just ask, you know, give T.R. a call).

A gubernator does exist that 

Climbs Mount Everest, 

Grows ganja, 

And runs far along.

Now we gotta teach Donald's Trumpets

To burn the dead presidents. . .

Don't give 'em one reason to stay here,

For we'll turn the frowns upside-down:

With a compass of compassion & 

A cackle at The Crown.

2-3-74: P.K.D. could see the veil dissolved -

Denari in charge,

A sick delusion we'll solve 

From a Source that knew along:

Did you invent the wheel?

The Fire, did you steal?

Who can bake up Pi?

Who taught you to feel?

No pain no gain -

Even when you go insane. . . 

We gotta build you up 

Enough - just so we can raze 

The Zone:

Your so-called comfort-place.

The stylus needs a hard-edge

& the heart must ever break.

Goes by the name of 5-H.T.Pete,

Comes among us to get his panic beat.

Could run 100 miles for each beautiful basswhore - 

Go 100 more,

Give her the encore. . . 

You do want more?

Cuttin' up all the rugs on this glitched-out floor:

100 more & she'll let you through all 7 doors.

100 plus 'cuz you know she knows how to score. . . 

Whatchu standing there for?

Lost in a ketogenic hole,

See if a lil' sweet potato can't help you

Now to grow,

Since it is what it is 

& I Yam What I Yam.

My ambassador is Polish

'Cuz this mammal is ample.

The Lights get so damn pretty

When we color-them-rad

In these cowboy cities.

The mile-high meltdown

Bangs bigger than

Thor & the triggers of war.

Just a Kosmic egg hatching 

Kinesthetic in every possible direction,

With whispers of ecstasy:

"Hello you,

Greetings me,

Let's let Be."

Equinautical / Surplus Harvest

Each equinaut comes hither / thither,

Finding what may frost an eddy of

The river.

The equinaut fell for

You,

Who could harness the fruit of

Imaginarium's hill 'till

We meet at Morta's floating mill.

(After you fall too hard on

The rusty spike mother left in

The yard).

Body will rot but never The Will.

Let us now invite The Chill. . . 

Surplus harvest!

Gather the gluttons -

The spoiled, the sluggard, the rotten.

Surplus harvest!

Ye fascists be smitten.

Time is over,

Yer delusion forbidden.

Surplus harvest!

The equinauts summoned -

The acorn, the sunset,

The sickle, the pumpkin.

Cheers to The Chill!

And mushroom The Fallen.

Bakedown Beat

How my family has such bright eyes,

Yet mine were painted dark,

By shaking out the sweet blood of 

My twin in utero:
He was slightly re-tardy:
Ready, set, go!

I marked him down as late.

I'm the elephant in the womb,

She's the sugar in my tank:

Half as cheap -
But twice as sweet

As a deposit to the spank-bank.

She's my anchor to Planet Thanks.

We'll tuh-kill-ya seven times 

Before you rank on the totem,

File with the grime.

Some gritty greased-up mockingwords

Never found a plot that they just can't schmooze.

I got born-again to run DMT,

Because we're already through being born to bruise.

Well, all you hemped-out hippy kids!

Go on To Be bop & rock steady.

You hit The Beat & we'll keep her ready.

Just bass my face elsewhere from

Time & Space.

Your two-cents for a tent and I'm so much

Richard D. James insane,

Caught with three pitchers of 

That prime windowlickher.

Extra! Textya! We're not

Philip K. Dicking around downtown,

Since Kurt can catch a bullet

And Freddy catch The Fever.

David dies in dignity:

A man falls to Earth.
A woman is a dream I had,
So sleep more with a peace
Beneath your pillow.

But don't forget the downy-Draze,
We must be moving on,
Somebody to love - to funk it up
And burn it to the ground.
A trip to Neville-Neville Land!
With Charles Tunafish &
Slimmity Stanz.

Kids rock & roll so pass the bowl,
Fill the pint;
Rack a tab on that dirty young money.
Keep calling me walrus &
I'll keep keeping it funny.

The Declaration of Morning

Today I am born.

Nothing has ever happened to me,

I am not anyone in particular.

The dark delicious potion pours

Down a tube that can talk.

Call it "throat."

But do not speak.

Let the light in.

Hear the first faint melodies of creation,

Feel an ethereal architect etching

Your genome with photon fragments

Inside a canvas of hollowed cosmos.

This isn't "me."

I've done nothing but

Oh, how we will play 

With The Possible today!

You're such a bendabley posabley 

Shining example of sanity.

Ode to Dirt

The underspoken of
Empire of our lapsing lives.
 
Cradle of every rose's roots and
Silent blanket of our dead. 

The essential magnificence of dirt,
Overlooked much in a white-bread world,
Worshiping super-powered sweepers and
Bleach-based,
Cotton-cleansing,
Synthetic syrups
Which corrupt the powers of Sister Soil.

Cleanliness is godliness. . .
So it is hubris.

What is cleaner
Than an atomic bomb?

Cheers to dirt.
Here's to the filthy vibrations of
Deep jazz jams
And twisted, beatronic,
Cerebral steel-scrubbing triumphs
Of The Dragon's Den
and El Oso.

New Orleans finds herself thriving
Upon the grime of the streets,
Abandoned plastic beer mugs strewn across the gutters,
Each a stranded,
Dionysian semaphore
Of the laughter and
Cheap thrills
It provided its lost consumer.

New Orleans cleans herself in the wee hours of the nightmorning,
Garbage men hopping
Up. . . 
And down
From gargantuan trucks
Like so many pigeons picking at fried potato-crumbles
For the day's sustenance.
So many pigeons,
Gobbling your casualties of excess.
So many garbage men,
Earning the day's wage to feed their hungry bellies,
And share with the spawn still too young to hop
Up. . . 
And down
Off so many trucks like
Wobbling, thriving tribes of pigeons.

It is 5AM and the hose-wielding sidewalk scrubbers proclaim:
"You folks gotta move from these benches - we's fixin' tah hose 'em DOWN."
She screams:
!"I had a husband,
he went and got himself kilt 
Last night."!
Well it sure is a tragedy lady
But only so much sense of loss can we feel,
For a filth-brother making his way home to Mother Dirt. . .

At least his mother let him out to breath,
Whether for a marathon,
Or perhaps,
Merely a cakewalk and a catnap.

In Lady Swamp we find dirt and water
Making passionate lovefuck to one another,
Feeding and thriving and rapid birth-death-birth-death,
Giving so much opportunity to the scum-suckers
And grinning-gator-crawlers,
Ensnaring the clumsy beetles falling from slippery palm roots

Into Ms. Swamp's viscous underworld of warm-wet-mouths.

Muddy-roasted espresso shots,
Roasted swirled beets,
And pints of brewmen's latest gift of micro-bred,
Rich, malt-pop
Share the joys of dirt with a fortunate palette,
In the cave beneath a rather-smart mustache.

And never doubt Mother Dirt to
Once slip you back into her arms,
Honoring you with glorious,
Diffused, arrangement among
Pharaohs, soldiers, and daughters so
Gone, gone,

Gone.
But never forgotten. . .
With a humble Ode to Dirt.