sorry, guys. i’ma have to get all lifey on yall fr a bit. but don’t worry, it’s not, like, some downer shit like it could be.

first of all: i think i’m going to manage to make it through a very intense situation with my self-respect intact, which is good because i’ve always had sort of an inferiority complex. so you know what that means: regeneration. for those who don’t know, my life is simply a series of little regenerations, a constant bid for being a decent person, and a happy one, too.

Pyramid Head Records is dead. i guess that’s the main reason for this post. i guess anybody reading probably has already guessed as much. it’s kinda sad, but at this point, it’s the least of my concerns.

what will I do? i’m not sure. i haven’t even begun to think about the next rock band. that won’t come for a while. but i’m thinking the time is overripe for some live Certain Kind. i also want to read my poems out loud in front of people. but the contemporary poetry scene is so depressing . . .

also, there are at least a couple of dudes who i admire very much and am going to work harder at being friends with. also, there are ∞ pretty girls to smile nervously at.

and there’s still the chance that i’ll be sitting in on drums for the Valient Arms at this festivaaal. needles to say, that’d be a trip.

oh yeah, and i’ve pretty much decided that evergreen state is the college fr me.

don’t worry, guys. i’m a good person, after all. i don’t tell myself that often enough.
my hair is cut, my room is clean and the wheat has been separated from the chaff. and my blog is as silly as ever.

poetry entry 007

i found it while cleaning my room: the first poem i ever done wrote. for better or worse, here it is:

The difference between Time and Space
is
My heart: A Stone propelled by sixty squirming flagellum
There’s A time For space, and
for Space there’s a time
Space travel is a mean fucking way to get out of this World
I Write Songs
about you
when
you’re
Not looking
You’re the mother of my invention

poetry entry 006

hereby and unmournful
the fellowship is broken
you slitlipped son of a selfloving
bitch motherfucker
i’ll fucking twist indelicate those fingers
pop them off, one
two three
four five
six seven
eight nine
ten
and in violence say
what love did not
in other words:
eat the fucking shit dispelled
by the armies killed
by my own pure hate
and while you’re at it:
find some other mindless cunt to fuck
you sexist scum
you pathetic shit

rediscovery!

don’t yall just love it when you listen to a record that you had a totally elaobrate love affair with and then forgot about? you’re all like “oh yeah! this record is great!” and it brings back strangely profound feelings and smells that were very specific to that point in your life.

THE CAN – MONSTER MOVIE

around this time two years ago, this album hit me real hard. the first time i heard it was in a car driving home through northern california. the sun was beating down in that lethargic midafternoon way and there was a really strange insect on me [i think i hallucinate bugs sometimes, ever since i had the chikn pox as a little kid] and i thought to my self “what is this desolate fucking music?” throughout the course of that summer i proceeded to get really, really into it. like whitelight/whiteheat, it’s one of those albums that should be totally dark/depressing, but usually just fires me up/makes me happy.

anyway, i’m listening it right now for the first time since. so good! malcom mooney is unbelievable. his voice and delivery can’t be stopped. he’s got that chanting style repititition that really gets me. hats of to damo, but he’ll never get me the way malcom mooney did.

and the guitar excels. i will always, always have a soft spot for the sort of trebly, riffy style. it’s hard to explain, but you know, the same kind of guitar as the velvets and modern lovers and early television. and then there’s the stuff layered over it. the “grrrrrrwweehhhhhhhhaaaaaaagh” wailing type stuff that is usually spot on, despite it’s overt “experimental” qualities. it’s particular powerful on “mary, mary” [which might be my favorite song on there].

now that i think about, that was a strange summer of listening: gbv bee thousand director’s cut, whitelight/whiteheat [which is what made me want to learn guitar], monster movie and here come the warm jets. all of these were very, very advanced obsessions that i developed. weird music to fall in love to, but fall in love i did.

don’t let anybody ever tell you that art can’t change a person’s life, because it has mine many times over, and will continue to do so.

the east most peninsula is the secret

the next crtn kind album is going pretty slow. i rarely have time to record these days (though my business has been pretty fun, i gess). plus: the person from whom i was borrowing the tape deck realized it was gone and asked for it back. sound familiar? i’ll probably just invest in my own tapedeck.

so anyway. i decided to put out an internet-log-only single, consisting of a couple songs that i did awhile ago that won’t be making it onto the upcoming long-player. they’re, like, residual late start wednesday type things, ie: the unalbumworthy cutz.

youzendit will only let me keep the songs available for a week, so get em while they’re. THE SECRET SINGLE:

side a

side b

if yr wanting this after the expiration, just “hit me up” and i’ll emailz it to you. but first you have to beat me in a pushup contest.

and another thing: these dayz, when i need a quick chortle, i go to one of the following three places -

here

here

and here

yall take care, now.

poetry entry 005

“Song for When I Cut my Hair”

cien enemigos
desde y hasta
y este cabrón
no me comprende.
yo tengo razón
yo tengo éxito
y todo es mío
eufemio.

. . .

i won’t provide a translation, because it just wouldn’t work. plus, the meaning is secondary to the sounds of the words: it’s a song, which, in my own personal world of definitions, simply means it’s a poem that’s meant to be read aloud. if your spanish accent isn’t so good, get an argentine to read it for you. they have sexy accents. depending on what mood i’m in, you might be able to get me to recite it for you.

anyway, this is probably my favorite thing of all the things i’ve ever written so far. it has had an incredibly uplifting, liberating effect on me, and has played a strange, mantric role in this evening, which has been a damn good evening, despite its solitary quality.

Hush Now, Little Girl (It’s Only Midnight)

   

    

    

    

 

in praise

i was looking for the first poem i ever wrote just now. i think i threw it out in embarrassment. the search was not entirely in vain though: it recalled to me the fact that reading kerouac’s _the dharma bums_ opened my mind to the sheer simplicity of poetry, an art form that had until then been forbiddingly aloof.

so then i said “i know, i’ll do a weblog entry about the top howevermany writers of nonprose who have inspired me in writing poetry”

tim kinsella

david grubbs

bob pollard

walt whitman

william carlos williams

calvin johnson

arturo giovanitti

bonny billy / oldham

pablo neruda  (in espanish, plzes)

yaacov luria

does it bother you as much as it does me that there are no women in there? it bothers me.

this weblogging site, i just discovered, has a very dangerous feature: statistics updates. not only does it tell you how many people have looked at your blog in a day, it talks about what sites people got there from, gives you a graph of viewing activity, etc. it’s like, worse than a mirror.

went so far under six last night, in a good way. max used his innate technical expertise
to figure out the reel to reel and we held forth late in to the night with choral silliness and mandolin fun. this is not to say we recorded that on the reel to reel. the recording function is 74% of the way figured out, i’d say.

king shit and the golden boys is such a good freaking record. i think my top four GbV records go like this:

1. Alien Lanes

2. King Shit and the Golden Boyzz

3. Propeller

4. Vampire on Titus

it’s really hard to say one is better than the other, though. unless yr talking about their later stuff, which kind of freaks me out. i don’t want to go there.

seeing the meat puppets tonight.

poetry entry 004

sorry to put two poetry entries back to back like this. i know this  stuff’s boring for you guys, but hey, these have been poetry-centric dayz for me. and you know one else? [cue animals] it’s my blog, and i’ll do what i want.

besides, this one’s anecdotal (although i’ve probably told yooz all in person at one point or another already). a few weeks ago, on a tuesday night at the library, i was feeling silly, haunted and under six, so i wrote the following poem:

praise be to
Late Start Wednesday
and the divine generosity
an outpour of generous divinity

Opal blossoms weeping of elative joy:
of beginnings upended
befriending benevolence of
those who in the benign divinity
divinated the unupended splendid half soaked
love: Late Start Wednesday.

my soft lips kiss the
soft lips of the womb
wet with the love of
Late Start Wednesday, of
Being, of
misfired malenthropy
and me, not the elative type

Sleep, I have no use,
it being for the tired being for the sloth
ful. Bring me my Chalice!
I drink the blackened innards of Another, long since burned, upended
ere the dawn upends the night of an ever lonesome tuesday.
Bring the Saints of Wednesday!
sweeten the thighs of suspension, time ever upended
soften the sweet thighs of Thursday
for we are weak and in weakness seek
some divine, sanguine, benevolent Other
to deign Worthy our weeks of living

but loud my elation!
pronounced, strong!
Late Start Wednesday!

Give toll to the bells
sonorate elatively
these sounds in opalescence
in iridescence
are those of days belated,
time upended.

. . .

i then decided to take the silliness to the next level and submit it to my high school newspaper, seeing as it was in praise of a school-thing. i slipped it under the door of “the axe” office, with my email address and a little note saying “here, you can use this.” i then forgot almost entirely about it.

a few days ago i got a surprisingly enthusiastic email from the student editor in chief saying “we like yr poem, but some aspects of it might piss administrators and parents off.” i guess it was the part about the womb lips and the softening of sweet thighs that did it. she went on to ask if i might not be opposed to some self-censorship. at first i balked, but then decided to look at it as a challenge. thus arose the following “radio edit”

praise be to
Late Start Wednesday
and the divine generosity
an outpour of generous divinity

Opal blossoms weeping of elative joy:
of beginnings upended
befriending benevolence of
those who in the benign divinity
divinated the unupended splendid half soaked
love: Late Start Wednesday.

sing it in sevens
in elevens unloathsomely
some centered unsilver matriarchy
in whole with the love of
Late Start Wednesday, of
Being, of
misfired malenthropy
and me, not the elative type

Sleep, I have no use,
it being for the tired being for the sloth
ful. Bring me my Chalice!
I drink the blackened innards of Another, long since burned, upended
ere the dawn upends the night of an ever lonesome tuesday.
Bring the Saints of Wednesday!
sweeten the boughs of suspension, time ever upended
soften the sweet sons,
loveless in nativity to the thighs of Thursday
for we are weak and in weakness seek
some divine, sanguine, benevolent Other
to deign Worthy our weeks of living

but loud my elation!
pronounced, strong!
Late Start Wednesday!

Give toll to the bells
sonorate elatively
these sounds in opalescence
in iridescence
are those of days belated,
time upended.

. . .

so, yeah. i imagine this will be my first time being “published” by someone other than PHR. but i don’t know if that’s worth getting psyched for, because PHR is the best publisher i could ask for (if not the most effective in trms of publicity).

by the way: i don’t usually name my poems (i generally find it to be in poor taste) but i figured that they might like a name on there, so i called it: “Unnamed Open Song to the Unsoporous, in the Meter of Late Start Wednesday”

and i’m listening to chest cavity no. 4 and it’s rocking the hell out of me.