…from the edge of the Anthropocene…AmericanMental: a dissonant, spoken word/guitar thrash state of disunion, dismantlement, dissolution. AmericanMental (n) audio manifesto indicting a failed system; a moral bankruptcy. Inert, impotent, pundit-weary. ...
AmericanMental, Luchador Press, 2020 Here is a poet making known the complaints that bounce around unexpressed inside our own heads, a kind of Larry David with line breaks. In a rare upbeat moment, he writes, "of course there's people/being bor...
(Live on Central Avenue, Albany 10/15/12)
(Spoken Aggregate, Widow Jane Mine, Rosendale 8/26/12, w/Marina Mati & Irene O'Garden)
(Tanning My Wounds, from CD Guided by Anxiety, 1999)
(Live @ the Art Society Kingston, 12/12)
(Paragraph 4 (Live @ Club Harmony, Woodstock)
A miscellany of my works, including lots of Jazz writing and reviews.
I'm lost in a parking lot on the left coast
w/an Afghan Kush and Grey Goose buzz
when Screamin' Jay Hawkins
jumps the Sierra's screaming:
"What can I do w/eighty-six kids
'n each momma wantin' my jam?!"
"Get in motherfucker!" I salvo,
kicking the gas like a mule bucks gravity.
a child of highway and wine
still doing what I did
decades ago. Jazz and the sad momento
following me through town and hamlet
city and scape. Monk's mood and Trane
blowin' by the riverside – finding the notes
coursing the curves. The sun in the East, then West
rising, falling like love itself
bridges, streams – the four way stop.
I never did get back to Topeka.
What was the point? There were pipe bombs
in every direction. Just like here.
Up n down. Forward, back.
Horizon to horizon. Moon to moon
n Grandma's down eight fingers n falling
into her chili n chips as Pop Pop swears at Quick Draw
I don't mean for this to sound overly dismissive or wise-ass, but as much as I love to write -
about history, music, politics - I love editing more. Thus my natural migration towards poetry and, obsessively of late, haiku. The fewer words for me the better. Maybe I stay out of trouble that way.
Or maybe it's sheer laziness. To the chagrin of many friends who egg me on to finish either of the two novels I've started, the first a sullen tale of a copy cat headline making serial killer, Tuesday's Assassin, and my rock n roll murder mystery The Blonde with Blue Shoes (Jack Maverick is the down and out gumshoe hero) lie side by side on a shelf somewhere, famished and unfinished.