I am a creator like God is just a man made of plastic thieves that rob a worthy change while I am stumped for words you are still inspired by the steel and sands that stay the same love is still a thought like hate is just a feeling we still pretend to bathe upon the sun I’ll create the waves for us to hide in from a love that twists our necks to realize it I swear, I will never ask you for yes or no black and white is grey at the edges of us all Then we’ll all fall together in an image of a sky and it will cease to matter when we sang and when we died You are here for me and I am here for drugs and here we rip and tear each other down while perfection is dead and the heros all have vanished we still eat the tabs that smash out all our mirrors And while we cannot create in a room made of fear with nothing on the walls to draw a life with We still find inspiration in the breaths that we breathe we can survive in a lonely room off our memories
MONDAY DECEMBER 6TH, 2010 — THIS COFFEE SHOP REEKS OF MONEY, CHAI TEA AND VICODIN
I was trying to walk off a cold The other day And I passed by a young man Maybe seventeen or twenty He had pencil-cut levis on with a bandana wrapped around his knee A leather jacket With bands like The Exploited and Conflict Stitched to the sleeves And a huge back patch Of Flux of Pink Indians His black cap was too big for his head and it sagged Down over his eyes His brown greasy hair was undoubtedly Wild under the cap I thought it was probably like an untamed Ocean of grease in a horrible windstorm Just slapping up against the side of his black stocking cap Making a light “thud” every time He turned his head He was meandering through the lawn of the capitol building Staring at the ground Like it was the first time he’d seen it The kid bent down and snatched a pigeon feather He raised it slowly Twirling it between his pointer finger and thumb It was like watching the feather take flight One more time In the grasp of some lowly punk rocker I was in awe of how in awe he was He held it against his pinky Comparing length of his pine needle fingers And this chunky, dirty, ripped-ass pigeon feather I figured in a few moments He was try to collect as many as possible And strap them to his fingertips He’d have huge bustling hands Built to fly And I imagine He’d climb to the top of the capitol building And look down on this fair city For some kind of disaster he could destroy Maybe a mugging Or a dirty cop Then he’d spread his leather arms And open his feathered fingers And he’d jump In my mind He made it And he saved us all.
OCTOBER 10, 2010 — MORNIN I’m exhausted, despite the coffee. We’re headed to North Carolina to play a god damned ukulele festival. I’m sure it’ll be fun, at least thats what I was told this morning when I was leaving the beautiful naked woman in the middle of the bed. She always seems so positive, even when the sleep has taken her eyes over and our pillows are still wet and we have red marks on half of our bodies like some indented, cavernous veins disappearing under waist lines and hiding under our hair. “You’re living the dream,” she says all too often. I don’t even know what the hell that means. Who’s dream? Mine? Nope. The American Dream? If that was the case, I’d make more money? Her dream? Judging by how much she twitches and snarls in her sleep, I sure as fuck hope not. I assume she means I’m lucky to get paid to write shitty songs and parade my sorry half-drunk ass all over this country. Wow, now that I see it in writing, that does seem like the American dream. Get fucked up. Walk around. Fuck up other stuff. Fireworks. Maybe she’s right then, maybe I’ll have fun. She’s the only one I’ve met that can spill Clichés out like gasoline And mean it with such genuine intent that folks like me, We actually believe her. So here I am, 7AM on a plane to Dallas to North Carolina and I don’t care to stare out the window. I’d rather close my eyes and live inside my dream. Laying beside a beautiful naked woman who mumbles stuff like, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” “Sometimes we just have to count our blessings.” and “Live life.” And watch her chest pump up and down and feel the patch of pubic hair rub against my leg as she gently sinks into me. Fuck this 7AM shit. Last time we were in North Carolina, we got fleas. Fucking fleas. Nah, my head is up in the clouds but my mind is still back in those bamboo cotton sheets so much closer to heaven than this useless 35,000 feet.
NG PLANE RIDE
I JUST FOUND 10 DOLLARS IN MY POCKET—TODAY IS A GOOD DAY. OCTOBER 27TH, 2010 — CHEESEMAN PARK WITH A GIN & SODA David & Danielle forever. That’s whats etched into the table. D&D, eh? I bet Danielle is the dragon. She probably smokes Has leathery skin Probably always commands attention Stretches her arms so far they knock down Pitchers of wine She probably screams and yells And throws plates when her and David really get into it. I bet the sex is amazing. I bet David probably sticks around for the sex. And he probably knows, that at 24, a man with a protruding gut and a tribal tattoo Is really only going to find love In the claws of a dragon. She probably gives him head in restaurants. David jogs every other day, But he really can only make it a mile Before he misses home. They go through their wedding pictures Every first Sunday of the month But, the distance between them on the couch is getting larger. They fall asleep to videos of themselves on the beach in the dorms. But, David’s drifting earlier. He’s getting sick of the sound track. Danielle still makes it to the end, Rewinds and ejects the tape. Puts it back in the sleeve marked “memories” And gently places it next to the TV set. She still hums ‘Angel is the Centerfold.’ After two years, she still can’t get the Organ part in tune.
Danielle always wakes up first. She brushes her dragon teeth and Takes a moment To think about her hair. As she runs a comb through, She sits on the edge of the bed and Scratches David’s back. They stumble out the front door Late again. Danielle drops David off at the bank Where he’ll simmer like a tamed stew For nine hours He has a turkey sandwich locked up In a Mega-Man lunch box. No one really laughs at his jokes. Danielle washes her hands and prepares To cut hair. Her first client, Miss Whothefuckcares, (She can never remember the woman’s name, just that she smells like cliniqué and never takes her jacket off) Is getting the same trim and color You would expect on a 50 year old Tom boy. As the day inches forward, Three times Danielle wonders why people Come to get their heads shaved. She’s a stylist, dammit. An artist She often wonders how she got stuck in this. But, at least there’s still David. David & Danielle forever. The fucking horror
“But, have you seen anything else he’s done?” “I mean, Christ, number 32 is just A piece of an army ant’s thorax.” Fuck 1–49 I’m looking for 50. Yeah, 50. Some people have a clear vision of their lucky number 50 And they put on their wading boots And drag themselves through a mess of a marsh With a net and a jar. Sometimes they get lucky. Sometimes they get lonely and lost. Some people take the best parts of 1–49 And in their mind, They Frankenstein. And project a constructed lie of Perfection on some poor, weak woman. And sometimes she believes them. And sometimes she goes crazy. But, me? I’m hoping to throw this massacre away. I’ll keep a couple memories pinned to myself, I suppose But, the way I figure it, If you don’t project and you don’t throw Your time away Searching, The prize will come to you. Maybe she has, and you’ve been too pre-occupied Organizing your labels. But usually, It takes that second glance to Really trap them anyway, Because usually, Usually the first look is just Surprise.
OCTOBER 28TH, 2010 — LET YOUR MIND WANDER
Its like every woman I’ve known Is a part of some horrorshow of a collection. Except all I’ve really collected Is a shoe box full of Why we couldn’t get along. I’ve been pinning down broken pieces of Tsetse flies and tattered moth wings. But, the meat The meat, the body Is missing on every one. Numbered them 1–49. Sometime I’ll score a Lord Howe Island Walking Stick And I’ll pin that man-eater to my Lapelle for all the world To drool over. “The finest catch for any collector,” they’ll say.
WE DIVE IN THE NIGHT WHILE THE MOON RIDES OUR BACKS WE POP THE REFLECTIONS OF STARS AND THE RIPPLES WE’VE MADE ARE EXTENTIONS OF FLESH MOVING THE MIGHTIEST WATER ASIDE THE WORLD ROLLS ON
“to do a dull thing with style — now that’s what I call art.” — charles bukowski
and our pistols were made from knuckles and flesh and we roared with animal tongues and i threw up my arms and i threw down my gun and he said, “i’d rather not take you alive”
scott mccormick www.mccormickphotos.net contact me