Path Of Most Resistance

Another Place, Another Time (2007)

2012-01-18T14:53:00.000-05:00

Back in 2007 those cuddly sweethearts at Thuglit.com published Another Place, Another Time and sent me a sweet t-shirt, here's a link to that issue, which is overflowing with great thuggish lit, as a matter of fact their archives will provide you with hours sick delights.

Whiskey (Previously unreleased, 1999)

2012-01-18T14:42:00.000-05:00

This was the first short story I finished after moving to Boston.

There's no wind in the late May evening. The heat and humidity frustrate Lucy to the point of tears. She's propped her feet up on the windowsill, with the fan blowing the hot air around. She sips whiskey, and rubs the cool glass across her chest. Her thin sundress clings to her body like a second skin. A single bead of sweat runs down her neck, between her breasts, on to her slightly round belly, where undiscovered life has just begun to stir. She opens her eyes to the little clock/radio across the room, John's late. Probably stopped off at Abel's Lounge for a couple of rounds with the boys. She swallows the last of the whiskey and sucks on one of the two ice cubes. There's a salad and some left over spaghetti in the fridge. The thought crosses her mind to cook something, but it's just too damn hot.

Outside, in the empty lot next door, the little kids from the apartment below, are playing war. Their mother has been shouting out the window for them for over an hour, but they ignore her, making machine gun noises and yelling, "Ya dead! Ya DEAD!" But when the #10 bus arrives, and their father gets off, they run inside, dodging the large hands swatting at their heads.

A lone cockroach runs across the floor, heading for a crack in the wall, abandoning this apartment in search of food. Lucy drops her feet to the floor nearly crushing it. She pours herself another half glass of whiskey and adds two more ice cubes. She puts on a tape, and sways and dances back to the window, singing softly. Before she sits down, a black BMW cruises down the street, bass system thumping, rattling all the windows. Lucy grits her teeth and wishes for a bazooka.

There's only a faint glow of sunshine over the buildings as night begins to set in again. Steel doors rattle and clang, closing over shop windows. The smells from the pizza joint on the corner fill the neighborhood. Grave girls on the corner-tacky queens on the stoop. Cops prowl the streets, looking them all over real good. The homeless with their hands out to anyone who passes. Desperate Angels polishing their rusted haloes. Herds of look alike college kids heading for the T, to take them to their weedy clubs to dance to their hollow music. The Irish gang hangs around outside of Nick's Subs. The black gang hangs around the building where three of them live. The street divides them; they size each other up, trying to pose tougher than the other.

Lucy takes her drink out onto the fire escape, and leans over the rail. An easy, light wind kicks up, blowing her sweat-matted hair in her face. She pushes it back, looking at the black clouds rolling in. The man on the radio had said rain was coming. Maybe it will take the edge off this heat.

She looks around at all the little lives lit up in their apartment windows; watching television, eating dinner, talking, arguing, ignoring each other, reading, some inanimate, alone together, or just plain alone-Dejected, blue, broken, getting home from work, leaving for work, checking the paper for work, embracing, shoving, going over the bills, writing checks, loving, suffering. There are the bruised women, nervously smoking, fixing dinner for their men. And the broken men, drinking away the fear, longing for a woman's soft touch.

Lucy looks up and down the street, and then realizes the kids from downstairs are crowded on the landing below looking up her dress. She spreads her legs a bit to give them a better look, and smiles to herself, but she then feels guilty for probably encouraging them. She closes her legs and looks down at them and they bolt inside.

A rusted red Plymouth pulls up to the curb, where a scrawny, bleached blonde girl, in a leather skirt, and a torn green t-shirt leans on stair rails. She listlessly struts over, flicking her cigarette away. She bends down and sticks her head in the passenger window. She laughs loudly and gets inside. The car pulls away, as it passes the black guys, one of them yells, "Wear a condom!" All his buddies crack up and smack him on the back. Even the stone-faced Irish guys grin and nod.

Tension hangs in the air all the time now. Some fights have broken out between blacks and Irish, because this has always been an Irish neighborhood. A lot of people feel they are being squeezed out, but not just by the blacks. A lot of families use to live here, but more and more college kids have moved in, and the landlords have raised the rents so high. So blood has spilled; the Irish guys trying to hold on to what's theirs, and the blacks just trying to get a foot hold in the world. And nobody cries when a college kid gets the crap kicked out of him.

Lucy swallows a mouthful of her drink, choking it down hard, and shaking her head. A shiver dances down her body, and she opens her eyes to the ancient buildings, that must have been beautiful at some point, but now ugliness abounds. It is ugly, and it gets worse everyday. She misses the rolling green hills of Tennessee. The sweet, clear air, the openness of the land. She takes another drink at the thought of the way her mother cried when Lucy got in to her old boy friend's car, and she wonders, like a million times before, if her mother could ever forgive and let her come home again.

Down the street, around the corner, voices explode in a mad storm, a woman is screaming like someone has been murdered. "I'm gonna kill that bitch if she don't shut up!" They're trying to get the man to calm down and go back inside before someone calls the cops. But he don't give a fuck. Another woman yells, "Watch it!" And another women scream. Then men are in a panic, telling him to get the fuck out of here, why'd he have to go and do that, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that! Lucy's heart is pounding, as she leans over the rail, staring down the direction of the fight. Everyone on the street tenses up. A couple of the Irish guys run down the street. The blacks move down together, with more caution. Then the sirens start, and everyone goes running.

Lucy goes back inside and turns up the rest of her drink, and begins fixing another. Her hands are shaking and some spills on the counter. She cusses loudly, slamming the bottle on the counter, splashing out more. She leans against the refrigerator, realizing she is drunk. She gets two more ice cubes from the freezer, and takes her drink, leaving the spilled whiskey. She has to wonder, again, why she ever moved up here. She stretches out on the ratty old couch, and closes her eyes, taking deep breaths between sips. The loneliness of the apartment often gets to her in the worst way. She tries to fight it, by thinking about being wrapped in John's thick loving arms-His bourbon breath on the back of her neck, kissing her shoulders, running his rough fingers over her nipples. She sighs and shudders, and takes another sip. She sets the drink down, and hugs herself, burying her face in the back of the couch. She breathes deep his scent and chokes back the inevitable tears. The tape stopped a minute ago, but the songs still echo around the room, like a gentle kiss good bye, filling the air with blue despair.

A tear escapes and she sits up disgusted and knocks back the drink and cusses the clock and she cusses the phone for not ringing and she cusses Abel's Lounge because she isn't there. She's usually there with him, watching him shoot pool, and take everyone's money. She sits with the other girlfriends and wives, and they joke with the waitresses, and they all flirt with old Leonard, who works the bar. But the best is the dancing. She loves the way John grabs her hand, pulling her out of the booth, swinging her around, not ever giving a damn that there is no room for dancing. He has the devil of his youth in his eyes when he dances. Lucy pours another drink, and cusses him for not coming to get her, or at least calling, to tell her to come down.

When they met, they were both traveling down their own private roads to self-destruction. They found salvation in each other, and have since relied on one another to get through those long nights, when the mind wanders in to those dark corners where the hard memories are always waiting. And there are the ghosts who are always talking a line of shit about this or that. They'll taunt you like children holding you down and smacking your face. They know how to get at you, and hurt you, and make you turn on yourself and everyone else around you. There are all kinds of ways to shut them up, and you have to shut them up or you go crazy. You do anything for a little peace and quiet in your head; You drink, you snort, you shoot up, you slice your arms with razors, or whatever's handy, you get into punch outs at bars...And by morning, all's quiet, but you have a lot to answer for. Sometimes you're sitting in the county lock, or looking for a new job, sometimes you're sneaking out of a stranger's bed, and then there's the times you wake up strapped to a hospital bed, bandaged and sedated, tubes in your mouth or nose, doctors, nurses, and cops standing over you, asking questions rapid fire. And you can't talk about the ghosts or all the messed up things they've been telling you.

It wasn't love at first sight for John and Lucy. Simply two fucked individuals looking for another fucked individual to spend the night with. One night turned into five years, and they pulled each other through hell, and salvaged their lives- Love and understanding was the best therapy either one of them could ever have. The voices in the night are still there, they'll always be there, but they're a hell of a lot quieter now.

Raindrops tap the window, slowly at first, and then building; the windowsill is very wet when Lucy shuts the window. She watches the kids running inside, calling it a night, at least until the rain lets up. Vapid dance music is coming from next door. Lucy pours another drink and flips the tape. She sits down at the table and closes her eyes, slowly emptying the glass again. Side two stops and Lucy is snoring lightly.

The phone rings, and she wakes with a start, knocking her glass off the table. She stares at the phone in disbelief for a second, wondering if it really rang. It did and it does for a second time. She grabs it up and before she gets it to her ear she can hear loud music and laughter.

"Lucy! Whatcha doin', darlin'?"

"Mmm, oh, nuthin'."

"You wanna come down to Abel's? Ever'ahbody's here!"

"Yea, yea. I'll come down," she smiles with relief.

"Hey, I woulda called sooner, but I hadn't planned on being here so long, you know, and I wasn't paying attention to the time, then ever'ahbody started showing up, and..."

"Yea..."

"You know..."

"Yea..."

"Yea, so Heather's gonna pick you up!"

"Ok."

"Five minutes?"

"Great, I'll be ready."

"All right then, I'll sew you inna few!"

"I love you, John."

"I love you too!"

Lucy hangs up the phone, smiling widely, wanting to scream with joy, so happy, coming to life, and skipping across the room to the bathroom. She checks her face and brushes her hair, then slips out of her dress, and takes her jeans off the hook on the door, and gets her black t shirt out of the closet. One last look in the mirror, and she grabs her purse and keys, and runs out the door, and down the steps to meet Heather.

As she gets to the last landing, before reaching the lobby, and uneasiness falls over her, stopping her dead in her tracks. Someone is sobbing, stumbling, down there. Lucy waits in dim silence, breathing quickly, afraid to move, dizzy with drink. She slowly begins to descend the last flight of stairs.

She gets to the bottom, and sees the scrawny bleached blonde girl walking toward her, holding on to the wall for support. Her eyes are swollen and red, and her mouth is bloody. She walks with her legs close together, moving stiffly, bent forward slightly. She's holding her gut, and holding her skirt up. She's clutching a few dollars in her fist.

Lucy runs to her, but the girl backs away, shielding her face, her skirt slides down her legs, there's blood in her pubic hairs.

"Honey, let me help you! C'mon, we'll call the cops!"

"No, I'm ok, just let me go, just leave me alone..." She pushes past Lucy, heading for the stairs, pulling her skirt up over her bruised ass.

Lucy nearly throws up watching her go up the stairs. A wave of fear spreads through her body. She turns around quickly, making sure there's no one behind her. She absently walks toward the door, doubting what she just saw. Heather is double-parked; she unlocks the passenger side door when she sees Lucy. Lucy collapses in the seat, pale and shaken.

"Damn, Lucy, did you see that girl?"

Lucy nods slowly.

"Is she all right?"

Lucy shrugs.

"Jesus, this neighborhood's going to hell."

The rain's coming down in buckets, and Heather's driving too fast. Lucy has both hands on the dashboard, praying they make it to the bar in one piece. She can tell Heather's already had a few; she's talking too loud and slurring her words.

"Straight to flippin' hell, you know?"

"Yea...Watch that truck!"

"Jesus, Lucy, you'd think I ain't never drove before! I saw the truck, you just need to relax, sweetheart!"

They park behind Abel's. The lot isn't half full, though it rarely is. Lucy gets out of the car, weak in the knees, thanking God for not letting them die. She takes a deep breath, pulling herself together, as she walks through the door, with Heather's arm around her shoulders. The band is playing "Chain of Fools"; Sarah is leaning on the guitarist with her gin and tonic while she sings. Lucy finds John in the back; he's dropping the eight ball in the side pocket, the boys slapping his back in congratulations.

Jason shaking his head, "No fucking way, man. C'mon, one more game."

"I've beat you five times now. Give it a rest before I have to take your whole paycheck."

Lucy takes his hand, "Are you gamblin' again?"

"Um, yea, honey, but I'm winning!"

"Well, all right then, buy me a drink, my man!"

"How abouts a dance first? Scuse me boys." He shines down at her with his big crooked grin that always makes her melt.

They pull each other close, and away from the others, into the corner near the small stage, as the band settles into a slow, dirty groove, the guitar coming through like a filthy thought. Lucy leans into John's chest, kissing his collarbone lightly, running her hands up and down his biceps, while he holds her hips tightly, kissing the top of her head, smelling her shampoo and sweat, feeling good to have her near.

The tears start, and there's nothing she can do about them. She doesn't want to do anything with them anyway, let them come, she has John now, she doesn't have to be strong, she can cry and let him take care of her. She shudders, with the night running through her, and she looks up with wet cheeks, sucking on her bottom lip, reaching up and caressing his face. He looks into her sadness, concerned, hurt and speechless. She looks down again, resting the side of her face against his chest. He pulls her to a booth, away from the band.

"Lucy, why're you crying? What's wrong?”

She shakes her head, while she tries to summon up the words. She opens her mouth and it comes in a flood; the loneliness, the neighborhood, the fear, her homesickness...She pauses before she tells about the girl, and thinks about her face again...And she thinks about how she felt the morning she looked in the mirror and saw just what that poor girl would be seeing in her mirror. John strokes her hair while she sobs.

Vicky comes around and John orders a couple of stouts. By now, Heather has told almost everyone about the girl, and a few have asked Lucy if she knew the girl.

Lucy shakes her head, sipping her beer, "No, I've only seen her a couple of times. She's pretty new around here."

People shake their heads sympathetically, "It's tough, ya know. You hear about that kinda shit happening, but it don't really get to you until it happens in your own neighborhood. Shit."

Lucy turns her beer up, and finishes it off. She looks up into John's hard face, with all it's premature wrinkles and scars, that he used to wear like a badge, testimony to a violent, hip desperation, but it doesn't mask the love and concern practically beaming from his face. She takes his hand, tracing over the lines, scars, and calluses, with her finger. Their fingers intertwine and close together. He pulls her hand to his lips, and kisses each finger, then holds it to his chest. The smile slowly returns to her face.

"You ok?"

She looks at him dry eyed, her head tilted to the side a bit, and the smile broadening. "Yea. I’m ok. It just all caught me off guard. It just tore me up. But I'm getting better." She nods, reassuring herself.

Vicky brings over another round, skillfully maneuvering around Blake who has dropped to one knee pleading, "C'mon, Vick, just one dance..."

"Sorry, Blake, I'm working!"

She sets the drinks down, and takes the empties. She smiles warmly, taps the table, and goes back to work, skillfully maneuvering around Hank, "Hey hey, Vicky, when are we going out?"

"I gotta boyfriend for crying out loud!"

John and Lucy look at each other; look into each other, knowing where the other is in their hearts and heads, without needing to say a word. Words have never been all that necessary with them anyway. When they're together all the ugliness and stench of the world fades away, the hate and rage fade away, but most importantly, the cold and loneliness fades away.

They drink their beers, happy, pushing death and rape and tomorrow as far out of their minds as they can. John settles up the tab, and they head home.

The rain has left the night cool, there's a breeze and an unusual calm. The clouds are moving out, leaving the moon shining bright. They walk slowly back to the apartment, his arm around her shoulders, and her arm around his waist, hugging each other close and tight.

The neighborhood is mostly dark; the only place still open is the Store 24. Many apartment windows only have the blue glow from their apartment windows. Lucy stops John under a streetlight, she wraps her arms around his neck, and their lips melt together under the yellowish light.

They both taste like whiskey and beer. They both taste good. "I love you" is said with a touch.

Just Like Hamlet Blues (previously unreleased, 2000/2002)

2012-01-18T14:36:00.000-05:00

I originally wrote JUST LIKE HAMLET BLUES (aka HAMLET'S RECKONING) as song for my band The Hostiles, but since we were struggling with songs that barely cracked the two minute mark, I felt like it would be pointless to bring them six pages of lyrics for a song I figured would probably be about ten minutes long. So I stuck it in a notebook and rewrote it a couple of years later.

Been hot like this all week long. Air so thick you drink it. Town's being over run with vicious insects. They attack anything warm that moves. Blood thirsty little beasts. Barely anything moves until the whistle blows at the cotton mill. The men come out slow, heads low, round shouldered, red faced, slit eyed. Ol' Ben starts setting beers on the counter as the men shuffle in, silently, save for some moaning or sighing. Some stop under the ceiling fan, but it's not really helping. None of them look over at John Kelley, sitting in the corner with his boys, and some of the town whores from the other side of the square.

Kelley looks the men over carefully, seeing an enemy in every one of them. He knows his time is short, and he keeps one hand over his pistol, and the other on his glass of whiskey.

None of them have more than three beers before they shuffle out and home for their dinners. Their shirts cling to them like a second skin. Weighing them down so much, they can hardly lift their feet when they walk.

Those who see it, just shake their heads at the stray dog hobbling toward them. The bitch already half gutted with those damn bugs. One eye socket filled with a hundred of them. They're crawling out of her nose, mouth, and ass. The dog collapses in the middle of the street with a cracked whimper and a jerking belly.

It looks like something burning when the immense black cloud appears over the horizon, and begins blocking out the sun. The whole town stops dead when the ice cold wind shoots through, making all the men in their sweat drenched clothes shiver. Then comes the sound like a train or thunder, but it’s neither. People are coming out of their houses, lining up on Main Street. Drawn out by curiosity then rooted with fear.

There are cries of terror when they finally see what’s coming. Five black Cadillacs, taking up both sides of the highway. The town's people know what’s coming. The men are shaking in their boots. The women hold tight to their children, and pray for it to end soon.

The Cadillacs pull into town, blocking up Main Street. Men begin piling out, four in each car. Tom Kelley steps out from behind the wheel of the lead car, and scans the crowd, looking for him who he has come to kill. One of his men brings up Tom's gun belt. Tom straps it on, and caresses the ivory handles of his revolvers. He pulls his shotgun from behind the front seat, resting it on his shoulder. He stands regal, in his black silk shirt with the shining silver buttons, and silver bolo tie, black jeans and black leather boots with silver tips. His face is expressionless and pale behind his black shades. It sounds like shots when he walks.

Tom's gang is armed to the teeth. Sizing up the town. Casually walking back and forth with their machine guns, shotguns, rifles, revolvers, and so on. They don't pay attention to the whores from the other side of the square who slither up, weaving around the cars, rubbing up against the men in second hand dresses and ripped fish nets, giving off their scent, trying to entice the men to come back with them. The women caress the barrels of their guns, and flick out their tongues, winking, long eyelashes and heavy eyeliner, hiding the long dead eyes. But all they get are low guttural growls. The women shrink away, hissing, baring their teeth, back to the other side of the square, cursing the whole lot of queer-dirty-bastards.

Tom pulls a cigarette from behind his ear; it's lit for him. He puffs away staring down the street, at the young boy peeking out the door of Ol' Ben's saloon. The boy is frozen, mouth hanging open. Tom can see the boy's heart beating through his shirt. That boy is all that Tom can see right now. He's oblivious to the rest of the town that's pointing and whispering, and yelling for the sheriff, who still haven't shown up.

John is getting nervous looking at that boy hanging out the door. He's already asked him five times what the hell it is, and he still hasn't got an answer. One of the girls tries to calm John down by nibbling on his ear. She loses two front teeth.

The boy finally steps back through the door, he's white as a sheet, shaking, going for his pistol, and pissing himself. John doesn't need to ask him again what's going on. Every one leaps to their feet, going for their guns. Ol' Ben bolts out the back door, saying to hell with the whole damn place. The women run out the front door, and cop a heel as far back into their part of town, that they'll hardly hear anything that's about to go down.

Tom's gang is anxious. Locked and loaded, hot to go to work. They start heading for the saloon, but stop, when they realize he isn't moving.

Tom reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small locket on a chain. He opens it to a black and white of Penelope. He runs his finger over the photo, thinking of how she threw herself into the Mississippi River this very morning, while he burned down the plantation and fields. He put the locket back into his shirt, feeling nothing but a burning coal where his heart used to be. He starts to rejoin his gang, but notices the sheriff, with four deputies, and the preacher finally arriving. He flicks his cigarette at them.

The sheriff gets to him first, but before he can say anything, Tom jams the barrel of his shotgun under the sheriff’s chin. The sheriff's eyes bug out and he starts whimpering. Mothers hold their children tight, trying to cover their eyes. Something flickers behind Tom's shades, and the sheriff's neck disintegrates in a red cloud. The deputies back away, and then break into a run, before the sheriff's head has even hit the ground, landing between his own feet, as his body flops backwards.

The preacher is on his knees, shouting a prayer as another cold wind kicks up. Thunder shakes the land. Everyone can hear the rain coming in the distance. Still praying, the preacher leaps at Tom, but is caught by two members of the gang, who throw him back. He stumbles across the street, tripping over the curb, and eating a mouthful of dirt.

Tom cocks his shotgun, and looks around to see if any one else has anything to say. No one does, so he walks on, followed by his gang. Leaving behind a spent shell, that children tear away from their mothers and run for, then fight over, until they are pulled apart, and one small boy goes home with such a prize.

John and his boys are ducking around the windows and door, scared shitless, but trying not to show it. They hold on to their guns for dear life, secretly cursing John for being such a stupid bastard, for not seeing this coming.

Tom moves slowly down the middle of the street, surrounded by his gang, the mean wind blowing at their backs- Rain getting closer. Tom can see his daddy's ghost dancing in the dead oak in the center of town.

"Hey, John!" Tom shouts, as they near the saloon. "I promised you a reckonin'. I'm here to kill ya, John! My daddy says Hi!"

They line up in front of the saloon. Tom raises his shotgun. The men inside begin to loose their nerve outwardly. A wave of rain comes down over Tom and his men. The glass and wood door of the saloon explodes. The windows shatter. Fist size holes in the walls.

John's boys shoot back blindly, aiming their guns out the windows, but keeping their heads down, eyes closed. John himself has already crawled behind the bar, shielding his eyes from the exploding liquor bottles that come raining down on him. In the big mirror behind the bar, he can see Tom out there. He can also see his boys getting shot to shit. He can already smell Tom's cologne and whiskey breath breathing down his neck.

One of Kelley's boys stumbles behind the bar, half his head gone. He crumples on the ground, what's left in his head spills out over Kelley's shaking hand. He scoots away, pulling the hammer back on his pearl handled nickel-plated pistol, that his brother had given him. The only time the pistol was never fired was to strike his brother down.

One of Kelley's boys does a herky-jerky dance burning down with machine gun fire, sinking between barstools, without his face. Lucky shot takes out one of Tom's men; his head looks like a balloon bursting. Bits of skull and brain blind his cousin behind him. Another lucky shot tears the cousin's neck apart. Boy comes out surrendering, begging for his life. His chest explodes, and he tumbles back inside. One boy tries to run for the backdoor, but catches one in the back of the head. Spits his teeth across the room.

Tom steps up on the porch with a burning coal in his chest burning through his shirt.

"C'mon out, John. All yer men're dead."

Kelley wipes the sweat and tears out of his eyes. He keeps telling himself that he has to get out of this. He's not gone this far to lose everything. But another look in the spider webbed mirror at the carnage that used to be his crew tells him he will not get out of here alive.

The room is filled with smoke, the floor slick with blood, deadly with shards of glass and splintered bone. Tom loads fresh shells walking across the room. His men relieve Kelley's boys of their boots, guns, money, and jewelry. They ignore the frantic spirits whirling around the room, as they exit.

Tom thinks of his mother and scratches himself. He spots a bottle of whiskey and licks his lips. He fills a blood-splattered glass to the rim. First sip feels good. Second sip shatters in his hand. Bits of glass sticking in his lips. Blood running down his chin. A hole in his hand. He doesn't move. Kelley can see himself in those black shades. Tom's face has no expression. Kelley's gun drops to the floor. His mouth working with pleads. Tom brushes the glass off his mouth. With his good hand he reaches across the bar and grabs Kelley's tie. Pulling him across the counter and out into the street.

The town's people are huddling in the church praying and hiding from the storm. But when they see Tom dragging John Kelley out toward the center of town, splashing through the flooding street, they timidly follow.

Kelley is brought to his knees when one of Tom's men slaps him in the back of the knees with his rifle. Tom tells someone to pop the trunk…bring out the gifts. Kelley moans a woeful blues as they pull the familiar body of Tom's mother from the trunk. There is just a black crusty stump where her head should be.

Her head comes out next, carried by the hair. Tom takes it gently, and raises it to Heaven like an offering. He begins to speak, but instead brings his mother's head to his chest, before handing it to Kelley. Kelley takes it, and cradles it like a new born.

Tom pushes through the crowd and grabs the preacher.

"You have work to do."

He puts his arm around the preacher's shoulders, and leads him to where Kelley kneels. Some of Tom’s men are already preparing the rope in the dead oak. Others start dragging Kelley up to his fate.

Tom turns to Kelley. "Now don't you pray for yourself, or anything, John. You don't deserve salvation. You hear? Preacher, you damn him proper."

The preacher nods his head spastically until his hat falls off.

A table was brought out from the saloon, and set under the dead oak. They hoist Kelley on to it, and put his head through the noose, they take the head away from him. Tom reaches up and grips Kelley's belt buckle.

The rain passes on, but the skies remain black.

"John, I burnt down the house and the fields and everything. Ain't nothing left. I reckon I'll be burnin' down this town next. No reason for that. Just gonna do it."

"Please! It was your mother! She put me…forced me…to do everything!..."

"Shut up!"

Tom grips the table with his good hand and Kelley's leg, the best he can, with the other. With out a word, he jerks the table over. Kelley's neck snaps. Body convulses. Bowels let go. Shit and piss run out the cuffs of his jeans.

Tom looks out at the crowd, then back at his men. "Burn it down, boys."

He walks through the crowd, ignoring their cries and pleads. He goes back to his car and slides in to the back seat. Sinking down. Closing his eyes.

One of his men looks in. "Where to next, boss?"

"We'll go west. Tell everyone...We'll go west."

Suffer (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit 1996)

2011-12-07T10:51:00.000-05:00

In 1998 I did a new edit of Suffer, because I had never been happy with either the '94 or the '96 versions that saw print in my high school lit mag, The Eclectic, and Destroying Lives. The '96 version was rushed and sloppy and I wanted to redeem myself by re-releasing it as a single backed with two vignettes. I never did this, because I moved to Boston and was sick of looking backwards. While this version is the most readable, their is still slop-I was a seventeen year old kid that wanted to write Batman comics and my literary heroes were Robert Louis Stephenson, Poe, and Clive Barker. The original Suffer came like a freight train after I had spent a night in trouble over something stupid and I was listening to Bad Religion and the Dead Kennedys with the deadline for the Eclectic the next morning. Something clicked, I typed "Saturday Night Holocuast" at the top of the page (DKs song from Give Me Convenience or Give Me Death, which I later scribbled over and wrote Suffer, which was the Bad Religion album that was playing when I finished) and in about an hour I had poured out my heart and angst and created the most honest story I had ever done. I turned in the first draft the next morning and to my surprise it got in. This was pre-Columbine, by the way, which either makes Suffer cheap or poignant depending on your point of view. I feel like it deserves another pass, not because I think its great, but because it's from the gut and not bull shit.

At seventeen nothing is going right. The thrill of having a license is gone, because you have had a year to realize “license” does not mean “freedom” and there is still a year to go before you are legal and can escape the control of your parents. Graduation still looks like a distant shore and college might as well be mars. It’s virtually impossible to be happy at this age, especially when living in a small southern town where there is nothing to do except watch tv, smoke pot and die.

It is the fourth week of the new school year and the students are beginning to slip back into a regular schedule like good little zombies in training. Many of the kids are glad to be back, because they get to show off the new clothes and cars their mommies and daddies bought them. The jocks are indeed happy to be back, because they are about to be reborn on the holy football field. It’s amazing that in a town so religious that the sports events get a higher attendance than the churches.

School dances, kissing in the hall, pep rallies, homework, drinking, parties, fights, break ups-it’s all here, just like last year, just like next year. The same damn routine. There will be three or four drop outs, at least one pregnancy, and one serious sickness. Very predictable, very set. Almost seems planned.

The sun is shining brightly into Henry’s room. He rolls over trying to escape the evil light, but it’s too bright. He forces his eyes open and checks the cheap alarm clock on his paint smeared night stand. The face read 8:32. Late again.

Henry’s third tardy which means detention.

Grabbing the clothes closest to his bed he quickly gets dressed. Unopened school books sit ominously in the corner and that’s where they will stay-besides the fact that none of his homework is finished, he doesn’t want to have to make that long walk to school with anything other than his sketchbook and pencil.

He passes a mirror on his way out and sees how bad he looks and considers a shower, but who the hell is he going to impress with clean hair?

Henry would ask his mom to drive him, but she’s already left to go fuck whoever she’s fucking this week and dad lives two towns over and is probably already at work.

He hates his parents with a burning passion, lays awake at night dreaming of killing them. Always the disappointment, always the scapegoat. His mom has never let him get by a single day of his life without letting him know how much farther she could have gone in life if he hadn’t come along when he did. And dad just sits out there like a drifting iceberg, cold, slow, and unfeeling. Henry is an accident from a whim fueled by wine coolers and free time.

Walking to school is a bitch; not only is he tired, but it’s hot as hell and he hasn’t eaten much since yesterday morning. An asshole in a red pick up truck rolls by and calls him a faggot before he has even gotten off his street.

Tired, hot and sweaty, Henry arrives at school, checks in at the office, sees the principle, gets his three day detention notice and shuffles down the hall to second period. He slips in as Miss Spurrier is explaining the digestive tract. She fixes Henry with a glare full of contempt and disgust. He gives her his tardy slip and tries to shuffle to his seat.

“Where is your homework?” Her voice is like a rusty gate, Henry winces.

“I didn’t do it.”

“You haven’t had your homework all week. What is it that keeps you from completing your assignments?”

Work, art, jerking off sleep…”I don’t know.”

Disgusted, she sighs and points to Henry’s seat. He quickly moves down the aisle trying not to make eye contact with anyone, but one of the jocks shoots a leg out and trips Henry. He lands hard on his left knee and rises quickly with the laughter, limps to his seat and sits down staring at his desk, as the class drags on slowly.

There is a ten minute break between third and fourth period. The hall is buzzing with youthful energy; love in the air, a fight brewing, someone sobbing, drug deals in the bathroom, two guys going AWOL, and a freshman gets his shoes flushed in a toilet full of shit.

Henry moves quickly through the halls looking for his two friends Delia and Milton. Delia walks out of Mr. Armstrong’s Spanish class. She’s wearing cut off shorts, combat boots, and a tight white Minutemen t-shirt. Her hair is a beautiful red, purple lipstick and piercing eyes. She slings her army backpack over her shoulder and pushes through the crowd to walk beside Henry.

“How’s it goin’?”

“Shitty.”

“You missed the history test…”

“I know, I know.”

“Have you seen Milton?”

“No, not yet. Why?”

“He’s got a James Brown tape for me.”

They find Milton holding court with some people, talking shit as usual. He’s a real cool guy-a drummer who knows everything there is to know about everything. He’s sees Henry and Delia coming and throws down his books and grabs his cock.

“Come to Milton my children!”

The others leave.

Delia throws her environmental science book at him, barely missing.

“Where’s my tape you promised me?”

He reaches into his pocket and produces a 120 minute unauthorized duplication of the coolest tunes by the Godfather of Soul.

“Gracias, baby!”

“De nada, sexy. How’s it goin’, Henry?”

“Shitty.”

“Oh yea? What’s up?”

“I spent most of the night arguing with Martha and Steven.”

“You should kill your parents.” (Delia always has all the answers.)

The bell rings and it’s off to fourth period. For Henry it’s art, which should be the highlight of his day, but it’s not. Like everything else good in his life THEY found a way to fuck it up for him. The class is presided over by an anal retentive conservative bitch, Miss Ellis. She spends each class floating around the room harshly criticizing and disapproving, though the class is an easy A for any student who kisses her ass and does things her way. Neither of which Henry is capable of. Most people only took art because they didn’t want to take chorus, and this particular class was top heavy with jocks and cheerleaders, who gabbed nonstop throughout class.

All week the class has been working on self-portraits. Miss Ellis had asked the students to ‘be creative and put yourself in some new environment’. Examples; Bobby drew himself on the football field after scoring a touchdown, Jeremy drew himself playing his bass, Tasha drew herself picking flowers, and Henry drew himself hung by the neck, twisting in the wind while birds pecked away at his flesh.

“By now you should all have your projects done. I’ll go around and collect them.”

She scrunched up her rat face when she reached Henry.

“I’m not accepting that, Henry.”

“Um…Why not?”

“Because it is morbid! My god, Henry, you have so much talent and you waste it doing trash like this. It makes you look very troubled. I think you should talk to someone.”

Henry glances around at the snickering faces and Ellis’own paintings of flowers that litters the walls and looks up at her, making rare eye contact.

“I don’t need to talk to anyone,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

She goes away. He stares at the unacceptable, morbid trash.

Lunchtime. The fight brewing earlier finally happens, but is disappointing. Short, no blood and the two assholes get three weeks detention.

Ninety one degrees and not a cloud in the sky. All the pretty boys and girls strutting around in their pretty clothes with their pretty friends.

Henry, Delia, and Milton sit on the hill by the band room talking about music and whatever, watching their soulless, pathetic peers walking around totally directionless.

“Aw, shit.”

Henry spots Jeff Clemons and his cronies walking their way.

Clemons is the school’s pride and joy on the football field; a good Christian, good student, and asshole alcoholic racist terrorizer.

“Hey look! It’s my fan club! Delia, why do you hang around these faggots?”

Because they have really big cocks.” (Delia rules the universe.)

“Oh yea? Compared to what? You wanna see a real big dick, come with me!”

Milton finishes his soda. “Hey, Jeff, I’d like to see a really big dick. C’mon whip it out! Impress us with your manhood.”

The guys chuckle and start to leave, Jeff gives Milton a hearty ‘fuck you, faggot’.

At the bell, the three head to environmental science, but once there, Delia realizes she left her notebook outside and goes back for it, but never comes back.

Twenty minutes into class, the teacher starts getting impatient with Delia and gets ready to send Henry to look for her, but then the school goes nuts. Someone saw something and told someone in charge who alerted some other people and the cops were called. Announcements were made for students to remain in class until further notice, but curiosity overcame authority and students, including Henry and Milton were spilling into the courtyard. Henry got through in time to catch a glimpse of Delia being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Henry makes a break for it, trying to get there before the doors are shut, but he’s caught by Mr. Armstrong.

“What’s wrong with her? What happened?”

“There’s nothing you can do, Henry!”

“What’s happened?!?”

Armstrong leads Henry out of the crowd and tells him in a low voice, “Delia was…assaulted.”

“…How?”

“I can’t say anything else…”

Henry sees Jeff being put in the back of a police car and things become clear. He runs to find Milton and they take Milton’s car to the hospital. They’re not aloud in, and wind up sitting in the parking lot freaking out late into the evening.

The next day Delia goes home and Henry and Milton go to school and they are not surprised to see Jeff there. Everyone is giving him their support, what a tragedy that HE has been accused of RAPE! Even the local paper asks the community to give Jeff their prayer and support.

Delia goes to court two days before the homecoming dance. The bullshit trial begins and ends the same day and Jeff gets away with a stern talking to by the judge, but he doesn’t think such a bright young man should “have his future ruined over a mistake.” Delia’s mother can’t afford a real lawyer to fight this.

That same day Henry and Milton are dragged behind the gym and beaten mercilessly by half the football team. No witnesses.

They leave before lunch and swing by Delia’s house. Milton leaves Henry, staying just long enough to find out how the trial went. He leaves in tears. Delia and Henry sit in her room in total silence, listening to her mom sob and plead with various people over the phone.

Delia hasn’t been to school since the attack and hasn’t really been able to leave the house at all because of harassment from reporters, classmates, neighbors, parents, and even a couple of teachers and cops. Everyone blames her. Why are you tryin’ to ruin his life? Why don’t you admit you trapped him? Everyone saw how you were dressed. Poor jeff. I can’t imagine how he feels.

The next day, the sun rises and school begins. Knowledge is past on only to be forgotten by second period. Henry stays home. He’s got to make plans.

That night Jeff leads the team to victory in the homecoming game. Everyone cheers him. He’s received so many prayers the past several weeks.

It was half time when Henry was sitting in his room loading his father’s gun. His old man, weary from being badgered and dismantled by his wife burst into Henry’s room, because…well, because shit rolls down hill…but the sight of the gun in his son’s hands triggers something deep and primordial in him, fatherhood and fear.

“Henry! What are you doin’ with that?”

Henry didn’t even think. He just pointed, pulled the trigger, and BANG! Dad flew back against the wall, making one hell of a mess.

“What was that? What’s goin’ on?” Mom steps around the corner and gets her face blown off.

Henry runs out the back door with the gun in his pants and a pocketful of rounds. He doesn’t stop until he gets to the gym where the homecoming dance is being held. He replaces the two spent bullets and tucks the gun back in his pants and waits for the dance to begin.

Three insipid songs and Henry goes in.

…

School is closed all next week. Five are dead, including Jeff and Henry.

Henry squeezed off five shots, counting them, but not being able to focus on any faces after he got Jeff, so he wasn’t even sure he was hitting anyone. After the fifth shot, he stepped outside, looked up at the stars and put the gun to his head.

The community is in shock for weeks. Speculations run wild…drugs…Satanism…

Milton and Delia don’t go to Henry’s funeral, they stay at her place and listen to Coltrane and cry for their friend.

Three years later, Delia tells this story in a bookstore in front of thirty people. She manages to keep her cheeks dry, that time.

End

History #3

2011-12-01T00:12:00.001-05:00

Another Day (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit, 1996)

2011-11-30T20:53:00.000-05:00

Another day with the sun shining

Another day getting her fix

Another day when he didn’t come home

Another day another unwanted life

Another day another body count

Another day another poor little rock star

Another day that’s barely alive

Another day when he couldn’t get it up

Another day when she just gave it up

Another day he still couldn’t see

Another day with dark clouds rolling in

Another day twisting in the wind

Another day praying for it to end

Another day another final farewell

Another day a newborn cries

Another day her body is sold

Another day smoking a bowl

Another day the cable is out

Another day fucked in the ass

Another day still black and white

Another day with less strength

Another day the condom broke

Another day another flat tire

Another day and the radio is silent

Another day the books aren’t burning, just sucking

Another day sitting beside her

Another day she’s not a whore

Another day six feet under

Another day another cross

Another day he’s laid off

Another day one more for the road

Another day I’m gonna die

Another day I love you

Another day I hate you

Another day let’s just be friends

Another day another burnt bridge

Another day he goes down

Another day more mind numbing videos

Another day another dollar

Another day she stands up straight

Another day dark towers fucking the sky

Another day another gig

Another day just another day

Monster Man (from Fight The Power...Or Fuck Off 1996)

2011-11-30T20:52:00.000-05:00

Here I am. The perfect tool. Weapon. Insanity in a fishbowl full of gasoline. I destroy whatever I touch, because I can. You know I'm stronger than you this makes you lose sleep. So you hide behind politics, handguns, cigarette smoke, and tears. You created this. Short leashed dog, poked and prodded. Napalming your mind with your own ignorance and fear. Smashing your world. Smashing your face. I do my thing without thinking, you do that for me. I don't sleep anymore. I stay in my room looking for that secret place where demons comes from. I got ideas from the television. No more scratching at my throat kinda nights. This trip might end, but I want a mission, and for my child like innocence, you gave me one. I sit in the back of my closet, like a jungle, hiding with my shotgun, waiting for the enemy to stick his greasy head up out of the piles of dirty clothes and boxes, so I can splatter his brains all over the shitty flower pattern wallpaper. In my dreams I'm shooting kids, cops, and cats. I destroy, because that's what you need me to do.

Beginning To See The Light (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit, 1996)

2011-11-30T20:49:00.000-05:00

It begins with an idea

And it ends with blood on the wall

Another day

Another dollar

Another BANG

Here we are

Some ones from some ones

Lost and doomed

We can’t deal with life

So we pump it full of sit coms

We pump it full of chemicals

And we pump it full of useless shit

Controlled by a time clock

Ten feet of rope is your cross

You crucified yourself, no one else did

We were too busy crucifying ourselves

You call me up

Wanting to know what to do

Wanting the answers

But I don’t understand your questions

But here’s an idea-

Let’s get together and get something done

No, wait…that makes too much sense

Let’s just drink up

I see dark days coming

New world Nazis controlling the tv god

Providing us with safe entertainment

To control us

To protect us

To bleed us dry

Napalm us through the game shows videos sports evening news

Get them before they get you

Turn your tv off

Here’s another idea

Go out into those cold mean streets

And raise your voice until is everyone is listening

March on Washington

Demand equality for all for good

And don’t leave until we fucking get them

It’s time to rise above all these petty games

It’s time to see everyone as a human and not a color

Hey, does anyone see what’s going on here?

The threats are becoming promises

The lies are eating our hearts like a cancer

We’re all choking on complacency and conservatism

The coils are tightening

We are collectively committing suicide in our pre fab society

Are we all blind?

Demand more

It’s our right

Don’t settle for chicken shit corporate facades

Don’t settle for Hallmark’s version of love

Don’t settle for Republicans or Democrats

Don’t settle for Coke or Pepsi

Don’t settle for anything

What the hell happened to our soul?

Did we lose it when we lost our spine?

Does this sound familiar

Of course it does

Because it’s the same old song and dance

And I’ll keep on doing these steps and singing this tune

Until someone starts to listen

Is this a cry for help? No.

This is a call to arms

WAKE UP!

Do you realize you are being lied to, bled to death and fucked over?

It’s time to get involved and stop thinking so much about ourselves

It’s not hard to lend a hand to those in need

And get past all the race and sexual identity phobias

Together we can tear down those walls that separate us

Then maybe we could see the world through clear eyes

See the beauty of the world and it’s people

See the forests and jungles and mountains and deserts and oceans and cities

Do you see them?

Do you see the importance in saving what’s left?

I hope so

Because we are running out of time

And we have no where to go

And mommy can’t kiss this and make it better

And daddy can’t buy our way out of it

And no fucking rock and roll benefit is going to stop it

Only we the people can

And we have to start with ourselves

Because if you can change yourself

Then you can change the world

Hanging Up My Dancing Shoes (previously unreleased ca. 1997)

2011-11-30T20:46:00.000-05:00

You can keep your fucking love songs

And your hollow smile

Your useless cunt and arrogant eyes

Your voice is a distant echo from a dead planet

You gave in gave it up went with the flow ruined the show

Your eyes are freeze rays, dead girl

We’re always running in to each other

Because we’re always going in different directions

You with the herd and me against the grain

How could you trade your heart and soul for a clear face and straight teeth

You really gotta ask why I spit on the ground when you walk by

Highway Song (for Jase) (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit, 1996)

2011-11-30T20:45:00.002-05:00

Cruising down the highway on another mission

Quarter tank of gas, caffeine, and the Velvet Underground

Swerving around road kill and blowing past pick up trucks

Maybe we’ll wind up in some grease pit or a book store or a punk show we didn’t know about

Where ever the road will take us

Coast into a gas station and blow some more cash

$5 for gas, I get coffee, you get tea

look to the left look to the right all’s clear

and it’s back on the road to conquor the world

they say we have no future and maybe they’re right

but none of it matters when you’re on the road

with a quarter tank of gas, caffeine, and the Velvet Underground

“And everything is all right”

because we are too young to give a damn and too old to be restrained

Sunday (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit, 1996)

2011-11-30T20:44:00.002-05:00

Unusually warm autumn night in the old city

Going from one place to another

We find ourselves in this sweet little joint

The door opens with a soft creak

And soulful jazz pours out

Warms my heart more than an intimate touch

Piano and sax, mad sex

Sweaty pulsing insanity

Have mercy!

Strangers coming and going

beautiful women

hot coffee

cold booze

candle light soul

this is enough for me now

I don’t need anything else

I can live as long as mr. Piano beats those keys

Angel blues going away

Sinking into nothing

Drowning in the notes

9:32 PM…City (from Depraved New World, 1997)

2011-11-30T20:43:00.002-05:00

I walk the streets with confidence. Head high-eyes wide open. I am aware of everything; that piece of shit sitting in his pick up truck, the guy with his hat on sideways walking behind me, the woman pulling her child close as they approach me, the cop down the street checking me out, the preppy fucks across the turnpike playing tennis, the serial killer on the corner with his ax consulting with his voices about who will be the next to die. It is hot as hell out here and traffic is heavy. I stopped to rest on a park bench for three minutes, which is really too long. You have to keep moving out here, because they are always on the prowl.

His Fault (from Here’s Your Warning, 1997)

2011-11-30T20:42:00.002-05:00

Thirteen

Hiding from the loud voices

They are in every room of the house

He can’t take it

The screaming and cursing

Make him nervous

His body shakes all over

The family is falling apart

He thinks it is his fault

And no one bothers

Or even cares

To tell him different

Or at least offer a shoulder to cry on

4/26/96 (from Fight The Power or Fuck Off, 1996)

2011-11-30T20:41:00.002-05:00

so here I am

what do you think

you see me with my excuses

you see me with my bruises

your eyes are making me real again

you’re here

it almost seems to good to be true

why did you say yes

when so many said no

did you see something they missed

did you happen to notice

that I’m human too

Addicted To Love (from Fight The Power or Fuck Off, 1996)

2011-11-30T20:40:00.002-05:00

This fist makes you understand

This fist keeps you in line

This fist keeps you quiet

This fist is your god

This fist is your discipline

This fist is pure love

This fist encourages you

This fist is the key to your heart

Everyone Said She Should’a Been On A Talk Show (from Bad Dogma, 1997)

2011-11-27T23:41:00.000-05:00

My old flame burned herself out

She didn’t go out in style

Like a roman candle

It was more like a cigarette being ground into a dirty ashtray

All she does is sit in her room

Staring at the walls

She doesn’t talk much and she never goes out

She only feels safe in her room

The walls protect her from the monsters who harass her molest her mutilate her

She misses crank and she shivers all the time

It’s never warm enough for her

And the curtains are always closed because the sun is too bright

And her father may be out there

He taught her to hate and destroy

She hasn’t seen him in ten years

She can hear the tv down the hall and cringes against the canned laughter

Suicide is a warm fire in a cold cellar

She wraps herself up in her blanket and drags herself into the corner behind the bed

She softly sings to herself craving a cigarette

She pulls the calendar from beneath the bed and sees that this is the last day

Of life of self mutilation of nic fits of sit coms of abuse

Of everything

Singing herself to sleep

No one will ever touch her again

Liberty (from Fight The Power...Or Fuck Off)

2011-11-27T23:38:00.000-05:00

She staggers up with her hand out, history falling from her mouth like rotten teeth. Scars across her back from self-flagellation. Scars on her knees from kneeling on stones, praying for deliverance. Track marks and cigarette burns make a road map over her body. Savages pass through her, while buildings crumble around them. Her lying skull tilts back with nicotine stained toothy grin, she sways beneath the dying sun, hardly feeling the bitter winter wind. Veins bulge out of her skin; she's got those hard shakes again. A billion abortions and she's still rocking, best in the business, two hundred years and counting. She doesn't feel the beatings and gang rapes anymore. She accepts them with the smile carved into her face. But she's never bent her knee for anyone or anything, even when she was violated, exploited, pimped, and pierced. And she'll never hold us accountable for all the blood on our hands.

Beat City Blues (from Depraved New World, 1997)

2011-11-27T23:34:00.002-05:00

The Beat City is wet tonight

Nature tried to wash away the filth

But the worms are still squirming

They always are

The little worms in their white shirts and ties

They can sit up straight behind the wheels of their BMWs

Someone yells

“HEY, FAGGOT!”

As I walk down the street

But I don’t let it phase me

It’s just their disease talking

It’s spreading

It goes from one free thinker to another

Turning them into mindless zombies

Willing to work 80 hours a week

For minimum wage

And be grateful for it

It’s all starting to feel comfortable

Normal

To make perfect sense

Hello, future

Beast Of Boredom (from Destroying Lives For Fun And Profit, 1996)

2011-11-27T23:33:00.000-05:00

(there are parts missing, some on purpose)

punk rock girl

beautiful angel

a smile that touches the heart

voice on the country music radio

pretty little angel from up north

toughest kid I know

nothing’s gonna stop her

she’ll still be rocking when this whole place blows

I don’t ask them how they are doing

Because they don’t care

When they ask

I don’t answer because they don’t care

I speak to them as little as possible

Because they are all evil

Every man is a wife beater

Every woman is a whore

And every child will grow up

And that is unforgivable

all it takes is a little soul to destroy the world

and I’ve got a lot

I’m sorry I stared at you

And didn’t say anything

It’s just that I still hurt

Thinking of you makes me lie awake at night

your perfume is in the air

under the bright sun

a woman at the next table is wearing your fragrence

I love that smell

I whisper your name at the walls

They throw my ignorance back in my face

dry lips wet tongue

I swallowed your lies

My mouth is still burning from your love

here I sit

in the quiet suburbs

it’s warm and sunny

the neighbors are out talking

the birds are singing

a light breeze blows through my window

I can’t remember a nicer day

And I’ve got Wayne Kramer cranked full blast

walking through the Old City;

bums, students, happy couples, not-so-happy couples, artists, cops, drug dealers, missionaries, punks, rednecks, zombies, tourists, musicians and me

#10

sitting in Cookeville TN

watching the sun go down

waiting on her

thinking I probably should have stayed home

#11

on the interstate going east 4am

windows down pouring rain

Ramones blasting

#12

this

like everything else

is going to be

a bitch

#13

rain drops echo through my ears

like the beat of a satanic techno album

the lightning leaves a beautiful imprint on my eyes

it never seems to go away

my body presses against the window

I want the glass to give

So I can fly into the storm

#14

I thought about her last night

It made me feel cold and alone

I got to see myself through that shit

I can’t let a fucked up race

That doesn’t know how to love

Bring me down

#15

(missing)

#16

emotions fuck up my mind too often

#17

why can’t you grow up, little girl

why can’t you fuck off, little girl

why can’t I forget your name,

little girl

#18

your disease

it made you an alcoholic

it made you lean on drugs

it kept you from being the artist you could’ve been

it ate your soul

#19

no one wants to speak up

or stand up

or put up

or throw down

chicken shit

#20

I remember I could taste your beer

As my tongue rolled around in your mouth

#21

do you remember any of it

you started it

you stripped, not me

#22

I wanted to be there with you forever

With the sweet smell of your hair

And the warmth of your body

And your alluring smile…

What the hell was I thinking

#23

I’m not disappointed we never fucked

#24

she said, “Sometimes you look scary.”

Like when I know you’re lying to me,

Right?

#25

she doesn’t get enough…attention?

#26

sunset on Gay Street

walking around looking for inspiration

I find it on every corner

In every face

In every sound

#27

(missing)

#28

my fist

that wall

glad it’s not

you face?

#29

superimposed

superconformed

superbored

#30

I never loved you

Ever

#31

I don’t find this particularly amusing

#32

going from one relationship to another

setting myself up for hard falls

hoping for soft landings

I do it to myself

#33

sometimes I hate those I’m supposed to love

and they don’t care

#34

it’s not too late

#35

the beast is bleeding in the tub

Hendrix is on the stereo

The beast isn’t bored

Anymore

#36

this planet is too conservative for me

I’ve got to find one of my own

#37

is it insomnia or just the caffeine

2:00 am

the Rollins Band plays on for the fifth or sixth time

while another stepdad drinks himself to death down the hall

#38

I’m not happy tonight

#39

seeing her made me happy

I think I can face tomorrow

And maybe sleep a little

#40

I like the interstate

You can just drive and drive

Turn up REM

And fuck reality

#41

fucked up feelings

brain in slow motion

has my watch stopped

or did the world

#42

4 am

her place

a phone call woke us both up

I’ll be leaving soon

It’s storming outside

Just like it was when we fell asleep

What a night

#43

sick

dizzy

tired

hungry

thirsty (and)

miserable

nervous

broke

lonely

unsure

burnt out

but stronger than ever

#44

it’s the same damn thing

every fucking day

what am I doing so wrong

#45-47

(missing)

#48

yes I did it all to impress you

#49

where’s our voice of reason

in retirement

because we told them they were sellouts

for being on tv

and our world is falling apart

oh Superman where are you

we didn’t mean it

your major label debut doesn’t REALLY suck

it’s just not PUNK

you know?

#50

are we there yet?

She (from Peace Keeping Mission, 1996)

2011-11-27T23:30:00.000-05:00

It happened before anyone could react

It happened before the sun could rise

We all knew it was too late

She kissed the spike so she wouldn’t die

Sweet freight train rush straight to heaven

Blood to the boiling point

Eyes focused and aimed

Strength is beauty

Beauty is a disease

She aimed her love at the eternal heart

She aimed her love at the collective consciousness

Two shots

Modern art all over the walls

She kicked the world in the balls

Her soul ripped every father apart

She laughed in their faces

Pain is ugly

Ugly is a virtue

Two fists are better than one heart

LoSe THiS SKiN

2011-11-27T23:27:00.000-05:00

Some of it’s fuzzy, but lets see…In late 1994 after squandering months of post-high school life and facing starting at Roane State Community College in January ’95, I found myself drifting like a ghost around my hometown, sort of circling the drain. I’d drive to Knoxville and haunt this one bookstore in Market Square, check out bands at the Mercury Theatre and hit the record stores on the strip (all of which are LONG gone, along with anything charming about Knoxville, except for the music scene). I was managing and roadie-ing for my friends’ band, the Bourgeois Pop Machine and trying to get my own band going. I’d declared myself a writer in the third grade, but after high school I’d sort of hit a dry spell. I had stacks of comic book scripts, a short story that appeared in my school’s literary magazine and 90 pages of an aborted sci fi novel and no direction.

In my first English Lit class I met my friend Lisa and through the course of our first conversation, I mentioned being a writer and she asked me if I ever went to any open mics. Why no I’ve never done that. She told me of one that happened every Tuesday night at a place called Manhattans, in Knoxville’s Old City, and had a mix of musicians and poets. Cool, I said, I’d be there the next Tuesday! Back up to that New Year’s eve, I took the stage for the first time singing lead with BPM for one song. From that moment on I LOVED being on stage performing. Before that I was terminally shy. In school I’d rather take an F than get up in front of the class, and sometimes did. So, I dug this idea and was definitely going to attend. The only problem was I had a serious lack of material and less than a week to come up with some. At home I started raiding my notebooks, pulling out lyrics and fragments of stories and with a performance to concentrate on I started writing some new material. I needed to fill ten minutes and I practiced my best material out loud, timing myself. Monday night I felt like I had it down pretty good and headed to Manhattans the next night full of confidence and looking forward to seeing Lisa, who didn’t show up, but everyone from BPM did. I went on around 11:30 and actually got a fairly positive response. From that night I attended an open mic nearly every week for the next two years. Having found a direction I began writing all new material-short bursts of poetry and prose that could be read live. This was my punk rock! Shitty relationships and a jobs I fucking hated gave me plenty of fuel and I started addressing all the depression and fucked up feelings I had from growing up in a broken home.

By the next fall I’d amassed quite a bit of material, but had no idea what to do with it, until I found some of Henry Rollins’s books at the Disc Exchange. He self published and his old band Black Flag (who I’d loved for a couple years at that point and still love to this day) released their own albums. So, duh! I’d make my own books! I started compiling my material, doing rewrites, edits, finishing some fragments and writing a list of titles. In December I’d finished and settled on the title Destroying Lives For Fun and Profit. My friend and frequent collaborator, Jason Gollihar, designed the cover and then it was a matter of figuring out who could copy and bind it. We found a copy center in Knoxville that could do it for a relatively affordable price and I ordered fifty copies, 8.5 x 11, velo-bound. It looked completely amateurish and cheap and the Xerox ruined the awesome black and white photo on the cover, turning it into mud. Eh! Punk rock, junior! So on my twentieth birthday, January 1996, I drove to BPM’s rehearsal with a box full of copies of my first book.

Around that time I wandered into that bookstore in Market Square and there was a woman doing spoken word and she was flat awesome, her name was Heather Royce and I got to chat with her a little before the next performance. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but a handful of people set up stools and started doing a dry run of a play called Definition of a Grrrl, written by Priscilla Grimm. I didn’t get to talk to her that night, but I ran into Priscilla a few weeks later at Manhattans. I came over and introduced myself and told her how much I had loved Definition and gave her a copy of Destroying Lives. A few days later I received a multipage letter from her and we became friends. More than that, she was a big sister who taught me a lot, introduced me to tons of music I still listen to today (I’m listening to Bikini Kill while I write this), and did some spoken word shows with me in Knoxville and Boston. When Definition ran for a week at the Carrousel Theater, she gave me a thirty minute set to open the show on opening night. In short, she wound up being one of the most influential people on me in my early twenties.

I was already writing material for the next book at that point and published it in a small fold and staple booklet, which worked well and the next seven books were done in the same format. The next two books to come out were Fight The Power…Or Fuck Off (title inspired by Public Enemy), followed a couple weeks later by Peace Keeping Mission, which reprinted articles I’d written for my college newspaper, new poetry and vignettes and some reworked pieces from Destroying Lives. Here’s Your Warning (got that title from 7 Seconds) came a couple months later and Depraved New World a couple days after that. Bad Dogma was next and was sort of a transitional book, ending with the short story “Love in a World Full of Hate”. I was beginning to tire of writing heavily political pieces and was concentrating more on being a better story teller (not that I believed in my bleeding heart politics any less then or now, I just came to the realization that there are many people who are better at articulating these ideas).

All that remains of the next book, Fuel, is the original cover that was done for me by Pop Gurl 64.The book’s content is a complete mystery to me-I don’t remember anything that went into that book and all the original pages are missing. I can make guesses by going through old notebooks, but truth be told, at that point I was drinking heavily and I was becoming far less prolific. There are copies out there, I know I had some with me when I read at the Lucy Parsons Center in Cambridge MA. And the last book, The Devil and the American Night didn’t come out at all. That one was all poetry and completely devoid of politics, instead I focused on character sketches based on people I’d known. I feel like Devil was the most consistent and focused of the original books, but heavy drinking, depression and two destructive relationships killed my drive and I never released the book.

Priscilla had moved to Ohio, Jason moved to Boston after BPM had broken up, and most of my friends drifted away to new lives. The open mics ceased, I was homeless for a while…If it wasn’t for my good friend/BPM guitarist Jason Day (Shortwave Society) getting a place with me I probably wouldn’t have survived the next year. At that point my creativity was dead and I moved into horrible, prolonged period where I sort of lost my mind, but that’s a story for another time.

So! Over the next couple of days I’m posting what, I feel, is the best of the early books. Yes, these are new edits, because my spelling and grammar were at times atrocious, depending on how fast I was working and how much sleep I’d had. The biggest difference is with “Suffer”, which first appeared in a non-profane version in my high school’s lit mag, then got an explicit remix in Destroying Lives. This third version is based on a red pen attack I made on the story when I planned to release it as a single backed with two vignettes back in ‘98. I think this version is far more readable, and yes it may feel like cheating, but I am owning up to it at the outset.

Going through all this old stuff is both embarrassing and funny. I look back at me at twenty, at what a loud mouth, brash, know-it-all asshole I was and shake my head. At least my heart was in the right place…I hope this stuff still has life, I’m unable to judge it anymore.

Thanks and blessings to you my fiends,

Tim

Adios, fellas. Thanks for everything.

2011-09-23T01:08:00.000-04:00

REM has officially parted ways. Yea. I feel pretty ambiguous about that. I first discovered REM through the magic of MTV at the time between the Document and Green era. "It's the End of the World" and "Stand". I grew up pretty sheltered and ignorant in a crap small town without an ounce of culture. My only contact with the outside world was MTV and when we got it the wildest music I was immiediately exposed to was the pop metal and New Wave of the the day. Mostly Motley Crue, John Cougar Mellencamp, Madonna, Fine Young Cannibels, Bruce Springsteen, and Guns N'Roses. But hours upon hours of viewing was rewarded by discovering REM, the Replacements, XTC, The Pixies. REM were the first band to truly resonate with me, inspire me, and make me an obsessive life long fan. I spent countless late night hours playing their cassettes over and over again while I wrote or drew. I wore out my copy of Automatic For The People and had to buy another within six months. I got to see them on the Monster Tour and bought New Adventures in HiFi when it went on sale at midnight. After that, the drummer Bill Berry left and REM started making music that no longer resonated with me. They were a different band, made different music, and that was all. I kept up with them though, sampling each album upon release and, sadly, each time, passed. The last double live album was definitely something to behold, a very fine release and lots of fun to listen to, but Collapse Into Now, while musically one of the strongest statements they've made since New Adventures, just left me as flat as the rest of the post-Berry output. I'm going to miss REM. When my friend texted me last night about the breakup I was imiediately cynical, but as the night wore on and it sunk in more, I got nostalgic and depressed. Every album from Chronic Town to New Adventures holds a unique experience that no one has or will imitate, and thank God we have them. All the best to Bill, Mike, Micheal, and Peter. Thank you, gentlemen, you won't be forgotten or replaced.

History #2

2011-09-20T23:08:00.000-04:00

So I used to write for an online music site called Sponiczine writing reviews, just before they folded I got this article in. That was 2004.

GRAFTON

Sumbitches in the heartland

By Tim Murr

“Jason was in another band (Preston Furman) in 1996 and I saw them in a basement bar. He’s the best drummer I’ve ever seen, just amazing. Blew me away. A few months later I moved into an apartment with him and two other guys from local bands, and we started playing as a two-piece in the basement in our spare time. Ample spare time. I think I was living on $200 a month in those days and rent was $175. SO I was about 120 pounds and ate a lot of ramen, rice, and cheese slices, but I had plenty of time for music…”

Lou Poster is a man who’s got his head on straight. He’s the smart, charismatic vocalist/guitarist for the Columbus OH trio Grafton, who has a voice that sounds like a good beer tastes. Together with his band mates Jason McKiernan, cofounder and helluva great drummer and Donovan Roth, hard as a hammer bassist, he’s created a glorious racket over two albums and several tours.

Their sound can best be described as punk steeped in alt.country and classic rock. Something like Waylon Jennings playing the blues in a blender strapped to a rocket. There are no frills, just bass, drums, guitar, and voice. And Grafton proves you can do a lot with little.

A lot of their influences come from the early to mid-90’s Indie rock scene. Lou looks back at that time bitter sweetly; “After Nirvana blew out the main seals kids either went back to top 40 or started digging in the bins that supplied them with Bleach in the first place. Archers Of Loaf, The Pixies, SST’s back catalog, the Mono Men, some real good shit…The trendies, though there was a certain pretentiousness about it, hadn’t fully sunk their teeth into the new thing, and it was still honest, real. Then you get Modest Mouse and the Elephant 6 having success (some of which is musically great but appealed to the basest kind of soulless sycophantic white kid art student set) and it started getting gross and that was just the beginning…Once it became obvious that every bad haircut fad hopping white belted indie rock douche bag (who we initially became a fucked up folk punk 2 piece to spite) was gonna start a 2 piece blues band, we got Donovan to join and started writing more amped up songs. That was ’99.”

Grafton is a blues band, in the sense that Black Flag was a blues band or that Steve Earle is a punk. The songs wail and shout and moan and bare their teeth, in the best blues tradition, but what one would first associate with the sound of the blues is lost in tempo and distortion. It’s the atmosphere around the songs. It’s easy to imagine Muddy Waters slowing down ‘Oxblood’ or ‘The Day They Ran Us Out Of Town’. These songs could have easily have been recorded with acoustic guitar and pedal steel.

I first became aware of Grafton when I received my first batch of cds to review for Sponic Zine (.com that is) back in 2002, and it was their self titled full length debut (on Derailleur Records) waiting at the bottom of that stack that just blew me away. For months afterward I drove my wife crazy playing it over and over again. And yes, I gave them a glowing review and they made my top ten of the year.

From the guns-a-blazin’ opener ‘Last Night At The Brite & Clean’, to the ode to Ohio ‘A Toast To Gravity’ to the funky Minutmen-esque closer ‘Wake Up Brass’ their’s is a ‘rough and raw sound with enough classic rock chasing punk in a pool of whiskey to make any dance floor unsafe.’ (As I said in my original review.)

2003 brought their second album Blind Horse Campaign, on Dead Canary Records, which Lou operates with Scott Stroemer. It sounds better, the songs are tighter, and just like the first album, you’re left hungry for more. ‘I’ve Been Lookin’’ comes on like an unexpected fist in a crowded bar. ‘Sumbitch’ is one every married man can relate to. ‘The Day They Ran Us Out Of Town’ is a hard rocking view of “man’s evil nature”. ‘The Captain and Big Muskie’ is country-fied instrumental. ‘Slowpoke’ is mid tempo stomper, with a nervous energy, like the song is trying to go faster, but is being weighed down. ‘Fine, Good, Go’ has a great bass intro and a chorus containing those three little words almost guaranteed to put the breaks on a relationship; “FINE…GOOD…GO!” The album closes with ‘Lord Baltimore’ which was the name of the Indian tracker in the film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, “a song about complacency and self preservation and once again the fear of death.”

Did Blind Horse Campaign make my top ten for 2003? At #2 right behind the Beatles; Let It Be…Naked and right before the White Stripes, Elephant. Almost as good as the Beatles and better than the White Stripes, if only I worked at Rolling Stone…

What, to me any way, adds weight to the songs of Grafton, is the fact that these are not eighteen year old kids whining about some girl that doesn’t like them the same way they like her. These are three men playing hard rocking working class punk that people over the age of twenty-five can listen to and feel included. While Jason and Donovan are “what you’d call ‘eligible bachelors’, if you ate a lot of acid”, Lou has been married to his wife Paula for four years and is the father of a three year old daughter. When he’s not rocking the shit out of America he works as a screen printer. So it would be safe to say that when there’s a shit show out on tour, and there’s little or no money being made it fucking sucks and it sucks hard.

“It definitely makes the shows that don’t turn out so well seem that much harder for me personally. It’s one thing to drive 20 hours and play to 7 people and yea that sucks but early on it seems worth it to put your back into the thing and grind it out, make a name for yourself-it’s not like we’ve got money or a publicist or even an established label backing us. So that felt like honest work and dues paying.”

And honest work and dues paying doesn’t scare Grafton one bit. Lou was raised by a 3^rd generation coal miner. Donovan is a bartender and Jason is a social worker. I can tell you first hand that being an artist and having a family that depends on you can be a soul crushing, stressful life.

“…To know that you’re leaving your family for a month or longer at a time makes those shit shows a lot more depressing. Like ‘I’m causing my wife and daughter and band mates all this stress for THIS?’”

But those that press on and don’t give up will always be rewarded. Eventually. “The last 2 big tours have actually been very positive. People are starting to catch on it seems and that makes the time away from home a lot more bearable. And my wife’s great, she really makes it work out.”

As far as aiming for fame and fortune in the current state of rock and roll, Grafton are realists. “Fuck, it almost seem pointless aiming for anything these days. Paying the bills is about as lofty a goal as I’ve come to.” They’ll keep going forward with albums and tours for as long possible, chasing the next great show.

“I think there’s a reaction coming from rock and roll that no one’s prepared for. There’s been success from the underground, the White Stripes are the exponent of that, and that’s opened a few people’s eyes to the possibility of music coming from under, not over, their heads.” But where are all the IT bands of the last couple of years. The industry laid to waste the newest rock resurgence without a shot being fired. And you’d never know that older established bands had even released new albums. In the last couple of years great albums by Alice Cooper, the Buzzcocks, the Rollins Band, and Danzig have gone almost completely unnoticed and ignored by radio. This is what country music did to their established artists. Marginalizing Merle Haggard, George Jones, and Johnny Cash, in favor watered down pop rip offs. What has to happen now, is there needs to be a new entry point for new fans, the way No Depression functioned for alt.country (whatever that is), to discover all the great rock that is continually coming from the underground. Because FM radio ain’t gonna play Grafton.

“We have a chance right now to stand on a platform that’s been elevated by the changing tide of public opinion and show them what REAL rock and roll is. Do you think the public at large could digest the Cheater Slicks? Or Federation X? Or We March? Or The Fireballs of Freedom? Or the Means? Do you think they could look at their horrible selves in all their compromised glory and sing at the top of their lungs “EVERYTHING MOVES SO FAST/EVERYTHING’S IN THE PAST/EXCEPT THIS, RIGHT NOW!”? Probably not and it’s a shame. But it’s time we found out."

History #1

2011-07-20T13:48:00.000-04:00

Here's a bit of nastiness from the old days; This was the cover for one of my mini-bookzines "Here's Your Warning". My hatred for all rascists and my love of David Cronenberg's "Scanners" inspired the piece. The back inside cover had a shot of this skinhead through the sight of a sniper's rifle just before getting shot. The book itself was another (the third..?) one of my collections of vignettes, poetry and rants. Half of it culled from notebooks and half of it written on the spot, improvised as I built the book on my word processor. The whole thing including making the cover, printing, cutting and pasting, copying, folding and stapling was done in less than eight hours in an all night session. I slept in my car an hour while waiting for the copy center to open. Two days later I did it all over again with "Depraved

New World".

2011-05-18T14:39:00.000-04:00

Here's an excerpt from Die Like A Man....

It’s What We Do

I was hunkered down over a patty melt while Crow devoured a cheeseburger. The waitress came around and put a fresh blue pitcher of coffee on our table and we both quickly refilled our cups greedily. Through mouths full of fries and greasy beef we complained loudly about women and art and women and money and women. We didn’t pay attention to the wave of people rolling in now that the singles club across the street had had last call and turned the middle age drunks loose on the unsuspecting city in the wee hours of the morning. To my left was the glass partition and particle board wall that separated our booth from our neighbors’ who were just being seated. “It’s a disgrace, a fucking disgrace..!” Crow grumbled as he poured the fifth little cup of creamer into his cup. I sat my cup down and pointed at him, “You’re damn right it is.” He tossed his spoon on the table. “He actually requested a Bob Seeger tune!” I shook my head, “a disgrace.” We were suddenly, forcibly, made acutely aware of our neighbors; two bottle blonde bimbos, pushing fifty, dressing twenty, acting high school-hair teased two stories high, make up/cover up, red, RED, lips, teeth stained, gloss and nicotine. Taptaptapping the glass, smiling hungrily, “Hey, ya’ll! How’s it going? Whatchya’ll doin’?” Crow and I looked to each other then back to them. Crow chuckled and knocked the glass, “Dig it; White Trash Aquarium.” I nearly choked on my coffee. “Whaaat? What’d he saaay? What’s so funny?” We rose, finishing our cups and wiping our mouths. I blew them a kiss and threw some singles on the table for the waitress. We paid the hostess and stepped outside. I lit a Lucky and held the lighter for Crow and we went to the back of the lot where my Pontiac was parked. By the dumpster a rookie drunk was blowing the night’s sin and chicken sandwich against the side of the building. I’d been there. Recently. We got in, I cranked the ignition and we sped out onto Kingston Pike heading West. We were on the hunt for friendly female companionship and we knew at this hour our pickings would be slim. We drove past a theater and shopping center, all dark, and headed up a little back road to our friend’s apartment complex. We pulled into a spot below Sonia’s window and could see her walking around with all the lights on. I got the rum out of the backseat and we sprinted up the metal steps and knocked on the door. We could hear “Turn The Page” on her stereo and Crow stuck his finger in his mouth. “Who is it?” “Rum delivery!” She opened the door laughing, I swept her in my arms and kissed her cheek, spun her around, giving her to Crow and walked into her braless, pantless date who was rising from the couch with a bemused smile. “Ahhh, I’d forgotten you had a hot date tonight, my dear.” “Real hot,” Crow commented. The date flushed, keeping the smile. “The word is tact, young man. I’m sorry…” “Scarlet.” “Scarlet, Crow here has no filter between the hours of four pm and four pm. Forgive our intrusion, Sonia, the Captain here,” I held up the bottle, “requested to see you, but I think he’ll understand.” Sonia took the bottle from my hand, “How funny, we were just complaining about having no booze and the liquor stores being closed.” “Then it’s divine providence we’ve appeared out of the night with rescue from sobriety!” “Here here!” Shouted Sonia already getting glasses down from the cabinet. Crow and I were mesmerized by the swing of Scarlet’s big ass in her little panties. She opened the fridge and bent over to get the soda from the bottom shelf. A dry, DRY, month we’d both been having, and tonight’s gig for Crow had been an exercise in how not to do a show. I’d spent the night at a table in the back trying to make head way with a foreigner, who laughed at all my jokes, and told me repeatedly how sweet I was and still left with someone else. As SHE walked out, some bald goon in a bad suit stood up and yelled for the band to play some “SEEGER!” while they were winding down “So What”. We were desperate for some female attention. Sonia caught my eye and smiled slyly, nodded at Scarlet behind her back, gave me the peace sign and stuck her tongue between her fingers and rolled her eyes back in her head. Crow fell into me giggling uncontrollably. Scarlet turned around, big old smile, “What’s so funny?” Crow rubbed his face and I shoved him off me. “He gets silly when he’s been up for more than three days, sorry.” Sonia pointed at me, “OH! Sorry, this is that guy I was telling you about; Scratch. And that’s his roommate Crow.” “Oh, funny, Sonia was just telling me about you.” “Must have been the ‘dare’ story…” “IT WAS! Too funny.” “I’m hilarious.” I shot a look of good humored disappointment at Sonia and she gave me puppy dog eyes. “What’s the dare story,” Crow asked, taking the glass from Scarlet. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” The girls laughed. We settled around the living room and got down to the business of getting drunk. Crow walked over to the stereo, “May I?” “Help yourself.” He studied the cds and cassettes and after five minutes of deliberation said “AHA!” And put on Morphine’s “Cure For Pain”. Everyone approved. Sonia reached up from the couch and turned off the overhead light, leaving a corner lamp and some candles as the only light in the living room, then snuggled up with Scarlet. Crow, tactless opportunistic bastard, sat on the other side of Scarlet, while I got me the big comfy chair across the coffee table. We swapped stories and got acquainted with Scarlet. Sonia and I went back a few years and she’d gotten to know Crow in recent months. I kept everyone’s glasses full and we all got sloppy. In lulls of conversation the ladies made out and Crow and I stayed silent as church mice, hoping to be completely forgotten or completely included, either way we hoped the girls would let loose unencumbered by our presence. But as the sun came up that’s as far as we got and we all fell asleep where we were…”Hit the road, boys!” The sun had the living room lit up rudely. Sonia was in her work uniform, freshly showered and Scarlet was no where in sight. “I gotta go to work.” I shakily stood up and shook Crow until understanding and thought showed a glimmer in his eyes and I pulled him to his feet. Sonia hugged us and gave us little kisses. “That was fun. Scarlet thought you guys were so cute.” We smiled and departed. The early winter morning was crisp and good for waking up. We now needed waffles and coffee and went straight away to a restaurant that specialized in both. The waitress was old and slow, but sweet and sweetness made up for the other two and the waffles were good and the coffee sucked, but we had a lot of it anyway. We then headed a little ways up the street, grabbed our side road and pulled up to our apartment. The answering machine had six messages that we didn’t listen to. The kitchen was filthy and cluttered, the garbage hadn’t been emptied in days. There was some blood on the floor-weird. We went on to our rooms shaking hands before parting, closed our doors and crashed. I dealt with my devilish memories of Scarlet in typical manner, and I heard the tv on in Crow’s room and about five minutes of porno. Then silence. All day. The apartment was kept dark at all times and we had no neighbors above us and only a single, quiet woman beside us. I woke up to the sound of Crow playing piano in the living room. I staggered to the toilet for a satisfying piss, then prowled through the kitchen for nourishment, but none was to be found, after yesterday’s feast of grilled cheese sandwiches. I plopped down on the couch with the last beer from the fridge and a giant poster of Bob Dylan staring down at me. Crow waved with the left hand and kept playing with his right. “Play some Seeger, man!” Crow flipped me off with his right hand and kept playing with his left. “Fucking starving, bro.” He turned on his bench. “Tacos?” “Damn right tacos.” It was almost ten o’clock when we rolled into our beloved and famous fast food taco place and ordered the kind of meals stoners would be proud of. We stuffed ourselves and complained about women and art and women and money and on on ON, past eleven o’clock, then back to the apartment for showers, then back to the streets in search of the elusive and rare touch of female flesh.

2011-03-13T23:49:00.000-04:00

Hello, fiends! Here's a sneak peek at the cover for my debut novel Conspiracy of Birds, painted by my wife Stephanie. Check out her blog !

So when's this slab of lit coming out..? Uh, stay tuned. We are hard at work at working hard.

From Conspiracy Of Birds

2007-07-22T00:50:00.000-04:00

WARNING; This post contains language and situations that may be deemed offensive. I offer no apologies, just a heads up.
excerpt from my new novel Conspiracy Of Birds which should be out by the end of the summer.

Ruby, My Dear
I woke up after the sun had gone down to the sound of Darby trashing his room. He was growling like an animal and yelling incoherently, throwing himself against the wall we shared. He was hitting it so hard I thought maybe he was going to go through it.
I rolled out of bed and pulled my pants on and went next door to kick his ass, but I kept walking and went on down the hall to the bathroom and got in the shower. There was no hot water but that was ok.
By the time I was on my way back to my room, Darby was in the lobby going Tasmanian devil. Hank came over and decked him. Darby tumbled through a table, then laid on his back laughing. Hank waved him off and went out the front door angrily.
I got dressed with no idea what I was going to do. I wanted to take Debbie up on her offer to make up the Frank thing to me, but I didn’t want to go another round with him. My luck was sure to run out. There was a brothel near by and the action was cheap. I’d heard from Lucky they served Jack Daniels in the lounge (which was hard to find here) and I wouldn’t have to worry about getting ripped off.
The porch was crowded with a bunch of pseudo-intellectuals having a ‘spirited’ discussion about literature. I stopped for a second too long and Fitzgerald tried to get me to take his side about something. Before I could tell him I never liked him, Charles bashed him the teeth with his elbow. Fitz went back into the porch railing and crumpled like a sack of potatoes. This was all those boring sons of bitches ever did. Arguing over their own talent and intellect then going caveman when they didn’t agree with each other. At heart, we’re all fucking animals, and being on a college reading list doesn’t change that.

The brothel was called Damn Hot Cats and was run by Mama Lucille, a southern belle that must have been two hundred years old. She didn’t speak much when anyone entered, just nodded toward the lounge or the parlor. I headed for the lounge first. My head was pounding and I needed whiskey. I got a double and then another double. I drank three glasses quickly before a tall, thick girl in black silk sat on the stool next to mine. She smiled and I told the bartender to set her up. She had perfect curves, a big ass, and breasts that were spilling out of her lace. Her dark blonde curls hung around her face, like she didn’t care, and feline eyes glinted from beneath her locks.
We clinked our glasses together and knocked them back quickly. She slid off her stool and headed for the stairs, I was close behind. Up the stairs her ass swung hypnotically ahead of me. I could see the outline of a thong and my mind was getting lecherous.
When we got to her door, I was behind her, with my arms wrapped around her kissing her neck. She giggled and led me inside.
I started unbuttoning my shirt. She shoved me onto the bed. When I landed, I felt like I sank a foot into the mattress. It was the best feeling I’d ever had.
She pulled my boots off and my feet felt so light, I thought they might float away. Next, she was pulling my pants off.
We rode one another hard. The more we fucked, the harder I pumped, and the deeper her nails dug-I fell more in love. Maybe it was the poison in my system, but the earth was moving.
It came to a crashing halt when she asked to be paid. Her smile was gone. The glint in her eyes had become cold coal in a shit brown iris. Her curves were gray flabs that she shoved back into the silk. The beauty drained from her face. Her hair became a tangle of wires and knots. I tossed a few bills to her and got dressed.
I stepped into the hallway and touched the wall for support. It felt like warm raw meat. I could feel a pulse. Wet. I ran my hands along the wall, moving toward the stairs. I found a vein; it was so big it took both of my hands to get a hold of it. I squeezed, cutting off the blood.
Below, Mama Lucille shrieked from the parlor. I looked down and saw her stumbling into the lounge, holding her head with both hands. Her eyes were rolled up so far all you could see was white. I let go of the vein and she shot up right, reaching her hands to Heaven. Blood spurt from her nose. Everyone in the lounge was getting as far away from her as possible.
I grabbed the vein again and she did a header into the bar. Her brittle skull split under the rubbery skin. When she stopped twitching, people began to move in, muttering to each other. I slowly descended the stairs, not believing what I had just done. I told myself I was tripping. Just remain calm, and get the fuck out.
No one looked my way. The whores began to cry for Mama Lucille. The men started to exit with me, because they knew they’d get no action that night. We poured into the street like soldiers without a war. The streets stunk of defeat. Of dirty money set aside for immoral acts.
Most of them headed for the bars near the beach. I went the opposite direction. Going where the streets got a little darker, and the bars were less crowded. I turned a corner and came to an intersection where the streetlights had all been shot out. The only light was coming from the giant red neon cross hanging over the door of the mission. Several homeless people milled around outside. They looked like ghouls, aimlessly dragging their feet in the eerie, red glow.
As I passed the mission a few of them looked my way, their eyes were dead. A preacher came out on to the stoop and sat down with a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup. His eyes were weary. His nose was broken. He was probably wondering why he was here-He had that look. It must be difficult to get up in the morning and wade through this open sewer and do God’s work. The road of the righteous is not an easy one to travel.
Down a street with no name and around a corner set a cinderblock building that looks like it used to be a garage. It had been turned into a pool hall. I found it a few days before when I went out looking for work. The neon beer signs behind the bars on the window were the only indication it wasn’t an abandoned building. As I got closer I could hear a blues band inside.
The band was set up near the door, the singer looked my way when I stepped in. She had a glass of something clear, but it was obviously not water. She leaned heavily on the mic stand as the guitarist tore through a solo. When he stepped back, she growled into the mic, “Chain, chain, chainnnnnn-Chain of fools…” She sang another verse, then the keyboardist took a solo.
I sat down at the bar and ordered a beer and a shot. My head was still fuzzy, but I was seeing shit with amazing clarity and depth. I felt like I could practically see in the dark. I’d had no trouble navigating the dark streets, now I could see the light stubble of an old man asleep in the far back corner, where most of the light bulbs had burned out.
I knocked back my shot and started sipping my beer. The band finished the song like a train wreck and ambled off stage. The singer slumped at a table alone, where a bottle of gin waited for her. She poured some into her glass and emptied the tumbler before the band crowded the bar around me. The keyboardist sat to my right. He couldn’t even speak he was so drunk. He kept trying to order, even after the bartender had sat another rum and soda in front of him. He drank half of it and stood up, mumbled something under his breath and sat back down, nearly falling.
He laid his head on the bar and whimpered. I looked at the bass player who sat on the other side of the keyboardist. He shrugged and went back to his beer.
I looked around at everyone else. Mostly older men and women beat up by and burnt out on life. Half dead eyes. The drinks in front of them were the high light of their week. Their conversations were loud and unintelligible, mixing with and getting tangled up in each other’s words. It seemed like half of them didn’t know the music had stopped, the rest didn’t know it had ever started.
The one waitress was as drunk as the rest of us, and didn’t do much other than sit at the far end of the bar, and bitch about how much her feet hurt. No one was listening, except a short, chubby old man that looked like he’d eat out of her toilet just to be close to her. His watery, mouse eyes kept dancing up and down her ragged body. She must have been gorgeous back in the day.
After several minutes some of the band members started packing up their equipment. The keyboardist snored steadily on the bar.
I kept putting the booze down; shot…beer. Shot…beer. I had a small stack of singles in front of me that the bartender would pick a few from every time he brought me a new round. The more he took, the more there seemed to be. I started trying to drink away the stack of cash, but there was always enough for another round.
I was seeing things swimming in the bottles behind the bar. Mutant tadpoles. Worms with jagged teeth. They were mating. Shitting. Giving birth. Splitting in two, then again.
I looked at my shot. A tiny, four-armed, fuzzy worm was climbing over the rim, trying to get away. I flicked it off and drank my shot. Then I heard a whisper over my shoulder. You’re poisoned. So I drank my beer.
A fly landed on the back of my hand. I waved him off. He returned with a friend. I waved them both off. They came back four strong. More started buzzing around my face. Landing in my hair. They were all over the bar, hanging around my drink. I shooed them away, they came back with double the strength.
Then the room got hot.
The door opened and in walked a slender man in a blood red suit. He sat down four stools from me, on the other side of the keyboardist. He ordered bourbon on the rocks. I looked over at the waitress-obsessed old man. He licked his lips with a forked tongue when she bent down to pick up a dollar someone had dropped. I turned to the bartender to order another round, but he was walking into the back cooler.
The keyboardist suddenly woke up and looked around.
“Hey, we done playin’?”
“Everyone left,“ I told him.
“Shit, man. They didn’t take my gear…How’m I gonna get it home?”
“Just take a taxi.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Didn’t you get paid tonight?”
“S’posed to. But those fuckers let me get plastered then they screw me. Every time.”
The man in red pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off two c-notes, American.
“Hey, you can have this, if you go play ‘Ruby, My Dear’ before you leave.”
The keyboardist looked at the money and happily took it from him.
“No problem…be happy to!”
He played the song like Monk. His eyes were closed and his face was close to the keys. If it wasn’t for the spastic bouncing of his foot you’d think he was falling asleep again.
I looked over at the man in red. He was hunched over his bourbon, muttering to himself. He slowly turned to me with a warm smile.
“Don’t believe a word they say.”
“Who?”
“Any of’em. Doesn’t matter. Politicians. Preachers. Doctors. They all lie to screw you over.”
“What do they gain?”
“They take your money.”
“I’ve never had much to take.”
“They take your freedom.”
“No one’s really free anyway. They’re taking what I never had.”
“They take your ideas.”
“I don’t have any. It’s all been done.”
“They take your choices.”
“Same as freedom, I’ve never had a choice.”
“You chose to leave your family. You chose to make their lives incomparably hard. You chose for your son to be a bastard. You chose to make someone die.”
“I didn’t feel like I had a choice then. Seemed like my family’d be better off without me.”
“You’ve got an answer to everything.”
“Just about.”
“You’ve got the whole fucking thing figured out.”
“No.”
“So why trust’em?”
“I don’t.”
“Why question sound advice?”
“I haven’t heard any.”
“Why are you closed to what I have to say, before I’m done saying it?”
“Because I don’t believe in you.”
“Good.”
He knocked back his bourbon and smiled to himself.
“Good.”
He stood up and walked toward the door. On his way out he pointed his finger at the keyboardist, like a gun, his thumb dropped like a hammer and he faded into the darkness of the street. Once the door closed the keyboardist stopped playing and unplugged his amp.
The flies started to disperse, and the room started to cool off. I pocketed my money and stood up. The bartender nodded to me and started wiping down my spot on the counter. I held the door open for the keyboardist as he lugged his case and amp out the door.
We stood on the sidewalk lighting cigarettes. There was a cabstand across the street, with one lone taxi driver snoring loudly behind the wheel. Otherwise, the street was empty. He started to cross, but I stayed where I was. I knew what was going to happen. I started looking up and down the street for the car that would come out of nowhere and run him down. But there was nothing.
He knocked the roof of the cab and got into the back as the cabbie woke up. The engine revved and the taxi sped off down the street. I started walking back the way I came. Before the taillights had completely disappeared, I saw the cab run a red light and get t-boned by a bus. I stopped and watch them skid and tumble through the intersection, then out of view.
I looked to my right and saw the red neon cross of the mission and started walking toward it. Most of the homeless people had gone inside for the night, but a few still sat on the steps with bottles in paper bags, talking in low murmurs. The alcohol was eating my insides. The brick walls were moving like water. Faces kept floating to the surface. I started retching and heaving. I grabbed a trashcan and vomited into it. It was dark, but my blood was glowing, so I knew I was throwing up blood. Then the worms came.
At first I thought I was going to choke to death, because I couldn’t get any breath or muster enough strength to push them out. I felt them squirming up out of my stomach, into my throat, trying to get down my windpipe. Then several slithered over my tongue. I got air into my lungs and coughed.
Like a bulldozer, everything moved up and out. Huge worms splashed and squirmed all over the garbage can and over my boots. I kicked them away and staggered toward the mission, spitting and wiping my mouth.
One of the bums held his bottle out to me.
“Looks like yew needa drink!”
I swiped at the bottle heading for the stairs, but without warning the sidewalk came up and sucker punched me. I rolled over on to my back and touched my bloody, tender cheek. Stars were falling out of the sky, fading, as they got closer to the ground. I looked at the neon cross. Christ hung from it. Blood running down his face. From his wrists. From his feet. From his side. His expression full of sympathy for a baby bird that fell from its nest.
All I wanted to do was die. So I closed my eyes and tried to. But I didn’t.
I woke up lying on a bench inside the mission with a cold pack over the side of my face. The priest was holding it there, when he saw that I was awake, he told me to hold it. I must have been out for a while, because when I sat up I felt slightly less fucked up than before I got there. Nowhere near sober, but I wasn’t feeling worms in my stomach anymore.
The priest sat down beside me.
“Havin’ a rough night?”
“I reckon.”
“Do you need a place to crash?”
“No, I’m at a hotel…somewhere.”
“What brought you here?”
“This is the closest thing to a church I’ve seen since I got into town.”
“This is a church.”
“Looks like an abandoned gym.”
“It is. Was. We converted it years ago.”
“Needs some work.”
“Yea, well, there’s not much money in this kind of business. We rely on the kindness and donations of others, mostly.”
“No one’s been kind or donated shit since when?”
“Since we got the building.”
“You look like you want to give up.”
“No, I’m just tired.”
“Are you making progress?”
“A little.”
“How many souls you figure you save on a daily basis?”
“I couldn’t say, but if I only save one, then all the feces and vomit and stench and blood and sweat and profanity have been worth it.”
“I can’t imagine being that committed to anything. I mean, you don’t even know if it’s real.”
“I have faith.”
“What’s faith? What the fuck is that? Just a leap in the dark. What if there’s a cliff? What if you’re wrong?”
“The burden to worry about that stuff isn’t on me. I believe and I go forward. If I’m wrong, by the time I find out it’ll be too late to do anything about it, so why dwell on it? I’m right though.”
“I never had religion. My wife did. She was always trying to drag me to church.”
“You ever go with her?”
“Once. I felt like the whole congregation knew I didn’t belong. Just kept feeling the eyes on me.”
“Where’s your wife now?”
“I have no idea.”
“Divorced?”
“Just absent.”
“So…you were looking for a church. Here you are. What can I do for you?”
“I need to know what to do. I’ve been runnin’ for a while. Did something I shouldn’t have done, which got me blamed for somethin’ I didn’t do. I came here to hide. Heard I’d be safe. I came here to hit rock bottom so I could rebuild myself from the ground up, but all I’m doing is floating in limbo like I have been for most of my life. I’m gray. No matter what I do, I’m never really bad or good, just not particularly right.”
“You’ve been trying to walk with one foot on the road of the righteous and one foot on the road paved with gold.”
“Maybe. Well not exactly. More like I’m walking on the strip of grass between the two.”
“You gotta serve someone. You’re life has no meaning. Step onto one of the roads, and your life will be defined.”
“Which one?”
“Which one do you think?”
I was tired of talking. This conversation was pointless, because I already knew what he’d say to each one of my questions. Ultimately this would lead to him asking me to repent and accept Christ as my personal Savior. Then I’d be able to dance on through the gates of Heaven when my death finally caught up with me (speaking of which, I’m surprised it hasn’t shown up in town yet).
I took the cold pack off my face and closed my eyes against the spins. The priest asked me if I wanted some coffee, something to eat. I shook my head and stood up.
“Why don’t you let me fix you up a cot?”
“It’s ok. I remember where I’m staying now.”
“Alright. Well, good luck. Come back anytime you need to talk.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, remember this; God’s heart breaks for his children who have yet to come home.”
I paused at the door and considered that. I nodded and walked into the predawn darkness, which was cool and the fog was rolling in.
After a block I looked back, all I could see was the neon cross glowing brilliantly. There was laughter in the distance, then a crash that must have been someone stumbling over a garbage can.
5.5.2006

Finding Fenario: A Social History of Jackson Hall And The Mules

2007-01-29T21:05:00.001-05:00

I had written this article to promote the release of Jackson Hall and The Mules debut album for Sponic Zine, but the online zine folded before it was published. The album is still available, contact me if you're interested.

Finding Fenario: A Social History of
Jackson Hall And The Mules
By Tim Murr, July 2004

Like so many things, it begins with Lou Reed. When you come from a small southern town, and you are the only one who has a Velvet Underground tape, you feel like you’re in some kind of secret club. You only let in your closest, most trusted friends, and then you smile at each other, because you know something all these small minded people will never know.
When Jackson Hall first got his hands on a copy of The Best Of the Velvet Underground; The Words And Music Of Lou Reed, a whole new world of possibilities opened up, and the seeds of everything he was to do in his life were planted in that moment.
In Kingston Tennessee there wasn’t much to make you feel desperate. But “Run Run Run” made him feel desperate to get out and do something great. “White Light White Heat” was a revelation and “Sweet Jane” was the standard by which all other music was to be judged.
But Lou and the Velvets were only the first pieces to the puzzle. As the end of high school neared, and more people came into Jackson’s life, the game changed and bent around the new rules and head trips of the other individuals, who were enlightened (and being enlightened was a prerequisite of the game). Slim Dunlop was two years younger than Jackson, but in him, Jackson found his first real musical partner, who got it. Scotts Jones was two years older, and was indeed wiser. Very quiet, very mature. Jackson, Slim, and Scotts formed several short lived bands, that were destined for failure from the get go, because where they were coming from was not a place many others were coming from. Not in Kingston Tennessee, anyway. Rock, country, punk, soul, jazz, and blues were not separate genres in their hands or heads. Everything was up for grabs and everything was possible.
In the mid 90’s the trio came close with a group called The Bourgeois Pop Machine. Their live shows were a test of endurance, for the band and the audience. (For a New Year’s Eve performance, they learned 50 covers, on top of ten originals, and played nonstop for 4 hours.) BPM had no concept of limitations. They took on all genres, including many jazz standards that would leave many pop bands scratching their heads at all the chord changes. These would be followed by a two and a half minute blast of power pop soul. Every show opened with “Sweet Jane” and within a year it was almost the only cover they ever did, besides The Beatles’ “I Am The Walrus”.
What made BPM so exciting to listen to made them impossible to sell. They were part of no genre, and didn’t fit in with any other band in the Knoxville music scene. On top of that, their timing was poor.
Knoxville was forty minutes from Kingston, and was the third largest city in Tennessee. But for it’s size, it may as well be a small town, because its downtown is empty and there are few places for a small band to play. When BPM first came to Knoxville most of the local bands were moving away or breaking up. Contacts never lasted or helped, and the band found themselves playing to a handful of people on the porch of a local coffee shop.
Frustrations were high, and with six individuals, with their own ideas about music, and the direction the band should go in, it was only a matter of time before things fell apart.
BPM’s last show came one September night in ’96. It was a porch show at the Java Hut, and was in front of a crowd of about thirty people. Half the band, including Jackson, Scotts, and Slim weren’t even speaking. There had been some heated debates about the number of jazz instrumentals and the lyrical content of Jackson’s songs. No one was happy and everyone wanted to quit, but no one wanted to say so. It was a hard decision considering how hard they’d worked. One unreleased album, and a single getting sparse airplay on a local station, showed so much potential, but the band was growing apart.
Jackson made the decision, in the middle of the second set. He dropped the mic and walked away. Scotts followed. The rest of the band jammed on the same song for two hours, until the entire audience got pissed and left. The group met at Krystal’s later that night, without Jackson, and decided not to carry on. Feelings were pretty well damaged.
Slim and Scotts formed a jazz combo with the drummer and bass player BPM, but Scotts soon left the group, and for a while had very little contact with any one.
Jackson knocked around Knoxville for a few months, seeing Slim on occasion, but no music was made between the two and they didn’t talk about forming another band. Then out of the blue, Jackson announced he was leaving for Boston. He had been accepted to an art school up there. It was a shock to all his friends, because everyone wanted to leave, but no one ever thought they would, and then he was.
For the next six years Jackson drank to oblivion in the bars of Boston, living the life of an artist with a lust for life and a death wish. Many nights were whiskey soaked bad noise kinda drunks, knocking back drink after drink, at The Model or The Silhouette, then rampaging through the streets, back to his Brighton apartment, with his new friends in tow, who were all as bad of drunks as he was. Most nights wound up in the living room, playing country songs on his acoustic guitar, everyone singing songs that they only knew through him, by George Jones, Hank Williams, and Merle Haggard. Jackson formed a rowdy honky tonk band with a few musicians he’d met around Allston. He finally had an outlet for all the new songs he had been writing, but the band was short lived. They played one legendary house show in someone’s basement, playing a set of genuine country at punk velocity, thrilling the packed room. The show was a sloppy drunken mess, but so fucking fun, that people were talking about it for weeks. But, for whatever reason, the band only played once more. My wedding reception. Our families were a bit dumbstruck. One more fucked up, drunk legend. Boston took its toll on Jackson’s health, far greater than he’d ever admit, and by 2000, it was time to get the hell out. All the fun had gone out of the all night drunken parties, and things began to get dark. One of his closest friends was flirting with suicide, and one night after drinking a handle of Jim Bean, ran into the Devil on his way to the bathroom. The Devil told him to kill someone, and he shared this with Jackson. Jackson talked him down and no one died, but it was a sign that it was time to go.
In the mean time, Slim continued to make a go at jazz, playing anywhere he could, with any group. He wound up studying under Donald Brown, who’d played with Art Blakey. Slim had dropped guitar and switched to piano. In two years he was better at piano than he was at guitar after six years.
Slim immersed himself into the jazz program at the University of Tennessee and began composing. He was living off student loans, what little he made off playing gigs, and selling his blood. He was selling his blood at least once a week, and his arm began to develop track marks, which raised some eyebrows. But nothing was going into his veins, just down his throat or up his nose. Old Crow whiskey was his weapon of choice, and crank was cheap and easy to get. The summer of ’98 he dropped acid for the first time, and it was a thrilling experience, but he only tripped once more. But what was most common was cough syrup. He often drank one or two bottles a night, and listened intently to avant gard jazz and classical music. He also listened intently to Jerry Lee Lewis, the Killer.
But by 2000, life was taking its toll on Slim as well and he began to clean up, and concentrate more on playing and finding paying gigs.
Scotts seemingly dropped off the face of the planet for a while. No one really knew what was happening with him in the years that followed the break up of BPM. But he was around, making ends meet and attending classes.
Jackson left Boston with a degree from the Art Institute of Boston, a bad headache, and a yearning to be back home in the south. But Knoxville was not in his future. He blew through Tennessee without stopping, and settled in Atlanta.
Atlanta proved to be anything but what he was looking for, and after a year he was moving again. This time to Chapel Hill, NC, determined to make the music thing happen he began prowling the clubs and bars looking for other like minded musicians and artists. And he found plenty; unfortunately they all had something happening, with no room for a side project. Jackson would be damned if he was going to be anyone’s side project any damned way. Besides, there was something else, nagging his heart; he missed his boys.
He contacted Slim and Scots, and they mended broken fences, and quickly began serious talks about forming another band. Jackson’s more recent songs had more of a country bend to them, but that didn’t deter the other two. They moved to Chapel Hill and began writing, arranging and recording the new music.
After a solid year of writing and jamming, almost nightly, the thirteen songs that would make up their first album, Found Fenario, took shape and were a force to be reckoned with. The fusion of soul, blues, and country ran the gamut of emotions-from heart breaking to humorous, from rowdy to compassionate. It is inspirational music from the American heartland. It is also, and maybe most importantly, uplifting music- as much from the heart as from the gut.
You hear Jackson and the Mules and you feel all right. Hell, you feel damn good. Popular music doesn’t sound like this, but life changing music does. Three chords are a powerful weapon in the right hands. I can imagine some thirteen year old kid, with a shit eating grin, hearing the Mules for the first time, twenty years from now, and suddenly feeling like he’s smarter than everyone else, because he knows about this band, and they don’t.