family tree analog: woooooo, dave

tonight the boys played for their friend dave, who just died of cancer, at age 20.

fucking age 20. like them, he grew up and lived in lynwood, ca.

transportation corridor, pollution, environmental racism.

tonight they played their skinny little chicano rocker asses off for dave. they dedicated the show to him, and all throughout, this razabilly-looking drunk guy danced around right in front of the band, all by himself, waving around an empty beer bottle, and after every song, he would clap and scream and yell shit like, “yeeeah! you guys all suck! I hate you all!” and “yeah, woooooo, dave!” it was brilliant.


~to the bourgie elitists on their one-way euro-trips:
fuck that silence. some silence kills. come down from the pyramid, the air is not so thin down here. there are many ways to navel-gaze, especially in the land of surveillance cams and reality tv. i would rather listen to the silence tonight in marten and piry’s shimmering quarter-tone sonicyouthsmashingpumpkinsatthedrivein guitars and harry pounding at the drums—long torso straight and steady, gangly limbs and sticks all blurry, like he's another piece of the drumset and it’s playing him—i would rather listen to the dancing drunk motherfucker scream “you all suck!” at the top of his lungs cuz there is more truth and love in what he says and more magic in these boys than any silence that you could conjure.


~to the privileged little crescenta kids playing anarchist punk and slumming it in east los:
there are many ways to pollute an environment. there are many kinds of toxic wastes. poison is poison. please be careful when you breathe.

out.


~to the ghost roaming wyoming/the avenues:
i biked past your mama’s house tonight, for the last time, that spot, remember, where i caught you and him. it was up a steep hill, i was breathing hard, i was struggling on my bicycle, no breath left to say goodbye, too busy breathing, pedaling, pushing forward to realize, i had already let you go, a long time ago.


~to the white rabbit with the pocketwatch lost in the village of the doomed:

your heart is in the right place but you're late you're late for a very important date! no time to say hello, goodbye! you're late, you're late, you're late! i am sorry to inform you that your stories do not resonate! p.s. call me again when you join us down the rabbithole.

~to my peeps in nika:
este momento ya pasó. ni lo recordamos. tú y yo estuvimos allí, y ahora, estamos aquí, aunque estés por allá, y yo por acá, y ningun@ por ningún lado, por fin. adelante siempre, y al infierno con los que pretenden a olvidar para ocultar la realidad que maten al presente con su falta de respiro.


~and last of course to my dear letter z:
yes livin the vida loca, tú sabes, you have let go too, i see it in your face, life support systems, records of the past, photographs, trachea tubes, i hear you yelling “wooooo, take your clooooothes off!” making poor piry blush onstage (one day, verás, the boy's gonna strip naked up there, ¿y luego qué? —¡ jaja, yay for me! i hear you say). but anywayz hey tell the others that i am sometimes brutal and harsh but it is love & rage, alwayz, there is compassion and heartbreak and desire under all of this, in the silences between the words/soundz/anger, there is love in what i'm trying to say —“you all suck!” woooooo, dave.