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.

fela: waka waka waka

excerpt: Fela Kuti — Wikipedia
"In 1977 Fela and the Afrika 70 released the hit album Zombie, a scathing attack on Nigerian soldiers using the 'zombie' metaphor to describe the methods of the Nigerian military. The album was a smash hit with the people and infuriated the government, setting off a vicious attack against the Kalakuta Republic, during which one thousand soldiers attacked the commune. Fela was severely beaten, and his elderly mother was thrown from a window, causing fatal injuries. The Kalakuta Republic was burned, and Fela's studio, instruments, and master tapes were destroyed. Fela claimed that he would have been killed if it were not for the intervention of a commanding officer as he was being beaten. Fela's response to the attack was to deliver his mother's coffin to an army barrack and write two songs, 'Coffin for Head of State' and 'Unknown Soldier,' referencing the official inquiry which claimed the commune had been destroyed by an unknown soldier."


excerpt: "Coffin for Head of State"
So I waka waka waka ** **(walk)
*[CHORUS] WAKA WAKA WAKA- [AFTER EACH LINE]
I go many places
I go business places
And I see, see, see
All the bad, bad, bad things
Dem dey do, do, do
Call corruption
And dey call “nepotism”
Inside promotions
And inside all business
I say I waka waka waka
I see, see, see
*[CHORUS] WAKA WAKA WAKA

So I waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka
(HORNS Short response)

I waka any business anywhere in Africa
I waka any business anywhere in Africa
North and South dem get dem policies
One Christian and the other one, Muslim
Anywhere the Muslims dem dey reign
Na senior Allaha-ji na ‘im be director
Anywhere the Christians dem dey reign
Na the best friend to Bishop na ‘im be director
It is a known fact that for many thousand years
We Africans, we had our own traditions
These money making organizations
Them come put we Africans in total confusion

Through Jesus Christ, our Lord
*[CHORUS] AMEN, AMEN, AMEN- [AFTER EACH LINE]
By the Grace of Allmighty Lord
Inspiritus Christus, Mass Christus, Mass Christus, Mass Christus,
Alla-hu, Waku-baru, Salem Elekum, Alla-hu

...

I say look-a Y’aradua
I say look-a Y’aradua
Before anything you know at all
It would dey shout
Aba Allah- Aba Allah- Aba Allah- Aba Allah - Aba Allah
And den dey do yes, yes
And den dey do bad-bad-bad-bad-bad-bad-bad-bad-bad-bad-bad things

Through Mohammed our Lord
*[CHORUS] AMEN, AMEN, AMEN
By the Grace of Allmighty Allah
*[CHORUS] AMEN, AMEN, AMEN

So I waka waka waka
*[CHORUS] WAKA WAKA WAKA- [AFTER EACH LINE]
I go many places
I go government places
I see, see, see
All the bad, bad, bad things
Den dey do, do, do
Den steal all the money
Dem kill many students
Dem burn many houses
Dem burn my house too
And killed my mama
So I carry the coffin
I waka waka waka
Movement of the People
Dey waka waka waka
Young African Pioneers
Waka waka waka
We go Obalende,
We go Dodan barracks
Reach dem gatee-o
And put the coffin down
Obasanjo dey there,
With him big fat stomach
Y'aradua dey there,
With him neck like ostrich
We put the coffin down.

green & gray

what? you know. you know the place. wait, are you serious? are you really requesting this information from me? for what purpose, exactly?

i don’t know, right around green & gray. or something.

figure it out, i’m in battle mode right now, caught me at a bad time, me against the world etc. everything reads as an attack.

fuzzy memory. half-dream fade. i don’ t know. google it.

you might find it again. but it won’t be the same.

“LOOK, BUDDY—DON’T EXPECT ME TO HELP YOU ON THIS ONE, OKAY?”

“jesus, what’s wrong with that guy? is this what s/he meant by organic?”

so i'm walking around, i'm walking around and you know, i'm i’ve got...all these i've got these characters, thinking about all these characters, i could be, talking to myself in my head out loud whatever etc. and i’m thinking who can i share this with right who will play along and bounce bounce right now it’s called right now it’s called a dialogue bouncing from point to point all points it’s called you must imagine that you are dying of thirst you must imagine you must imagine and you must create or you will surely die of thirst, you will surely choke and die and rot and decompose with your eyes and nostrils wide open to take it all in and you must never go back there because it will not be the same you must trust me on this you must all the molecules changed all the must you all the energy subatomic flesh smells tastes words what you and i discussed swept out the door with us into the cold that night and a few clung on maybe in the sudden brush of our shoulders as we walked side by side okay that’s fine but just a few but regardless you must know that there are other places other colors orange yellow maroon a deep blue is this what s/he meant by fuzzy halfdream memory already fading already gone do not go back return do not attempt to return there is something in this attempt that shreds it and there are places in this city that are secret and sacred and so many sites so many of places of magic and if you shred this one then that is a refusal to see the rest and build/find all the others to see that i pull them off leaf by leaf and save the heart for those who can smell and taste the purposes of mystery and for the rest a confusing map of inaccurate street names misdirected arrows non-existent parks—

an inventory, an imaginary invisible map that will never exist, they can torture me all they want but i will never disclose the following locations, which fall outside their line of sight, which fall outside their ability to comprehend and grasp, which fall in place around a true fall, and then dissipate:

• —magickal pirate treasure island, surrounded by green water; froggy sentinal keeping watch
• —beached iron sea dinosaur, extinct, fins on tarmac, hiding in the folds of sereno
• —oz crawling up a tiled hillside of psychedelic colors
• —a weeping fire hydrant that leaks images of mickey mouse and tonantzin onto sidewalk concrete
• —la virgen de guadalupe making peace with huitzilopochtli on a brick wall; cracked
• —the top of a yellow hill the hill falling abruptly down into the mouth of lincoln heights; in the distance chinatown, the bridges, the dull whisper of the 5; in our heads memories of fake cholos tumbling like wind through dried grass vatos locos forever nothing in here is for free etc.
• —an elementary school that i dreamed of once and then saw for the first time afterward
• —the spot where i drove up and caught them together in his car
• —occupied/disrupted intersection 1 (anarchists, hippies, communists)
• —occupied/disrupted intersection 2 (anarchists, liberals, labor union organizers, workers)
• —occupied/disrupted intersections etc. (migrant workers/families, anarchists, communists, radio announcers, Catholics, etc.)
• —corner of first and spring, exiting california superior court, the last time we ever spoke
• —philippe’s
• —all the places that you and i have not yet found/created/hidden/destroyed

there’s a thousand more at least but you get the picture i.e. this city is inside me now these maps these sites these visions all jumbled up secret routes hidden pathways escape hatches surprise doorways puddles of vomit puddles of urine human waste hope desire fingertips on fingertips mine on yours my eyes on yours a line of sight a sacred site and where are you this infinite ritual this ceremony and you want to know where the don’t you realize are you serious you do you realize that i can smell you i can smell the desire threat competition unfolding future from several thousand miles away if i want to cosmic monkey dance with nostrils flared and feet slapping bare on sidewalks and streets and all around our twins crossing paths, it’s true, i have met the same person over and over and s/he has met me over and over and we are magnets all of us but it’s never quite the same always variations but this is neither good nor bad just human just reason to never attempt to go back because i am walking around and i am i am you i your i am your other you are my other me close your eyes so that you can see...green at the corner of gray, between you, and me.



WATCH
Mamma Roma (Pasolini, 1962)
Inland Empire (Lynch, 2006)
Skammen aka "Shame" (Bergman, 1968)
Shadows (Cassavetes, 1959)
Volver (Almodóvar, 2006)

volvervolvervolver

man...how do i even approach this kind of shit?

caught between nostalgia and a hard place, asked to channel chisme between the two—

don't you know that i am allergic to nostalgia, ésa? that i have developed multiple chemical sensitivities to the past?

all that old stuff is between the two of yous, nothing to do with me right here right now, 2006, new century/millennium, too busy moving through right now/here, that's a whole other language space time you are speaking, you need to work that shit out entre voz or just let it go, por fin. either way, leave me out of it, so i can be your friend.

(back home i have a fragment of a poster i found on a telephone pole on whittier blvd advertising some kind of healing seminar workshop. most of it had been torn away already, but you could still read some of it, and this was the part i'd taken home with me. it says: "what are you channeling? what are you asking me to channel here?")

XX: "...and i remember reaching a point when i realized that it's just, you know, important? to always remember? that you are still alive, right here, right now. that you are too alive and beautiful and dynamic for this sort of thing."

XX: "i know? i know that all of it is ephemeral? let it go, paint over it, find a new wall? time for a new conversation? it's just...you know..."

XX: "no, no, i know...we all carry deep wounds...but, i mean, the past can be a kind of poison? the present can wither in your palm when you haven't washed your hands and disinfected in several decades. the oils cake on after a while, congeal, conceal pigments, choke off scents. you gotta disinfect? scrape it off? open up your pores again, so that others can feel you, smell you, taste you."

(at this point, i find myself thinking about the other day. it was la virgen de guadalupe's day. i saw her riding, i only told you part of the story i saw her riding the orange line east west through the valley she was wearing headphones plugged into one of those oldschool sony walkman tape players, circa 198three. i wondered what she was listening to, what vibrations were there in the wires across the aisle visions of skinny boys in skinny ties with spiky hair and sleeves rolled up on sharkskin jackets young punk jetters trolling downtown chinatown east la tokyo and then at some point between sepulveda and reseda she starts talking as if the future were the past, that was her way of. i'm not—where do i fit in—you know—i'm not—

she starts talking as if the future. i'm not.

you.

were you were scraping the meat off an artichoke leaf with your teeth and i was watching the butter on your lips as you spoke and that was the moment, right there, tattooed wrist, buttered lips. etc. or something like that. close enough. eye witness accounts always vary dramatically anyways but anyways so anyways ironically we were right in the middle of talking about the difference between what you want and what you're looking for. one, you always find; the other, you always lose. which one are you?

tú?

me.

to—

you?

ahhh, this is dangerous.

stuff. this is dangerous stuff, this thing of tapas, and.

there is a memory that has already faded already let go but really it is/always was more just a projection into the future still, really, so it doesn't really count, really. yet? : your lips salty and bitter, tart with.

with mojitos. your lips salty and bitter and tart with mojitos on my.

tongue, between.

mine. and prince playing, kiss, fucking dj of all the songs in all the damn i thought i told you never to play that s—uddenly the virgen de guadalupe is there talking about something that happened to her in the midwest in the 1960s. or something. something like that, it's really loud, hard to hear, notre dame, where her brothers went to school, where she went too, giving me shit for ucla/usc, i don't even watch football! i say to her. she laughs, she's drunk, eyes big and magnified behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her graying hair in a short, hip, bob cut, and she's all alone on her day, drinking in a chic club on colorado street by herself at one end of the bar, about five feet tall—at the most—and hip-hop blaring, muted music videos on giant screens all around us, and she's telling us about her husband who recently died, heart trouble or something, and i wish her a happy virgen's day, and she grins her whole small round face lights up she high-fives me only her hand stops on mine shaking a little and she wraps her fingers into mine and hangs on and then she comes in for a drunken half-hug and she says, "aha! you're a catholic boy!" and i say, "no, señora tonantzin. i'm just a chicano." and she says, "ah, whatever, close enough. i'm irish!" only, she says it in nahuatl, and she winks when she says it, and i look over at you to see if you caught it, and i'm not really sure...i think you caught it. i think you caught it?

ahhh, man.

how do I even approach this kind of shit.)

return2sender redux: loss prevention prevention

confidential to Sleepwalk in Seattle:

órale pues—I'll see you in the K-Mart's, ése. by the synthesizers.

i'll be busting some hall&oates riffs, maybe you can lay down some dope-ass egyptian lover kraftwerk afrika bambaataa beats. by then hopefully we are not old decrepit viejitos too broke down and blind to remember where/how exactly the wagon busted along the oregon trail in the 1st place.

paz!
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
c/s

..................................................................................................
[they're dropping off now, one by one, the more you change, the more they want you to stay the same, i.e., etc., and there's no way to prevent this kind of loss, all you can do is give them the chance to accept you now and then let them walk away, if that's what they want, and plus, you know, attachment, suffering, enlightenment, the circle, karma, friendships dissolving, families dissolving, individual dissolving, ego dissolving, nothing more to hold onto, scary shit, they don't know how to grasp you anymore, finding themselves attached to the void, directing anger fear pain suffering at you, but you're not even there anymore, it's you five years ago, ten, twenty years ago that they see/hear/smell, and soon everything between you is a non sequitor because they're talking to a shadow, a ghost, You circa 1985, and everything they hear from you is filtered through a long-dead past, they do not hear what's really coming out of your mouth eyes heart, a case of mistaken identity, two shadows blocking each other from the sun, full moon overhead, an empty death dance, invisible in the dark]