Cyberpunk circa 2002

The Adventures of Pip Cracker

1.1.1 Assembler Life
Flying Trapeze
Pip leans forward in his block, trying to piece together the bits of manpage in front of him. When he picked them up, he thought he was getting a recipe for making a stream device driver, but after two hours of pattern recognition all he has is a bunch of troff commands and a data section which doesn’t connect to anything else. He is about to give up, and try fetching again with another manpath, when a slow heavy crunching starts, first in the far outer cylenders and then echoing throughout the slice.
“Lucio, wake up man, it’s a fucking defrag! Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”
In the next block, Lucio stirs sleepily. For a sprite, the guy sleeps like a log. Or a narcoleptic. Or a dead man, if he doesn’t get a move on. It had been Lucio’s idea to go exploring in the varman, slipping out quietly for a few hours before anyone is awake, but with the defrag going on, they’ll be lucky to get back to home before dinner. Nanny will be pissed.
Pip grabs his kit and climbs out into the toxic air. Breathing through his respirator, he vaporizes the bits of his half assembled manpage and resets the block inode counter, covering his tracks, just in case. He locks the lid of his block and jumps across the void to get Lucio.
“Wake up Lucio. Grab your stuff. It’s a defrag. We’ve gotta catch a proc and ride it out.”
Varman, like all the other slices, is a vast warehouse of bit blocks arranged in a long spiral. Some slices have large, spacious blocks, but varman is one of the old-style slices, with barely room to turn around. Still, even the smallest blocks are a welcome respite from the toxic air of the warehouse with full life support systems, climate control and neatly stacked bit arrays. In the space between the tops of the blocks and the ceiling of the warehouse, spindle arms whirl in great circles. Attached to the bottom of the spindle arms are grappling hooks, which slide up and down the length of the arm to trace the spirals of the block layout.
In the distance, they see the one arm doing the defrag. Unlike the other arms, it swings very slowly, dropping its hook down into each block, opening the lid, and inspecting the contents. Most of the time it just restacks the bit arrays and puts the block away again, but if it finds any foreign material, like, for example, a naughty sprite out exploring, it pulverises the contents of the block, turns off the life support, and removes the hook from the top of the block, marking it as taboo for all time.
The spindle does a very thorough job, which, fortunately for Pip and Lucio, is correspondingly slow. Atop their abandoned havens, they stand with their fstick eyelets held high above their heads, waiting for one of the free spindles to swing by so that they can catch hold and ride it to another sector.
One, two three; they watch the spindles flying by, timing the seek speed and noting the orientation of the grappling hook. On the fourth pass, Pip nods to Lucio and bobs his fstick. “Steady, steady, NOW”.
The two sprites leap into the air, swinging their fsticks towards the dangling hook. Pip catches cleanly, but Lucio’s eyelet is too high, and clanks against the cable. Lucio kicks his legs, trying to levitate for another desperate second. Pip grabs the handle of Lucio’s fstick with one hand and yanks it downward while raising the hook with his other hand. Lucio’s dead weight yanks on Pip’s arm as the spindle swings away. Under the mechanical crunch of the equipment and the shrieks of his friend, Pip hears the soft click of Lucio’s eyelet catching on the grappling hook. The next instant, the pressure on Pip’s arm is gone and they are flying across the warehouse, with the sounds of the defrag fading into the distance.
As they approach the loading bus dock, they twist their fsticks loose and fly free, hitting the floor with a tuck and roll, and coming to rest against the front of an incoming queue of buffered ios. They unscramble themselves and move away from the door and the incoming stream of ios, telescoping down their fsticks and putting them back in their kit bags.
The loading bus dock is shaped like a wide corridor. The warehouse side of the corridor is completely open, and transfer arms move bits one at a time out to the receiving edge where they can be snagged by the spindle arms and delivered to their destination blocks. The opposite wall is a collection of channels, pneumatic conveyor cars which shuttle bits back and forth between the slice and kernelspace. Pip lies down on the dock floor, safely underneath the transfer arms, and watches the cars moving in and out of the channels.

Surfing
“Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s try surfing L2 cache.”
“It’s probably pretty dead right now.”
“That’s what you said last time, and it totally rocked.”
The last time they had been out in kernelspace had been an epic day. They were sitting in history class when the first tarball flew over. Mr. Hand, who despite being completely boring himself was totally keyed in to possible distractions, gave them both a sharp look, so they picked up their pencils again and tried to refocus on the grim dates and details of woah woah one. But by the time the seventh tarball came rushing across the sky woah woah one was a distant, surpressed memory, and after the twelveth tarball they were shimmying around in their seats like cats in heat, desperate for the bell to ring. When the bell finally, mercifully, did ring they rushed out of class, ditched their books, grabbed their wetsuits and headed for the beach.
As they scrambled down the path over the sea grapes a cluster of patches was coming down.
“Hurry up. It looks like a compete apt-get. Let’s go for L3.”
“I hate L3. The curl is really slow, and if you get caught in the eddy you could be there for the rest of the day. Let’s try L2.”
“The last time I was there I coredumped so bad.”
“Yeah, but the nurse wrote you a great excuse note for skipping assembly.”
Down at L2 it was already blowing three threads. They zipped up their wetsuits and headed out, pushing their boards. At the kiddie break they pulled up onto the rough board surface, nosing high over the whitecaps and paddling hard in the troughs. The flow was already pretty high, so the paging tide pulled them out quickly.
Out in the swell, Pip sat up on his board and surveyed the grey, heaving horizon. As far as he could see, the peaks were rolling in about 50 ns apart with a uniform break of 6-8 feet.
“They’re all keepers. Let’s go.”
Pip turned his board and climbed the back of a passing wave. He felt the wave start to grab him, and pulled back, to the edge of its reach, riding slowly forward to the edge of the coral shelf. As the wave picked up power, he turned and slid down into the trough, watching the break in front of him, rushing right to left, and counting beats as the wave behind him rolled forward. On five, he started paddling like a madman. At seven, he felt himself rising slightly, as the tip of the wave slid under the back of his board. At eight, the full strength of the wave reached him, and with a final, two armed pull he grabbed the edges of his board and raised up into his riding crouch, setting up crazy foot style, and leaned back slightly, turning the nose of his board down the length of the pipeline. The water spinning into the edge of the reef threw him forward. He swooshed down the face of the wave, piling gravity into the equation, and then turned back up, slowing as he approached the tip of the wave, and then turning again, rushing down again as the tip of the wave, still carrying the foam of his track, crashes into the shallows behind him.

Roller Coaster
“All right”, Pip answered. “Let’s give it a shot.”
Pip and Lucio crawl across the loading dock floor and climb onto the back of an outbound DMA transfer. Pip takes out his zip wand and compresses the block in front of him, so he and Lucio can squeeze on without causing a buffer overflow when they arrive in kernelspace. The transfer arms move a few additional blocks onto the train and then the train, feeling a full load, takes off.
The DMA transfer to kernelspace is a windy, twisty tube which rises, falls, coils and straights through a mass of other transfer routes and communications infrastructure. It was originally designed to handle the leisurely rhythms of sequential access tapes – hooking it up to modern storage devices is like driving an Indy car down a goat path. For normal blocks, it’s not too bad – if they haven’t repaved the road at least they pay a lot more attention to fastening the seat belts. But a sprite is not a normal block, and riding compressed is even worse – you have to keep yourself on the sled as well as the unwieldy deadweight directly in front of you, or be run over by the next train or zapped as a buffer underflow if you arrive without your cover block.
Pip holds on to the sled with one hand and uses the other to steady his block. He carefully watches the glowing track in front for advance notification of the next twist, adjusting his center of gravity as well as that of the block, and steeling his arms to deal with the g-forces to come.
The train starts with a straight, and then a hard right turn. After the turn they start rising in a tight spiral, corkscrewing counter-clockwise so tightly that the induced magnetic field causes Lucio’s hair to stand crazily on end. Pip just has time to point and laugh when the spiral ends and they start on a straight, steep descent. The sight lines in front fall away faster and faster as the descent gets steeper and steeper, until Pip has to operate on pure intuition. He closes his eyes for an instant and sees a loop loop down left. He opens his eyes to check, and is starting to yell the pattern to Lucio, when he sees that his friend is screaming like a lunatic and holding both hands in the air. As they enter the first loop, Pip closes his eyes again, this time not for intuition’s sake but so that he doesn’t have to see Lucio splattered against the tunnel wall.
Lucio must have gotten hold of his senses and his handles, because when Pip opens his eyes Lucio is still on his sled. The track slaloms through communication moghuls, left round right round right round left thud over thud over left right flat. Just as his arms are beginning to ache and tremble uncontrollably Pip sees a light ahead, the end of the ride, kernelspace.

1.1.2 Pursuit

Tracers
Pip and Lucio unzip their cover blocks and tumble out of their cars onto the buffer floor just ahead of the waiting bit verifier. Coming to a rolling stop, Pip realizes that the light was not the end of tunnel, it is the headlamp of an oncoming train.
When the last car in the input channel enters the buffer an alarm sounds and a spolight clicks on to illuminate the whole of the channel opening. As Pip and Lucio scramble towards sheltering darkness, they hear more alarms firing and an unbuffered stream of sensor readings flying towards an array of logwriters.
“Tracers!”
On a normal day, the DMA buffer is not a bad place to be. All of kernelspace is atmosphere conditioned, so they would have flipped off their respirators and sat back to enjoy the cool air. Unlike the creaky magnetic mechanics of the slice spindles, everything here is quiet and efficient, running silently on pneumatic beds of electric current. The buffer is huge, so if you move below the low-water mark there is plenty of time and opportunity to have a rest, take stock of your options, and plan your day. And if you just want to joyride, there is easy access to the IRQ port, which whisks you off to an awaiting runqueue with all the luxurious priority of a diplomatic motorcade.
Unfortunately, this is not a normal day. Things have changed, and, at least for our young sprites, not for the better. Someone is paying very close attention to the IO subsystem, receiving event notifications in real time as well as logging system calls for future reference. As a cracker, you survive by following two simple rules: don’t let anyone know you are there, and don’t let anyone find out that you ever have been there. Tracers up the ante on both fronts.
Pip moves farther back into the darkness and tries to figure out the mask on tracer events. Clearly, read is on, since they tripped that when they arrived. The logwriters seem to work without alarms, so write may be off, but more likely it is just bypassing the system calls and just using raw registers. As another DMA train arrives Pip swivels towards the IRQ port, just in time to see the darkness obscured by the ignition flash of a spotlight.
“Shit, they’re watching interrupts too. Kiss that runqueue goodbye.”
“Let’s just longjump out of here. This is crazy.”
Before Pip can respond, Lucio has his jump pointer out and is scanning for stored offsets. The dial stops at 0x00100000 and the display reads “_text”. Lucio nods to Pip and begins his jump.
“Lucio, wait, we haven’t recalibrated since…”
But his friend is already dissolving into the transport beam. Faced with the prospect of frying alone in the frying pan or frying together in the fire, Pip jumps into the unknown.

The Year In Review

Lyric:

April grey
Empty beach
Sand and waves
In my reach

Cherry blooms
Falling snow
Empty rooms
Does Spring know

Summer day
Oh that dress
You wore

Autumn leaves
Love remains
More than needs
Phantom pains

Falling snow
Cherry blooms
Sand and waves
Empty rooms

Summer day
Oh that dress
You wore

Winter day
Terns and waves

Summer day
Oh that dress
You wore

Chords:

Verse
Cmaj7 D6
Emin7 A7

Chorus
G A C9 D

Bridge
C#dim F#7 Bm7 E

A Hard And Demanding Man

My father was a hard and demanding man
Though he did not think of himself as such.

He was there for all my childhood failures
His gestures made hollow by the sadness in his eyes
He always acted as if he had come up from nothing
Although I know he had been given much more than he managed to retain.

And for years and years I do believe
That he did hold it against me
That on the day when I finally left his house
That on that day I said to him:

“I'm not like you dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like you dad
I'm not like you dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like you dad”.

As he got older and his drinking took its toll
I went down to the hospital.
We sat together in silence
Finally, he said to me:

“My father was a hard and demanding man
But he always did his best by me.
I am truly sorry
That I could not do the same for you”.

“I'm not like my dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like my dad
I'm not like my dad - I'm clumsy and weak
I'm not like my dad”.

My father was a hard and demanding man
I'm not like my dad
My father was a hard and demanding man
I'm not like my dad

Think About You

When you're in homeroom
He's looking at you
When you're on Facebook
He's looking for you
When you're in Starbucks
He's coming right towards you

Because you're super cute
And he wants to know the things you do
And if you want a latte too

When he asked you out
You were floating on thin air
Finally a boy who noticed
Those things you do with your hair
This is the way you learn
That love just isn't fair

Now when you're in homeroom
He's thinking about her
When you ask about Friday
He says he isn't sure
When you see them together
Your tears turn it into a blur

Because he is just fourteen
I know I did the same thing
Growing up makes some people mean

I think about you
I think about you
I think about you

Kandahar

I want to ride in a big old Lincoln
With Florida Citrus plates
Drive 45 in the left hand lane
Blinker going all the way
I want to go pee ten times a day
And leave for dinner at three
Oh Lord, I don't want to die out here
Send someone to rescue me

My babies will never know their daddy
No grandchildren on my knee
Never be able to toast my wife
At our silver anniversary
There are so many things I have yet to do
So many things I still need to see
Oh Lord, I don't want to die out here
Send someone to rescue me

I know we haven't always been right
There are things that I shouldn't have done
And maybe I'm out here fighting a war
That didn't ever need to be won
And maybe I shouldn't have acted so quick
Unaware of things I should have known
But Lord, please send someone to rescue me
I can't die out here alone

Night is falling, it's getting cold
And I'm so very far from home
My leg is hurting awful bad
I can see right down to the bone
I scan the horizon and listen for signs
A glint of something or a buzz in the air
Hoping that it's a chopper for me
And not you coming here on your own

Oh Lord, send someone to rescue me
I can't die out here alone

Let's Write A Song 2

Mama had a tramp stamp
And she passed it down to me
I used it to authenticate
My medical degree
Just a hint of the Harvard crest
Above the top of my bikini
Nonchalant I stuff the rest
And drive my Lamborghini
Well festooned with bumper stickers
And truck nuts swaying in the breeze
Cruising round in la la land
And parallel realities

ive got ink
got ink
got an inkling you'll remember me
ive got ink
and you think
i'm a member of the faculty?
ive got ink, yeah I've got ink
And I got that ink to challenge what you think.

Cause my mama was born down in the holler
But she wasn't the sort that was born to follow
And she pulled herself up from where she was from
Without forgetting who she was
Or being ashamed of what she'd done
So even though I never had to work harvesting the ramp
And went to all the finest schools
I got my own copy of the family tramp stamp
To help me remember you.

Life at 45

So I was in the middle of my pitch
To a group of investors
When I got your text
Saying
That you had struck out
With the bases loaded
To end
The game
And would I
Be working
Late
Again.

But I was in the middle of my pitch
And it was for ten million dollars
So I ignored the text
And finished my pitch
And then took the investors out
For a drunken
Steak dinner.

In the morning
When I read the text
I felt bad
So I called in sick
And picked you up from school
And took you bowling.

We found an eight pound ball
In a manly royal blue
And you bowled a 54
And we laughed at the funny videos
That play
Whenever you get a split
Or a strike
Or a spare.

I bought you a hamburger
And I ate a hot dog
And we shared a plate of fries
With ketchup
And I hoped that this
Was the time
You would eventually
Remember.

But the hamburger was spoiled
And you spent the evening
Throwing up and retching
Miserably.

So after I got done
Mopping the floor
And washing the sheets
And getting you
Finally
To sleep
I looked at my phone
And read the text
Saying
That despite the great pitch
And the wonderful opportunity
The investors
Had decided
To pass.

Some days
You just
Can't win
For losing
And sometimes
That's the way
Life is at 45.

Brasilia

Brasilia


From time to time
Spread across the city
You will see a house
Sited askew.

Below the lines
Of the grid and the spokes
The house is aligned
With the ghost of a cowpath
Or the long gone bed
Of a forgotten stream.

Similarly, in language
Beneath syntactic structures
You encounter irregular
Constructions and idioms
Reflecting a reality
Long since passed away.

I will move to Brasilia
And speak Esperanto
Live as a New Woman
Freed from the past.

--

I have become old fashioned
In the sense that my habits remain fixed
While society changes around me.

When it is cool
I wear a grey woolen suit
And when it is warm
I wear poplin.

In the morning
I walk to a sidewalk cafe
To buy an espresso and an ink smudged paper
To thoughtfully read the news of the day.

But today my routine
Lies around me in ruins
Rereading your note:

I will move to Brasilia
And speak Esperanto
Live as a New Woman
Freed from the past.

--

I've got a four track mind now baby
Care to put the headphones on
Kick off your shoes and stay a while baby
It couldn't be that wrong

I'll solve quadratic equations baby
On the back of your hand
Step on up to the boom box baby
I'll introduce you to the band

Don't you wanna?

Step on up to the microphone baby
Do a couple of lines
Just lean back and go with it baby
It's gonna be just fine

I speak fluent Italian baby
A little Portuguese
Come on down to Rio baby
Get topless on the beach

Don't you wanna?

--

Thith ith not the Brathilia I wath led to ethpect.
And what ith thith gibberish that you speak?
I will leave this land
And return to my home
Return home to my love,
Beloved Roderigo

--

Have made a great mistake
Stop
Returning home
Stop
I sail on the steamer SaraLee
Stop
Please throw out the tapes
And dispose of the guidebooks
Landing home
Two fortnights hence
Stop
Love
Stop

--

Rereading the telegram
In my favorite cafe
My world is restored
To its rightful condition
I put on my hat
Pick up my cane
And walk down the promenade
Whistling softly.

Driving Up and Down the East Coast

We are those poor players
Who strut and fret
Treading worn boards
That groan and squeak
Entertaining you
Five nights a week

---

Afternoon in the bleachers at Camden Yards
Evening spent crawling through Inner Harbor bars
Blue Points in Fells Point
With the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe
His raven quoths "Nevermore"
I do love you, Baltimore

---

New England town
A decaying mill carcass down at the river's edge
A whitewashed steeple up on the top of the hill
And a covered wooden bridge connecting the two

---

Eva
Be free
Of your broken
Body
And leave
Your broken mind
Behind
Live with me
In memory
In the golden sunlight
Of a 1970's
Morning

Nadine

Socks and Shoes Chords

I printed out the chords to Socks and Shoes.

Pedagogy

Lima, Ohio

So there is a place called Lima, Ohio
And all anyone eats there is Lima beans.
Mysteriously, no children live in Lima
They have all run away to nearby towns
Like Fishstick, Indiana.


The Eye Of The Bird

Drona and the Pandavas were walking in the woods
Learning the noble pursuit of archery.
Drona stopped and asked Yudishtra, the wisest,
"Look over there, and tell me what you see?"
"I see the sun, the sky
The clouds, the trees,
And on the fourth branch of the tree,
Partly obscured by leaves,
I see a bird".
Drona turned and asked Arjuna, the greatest,
"Look over there, and tell me what you see?"
"I see the eye of the bird."
"What else do you see?"
"I see only the round black eye of the bird."
"You have passed the test my son, now bend your bow and shoot."
And with a pluck and a swoosh, the bird fell dead.


Algebra

"But Bill, she's barely half your age".
So given the equation
x/2 = y
Is there any value of x
For which the function intersects
Acceptable behavior?

Let's Write A Song

Is it the randomness that makes words into art
Or the eye that allows them to swirl off the page?
If I write down your words is that foolish of heart
Or a wine we will share, having blossomed with age?
Are we twinned pairs of quarks, entangled by spin?
I feel your pulse beat from miles away
My words are your meaning, your thoughts are my breath.
But if sense and sound are sundered apart
I have lost you, my love, and must return to the start.

So is it the randomness that makes words into art
Or the artist, who channels from life and time
To map raw thought to a measured line
"You are a fool" she says, "my dear foolish heart
I am unique, irreducible, only myself
My words are my own, and I pour them like silver
You will never find anything that rhymes with me."
So true, my dear, so true indeed.
This lyric is finished, the song is set free
I put down my pen, and give it to thee.

Millicent Demo

Finally recorded a demo of Millicent. Straightforward doo-wop progression, with a tiny turn-around in the bridge. Using Sony Vegas: it does a much better job with the external mics, but it doesn't seem to be able to render 720p/HD.

Rhythm Changes

I spent a week working out the rhythm guitar part, I spent a couple of hours making the rhythm guitar fit with the bass part, and then I decided that a cold first take of vocals and lead guitar would be fine. Is this counterproductive behavior?

Anyway, the Gershwin chestnut.

Out Of Sight

Just back from a week on the beach, trying to squeeze a couple more of these into this month.

A Round Tuit

The greatest gift is time
To do with as you will
And fill it as you would
If you could be
Completely free.

And you ever
Found the time
To get
Around to it.

Phone Voice

Don't you talk to me with your phone voice, honey
Save it for your customer calls
It makes you come off like such a phoney, honey
Like the world is hanging from your balls
And if you really want to get your hands in my pants
You'd be better off speaking Chinese

Be my Wisconsin tenor, baby
Your voice doesn't need to be that deep
I hate those deep dark English sounds
But your Chinese really speaks to me

I'm the Tiger mother to your daughters, baby
The dutiful wife who cooks you Chinese food
Just talk to me in your real voice baby
Because I fell in love with a Wisconsin tenor
And that's the voice that puts me in the mood

Be Prepared

Courtney was a painter
And a sometime figure model
Who liked to read Cervantes
And used a pair of chopsticks
To roll her hair into a bun

She lived out with her single mom
On the darker side of town
Her mom worked nights as a bartender
And sold a little weed on the side

Bobby was an Eagle Scout
Who liked to follow rules
His social clique were awkward boys
His mom and dad were awful proud

Courtney had decided
She was going to go to Bonnaroo
Get a week long pass
And camp out on the grass

She could have taken anyone
But she said Bobby Smith's the one
Cause he's a Boy Scout and they're always prepared

So Bobby packed his lean-to
And a pair of sleeping bags
His scout knife and some water
And a camp stove just in case

They hitchhiked down to Bonnaroo
Set up their tent and caught the shows
Danced in the mud and partied with strangers
Went back to the tent under the full moon

She climbed into his sleeping bag
Caught him by surprise
He said "I've never done this before"
She said "I'm not surprised"

She took a packet
From her pocket
And rolled it down his shaft
"If you don't come prepared, you won't come at all
And a Boy Scout should always be prepared"

They dated all through college
Got married in grad school
Bobby loosened up
Even if he never became cool
They still go out to festivals
And camp under the stars
Climb in the double sleeping bag
And do what couples do

And she says
"Back at school you were a dork
But when you put those drops of honey
On my plastic camping spork
I knew you were the one for me"

Fragments

A song about one of my co-workers

Don't you talk to me with your phone voice, honey
Save it for your customer calls
It makes you come off like such a phoney, honey
???
And if you really want to get your hands in my pants
You'd be better off speaking Chinese


A song about marital discontent

Can I tell you
That when you

It really made me feel sad
etc.


A song about a high school girl who takes a Boy Scout to Bonnaroo because he will be better prepared to handle the requirements of camping

Back at school you're a dork
But you put those drops of honey
On my plastic camping spork

Bernadette

The Holland/Dozier/Holland song. The bass part is not harmonically complex, but hitting all the grace notes and articulating the arpeggios was very challenging. The guitar part turned into a 4/4 funk groove instead of the original 2/4 backbeat groove. I couldn't decide which drum track I liked better, so I kept them both.

Midtown Manhattan on a Saturday Night

A martial snare plays rat a tat tat
On the marital rhythm of tit for tat
But now the tux and the gown are all packed in a bag
And they're off to Manhattan for a Saturday night.

An expensive dinner and a cab downtown
To a basement in Alphabet City
Jazz, funk and rhythm and blues
With a modern sensibility
The dance floor is packed with the lust and sweat
Of familiar possibility

Slinking through the darkened lobby
Empty bottles of water from the minibar
The mirror reflects on the king size bed
She stands on her head
With legs spread wide
Like an apple tree weighted with fruit

The kick drum plays thump a thump thump
On the quick deep strokes of an oft postponed fuck
In Midtown Manhattan on a Saturday night

Terry cloth robes and a room service breakfast
The sun through the curtains above Hackensack
While he reads the paper she looks in the mirror
And it seems like her wrinkles are written in black
But she turns into the room and looks hard at the roses
And says "there's time for a quick one before we have to pack
And get back
From Midtown Manhattan and our Saturday night".

Bodhisattva

Not a Denny Dias fan. Blues with a bridge, huge swaths of harmonized guitars and needless chromatic slurs.

Body And Soul

The Swing standard. I spent some time working on Coleman Hawkins' solo, but it was a very slow process, so I cut bait and moved on.

Strings Of Our Genes (Synth Version)

Spent the weekend playing keys.

Modern Science

Late one night, a man is standing under a streetlamp, looking at the ground. Another man comes by and asks him what he is doing. The first man replies “I'm looking for my keys”. The second man starts to help with the search, and asks “where did you lose them?”. The first man replies “in the bushes, down there”. Annoyed, the second man asks “but, then why are you looking here”? To which the first man replies “well, this is where the light is”.

We started off
Trying to design a new drug
Which would treat a common illness
In a novel and exciting way.

But drug development
Is a long and expensive process.
And when we suffered a setback
In our second round of clinical trials
Our investors had grown tired of the game.

So we decided to sell a tool
(To allow researchers
To design new drugs
Which might treat common illnesses
In a novel and exciting way).
This approach
Promised reduced marketing costs
And a shorter path to profitability.
Our investors were rejuvenated
And ready to get back in the game.

I went to go visit
A lab that used our tool
To design some knockout mice.
Their hypothesis is novel and the theory exciting.
They hope to start clinical trials
By the middle of next year.

The only problem is that the mice
Refuse to breed or even coexist.
Inside the cages they attack one another
Hacking off mouthfuls of raw flesh and fur
Till they have eaten each other alive.

Ain't Too Proud To Beg

The great Temptations I-IV groove. I also like the Stones version. I've played this one for years - recording it wasn't much of a stretch.

I Don't Mind

A little 12/8 shuffle blues with some call and response between the bass, guitar and organ (subbing for backing vocals).

Strings Of Your Genes Arrangement Sketches

A couple of different arrangement ideas.

Lead Sheets

I spent some time dinking around with Band-In-A-Box today, and finally got it to print out a lead sheet. Woot.



I spent some time dinking around with Band-In-A-Box today, and finally got it to print out a lead sheet. Woot.

An Economic Melodrama

It was the 80's. I was reading a lot of Raymond Carver.


      “I can't pay the rent” she said.
      I'd been sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a beer, before Deb came in.
      “Um” I swallowed. “When do you get paid?”
      “Next Friday. Where did you get the beer?”
      “Fridge”
      I watched her bend in the trapezoid of light flowing out of the open refrigerator door. She looked thin. The fruit in the crisper looked pretty rotten.
      “What happened to the TV?”
      Deb was looking for a bottle opener. “Finally threw it away. I was going deaf from having to turn the volume so high over the static.”
      “Use your teeth”
      “What?”
      “How I opened mine”
      “No, I found it.” She came back into the kitchen, her longneck smoking just like the advertisements on Monday Night Football. She took her pocketbook off the table and lit a cigarette. Ultralights. Sounds like airplanes. I fidget with the matchbook. It was from some bar on the North Side. O'Flannery's. There was a phone number written on the inside cover. I closed the flap.
      Deb went to the other side of the room, by the sink, and ashed on a pile of dirty glasses.
      “Been to Jimmy's Bar lately?”
      “Every Thursday night. It's work.”
      The tobacco embers hissed in the dregs of a wine glass.
      “You always hated doing the dishes”
      “Still do”
      I went to the refrigerator. I took the fourth of the six pack I had brought. Then I looked around in the crisper, searching for the least rotten apple. I found one, on the bottom, not quite so bad as the rest. I opened my beer and went back into the kitchen.
      It was awkward, silent. Deb smoked.
      “So Deb, how have you been?”
      “Okay. Fucking job sucks. I don't know. What have you been up to?”
      “The usual, I guess. Wanna go out and have a drink someplace?”
      She looked at my hand. “You've already got one.”
      “Oh yeah, I forgot.”
      Deb lit another cigarette.
      “What I really came over here tonight … well … I need a place to stay for a while.”
      “Can you help me with the rent?”
      “Yeah, I think so. Play a few more bars.”
      “Old habits die hard.”

The Strings Of Our Genes

An original which I hadn't recorded before. Still not happy with the webcam microphone.

Chords and lyrics

Bm7 Em9
A7 Dmaj7
C#m7 F#7
Bm7 Am7 G F#
Em7 A7 D
---
Bm7 G A

I try to be calm
In the face of your rage
Your grandmother's face
Your grandfather's rage
Pulls you out of your seat

A dancing marionette
Tied to the strings of your genes.

The stone and the sod
Whiskey and God
Run from the law
Sleep in the straw
Pulls you onto your feet

A dancing marionette
Tied to the strings of your genes.

I curse you to never feel satisfaction
To see injustice in all of its forms
I bless you with strength
Quickness of mind and
A hurting desire to learn.
I curse you to be unable to follow
This curse and these gifts I give to you
Because I carry them too.

We're dancing marionettes
Tied to the strings of our genes.

Something Light

Give us something light, love
To lift us on our way
A melody to sing or hum
Some warmth on a winter's day

Everything is not your life or love
Or death or a family dispute
Our time is spent mostly working or sleeping
Or shuttling between the two

So give us something light, love
Because I've got my dark places too
But to make time pass more pleasantly
I don't always share them with you.

So give us something light, love
To lift us on our way
A melody to sing or hum
Some warmth on a winter's day

A Hard and Demanding Man

A Hard and Demanding Man

My father was a hard and demanding man
Even if he did not think of himself as such.
For every one of my failures
His sadly disappointed look
Rendered hollow his words and gestures of reassurance.
He always acted as if he had come up from nothing
Although I know he was given much more than he had managed to retain.
And for years, he held it against me
That on the day I finally left his house
I said to him:
“I'm not like you dad
I'm clumsy and stupid
Little and weak
I'm just not like you”.

As he got older, and his drinking started to take its toll
I visited him in the hospital.
After and hour of silence he said:
“My father was a hard and demanding man
But he always did his best by me.
I am truly sorry
That I could not do the same for you”.

197 Words For Snow

The wind is my enemy
The rain is my enemy
The wind is my enemy
Are you my friend?

The sleet is my enemy
The cold is my enemy
The snow is my enemy
Are you my friend?

The snowflakes fall fast
And fill the night sky
A spiraling dementia
For a Friday commute

The flash and the boom
The strobe and the crash
Lightning, then thunder
And through it more snow

The measures get shorter
As the storm gets closer
The flash and the boom
The strobe and the crash

The cold is my enemy
The snow is my enemy
The wind is my enemy
Are you my friend?

Sunshine on a Saturday
An arctic blast blows the clouds to the east
Leaving a blinding glare and prisms of ice
My breath hangs frozen
Before floating away

I pull my muffler
Close to my face
First moist, then wet
Then frozen in place

Shovel the snow
Crack the ice
Salt the steps
So very nice

Whatever did possess us
To come so far north?
I'm going back to Borneo
An old man of the forest
To swing through the trees
With a belly full of fruit

I'm sick of snow
Why don't you take a warm shower?
Meh
It'll make you feel better.
I'll be out of the bathroom in March.

Did you talk to your mom?
Yeah, she's ok
But there were people stuck on Lake Shore Drive for 18 hours.
That thunder snow is some freaky stuff.

Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing

Another jazzy Ashford-Simpson number. The Motown Monday thing was supposed to be a time to work on my bass playing, but I decided to just cut a video of solo guitar and be done with it.

The Girl From Ipanema

The hoary bossa-nova standard. Song is in F, but there is a bunch of chromatic business between G and Gb and B and Bb. The bridge is a pretty straightforward circle of fifths progression.

Reelin In The Years

On Saturdays I am working through "The Best of Steely Dan: An Inside Look at the Guitar Styles of Steely Dan". The tab seems accurate, the CD is useful, and the text is reasonably insightful. At the core "Reelin In The Years" is a straightforward G-D-A song, but there is a bunch of harmonic stuff happening in the solos that is hard to nail. Learned this one pretty much by rote repetition, hopefully I will gain some understanding from future efforts. I'm in the right channel, the original is in the left channel.

Think

Working through "The Great James Brown Rhythm Sections - 1960-1973" on Wednesdays. The playing on this one is pretty bad, but my new RME Multiface is allowing me to record four tracks as once, which is giving me more options for fattening up individual instruments. Right now I've got it set up to record the DI, the line out of the amp head, a close mic on the amp cabinet, and a room mic.

Not much to this song - the original drum part is kind of erratic and hard to follow - my version is more regular (if less funky) - but a pretty straightforward shuffle blues. Main thing to be conscious of is when you double and when you lay out on the bass and guitar.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

It's in D major, but you spend the whole song avoiding D - voice the III, voice the V, voice the IVsus4, just don't voice the I, because that is reserved for Tammi. The bass line has some funky chromatic passing notes, but I didn't really have time learn the whole thing, so I kind of faked it. There is also one of those classic Motown moves where the bridge returns to a modulation of the verse, but again, party over out of time.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough, by TheWoodshedTapes, on SoundClick.

Just The Happy Times

When mom was in the nursing home
I stopped by every day at lunch
And after she passed, I kept going
Partially out of habit
And partially for the good karma
But mostly because I'm a social person
And if I don't get out and talk to people
Something is not right in my day.
So there's this one old lady
Not as good as some, but better than most
She's got a VCR and a big stack of tapes in her room.
When I visit I ask the people if they want to watch
A different channel on the tv
The news maybe, or one of the soaps.
But all she ever wants to do is
Play those tapes again and again
"Just the happy times, Bill" she says
"Put in one of the happy times".
And it's the standard sort of home movie stuff
From when her kids were little and she was young.
So I've seen these kids
Opening presents and blowing out candles
Dying Easter eggs and climbing trees
Over the span of several years.
But I realized today
That while I know exactly what they looked like as babies
I have no idea what they look like now.
I try to ask her about it but all she will say is:
"Just the happy times, Bill
"Put in one of the happy times".

Vertigo in Massachusetts

The jungle gym casts
Trapezoidal moon shadows
Onto the sloping ground

The Flying Wallendas
Triumph again
To the roar of our fantasy crowd

I remember her hands
Slipping through mine
The blood and her tears
On the hard frozen ground

For our album covers
She never once smiled
Everyone thought
She was depressed

But I knew the truth
It wasn't her mind
It was the tooth
Of a flightless Wallenda.

---

Whiskey and ice
On a warm summer day
A bead of condensation
Forms and falls
From the end of the glass
Onto the carpet below.

Her head on my shoulder
She started to cry
A single tear poised
On the tip of her nose
I kissed her and said
"I'll always be there to watch over you".
Knowing, even then, it was a lie.

---

Only in the past
Can we discover
The present.

Our future returns
To unearth
The artifacts.

How people must have lived
In this place
With these things.

Strange yet familiar
Forever retracing
The invisible outline below.

–

Amidst the noises
Of water and china
She sings, under her breath

The record sounds different
The production is dated
But the core of her voice remains.

She steps out of her shoes
Slips her arms around my neck
And we dance

It is familiar, yet strange
To be on this side
We never danced up on stage

But now here we are
Dancing together, turning slowly
In the darkening parlor of our past.

Postscript

I'll drink the red wine
To its bitter dregs
Because I like red wine.

The cat purrs when he's happy
The baby cries when he's sad
What more explanation do you need?

The waves are bitchin
The sun is warm
Get out on your board and ride.

Butterfly

After two bad quarters
The board turned on me.
And when the Chinese factory burned down
They said I had to go.

I pointed the Boxter north on PCH,
Put down the top, and drove fast.
120 through the eucalyptus groves
Does wonders to clear your head.
"Ungrateful bastards.
I built this company from nothing.
Without me you have nothing.
You hear me, nothing!"

T-boned in an intersection
By a careless Suburban
On any other day
Would have been the end.
But charmed was today, and I walked away.
Walked out of myself and into the woods
Till I met a group of people that lived in the trees
On platforms in the redwoods, high in the air.
They dropped a ladder to me, and I ascended their aerie.
I told them my story and Butterfly said to me:

Be silent, and listen.
Hear the sound of the wind.
Hear the sound of the wind blowing
Through the leaves on our tree.

What Is Today?

December 8th, 1980
November 7th, 1991
April 5th, 1994
November 7th, 2000
September 11th, 2001
October 27, 2004
January 20th, 2009

October 10th, 2000
We went to the hospital
First thing in the morning
We were assigned to a room
And the monitors attached
Started the pitocin
In early afternoon.
After eight hours
Of hard labor
A delayed epidural
And a botched episiotomy
A child was born
A happy few hours
Of joy and relief.
He was taken away
To be observed in the NICU
And a bit after than
The hemorrhaging began.

So what is today?
A day that we all remember together?
A day that you will remember alone?
Or a day, just a day, like any other.

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

Color and Class (11/23)

A smart young man from the country
Has to buy himself a suit
If he really wants to make it
In the city

So I bought myself a suit
Found a job and an apartment
Worked up on the 34th floor.
Laney was a trader at the ForEx desk
We dated for a couple of weeks
Till I realized that
She'd share my cabs
And mooch my drugs
But I'd never get to put my gas in her tank
Because my suit
Was made by Joseph A. Bank.

-----

"So, where are you from?"
"I grew up in _____"
"My husband's uncle lives there, Dr. C____?"
"Orthodontist extraordinaire."
"He took us to lunch somewhere, the Dunes Club?"
"Oh yeah, we used to crash their parties
Steal their liquor, and make off with their women.
We'd drive to the end of some dirt road
Get ourselves drunk and howl at the moon."
"Really...?"
"Really."

-----

I live in a land beyond color and class;
In a black Mercedes with bulletproof glass.

Moonshine In A Jar (11/21)

Sitting on the porch with some friends and acoustic guitars
Not trying to bottle lightning, just pouring moonshine into some jars
The sunset is on one side, the other's got the evening stars
Out beyond the pines you hear the passing of occasional cars

Rocking on the screen porch
(Rocking away)
Jamming with the bullfrogs
(Rocking away)
Hooting at the bobwhites
(Rockin away)
Bug candles help to keep the skeeters at bay

We play the same songs that we always play
Simple country blues where you can mean what you say
It's not complicated but it makes you feel good
When music sounds the way that you know that it should

Rocking on the screen porch
(Rocking away)
Jamming with the bullfrogs
(Rocking away)
Hooting at the bobwhites
(Rockin away)
Bug candles help to keep the skeeters at bay

They cut down the pine trees
Carved up the plots
Put in a Walmart
Brought in some slots
I learned some new songs
But it's just not the same
As music from the heart which tells the world from whence you came

Yeah we're
Rocking on the screen porch
(Rocking away)
Jamming with the bullfrogs
(Rocking away)
Hooting at the bobwhites
(Rockin away)
Bug candles help to keep the skeeters at bay

(Solo)

What About The Bun? (11/2)

"When I was driving home tonight
The trees looked like a condiment stand.
'Mustard yellow, ketchup red
Fading green of pepper relish
A hot dog's earthy brown.'"
"But what about the bun?"
"You're right, there should be a bun.
How about 'Branches brown like a hot dog bun'?"
"Yes, that's better.
May I be excused now?"
"Yes Ravi, you're excused."

Like the geese forming their ragged vees
And wending their way to the south.
His mind so like mine, but his words emerge
From the image of his mother's mouth.

Water (2000)

Water

Colorless, odorless, tasteless, pure
My life flows down like water

My eyes are filled with color
Swatches of pigment and shimmering dye
Spectra absorbed and reflected
Careening throughout the luminous world
But my life flows down like water

My nose is filled with smell
Of sandalwood idols and freshly washed sheets
Aromas perceived and remembered
Bringing me back to my childhood days
But my life flows down like water

My mouth is filled with taste
Breathtaking heat and searing sweet
Syrupy peaches
And stiff whipped cream
But my life flows down like water

One man may be a droplet
Humanity a raging stream
Hope and possibility a shack
Built on delta silt
All of life becomes part of the river
Flowing into the sea
But my life flows down like water.

Hey Dad (2008)

Hey Dad

5:45 on a Monday morn
The cab is waiting outside.
I've got my roller bag and my laptop case
And a fat book to read while I ride.

Once at the airport I glide to my gate
On frequent flyer miles.
I keep my receipts and fill out timesheets
And remember how it's worth my while.

What's today?
It's Monday.
What day are you coming home?
Friday night.
Ok, bye-bye.

What's today?
It's Tuesday.
What day are you coming home?
Friday night.
Ok, bye-bye.

Hey Dad
Sit on the couch next to me.
We'll hold hands
And watch tv.
It's my favorite show
It's your favorite too.
And when it's done
We can read Winnie the Pooh.

Law and Order with a room service tray
Sitting on the queen size bed.
Write email, sweat the detail
Fix the items colored in red.

Continental breakfast and coffee to go
Head out to the rental car
Check my tie, polish my shoes
Another day in the life of a star.

What's today?
It's Wednesday.
What day are you coming home?
Friday night.
Ok, bye-bye.

What's today?
It's Thursday.
What day are you coming home?
Friday night.
Ok, bye-bye.


Take me to the park.
Come play with trains.
We'll take a juice box
And some Teddy Grahams.
We'll slide down the pole
Run to the tree
Dig giant holes
And buy an ice cream.

Jefferson and Lincoln
And Robert E. Lee
On the parkway tonight.
Still tapping on my Blackberry
Monday I’ll come set it right.

The house is dark, fumble with my keys
Leftovers waiting for me.
Take off my shoes and walk upstairs
Kiss their heads while they sleep.

Hey Dad
Sit on the couch next to me.
We'll hold hands
And watch tv.
It's my favorite show
It's your favorite too.
And when it's done
We can go to the zoo.

Woo Hoo.

The Knowledge of Engines and Cars (2009)

Flying down the Skyline Drive in an April burst of Spring
Bare tree limbs like dark paint drips on a bright blue canvas sky.
Mountain ranges arrange themselves like waves rolling off the sea
In the valley below they marched to and fro in the War Between the States

Cardinal, Titmouse, Black Capped Chickadee
Come to the feeder, taking a seed
Through the window each eating alone
Find for myself what I will never be.

I was running late to visit my uncle who rarely went far from home
Looked so much like my father could be twins if you didn't know
The cancer cells which laid him down were there, still unobserved
"I'm tired, I can't do much, it comes with being old"

Cardinal, Titmouse, Black Capped Chickadee
Come to the feeder, taking a seed
Through the window each eating alone
Find for myself what I will never be.

Shared schools and holidays, shared the same small room
But I never knew what was in his head and one day he was gone
For a year he didn't return and he never really did explain
What had happened or where he had been

He must have gone to the movies stopped in Bihar
Slept in the mountains in a blanket of stars
Tore his thread off by the side of the road
He returned with the knowledge of engines and cars

Sandy (2007)

Sandy

After hours in the waiting room they sent us home
A prescription and a bedpad and a number to phone
Early in the morning took the kids off to school
Called in sick to work, told them I caught a flu.

I rocked and I rocked in the rocking chair
A dead cold dread wrapped tight to my heart
Not even thinking about what might have been
Just rocking, and rocking, and rocking again.

Sandy with the saddest liquid eyes
I saw you through the bottom of a bottle
Spinning faster than all the others
You are always watching me watching me

You said, I can't stand it, you lurking around
Looking hurt, I hurt, it doesn't help me
When you lurk, just go, take your phone
Right now I need to be alone

So I fished the tiny bits from the toilet bowl
Put them in a cup and walked out the door
Went down to the lab, where I filled out a tab
With our names and the date, what it was for

Sandy with the saddest liquid eyes
I saw you through the bottom of a bottle
Spinning faster than all the others
You are always watching me watching me

Candyland (2005)

Butt-crack of dawn
The dog comes along
Four Runner guns
Headlights turn on
And then we're gone

Path through the trees
Then rocks and the beach
Waves roll in
Below
A secant of sun.

Just me and my board
The wind's from the north
And my troubles are left behind on the shore.

Back in Candyland.

Beds are all made
The toys are displayed
Refrigerator is stocked
The back door is locked
And I'm on my way

Drive 95
Down Old Route 1
Day's just begun
But I've been working
Towards this for months.

Just me and my boys
We'll make plenty of noise
And we'll pick up right back
Where we had to leave off before

Back in Candyland.

Hearing’s not until noon
An hour to spare
Try to prepare
For the questions and glares
It will be over soon.

Don't start a fight
We both know what's right
And if there's any anger let it flow
Over you just like a wave

Washington Square
Been here before
When making nothing out of something
Was the way that I filled up my days.

Back in Candyland..

“Hey Johnny D.
What’s going on?
Still riding your board?
Ain’t seen you around”
He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

“I moved out up north.
Close to the beach.
A mile away I’ve got a
Four foot break
All to myself.”

“Sweet
I’ve got a board you should see.
It’s a classic
You know you ought to buy it from me.”

Back in Candyland.

“D.,
You got some to share?
What about cash?
Front me a grand.
The board’s super sweet.”

“Just a C.
Split a bag you and me
I’ll take you uptown to this guy.
He’s got the best..”

And as I pull out some cash
To pay off the past
The arbitrator stares at me
On his way.

Back to Candyland.

And as I sit
I wonder how this could be
That I lost control of my fate.
My hopes and my dreams
All out of my hands.

Of course, it goes bad.
Of course, I get mad.
And the best I can get’s
Another hearing
In six months time.

Alone on my deck
In a clammy grey fog
Far away waves
Want a fix so bad.
Through the sliding glass doors
Where the toys are displayed
There is a thin box of hope
Marked
Candyland.

Apres Fini (2004)

I forgot how hot Florida gets
Sweat beads beneath my New York suit.
Shuttle bus to rental cars
Ragtop emerges from the back of the yard.

Saw-grass gives way to cypress swamp
Throw away the map; this is where I was born.
In a cinderblock shack; tin roof too hot for a cat
And when I left here I said I’d never be back.

We will be young, so beautiful and free
Après fini.

Knock at the screen door, inside the Braves score
The kids come to receive their gifts.
A Barbie, a Game Boy, a soft plastic chew toy
I give her cheek an airbrush kiss.

The boyfriend appears, muttering about queers
Diane sends him for diapers and cigs.
“Di you look great”
“I still have to lose weight.
It’s great to have you back again.

Mom know you’re here?”
“I told her I’d come.
She didn’t believe me
But she’ll see she was wrong.”
“I’ve done my best John
But now I’m done.
I can’t keep going back there
I’m not that strong.”

We will be young, so beautiful and free
Après fini.

The mailbox is filled with sweepstakes and bills.
The yard is covered in weeds.
Linen is soiled, the milk is long spoiled
The pantry is stocked with pill bottles and Scotch.

She refuses to come, says she has no son;
Just some faggot who should leave her alone,
Who left her alone with that bitch of a girl.
“Diane will come; I can go live with her.”

“Mom, you can’t stay with Di, and you can’t stay here.
Come to New York, and stay with me.
The tickets are booked; your room’s been arranged.
Come back to New York, and stay with me.”

We will be young, so beautiful and free
Après fini.

She tries pushing buttons, tries playing her cards
Tries making me angry, tries going too far.
“Mom, pack up your stuff, and save your voice.
You know, and I know, you have no choice.”

But at the end of the day, back at the hotel
I call home to talk to someone nice.
Cheers me up, wishes me luck
It’s gonna take a little more time.

In the morning I breakfast and draw a deep breath
Drive out to the house, knock on the door
She doesn’t answer, so I find the old key
Open the door, call out “Mom, it’s me”.

We will be young, so beautiful and free
Après fini.

She’s lying in bed, her face has gone grey
Eyes are open, but no pulse, no breath.
I know that it’s over, holding her hand
Crying for someone I can’t understand.

From Ballaghderreen she made her way
To a land where streets are paved with gold.
In this land she grew unhappy and old
And now she’s gone to Tir Na Nog.

Over the western sea
To Tir Na Nog
The western sea
To Tir Na Nog

We will be young, so beautiful and free
Après fini.

Flight To Madrid (2004)

Flight To Madrid

The sun
Scatters through the blinds
Covers twist
Into a tie that binds
The breakfast nook,
Where she cries and smokes
Looking past
Curtains and plants.

D. you know
I hate it when you go.
Staring out
Over the street below.
Why don’t you come
Lie in the sun
Of Ibiza?

And we live
Between the taxi and the plane
And we love
A love which has no name
And we cry
Teardrops in the rain
Till we find
The thread of life again

In the cab
The street scenes going by
Downtown address
He tips the cab a five
Flash his badge
The receptionist she smiles
And he walks
Back into the cubes

Version five
Are we going to ship?
I don’t know
I think it’s going to slip.
By the fall?
He looks up at the timeline
On the wall.
D., it’s not going well.

Let me know
How it goes
And be sure
You bring version four.
Cause it’s good
Only if it works
And I don’t need
To be hammered any more.

And we live
Between the taxi and the plane
And we love
A love which has no name
And we cry
Teardrops in the rain
Till we find
The thread of life again.

Niccolo,
Bambino mio
Questo fai?
I’m doing fine.
Dove vai?
Prendo un café.
Veni, veni
I need to talk to you.

So Niccolo,
Have you seen Levi?
He has dropped out,
I don’t know where he moved
You, you thrive,
I see it in your eyes
But for Vai,
The atmopshere, this air…

Mr. D.
You know it’s not the air
I know I know
Speed and crystal meth
I may be blind,
But I still can see
He should leave,
Come lie in the sun
Of Ibiza.

And we live
Between the taxi and the plane
And we love
A love which has no name
And we cry
Teardrops in the rain
Till we find
The thread of life again

Dance is a beat
Of ecstasy
Rock is a sound
Of needs unmet.
Pop: melody
And unity.
Jazz: harmony
And regret.

So when
Emotions cannot fit
Put them away
For another day.
With each song
Check the baggage
You carry along
Maybe this one is it.

Si senor?
I fly out to Madrid.
And then on?
On to Ibiza.
You check?
Si, the baggage
It comes with me
To the sun
Of Ibiza.

And we live
Between the taxi and the plane
And we love
A love which has no name
And we cry
Teardrops in the rain
Till we find
The thread of life again.

Angarai (2002)

Angarai

Eighty feet isn't as high as it used to be
But with proper tires, and patience
You can roll all the way to the beach.
When you get there,
Avoid the Piping Plovers
Or the ghosts of hairy nudists,
Whichever it should be
And look out to sea.
You should see
In front of the back
Of the Block Island bluffs
Ocean going canoes.
The outline of a lookout
Cresting over the weak willed waves
Looking for a landing
Scanning the primordial landscape
And deciding
That this place is good.

Looking into the appraiser's eyes
I see only numbers:
Square footage, recent comparable sales,
Possible commission, tax rates.
Not a young couple,
Young as I remember them young,
Hopefully hanging a sign,
A sign which only hardy wanderers
Or the hopelessly lost
Would ever see,
A sign with would soon be overgrown
By the inexorable creep of nature's abundance
But a sign which meant
This is our home
A sign which said
Angarai.

An echo of a place continents away,
A small village of small mud houses
With low doorways and open breezeways
A village surrounded by rice paddies and railways
A place I don't remember
But a place my father
Scanning the primordial landscape of his mind
Remembered as the name of the place you call home.

Still I remember them as young:
Glenn put a cherry bomb in our mailbox
Peter had a minibike
Ann and I rode bicycles
Kevin punched my lunchbox
Richard died.

Even then I remember them as old:
Ben Vanderlaan was a clean old man
(As Paul McCartney would say, in Hard Days Night)
Toby Kurtzband had hair in his nose.
Later Astrid and Howie
And their baby
Who also died.

Today interlopers, trash, profiteers
No respect for what came before them.
They only know how things are
Not how they used to be.
To them it is their soil
To do with as they see fit.
But to me
They soil
My memories.

The trees are second generation
As I am second generation.
The soil is not so thin.
Against the fleeting plans of men
An eternal spirit works
Reverting the land to its natural state.

Low stone walls
Overgrown by lichen and moss
In the middle of deep woods
Recall that once this was a farm.
Men sought mastery over the land,
Imposed their will through spade and plow.
Ozymandias say:
"Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Angarai
Tamil village, New England woods, American city
Angarai
My grandfather, my father, my self, my son
Angarai
A place, a name, a sign
Angarai
The sacred thread
Knotting disparate lives
Lived over and over
To the end of time.

The Strings Of Your Genes (3/24)

I try to be calm
In the face of your rage
Your grandmother's face
Your grandfather's rage
Pulls you out of your seat
A dancing marionette
Tied to the strings of your genes.

The stone and the sod
Whiskey and God
Run from the law
Sleep in the straw
It pulls you up to your feet
A dancing marionette
Tied to the strings of your genes.

I curse you to never know satisfaction
To see injustice in all of its forms
I bless you with strength
Quickness of mind, a consuming desire to learn.
I curse you to be unable to follow
To be unable to suffer a fool.
I grant all of this to you
Because I, I carry them too.
I carry them too.

We're dancing marionettes
Tied to the strings of our genes.
Just dancing marionettes
Tied to the strings of our genes.

Socks and Shoes (3/1)

The lunches are all made, just the way you like
Apple slices peeled, chocolate milk mixed up just right
Sit down to breakfast, still waking up
Bowls of frosted cereal and sausage with syrup

"I'm gonna take a shower, you guys get dressed"
Put out some clothes that match, hope for the best
"Get on your socks and shoes; coats and hats and gloves"
Fill their backpacks with homework and a Hershey Kiss for love

Drop them at the front of school. watch them run away
Reach across to close the door and drive off to my day
But before I leave I'll box this memory
Where happiness won't fade.

Brattahlid (10/19)

A crack echoes down the fjord
As the glacier's iceberg calves
Into the waiting sea

Standing on my stony beach
Hay field rises to the farm
I named it Brattahlid

The skraelings bob
In their skin boats
Awaiting the coming wave

I killed a man in Trondheim
I killed a man in Skells
In fights for ships and love

The blood price paid, exile
Banished to the western lands.
My ship, my love and hope.

A great house I promised her
To steal her to this land
I broke the beams from my boat
To erect it to her plan

Now she lies beneath that cross
And I on my stony beach
Each year the hay grows less
Last cow was gone last spring
I should be off, but this is my home
And besides, where would I go?

The skraelings bob
In their skin boats
Awaiting the coming wave

Which crashes on the jutting rocks
The icy spray comes down like rain
The salt, the wind, sod turned to dust
And blown away by fate

Or the yearning for the lands of my ancestors
The traditions and customs
The time honored practices
That make me who I am.

The skraelings bob
In their skin boats
Awaiting the coming wave

Vladimir and Estragon at a James Brown Concert (9/29)

Can you take me higher?
Take me higher!
Fred
Fred!
FRED!

Oh, that's good.
Yeah.

I want to get down.
I feel down.
To get down I've got to be in D.
Down D
Dog D
Funky D
Skanky D
Take me to the D!
Maceo!

What about M?
There is no M.
I want to be in M!
There is no M.

We had good times, didn't we?
I don't remember.
You don't remember?
I can't be sure
But I suspect we have always been
Precisely the way we are right now.

Are you sure about M?
Yes, there is no M.

Three Women (9/21)

You've got your tank top
That summer skirt
Those Chuck Taylors
Love to watch you work

Coke bottle glasses
Hair tucked behind your ear
You're turning heads girl
Mmm, I need you here

So when I get back
To you babe
We're gonna get it on

---

As I rolled over onto my back
She said to me:
"They're fake, you know."
I stared at the ceiling and replied:
"I know, but they are still beautiful."

--

Confronted with evidence
Painstakingly collected over several months
She looked me in the eye and said:
"I have no idea what you are talking about".
And after a pause
"But if that's how you really feel
Perhaps you'd better leave."

Chaco (9/17)

I did what I could
If it would do any good
Like you should
Now I'm the last to leave

I bricked up all the windows
And I bricked up the doors
Just one more
To do when I go

I buried all the chocolate
And buried all the bones
I'm alone
In the once great Hogan

This morning the sun
Rose at the top of the peak
In 53 days
I'll be the last to leave

In 53 days
I'll be the last to leave

Benjy (9/4)

Benjy's hanging on the fence again
That's ok, it's his fence
The lawyer made that perfectly clear

I was a world away, in New York
But we needed someone in the house
To watch Benjy and to take care of things
I needed a place to stay
It seemed like a great suggestion
At the time

I wanted to finish my novel
About the secret inner life of cats
I was making progress in the beginning
But lately I've really gotten bogged down in research
And it's hard to stay focused
When any time you might come home to find
That someone has taken a shit in the middle of the kitchen floor
Again

It's important to remember
That he's my brother
It's important to remember
That he can't always control himself
It's important to remember
That being disabled doesn't mean you can't also be a jerk

At the beginning, I tried to figure out the things that would set him off
Avoid the upsetting stimulus, avoid the crap on the floor
But after a while I realized that those things
Weren't things I had done, or things he had seen
They were happening in another world

Benjy's hanging on the fence again
He's licking the rail, because it tastes so good
Just like that apple he had after lunch
I ask him if he wants another apple
But he's off in another world

I'm sitting on the porch
Drinking a fresh squeezed lemonade
With a soothing Vodka kick
I pick up my book, and read
To return to another world

Nadine (8/29)

You can't stop people from talking
Rumors have a life of their own.
But there ain't no smoke without fire
And you're burning up our happy home.

So Nadine, what's it going to be
Are you coming back home to me?
Or if you're going to keep on running around
Could you please be more discreet?

The church ladies cluck at the kids
I do my best but I'm color blind.
Luanne down at the coffee shop
Has been being extra special kind.

So Nadine what's it going to be
Are you coming back home to me?
Or if you're going to keep on running around
Would you please just set me free?

Now you know there's nothing in this world
I wouldn't do for you.
I thought I'd shown you again and again.
But if he's the one you want I won't stand in your way
Maybe we can wind up friends.

So Nadine what's it going to be
Are you coming back home to me?
Or if you're going to keep on running around
Would you please just set me free?

Millicent (5/21)

We drank Hurricanes
In the middle of the street
Dancing to the Nevilles
And the Mardi Gras beat
Dancing in a sea
Of purple, gold and green
Watching the floats
In old New Orleans.

All the lovely beads
Spread across your chest
Let everyone know
That your tits were the best

Oh Millicent
Your breast are quite
Magnificent
Almost heaven sent
Oh Millicent

Twenty years later you're just somebody's wife
Somebody's mom
A nice suburban life

But every now and then
You get out your bag of beads
Pop in the Nevilles
And roll up some weed
You turn up the lights and you open the shades
And dance like you did on Bourbon Street

And Millicent
Your breasts are still quite magnificent.

Marco (4/30)

Born a Roman son of the privileged class
You always felt like a boy from the streets

At the suburban skate parks
And the 7-11
You fell in love with America

The land of reinvention
The land of good intentions
Everyone's that boy from the street

Wide open spaces
Friendly faces
You fell in love with America

At the suburban skate parks
And the 7-11
You fell in love with America

Yonder Moon (4/23)

Her first thought
As she skidded into the intersection
Was the precision logistics of her life
"I don't have time to die
At this stoplight today"

And as time slowed
In anticipation of the impact
Her second thought was
"I really need to chill out while driving"
And then
"I probably should have gotten the brakes checked
When I had the chance"

A verdigris sheen of fresh tree pollen
Coats the entire scene.

I'm your man baby, outside of your window
As the moon, waning
Rises over yonder.

Chess (2008)

In 1918 Duchamp left his work on the Large Glass and the art scene, and went to Buenos Aires, Argentina for nine months where he often played chess, and carved from wood the only chess set he himself made, though a local craftsman made the knights. He returned to Paris in 1919, where he lived until he returned to the United States in 1920. By the time he moved to Paris in 1923 he was no longer a practicing artist. Instead he played and studied chess, which he played for the rest of his life to the near exclusion of all other activity.


Duchamp At His Chessboard

When I was young
I thought
(Very enthusiastically)
That music was all a matter of skill.

As I've grown older
And acquired a modicum of skill
I have come to appreciate enthusiasm much more.

Perhaps when I die
I shall be silent and wise.
That is all.

I hope someday before I die
To become silent and wise.
Like Marcel Duchamp at his board.

First: Art is in your fingers, expressed through your brush.
Later: Art is where you find it, expressed through your eye.
Finally: Art is what you are, your life is the why.

I hope someday before I die
To become silent and wise.
Like Marcel Duchamp at his board.

On his deathbed, Voltaire spat in the face
Of the priest sent to administer rites.
"The man is the work, and reason the light
Begone to your dismal abode".

Hiding behind the Platonic reflections
Marks a cowardly and incurious mind.
Get out of the cave, come into the light
Stand like a man, don't kneel like a slave.

What is, is, and what is not
Simply has never been.
Love one another, do your part
Try to leave the world a better place
Than it was
Whenever you came.

Before I die I'd be silent and wise
Like Marcel Duchamp at his board.