AT RO PHY
Album: Tuned to a Dead Channel∕Body Heat Radio Tapes_(Album)
Day comes to a close.
Families slowly disappear and nightlife blooms.
Strolling down 4th avenue pulling exhaust from the Turkish bone,
watching the parade of cut off short-shorts and flannel shirts — up and down the street.
It’s an old town with old time architecture and present day street cars.
The smell of dry beer is lingering.
Ignoring the casual glances and curiosities,
I’ve become more oddity then resident;
somewhere within the crowd but never there.
This town’s downtown is nostalgic neon, on these amphetamines.
The nicotine instigates patience/ the symptoms placate the emotions/ and what seemed years ago/
has you forlorn/ a voyeur/ an unwanted visitor/
The “No Loiter” sign is lit/
the street divots from mortars/
I’m walking among the derelict vehicles in the jungle/
Drifting into that place where spirits meet and old traditions mingle/
A stray animal/ the grip on the rubber band handle/ Perhaps I’m pissed./
There’s kind of a lot more to it/
Money is scarce and there’s fuck-all to do with all this Covid/
The Conspiracies are happening (or not). Who gives a shit?/
Everyone is arguing over bathrooms, decorum, politics/ parking spaces at entropy, you name it/
I’m pissed off/tee’d off/ off my rocker – Coocoo for Cocoa but too cool/ for school when it comes to mental junk food / and brain candy decay. Binge watching the flip-flops./ I’m a few bucks away from a one stop shop wanting two cans of the kind and that’s Sam I am; double fisting micheladas on a funday. A suedehead, demented, skinhead in Timberlands with a scowl under my skully/ two eyes over ugly/ skipping over the other drunks and their booze blues/ while pissing on the dessicated scenarios of “who’s who?”/ When I guess really it should be “Who’s food?”/
Unhinged and undone/ A typewriter on my tongue and more knives in pocket than all of London/
On the lookout for Late night artifacts and reflections/
The things I\'ve done and seen/
Things you wouldn\'t believe/
Flashes of metal in the dark/ wet letters and pain killers in the park/ Some of us hunt and others fatten up the mark/ passed out with money peeking out their skinny jeans? Don’t let me start/
I seen second-hand felons with first class fabrications/
loose lips sunken ships/ brittle like potato chips/
Buck50’d across the face; watching the white meat peek where the blade drips/
Delerium Tremens of a nostalgic/ living in my moment/ some say it’s tragic/ Black magick and white lines, tracing memories across the looking glass with a fractured reflection/ The pensive mind, restless/ The basics/ destroy or build/ the mathematic of my inception/
Born into this/
Honed by this/
However this place I haunt drags its feet/ the creosote smells sweet/
yet the food is too bland to eat/
The weather never changes/
and the culture smells like ass/
Everyone smokes grass/
and the flags fly full mast/
The Old-Pueblo; home of the paleface 85 percenter/
Someplace between nothing, nada and nowhere/
subdued and beggared/
People speak tongue-n-cheek and cough into their masks/
the night life tastes like flat ass (Pabst Blue Ribbon) and the culture is a mishmash/ of “Blehh”/
To call it “Paradise” would be a misnomer/
Reality is a slick gossamer,/ too thin to grasp (a shot in the dark).
And too think that I thought to think that the grass would be greener on the other side/
I thought, to think. And by a rumor I was bribed/
I was sullen, / bereft of the American dream and disillusioned/.
Creatively agitated and detached from the collective consciousness/
The obnoxious/ nonsense/ of the nothingness/ of modern life and its digital echoes.
Born into this/
Molded by this/
Mentally vexed/ detached/ an analog insomniac/
Writing from the fringes in words and sigils and images, it’s somewhat mnemonic/
(Short fuse) Scratching for a decent ending on a counterfeit lottery ticket/
Walking in the neon shadows of a memory - when wolves lived free in the guise of men and women; instead of sleepwalking here with the dreamers, where everyone is a plate and the food is spoiled.