tokyo flyers update, 12/19.

you probably know already. the second draft of 'tokyo flyers' died along with the rest of my hard drive back in september or october or something. it was a sad day. there were torn veils spilt punch earthquakes stained dresses and balloons crushed in earth's upper atmosphere. i teared up once or twice. might have cried. then promptly sniffed and wiped my eyes and punched a wall or something.

well its christmastime and that means birth or resurrection or re-writing this dang book. making it how it was. or different. or 'as good'. we'll see.

keep in touch. i love you.

videos. october 17.

thanks to jose arredondo for these.

(http://www.youtube.com/user/acousticdefacto31)

I've Had My Share Of Calluses, Thank You.

Blues In Eden.

An Old Untitled One. (i might resurrect it one day.)

AKA.

(last one reworked. shout-out to safi for the title.)

AKA.

ya know them, ah, matroshka dolls.

with the one in the other in the other.

well i am riiiight in the middle in there

i am the muffled words ‘GET ME OUT I CAN”T BREATHE’

in the bloated sick belly of a history textbook bookmarking the chapter on Nietzche

in a war-time underground bunker walls pasted with poorly-xeroxed love letters

in a hand-me-down town called the ‘Rez Flooded With Cheap Wine’ where they tinted the sky hunter green so our Sad don’t lose its sweet

in Love

in the back of an ambulance hurt real bad.

Hit the sirens.

You wide-eyed white dolls you,

I been knocking on this wall for awhile askin God to open up all this Dark.

I got business to tend to.

And what with my sojourn here and I’m askin’ you. Now.

Say ‘Amen’ and you, open it.

Etch this in your heart of hearts through and through.

Go down to the cellar.

Follow the arrows caught in cobwebs to my room.

Lay down and watch my ceiling for shooting stars.

Believe you me I keep rooms in the House here in my wrists stocked with scratches lions’ skulls and honeybees call me Kali if need be, please,

just clear the Ghosts.

Forgive their demeanor. They take after their Host in that way.

See that case? The one shaped like an hourglass your Mother kissed onto your forehead, chipped and spilling the Sahara out on your red skin that spells ‘open it honey’.

Open wide.

Inside’s a guitar, that’s it I swear.

Sit and cross your feet Indian style and hear me out. This Instrument, its a Person. Its got a story like we do.

I got it from a guy named Hurt.

Herbert Hurt.

Less of a guy more of a ghost haunting all I-10 end to end.

I paid fifteen bucks, an old skin I shed way back when, and a ride one hundred ten miles ...that way.

Herb said ‘I’m headed for God’s country. I’d use mud and words and sing a Kingdom up from the dirt with this here guitar but my hands

they can’t carry this weight no more and

these songs ain’t gettin’ any lighter.

Here, see what you can do with it.’

(The wood, guys and gals. It felt like fire, like Blessed be the sharecroppers, field hands poor in Spirit pickin’ heads of light in a field, adding calluses to their will and gettin’ poorer still.)

‘Have this,’ Herb said. ‘My body my blood, sling it on your shoulder like a soldier and start marchin.

Watch not to cut your hands, the poems might fall out.

Use your damn eyes kid, there’s staff lines of barbed wire strung round its neck. It’s to keep our cattle in the notes, a wild Strong in our songs.

And mouthfuls of arrows and arrowheads tacked on the headstock all of ‘em rusty dull and going different ways but they are the same

like this Family like this House.

Each, a paper star strung up in a café named Bethlehem on Christmas. These notes taste like red wine and bread.’

Herb stared and said, ‘Kid, you look like you need redeemin. Well go get it. Walk. Bring a pen and the blanks in your skin and a good warm blanket cause it’s a long ways away to the ‘Promised Land’, I promise. Nine months or so.’

‘Yessir’ I said, ‘I’ll go.’

And I’ve been wearin’ that swear like the Morning in my hair ever since.

Still awake, sons and daughers? Ok I’m sending y’all a Messenger now. For your nation here, its a guitar. And like a Messenger you gotta sit down and learn it. Study its sounds.

Me, I’m set on breaking outta this warm blank shell.

I’m waiting and workin these arms into axes, tyin’ my good Byes to my wrists like a tassle and the bad ones, well, they make my blade sharp.

When I swing, I’ll say my name into my skin, spit ink so loud I won’t forget.

I will sing it over like a mantra.

I am william, william, william michael.

aka good ghost bill

aka boo-boo

aka one day one with God

aka John Galt

aka Gabriel

aka Per Son

aka being of sound

aka arundo donax the common reed cut and shaped into a flute

aka too nostalgic for my own damn good

aka its ok i love you anyways always.

aka a mandala painted on a plate sacred circle soul food get that Goodness inside ya.

aka God i believe in you and I have for awhile.

It’s high time you believe in me back, I mean, show me you do.

Give me a sign, make it neon and flashy on account of all this Night.

Go get your Angels. They’ll wanna hear this.

Where I’m goin’ you’ll need armies of ‘em to do all my guarding.

I’mma get above this.

I’mma walk from California forests fires to Jackson square, hell or high water, going arms out barefoot looking like Huck Finn on a fence like Christ on a cross.

See, we three want the Mississippi inside us like last night I wanted not to want something bad to happen to me and real bad, sick of wishin to fall into something years dark and years deep like a well or Love, so I took some notes.

I wrote 10 commandments of my own, scratched them into these walls here with my nails, right into all this Dark. I’ll write ‘em down once I tear this skin of mine apart inside out, don’t worry, I got ‘em all up here (head).

one. clear the ghosts Lord.

two see that case? inside’s a bow.

three open wide.

four make me into an arrow. my head is lead and heavy already make me sharp. wind my throat at one end and use it like a quiver

five nock my body into the string and aim south.

six hold me.

seven hold and hold hard. till your whole arm shakes scared to death with lullabies that your momma Sophia sang the oceans to sleep in their ocean beds.

eight, let me slip by accident then miss me sorry you couldn’t goodbye i’ll see you in Zion in the sky.

nine. watch me sing home lord shade your eyes I’mma set the sun my own damn self and get gone this time. Just way, way out there.

and ten. When I hit my mark at last the rosary by my bed will shed its skin and curl up to sleep on my hand. Chances are, I’ll be barefoot jeans rolled up holdin Herb’s guitar somewhere near and praying, God use my throat use my hands, and on cue I’ll cough. Cough out a mouthful of arrows. Paper stars tacked on my palms.

God, I know how to make things too and make them good like you.

It’s like thunder.

I learned it.

I asked Herb ‘which way to God’s Country?’ and this is what I heard.

‘Ya know them ah Matryoshka dolls? With the one in the other in the other.

Son, it’s in our belly. It’s all around.’

He tore a page from the book of Job from his shoulder blade,

and like that,

pressed it into light.