okay, answer me this?

i was bored at work (oh, shocking!) so i somehow found myself at Afrodavid.

i haven't been there (or, been THERE) in some time.

am i crazy? or, am i genius?

i needs to gets back to my art.

some stuff i do scares me.


The Nostalgia of Light

I noticed it, unofficially, a couple weeks ago. It was just a moment in an otherwise miserable day. But with this weekend behind, we are now in what I’m calling the nostalgic days. The air is light and the light is airy. The sky has returned to a deep unnatural blue from its vacation of milky, humid opaque. Autumn is being phased in again.

During nostalgic days the brain remembers that autumn is a time of invigorating bliss; when the cool air returns and the mosquitoes die. The shadows deepen, mornings are dark and everything becomes all contrast-y again. Breathing becomes easy and life’s woes subside. The leaves change from an overly officious uniformity of greens to a masquerade ball of individualism and whimsy that culminates in Halloween and death. In autumn, we snuggle again. We mow the fields one last time and we ride out the slide into darkness and productivity.

The threat and misery of winter is well over the horizon. The beleaguered days of the mid-Atlantic summer fades like a bad memory. Fortunately for the humans, the memories of pain are never keen. In January, we’ll all pray for July again. The shoulders, autumn and spring, make living in the east worthwhile. The monotony of hundreds of perfect California days, while glorious, faints into the background of being.

I’ve grown to appreciate the work involved in the long march to the shoulders.
Sometimes, and it doesen't matter where, if it itches enough, you just have to reach around and scratch your ass.

- thought on Woodmont Ave.


Today - and, oddly, it was confirmed by all the machines - was a day of twos. Twos were everywhere. The metaphor; symbols; codes; ciphers; patterns. There was no escaping the omen. It was as clear as identical twins.

Dyad. Pair. Deuce. Dub. Dos. Twin. Both. 2. Too. A basketball shot. The peace sign. Yin/yang. Congress. Coasts. Couple. Feet. Hands. Eyes. Ears. Nostrils. Testicles. Breasts. Nipples. Knees. Clap. Stereo.

Unfortunately, obviously, I haven't made any connections yet.



Today's been a real education.

History intersecting with future.

Oh, my...


People take vacations to the Mall of America. It's surrounded by hotels of every ilk; from the swanky to the seedy. The mall itself, from the outside is one ugly hulk of parking garages and angles. Half-assed landscaping and American flags. Shuttle buses rush backing and forthing to any of the four main entrances; old, fat, pasty white middle Americans - and their cookie cutter MTV/X-Games/hip-hop offspring depart empty handed and embark with bags from all the stores you find at any of the other seventeen million malls found from sea to shining silver dollar.

Inside, it's the most depressing place I've ever been. Worse than any two-bit casino in Reno or Atlantic City. Worse even than river boat casinos in East St. Louis. Mall of America is a big mall. Five levels. Amusement park. Gap. Victoria Secret. It's a big "So what." I took my camera to maybe get some killer black and whites of old, fat, pasty white middle Americans - and their cookie cutter MTV/X-Games/hip-hop offspring...shopping. I took no pictures.

Yeah, personal shop-bots. Teen to twenties bleach-blonds to smile broadly and pace your personal shopping experience. You book an hour, shop-bots help you shop forever. The exits aren't marked. Why bother leaving if you still have money or haven't maxed out your thirty-two credit cards that you were pre-approved for sometime back when? Don't forget the food court.
I'm kinda hungry.


Dearest Rich,

You see, I love your Ween.

It's always been hard for me because I've always considered Ween to be your band. Like in any relationship, individuals bring something in. Flatware, CDs, the VCR, a dog, nipple clamps, etc. You always shared Ween, but it was always somehow yours to share. Then one day, I took your Ween out for a spin and fell in love with your Ween.

You never complained and even graciously encouraged me to snort your Ween. But, I always felt a bit guilty. You know...awkward. I didn't want to schnebble all your Ween or nothin', but once I ate one, I couldn't stop.

So, thanks for letting me smoke all your Ween, sucka. I keeping it all for myself and not giving any back.

Your pal,


P.S. Fuck!


When I hear young children cry
I’m saddened to a core place – biologically
Weakened in unimaginable ways

I miss my family
My reason to breathe
And take all these pills
Like I miss my innocence

fucking angels in my head
the madness of the obvious


The production-consumption ration
Still unsettled after all these decades
Intense weight on psyches
And fatigue on internal components

As black as void
As white as all
As dead as nothing
As past as history

Since it is always fiction
Contrived since inception
To be feared when not ignored
Reality is the real god

True as truth
One-quarter of a beat ahead
With full commitment realized
Blissfully floating above human topography


what is whole is
contingent of personal glossary entries
if space is time

experienced through spot lighted
cargo holds of hurling humans
eastward-bound together coincidentally

mind’s eye memories of hallucinations
but beautiful symmetry nonetheless
perfect logic clearly communicated

yeah, I’m terrified too
but, unfortunately, this is what we left you
if you can remedy, please



Walking sticks for a modern age
Skateboard shoes to mark my rage
Undercover mainstream tax-paying yellow belly
Forgetting at all to remember my age


Taking for granted the walking and talking
I kiss the rig of gods and
Try to put aside speculation of
Variants of fate without much success

What would change?

Often I awake to new realities
In different places alone or
Trapped in the prisons of mind or body
Empathy to a degree of unbelievable proportions

A hot, persistent, dry wind
Under blue skies in places
Where our society has created
Drawers in which we can
Hide all that appears to be untidy


Steely persistence after all the tears


You cannot help what's in your nature
Ahh, jah Rasta man sing-song life
From Damascus to Kashmir
Will I become so wholly eccentric
and woefully low self-monitoring?

Consequences of vanity run amok
With no restraints tied to ego
Or class or career

Just as long as I remember
To wear pants on a daily basis
And remain mindful of clichés and
Refrain from singing aloud too often

Since it was all over even
Before it all began
My efforts can be relieved
Of the burden of giving
A rat’s ass
Minnesota Blue(s) 07.30-31.03

All inside going deeper now
Heros not what they used to be
Drooling wizards of the north star state
Trapped like visitors to new planets

With heads buried in sands
Sanctioned by the president and the other Hitlers
My very worst enemy a codependent me
Wanting without the why-ing

All ideas opinions beliefs creativity
From my anus
When the toilets do not flush
And snacks are forbidden in this motel

From the masses of truths
Of the reinvented American century
Only to awake alone and sweaty
And so fundamentally detached

Concentric circles around the
Moon and the sun so red
Suicide and chronic depression are
Only theater for drama queens