Keep On, And Ya Don't Stop! Don't Stop Till You Get Enough! I Mean It Bitch! I Paid For 2 Hours, I'm Gettin' 2 Hours! Get Back In There!

Shannon - Let The Music Play

kinda like her 'fuck you' to Madonna.

shit this song brings back memories. wearing a soiled, sweat-soaked Victorian wedding dress, cruising through Bed-Stuy at 1000 rpm in our stolen stretch 1983 Lincoln Towncar blaring Purple Rain on 8-track, sittin' on wire wheels and flicking through all 225 channels of the multi-band satellite television. a kilo of yay in my lap and a billion parties in my head.

it was about two hours before we realized the hooker was dead.

negligent homicide?

motherfucker, do you know who i am?!!? I'm the Original Born Jamerican Taliban Clairvoyant Child Prodigy Quiz Kid Shit-Talker Cock-Walker Pushaman Dreamweaver With The Slangsta Lean That Don't Take Shit Offa Nobody!

huh? that? yeah. yeah man, i got a permit for that AK. what's it to you you summumabitch!?!

i'll be out by dinnertime.

And on that humid day, he received a note, concerning the matter of the State of Maryland Vs. Richardson, Kasai J.

And the document reads:

"The applicant/petitioner Richardson, Kasai of Baltimore, MD, having been found to be entitled to expungement of police records pertaining to the arrest, detention, or confinement of the applicant/petitioner on or about 10/31/2003 at PR.GEO.CO. (Prince George's County), Maryland by a law enforcement officer at the University of Md Police Dept. and the court records in this action, it is by the District Court of Maryland, this 12th day of March, 2004."

took 'em a while. but better late than never.

I'm Clean Bitches!

for some (fucking hilarious) background on what led to all this, peep the steez.

i keep a wolf at the door.

GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME YOU FUCKING FASCIST CRO-MAGNON ABORTION!

i been kicked outta hipper places than this MOTHERFUCKER!

spit in his face, just so he believes the lie. Cherry Skoal is what i'm packin'. fiberglass to the cornea you FUCK!

yeah! better believe it! much hipper than this shithole. in '74, after standing up on the bar, whipping my shit out, and insisting that a bartender let me put my (unshaven) balls on her face, i got (quite literally) thrown outta Whisky-A-Go-Go. thrown onto my face. i still got pieces of the Sunset Strip in my cheek, under the skin and in the flesh now.

"Gotta Pay To Play" she'll say. and that's a registered trademark you sonofabitch, so keep on movin'! i paid, and i played, and i got the scars (and the bankrupty declarations) to prove it.

so don't try to tell me about dignity or inappropriateness or appearances or crutches or Co-Caine or VietNam or bareknuckle boxing for CA$H MONEY or annihilation or social constructs or disappointment or jumping outta planes or legitimacy or divorce or "the button" or Detroit or Chicago or opiate addiction or Vaclav Havel or the Velvets or M-16s or slide guitar or broken rubbers or consecutive abortions or saturation bombing or subway groping or false alarms ASSHOLE!

FUCKING AMATEURS! FUCKING SNOT-NOSED, NEEDLE-DICKED, FINGER-FUCKING, BRACES-HAVING AMATEURS, ALL! the kinda fucks that'd get you K-I-L-L KILLed in The War man! in any War! i mean, what kind of fucken operation are you running around here any fucken way?!

you see, all this is easily explained. call it history repeating itself, kind of. more like the echoes of historical fact spiking our present day prom punch. and fortunately, it looks like the universe has afforded me the occasion to explain exactly where we stand and what got us here to begin with.

on some strange spring day spent bashing about the '67 iteration of the Haight, i ate a bunch of that devilish substance STP and rather immediately headed down the traditional "bad" route. a Bad Travail for the Bad Old Days. like a 10,000,000 volt Blinding Baroque Mindfuck wrapped in an Incomplete Full-Body Orgasm.

fight for your life... strife = freedom. and the rest.

there i was, newly jettisoned from the historically notorious slave ship Tocora, cast into the bitter froth 50 feet below the decks like so much rotten meat. my own seabound hell. or should i say a new seabound hell. the stench of dead brothers and sisters follows me off the deck, the vile journey much less a Passage than a crashing, careening Funeral Procession.

but there i was, FREE from it, and though i knew i wasn't really "there" in that ocean, i clung to the coffee table, or rather the small plank keeping me afloat in the harsh North Atlantic waters, with all my mortal might. hopeful. though the salt of the ancient ocean soaked thoroughly enough into my wounds, suffered at the hands and whips of "traders," to make me repeatedly consider letting go. just slide into the deep, graceful for the first time since the terror began.

NO!

The Invisible Hand, at your service.

i persist without exception.

challenges abound, in and out.

what are you waiting for? questioned the All-Knowing, Unseen Electronic Eye. Surely not rescue? Be realistic. 'He' wasn't there for your father's father. Why would he be there for YOU? tell me now. Just what is it that makes YOU so beautiful, so worth the trouble in the eyes of Out-There?

this unsettling neuro-charade went on for more than a few hours. days even. that is until i was roused from my Electric-Ego-Death by a young nymph named Paisley who told me she wanted to buy some weed.

worried. stunned. now, carefree. absolutely lovely as she stood in patient silence, feigning tiredness so as to make herself more interesting.

just look at her.

she'd passed the test.

after the sex, i thought about asking how old she was, but you see, the ignorance, she is bliss in her remiss. without a doubt.

spare me.

the endlessly abandoned soul can wait. as long as it has to.

and so can you, you FUCKING cocksucker! get your fucken HANDS off me! i got rights and shit! rights i fought for!

i been kicked outta hipper joints than this! fuck your Golden Arched chintz! fuck all 99 Billion of your flunkies! and FUCK-THAT-CLOWN! how i loathe YOU and your fucking CLOWN! fucken banditos! fucken Hamburglars! (good one!)

a shuffle and a step.

get your fuck-no need to carry on any further.

i'll see myself to the door. just gotta use the bathroom first. i'm jonesing.



The Saga Continues HERE

welcome to flavor country: pt. 1

destroy a column of marble (with an implement of your choosing) and what are you left with? mere molecules of crystalline calcium carbonate, colluding to form... dust. to be sure.

destroy a column of time-based sentiment, with your bare hands, and what are you left with? bruised palms and knuckles, yes. okay. but you're also knee deep in the ghosts my friend, wading through the hollowed out husks of the dreams and memories and wants of others. watch your step.

there's a certain stratum that must be broken through (with various palm blows and knife hand chops) to get to the promised sands, light years away from the metaphysical muck of postmodernity.

have no doubt that it is a stark and anemic interface (one of many to be sure), to be deconstructed so that WE may reconfigure. so that WE may give the thing "life."

MOVE, swiftly now, through the weather, sweep the hair from the eyes, and most importantly, tread heavily.

your motivation? your spark, so to speak, figuratively meaning the thing which was meant to be spoken but never heard?

a 20 megaton blast (quite literally) straight to the sternum, rattlin them bones and breakin them stones. down to... dust. to be sure.

stop making sense: the end of an epoch?

"Jensen. Jensen! pay attention."
(muffled apology)
"MARK!?!"
"2007, anno domini."
"okay."

(clears throat. adjusts ascot accordingly)

let it be known
that
i won't bother with yr piecemeal heartsongs.
oh no. not this one.
bless me with a glistening, shining thing instead.
ANYthing to make these tepid days burn hotter kotter.
yayyy! early CHRISTmas!
CHRISTmas in the Carribean?
The Sudan?
must get going.
just heading out to the shoppes for a moment.
to fulfill some basic needs, you see.
take care.
watch them for me.
those intangible, abstract, matter-of-fact, actual contractual futures that consume so much of our time around here.
a prospector's hopes for golden waters.
that's what's left for us.
when we return that is.
H-O-P-E springs eternal.
burns infernal in the tiny hearts of little men and women.
no matter where you look.
that's what they'll say, when prompted.
but don't be silly Millie.
this is all US babydoll!
fighting for our lives in the storm of the century!
just a few days old, but we're already the odds-on favorites.

vive le cirque!

Well I Never?!?! And You Never Will You Mark Ass Trick!

there are few things in this world that i enjoy more than being scoffed at by (preferably gorgeous) chicks while i'm in full-bore beast mode. nothing satisfies quite like that scrunched up nose or that quick burst of air that coincides with a protracted, theatrical eye roll.

what the fuck's her problem?

i don't know.
maybe i have my pants down.

maybe i'm tripping face at the bar, spewing nonsensical wisdom juice and generally causing problems.

maybe i've drawn a swastika on my dicktip and i'm insisting that she "heil little hitler." (has never happened, but a kid can dream, can't he?)

maybe i'm bleeding, yet carrying on as though nothing's wrong, brushing off pleas to go to the hospital. possibly beasting out even harder as a result of the blood loss.

maybe i have a "coke moustache."

maybe my shirt is caked in vomit.

maybe i just snorted a hollywood of cayenne pepper to please a crowd.

maybe i'm sporting a full-blown erection.

maybe i've just been caught trying to steal a bottle from behind the bar.

maybe it's just that i'm "drinking too much" or "doing drugs."

whatever the situation, rest assured that kasai is going above and beyond to be all that he can be. an absolute derelict, to be sure. well. dere-lick-my-balls katie kondescension!

the best is when katie kondescension is going out with a close friend. haha.

"how can you be friends with someone like this?" she asks in horror.

well sweetheart, the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.
vive le cirque!