Motorama — Livestream / Noonchorus. September 22, 2020

Dear Sons

I had Nick Drake playin, Men in a Shed, and was enjoying a live look from out from the landing to the colors emerging, your Mommy's tall yellow and white flowers showin off, and beautifully emersed and awash in one of those lovely post prozac cryin spells at the sheer beauty that lay all spread out for me and realized that I just love the shit out of the woman that I once knew. The one that throws rocks at the coal hoppers and who cried with me when we buried our little possum babies beside where the golden rod is performing presently. The one who put up with me and my black dogs for what must have seemed like forever. But what's really special is the fact that it's perfectly okay with your ol senitimental dad. That I've got Paul, Jr. and Josh on my mind is even better. It's honest god fucking god dammit!. Just listen to that old black dog bark. My boys. Amplifies the howling from the landing thanks to ol Nick Drake and my partin ways with fluoxitine after over and under thirty years. Served me well. Probably kept me alive. Enough of that. Something seems to prolongue the spell a bit, which, too, is welcome here, ol sports, in what they call bullshit words like buddahland. Keeps me safe. Let's me howl from chords created in fucked up places where I was desposited, like Montgomery, Alabama. I've been howling my ass of in this big ol house, snot, gossimer, clouds soakin up the sun, pores stretchin not carin, pissing outside, and yet, not being able to trust the old dude walkin past with a curled up staff that he probably bought from god damn mother fucking up her asshole full of god damn shit and blood and cancer pollyps, called Pigeon Forge, or her whore of a mother, just up the mountain, called Gatlinburg. Here what's happened to these old men, not like me. They forgot about beauty, my sons. Too busy for beauty until that time comes when they're not busy no more and cannot recognize it for the life of them, so they gravitate to words and symbols and white me who share the worst parts of them. But they're other parts, too. But they're closed off on account of the queer union of opposites that they seem to have infected. I'm bustin out from that kernal that kept me in, but I won't be cloud free until I put my gargantuan coal mine of hatred into perspective. Can you imagine what platitudes do to me. I think I'll hand a litte not to whom the fuck ever the fuck when those noises are directed to me with a suggestion: look for beauty. Take a great big goddam picture, but you're forbidden from using a camera of any kind, except the one behing your eyes." What a waste of words on the too far gone. Note that you didn't disparage them further, you ol coot, said the wise old kernal of korn, as it loosened it's grip, but just. When the cats hear my howlin it worries them, or so I suspect. Blackie in particular. You should have seen the cloud show above Danny's house. That space above his house is like a theatre for the clouds because I can sit from my rocker that my mommy gave me and appreciate the grand offering. Did you know that the wispy clouds are watchin the big ones like tiny mommys watching their enormous babies? I think so. Did you know my biodaddy was a cowbird just like me? I've learned not to throw the mommy and daddy out with the dirty mommy and daddy water. Ever feel like my three cats getting fed the rare nine lives abomination and looking around like they're doing something very wrong. Another example of the union of opposites. Best to walk away early on before you have to run for your life with the odds well against you. I've got my feet fooled into thinking I've taken them to the beach. I wonder how many people retire early so they can get the fuck away from everyone. You never hear about these people because nothing's being reported because there's no one there. Another sweet looking, perhaps unfettered old man ambles by along with his smile and a tip of his old hat. I can tell he wants to come up. My intuition told me that if I invited him up I might spend all night burying his bloody corpse in the basement on account of something stupid he said that involved either Jesus and God and politics. Off he ambled, saving us both a ton of shit. My uncle Ralph said it best: "Some people just need to be shot." And he should know because he shot the fuck out of my Uncle Billy Joe. Right into the center of his chest. They say he swole up like a dead sow, but he survived and refused to cooperate with the law. The earth enabled our evolution and, in return, white men tried to fuck her in every hole, digging new ones for new variations on the theme, like plastic sex hole surgery.

Man In A Shed - A song that reminds me of my buddy, Curtis Caughorn, who lived for a time in a shed

' Cello Song - Nick Drake

Three Hours - Nick Drake

River Man - The Stunning Harmony of Nick Drake

Pixies - All I Think About Now

The sixty four years long piece of string.

Half the width of the double helix, rungless and hard to measure, hangs all the way down 64 years. It's red, frayed at the early end and faded, yet keeps half the entire record. Twine, in fact.

Gonna Die Alone - Seems peaceful and quiet to me. Quite Naturally the way to check out when my body finally folds up

Took Winston Churchill's Black Dog for a Walk on Sunday. It Got Out on Tuesday.

Or maybe it took me for a walk. Understand that when we take each other out, which is fortunately a rare thing, we usually have to avoid the venue for a long time afterward on account of socially unacceptable performances we delivered. Unless, of course, when we can't. The good news is that, despite the dog slipping his lead yesterday as I was working at the Justice Center, I didn't slap the genuine fuck out anyone.

While it lasts - The Day at the Beach

Stray beach dogs at the beach chasing frisbees into the sea because they are basically stupid minions that bite children. The royal beach. Rhymes most appropriately with bleach. Beach wraps around the colonies within continental rims. The beach is made of gentle glass and the millenia of the wear of time. But, gentle on the feet like watered down bleach. Angular. Better walk back the way I came in order to maintain angular justice to keep my body from imbalance and preserve equanimity of the hipwork. The beach, a staging area. There are black beaches at the Blackpool beach. I'll never see the beach again. The beach is the foamy welcome mat to the high seas. The smell of the air that soaks the beach and then shares the smell with my face without fee. The communal beach. My balls at the beach. Beach pussy. The beach has this beautiful way of settling my libido to sit it out, so to speak. My sandy balls at the beach. The three of us at the beach. Bellies at the beach. The truth comes out at the beach. Chalky oily Appalachians at Myrtle the beach. My member at the beach. Beach penis. Tucked in. Old balls at the beach. Old beach balls. That fishy smell of the beach matches that fishy smell away from the beach. That fishy smell wafting in the mountains. The sound of children at beach time. Fewer women wear watches anymore, especially so on the beach. Replaces by rectangles under umbrellas in the hands of noisy women and noiser kids at the beach that tell time, too. Beachy sand palms at the beach. Sandy black radiating rectangles. Towels. Sunglasses. Oil. Assholes pleading to be taken into the salty sea that the beach buffets. A young boy dug a hole in the beach at Buxton. His last act. At the beach. While frisbees cut through the thick air at Avon. Beach pits. Arm pits. Feet. Two by two times ten toes at the beach front. Beaches bloody beaches absorb those human invasions likes sponges. We then become the beach. I'm at Avon for the balance. At Buxton. At Okrakoe. At that island near Charles town. Where there was no beach. Just ocean and exposed rootworks abruptly into the Atlantic. Where I started puttin things together, fully clothed under the water at Hunting Island that has no beach, where dogs can't shit.