from Babybirds

But beneath the rough exterior there was a world that nobody knew about and it was Bernard’s dream world. Bernard had the ability to dream in such a manner that had technology existed to view them people would perhaps even envy him for his mind. His dreams were in Technicolor. Everything seen was alive, breathing almost. Aura’s surrounded plants and trees and animals, which is mostly what he dreamed about; silver clouds, brown mountains, green trees, all were palpable and mysterious connections to the truest world, that of the spirit. In a way Bernard was in direct contact with God through wordless viewings into the inner realms of the outer world. Most of his dreams were kind things, simple roamings over landscapes of infinite beauty and mystery. He rarely dreamed of people and their intrigues for this was not a world that he was a part of much anymore

Published in: on August 11, 2009 at 7:52 pm  Leave a Comment  

a poem – Albert

Needing to know beyond what knowledge,
needing not me,
lays down like rags before me
I feel again instead of see.

Having always seen, always supposedly known,
knowledge anew tells me I’ve not but been tethered
to a big brown ball lowing groans and smoking,
rounding the linelessness of what-might-be illumination,
sun gowned, maybe, real perhaps, or just mimicking
the word beyond the word where the word supposedly lay

at which destination I cannot see anyway so I don’t
instead deeming it right to feel only
watching not watching while the gazeless codes enrich me,
and feed my blindness something of something
at least to the point of wanting hence feeling.

so I smile at the absurdity of longing
to know the meaning of to know

Published in: on August 11, 2009 at 7:47 pm  Leave a Comment  

Jed – Jed

Back in 90 I was quite the spitfire. I had more red blood cells churning in my veins than just about anybody else in the world I think. They’ve gotten over that trip. Heroin use has been replaced by other things. You don’t read much about it anymore, thank God. It nearly killed me. Took me away from the love of my life more than once. Being almost eighty I’ve got a lot of time to reminisce. My wife Helen lays beside me. I think she’s asleep. Yeah, she’s asleep. So I’ve taken to writing in this journal to try to explain my life to myself. It’s not an easy thing to do. After my career as a rock and roll star in the late 80s and early 90s of the last century I did a lot of things that can’t quite constitute living in the way that most people constitute living. I spent a lot of time running from my demons. There are a lot of reasons for these demons, one in particular that I’m sure that I’ll get to by the time this journal is finished, maybe in the next one, but I’m in no hurry. I’ve got a lifetime to remember a lifetime.
I just got in a little discussion with my wife over which was the best show we ever played. I was telling her that it had to be Memphis Tennessee because of this dream I had on stage just before this ghost of my past attacked me on stage. This is a long story that I’d rather not go into right here, but it has to do with that thing I was talking about that I ‘m sure I’ll get to, the reason for my demons. I was telling Moxy that this Memphis show was the best one and she couldn’t stomach it because of what that kid did to me on stage to me. She rescued me on that one. She put her stiletto heal through that kid’s neck. Almost killed him. She didn’t like thinking about that so I didn’t push it. I don’t push bad things on my Helen to think about anymore. She’s earned the right not to have to think about the bad in this world. She prefers to think about the good, the way the grandkids come over and help her can and make pies on Sundays. The bike rides, one of which we’re going on tomorrow with Minnie, Bob and the kids. Albert and Gia might even come along. I’ll call them in the morning. Albert’s my brother. Gia is his wife. I forgot what I was going to write about. I’m getting old…fell asleep. Times up for this project. Sleep.

There is no telling about the mountains. There is no poetry for the explanation that I can think of, any poetry that I learned came to me in the form of music. Explanations were musical explanations. Words were for direction, music was for understanding. That’s because my daddy was a musician. He never made it, but he played around. Bluegrass mostly, Dylan, the Stones, anything that rocked. He always wore his cowboy hat when he played. People looked at him and wondered what he was. Everybody around Millsville where I grew u listened to country music, and my daddy did too, but he was changing in front of everybody’s eyes, introducing the town to folk, Dylan, anybody who was getting plugged in. He had little patience with people who didn’t recognize the validity of the new music coming out of the world of the late sixties; Hendrix, The Who. My father rocked.

But my father realized that rock and roll is for the elect and the few to prosper from. He became a plumber and I believe he was a happy man. He always seemed to be smiling. He loved me a lot and my brother Albert. He loved our mother a lot, was always grabbing her, playing with her, making her squeel and run away from him in playful ways. It was a good thing to grow up seeing, how my parents were in love with each other. You didn’t see that a lot back then, not now either. It was a good thing.
I remember the mountains. The last day of my life with my father was spent in the mountains of tennessee. We’d spent a week fishing and camping together. My father was teaching me how to play the guitar. That week was filled with fishing and campfires filled with song and guitar playing. He was teaching me rock, too. He was teaching me chords and how to hold the thing and all that, but he was teaching me that it was an instrument that liked to be handled, liked to be controlled. He held it like a man would handle a wrench, but when he tweeked it it would always be with a manly gentleness that I saw was a victory of something like soul over mechanism. I learned that a lot even when I had giant Marshall amps around me, it wasn’t necessarily how loud I could get, but what I could do to people’s souls during the manipulation of that power. If I couldn’t imagine myself playing there at the trickling stream then there was little point in playing. Everybody out there in that audience was looking for something like soul that maybe had been lost to them somehow, maybe that day, maybe that week, maybe forever. I needed to find the soul that music reaches to reel it in for them. When I found it in myself I then had a responsiblity to sculpt it so that people realize it’s not a rought stone, but a beautiful, cool, clear diamond with all of the answers to everything soulless in their lives.
That was my job. All I had to do was go through the moment, follow the contours of the light which was really sound and make it all the way through. Like running through a wall of fire or jumping through a rainbow, that’s pretty poetic to describe the way that I always felt I should play my guitar. I not only had a vision, I had a purpose in pursuing that vision. My purpose was to reunite others with their souls. What I was really trying to do was reunite myself with my own soul. Turns out I could only do that on stage. The less I was on stage and the more I got into heroin the less I was able to do it in a real way for myself. Eventually I fell off the face of the earth. My world had fallen apart. I’d lost Moxy to the drug. I almost lost my life, but something saved me. It was just like my daddy told me could happen when I was a kid, the day before we went back into town and before going home went in for some pie where my daddy got into an argument defending a woman and got shot. He said that when you think that you’ve lost your soul that maybe that’s when you have the best chance of getting it back. It’s then that Jesus watches over you the most. He said that maybe a bird will come down and sit on my shoulder and tell me what to do. Well, frankly, that came true to some degree. I actually found a hawk that allowed me to look into my own soul across many lonely campfire nights when I was running to something, well, running to a magic chair, but I’m getting ahead of myself. What I’m trying to say is that I almost lost my soul and my daddy had warned me that there was always hope for the man who had lost his soul. Came a point in my life where I started searching again for my soul, after losing everything in the world dear to me. I had no choice. And you know what? I found it.

Published in: on August 9, 2009 at 4:08 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite

The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite

Welcome to the very first Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite. This used to be a radio show in Santa Barbara when I lived out there among the barbarians. What I did there was simply read my novel on Monday afternoons to kids in the dorms who weren’t listening anyway. It was a practice radio stations that went into the dorms only. This way the rest of the world was spared the novices who might say things that nobody wanted hear anyway. It was a great excercise in mental masturbation. This is something I have found that I am quite adept at.
When I got tired of reading I would simply talk to the kids. I have no proof that I ever had a single listener. I never received a single phone call or a single comment from anybody at the station where I worked. I was live dead air. I think that is about par for your average writer anyway so I am not ashamed. All I can say is that is where the literary campsite was born and now it lives on in written form. It has a life of its own, tentacles stretching out across all boundaries that would keep it down, simply because it has this: the word “literary” in it’s title. Anytime you use words you enter the realm of the literary. I don’t care if you think that this word should be reserved for only the greats. I don’t buy this because so many people want to be great themselves that they will never allow others to be great and therefore nobody at all gets heard. Here at the literary campsite I am here to proclaim the liberation of the “word”.
Let’s start with A. Abacus: a counting machine. Abcess: a bleeding wound. Absent: not present…

Published in: on August 9, 2009 at 4:00 pm  Leave a Comment  

riters

“They presented the idea of being a writer when I was still a teenager, something I’d always had success at as a child. It was the one thing I could ever do where people thought it was okay. Everybody. I could write. It came from being a dreamer growing up. Now you’re just weird. Anyway, this is for all those others out there who kept on playing even when told that recess was over.

Published in: on August 9, 2009 at 3:30 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Squirrel – Jed

In a world, a wider world than we’ve ever conceived growing up, where love is disguised hate, where kindness is no longer free, where distrust is the norm, we all learn to survive by becoming what we hate. We do this by lying to ourselves. We lie about everything. Not only that, our feelings lie to our heads. We dont know how to label anything anymore. When the entire world is a symbol for something we can’t conceive of, when every little picture can represent something else, we lose our sense that we are connected. So the squirrel staring at me right now at first perplexed me even as it pleased me. I’ve been half in and half out for I don’t know how many hours, lying here on this mud bank. My car is gone, down at the bottom of that river. I’ve got this squirrel looking at me. I’m not out of it completely yet. I know I am, but I also know that I’m not. I’ve been dreaming and thinking. It’s a peaceful world to know that you aren’t expected anywhere and you can sit and reflect, re-visit the places that you’ve been. As I lay here I realize I’ve been doing plenty of this reflecting. Now I got this squirrel. He’s staring me down. Whope, he just left. I guess I blinked.

Published in: on August 9, 2009 at 3:24 pm  Leave a Comment  

The Least Asked Questions of All Time

The Least Asked Questions of All Time

Why don’t the Harlem Globetrotter’s just go pro?
Why do we love Chinese food, yet the people annoy us?
Why do girls always say they like “sensitive” guys and then always dump them for football players?

Perhaps you have wondered…coming soon…

Published in: on August 9, 2009 at 3:16 pm  Leave a Comment