Sigh of Relief

I've got my Vodka Soda, sans lime and I'm sitting in my room, Friday night
in my boy-shorts and t-shirt, and I've nothing to write.
I've inspired and refreshed this week 1 I had dinner with my sexy Indian friend
we obsessed over anus and we talked about life, work, rules and getting older and fringe
err. I mean fake hair, what do you call it? My colored hair Extensions that reminded us of Crystal Taylor days.
We laughed and I sighed a sigh of relief. It's my girlfriends that know me, that make me Me.
I've inspired and rejuvenated like a vagina on pills. Not really more like a zap from the god's, the heavens, whatever, the planets they shifted and the clouds they lifted and I all of a sudden reveling in my lifestyle.
Where I no longer have to bill or wear a frock that doesn't suit me. Nor wear something day in and day out pretend to be professional more often than not. Instead I can wear belts and boots and hair extensions when I damn well please. God I love it.

I am really starting to become the fringe I know I can so well be.

And 2. The record, this album, this band. Progress is being made though it sometimes comes to a still stand. Every little bit counts, if you know what it means, networking and partying is all part of the mix.

Lesbian ladies all have gone to far away places. It's weird how I always befriend the transients. I can't make your home, though I've got this dream home, where I live with dudes, male energy, pure male energy. You want to find home, but somehow I resist. Got these walls up and don't let you in, unless you are you and you find you're way in, you know who you are you will find your way in.

I have to recognize my role in keeping you away. Ladies of the night. Ladies, even my friends. I know I do it.

But now I'm humbling, releasing and relaxing. Come over or not. Come over or not. If there was nothing else to do, there'd be parties here more often than you'd know what to do.
But, I moved out of domestication, and to move back in is the only thing I knew to do. I don't try to fight it either, I'm older and it's more comfortable, relaxing, the thing to do. But I will say I want it to change, for a few more years at least 5 to 10. But then my life will be something different all together. Something I wish to embrace. An endless drunkeness, happiness' craziness and grace.

Baudelaire wrote:

"Be always drunken. Nothing else matters: that is the only question. If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, be drunken continually. Drunken with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. But be drunken. And if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the green side of a ditch, or in the dreary solitude of your own room, you should awaken, and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, of whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks, ask what hour it is; and the wind, wave, star, bird, clock, will answer you: 'It is the hour to be drunken! Be drunken, if you would not be martyred slaves of Time; be drunken continually! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will'

To which I say, work it has changed me, the desire for success somehow fits with domesticated bliss, but instead of falling asleep in married bliss, I alone staying up late in drunken madness, typing the words which fall on deaf ears. The work masks the silence.

And lesbians, gangsters, musicians and rockers all live on my street.

stealth. whore.

I am not going to sit here and pretend it's all great
that the risk taking is all wonderful that it's so glamorous
and desirable

I will say that I am doing a lot and compromising a lot of comfort
for this art and this life
but often doth wondering if it's all worth it
when wind comes storming through the living room
like they own the place stomping their feet because they do not know how
to walk lightly with ease on their toes. stealth.
stealth.

no stealth to be aware of and no wealth. because he is cheap. he is my tenant. and I cannot stand him from within my core. his lacking of social skills and grace. of knowledge and social aptitude.
yet, having to listen to loud comments. it's so ugly. how much I ignore. an awful landlord. an awful whore.
my choice is to be angered and annoyed. or let that shit go. whore.

My Roots

This rain it's killing me, the clouds the gloom I'm sinking into doom
He says things like if life sucks then you suck and he's right
I'm dreaming of a foreign land with lots of color
away from the vast drear that is America
Even though I stay close to the coasts and the cities
Los Angeles, San Francisco New York what have you
I'm still craving Bangkok, Shanghai, Beijing, Hong Kong, Ho Chi Minh
Ladies in eyeliner and men in suits trading money and temples in bars
and of course my boots
my roots

So I retreat back to my back room
where I slip into some colors no not a fucking negligee
not something more comfortable, how fucking cliche'
I'm taking about my hair and the stripes I stick in them
To make me feel more risque'
But when in reality I'm craving the road
some drugs
a drink
a party
something more than this
something somewhere else
something totally different than this

Part of me thinks I should go back to work for a few months
YOU fucking douche. You should write for a few months.
Keep writing, it's the only thing that keeps you sane.
Fucking winter months
I did not expect you to come so soon.

So you got some time on your hands. So you got some time on your hands,
No I hate twitter and facebook and myspace. I am not a networking beast.
Never really was. Always just wanted to be loved and adored. But don't want to put in that much work.
I make myself feel horrible and worse. I don't have it in me like you do.
I'm reading A. Burroughs and Listening to Steven M. and hanging out in Greensboro with M&M and I recognize the cynical gay man in me. Except perhaps sometimes I can be pretty. Well then what is the difference?
We're the same. But I got stuck, and sucked into this Hetero world, when I should have been slutting around Gay Sydney in my heels not Gay LA, it's pretty lame anyway. Ok, New York City?
Nah. Bangkok, oriental setting.
Either way, it seems pretty obvious to me anyway. I should develop some sort of addiction or affliction or ailment. Shouldn't I anyway? Do my nails. I guess it's that time anyway. Do my nails and paint my hair. Come sit down at this desk with a glass of wine. Shit, it's not even noon yet.
So, the world is supposedly coming to an end. And if that is the case, what would I really desire to do with my final dying days?
I don't even really have to think about it. Not sitting on twitter making friends. Not fucking talking to people on myspace whom I don't even know. That is not my forte'. Not how I roll. Some people can be friends with random people they meet online. Not me. And perhaps that is why I cannot promote this band the way you do. The way in perhaps I should. I cannot. I cannot. I don't get into it. Though perhaps I could. Maybe I just don't want to or don't give a fuck.
And this guy the other night. In between trying to sweet talk me, telling me that he fears rock n roll is dead. Where do we go he asks? If so, then what is it all for? What the fuck is it all for? None of this even fucking matters anymore. This stupid rock and roll world, and rock n roll dream. He surmises its all for the dead.
So then what? Where does that leave me? Well let's just sit here and think about it for a moment. Sit here and think about it long and hard for a dark dreary fucking moment.
Do I care about these therapists self help continuing educational units teleconferences you all keep trying to invite me to? Hell no.
Do I care about the strip club where the rock bands play? Probably not.
Do I care about the train station somewhere in the middle of the Sahara desert? Yes. Yes. Yes. I want to be back on the road with my camera and my pain. I want to document the colors.
It always goes back to the colors.

this old vintage house....

I haven't sounded out for weeks maybe days beyond
and sometimes I cry behind the curtains that are forever drawn
and this house was my imagined dream
an old vintage house perfect if only more clean and serene

and the stupid idiots that leave within
ranging from odorous, broke and stomping loud
tactless beings, angry dumb fucks
and me

how I want this house to be rid of these dudes
and filled with my sweet san francisco chics
ladies with style and sense and clean
that leave me alone and let me be me
calm and serene
and pretty
who have their shit together, have some fucking class and money.

But sometimes I wish to leave this place altogether
move back up north and storm the weather
and then I suspect it's just a matter of time until then anyway
and in between I'd better make my way
every now and then up to the place I once called heaven
that stole my soul and left me cold in my bones
it always boils down to
I just need to get on a plane more.
I just need to take care of me more.

I'm an angry miserable old whore
a selfish unsatisfied bitter old bore.
Take me to the steeple and dump me on the floor.
This is the dead end of the road.

Sorry I can't be more positive.
I should uncrinkle my brow
it would make you happy
but it's a total lie.