Friday night in Oneonta, seems kind of slow at first,
standing with my foot propped up on a wet bench to balance my notebook
I watch a fiddler busk for change as he plays soothe sounds and smokes cigarettes.
The bow sliding a groove across the fret.

Smoking a cigarette, listening to the bustle start up,
inhaling the weekend and exhaling the week.
Hip hop beat wafting out and over the drone of car engines from across the street
at the Old Spanish Tavern.
People head out past the fiddler to destinations of recreations or back home after such.

At the back of the plaza is one of those wooden cut outs where you can stick your head in
and laugh cause you look lie something else- this one was set up with five hand drawn and painted flowers. Kids laugh as the adults and parents they are with take their pictures with them looking like flowers and really kids are flowers growing to bloom.

I had planned to attend a party but that was squelched once I found out the party was cancelled after I had already come to town and so I let the path take over as I float here on a bench without wonder but with being in tune with flow.
Clouds grow dark and darken darker as night blankets over. It rained early in the evening and I can't help but ponder briefly if it will again- will I be drenched, soaked and walking the four miles home...answer doesn't matter.

Travel free- ultimate high
play music on the streets
and in your head
Converse on literature with
a streetsician fiddler
old time folk blues
roots music
get to that root.

Dig deep, no deeper!
Embrace beginnings that are endings.
Fiddler's guitar friend had a broken string
luckily the Music Square was
still open
and on they busk their jam after a quick tuning of the string
fresh fruit canned jam sweet

People passing by and not turning an eye, either too distracted or to lost in this post-modern modern lifestyle to hear. Fuck if I understand that line. The night comes closer closer closer and then she is here. Street lamps amber shadows encompass. The streetsicians say good bye and we exchange pleasantries of our meeting. I assume they are off to play elsewhere.
So there I am asking myself what it is I am to be in tune to or looking for. People in their groups of familiarities of others walk by. A young girl shouts to her friend, 'run forest run' what an odd quote for a person much younger than the movie to know.
Jazz music climbs and crawls on invisible veins up and out of the doorways and windows of the Red Caboose restaurant while I continue to write street choruses.

Group of guys in their twenty somethings laughing and walking by decide they need a group photo in the flowers. I snap it for them with someone from the groups Iphone.
Jazz trumpet
Jazz bass
Jazz razz of piano keys
People pass

The flower cut out  is not really any specific flowers,
it's an artistic licensed interpretation of flower stems and flower faces-
sun flower, heart flower, blue trimmed outline daisy, a purple string thingabob and the fifth is a mini aray of daisies in blue outlining the center cut out space.

Meet a man named Skulls
he invites me to come along and toke
beneath the side entrance of the library
walk, talk, converse, exchange shit for chit.
Head back to main and as we do a Pirate:
in her minivan warship, white not for purity,
rather as a canvas for blood carnage and mayhem
to paint on and then to wash it anew.

Shot of whiskey
shot of whiskey.
Five dollar cover charge at the Black Oak Tavern.
Nasty midnight on a calm clear guided night.
Clear to the being awakened.
Thrash then rage, prove you are living.
Damn the self and prove your alive.
Rhythm of energy collected into the bar,
and I feed as a leech off of it.
More than that I am the traveller long wandering
cleansed bathed and washed for the first time in months.
Let the cage rattle roll break. Let the cock guzzling bird Free, be free.
Ears ring and echo, sound decibels die, losing the ability to hear at certain levels.
Even in this rage there is beauty standing out.
Vocalist I meet named Jack will rattle the rage out of his vocal chords later,
for now he drinks beer and enjoys the night.

Porcupine needles shoot out and sting. Get your asses moving. Get them fucked.
Get them paid. Or get them out there.

All these lines of short bursts:
a teenage kid pre-ejaculating to his first porn
and this is what it is meant to be like every time.
Hard cock inserted into a tight vagina-
fluidity of groovement fuels.

First band finishes set, in metered steps all comes to a low din.
Even in the silence and  for that the anti-silence and the absence of silence,
there is still and will be beauty.
Undefinable and existing A priori.
In the absence of existence there is still existence.
Even in the fading memory brought back with sudden interior light
there is beauty.
I blur through the second band in a daze of cigarette breaks and pen jabs into paper.
Then on comes Nasty Midnight and true verse writing is always one nasty midnight.

As I come to this point I consider some Dewey Cotton advice
toss in a bottle of good times and learn to see that the shady grove
is everywhere.

A cat attracted to all movement and my eyes dart around all night long.

As I talk to a girl named Sue with a blonde Mohawk and bangs, conversing on minimalist living life reduced to a duffel bag
in order to be ready if the scent of rambling guides your life onward
and her reasoning for her urges to do so-
as I am living in the same fashion.
She must be a Bodhisattva in training
Her answer to my question of why:
“The World is too big to not.”

I can not forget to write one verse for the drunken Pirate.
Boys have penises and girls have vaginas.
Sometimes even pirates have those
in danger of causing suffocation bodacious tits.


Poetry is not written
Literature of great magnitude
Epics of great fortitude
They are not written
All is travels on the road.

Friday night in Oneonta, seems kind of slow at first,
standing with my foot propped up on a wet bench to balance my notebook
I watch a fiddler busk for change as he plays soothe sounds and smokes cigarettes.
The bow sliding a groove across the fret.

Smoking a cigarette, listening to the bustle start up,
inhaling the weekend and exhaling the week.
Hip hop beat wafting out and over the drone of car engines from across the street
at the Old Spanish Tavern.
People head out past the fiddler to destinations of recreations or back home after such.

At the back of the plaza is one of those wooden cut outs where you can stick your head in
and laugh cause you look lie something else- this one was set up with five hand drawn and painted flowers. Kids laugh as the adults and parents they are with take their pictures with them looking like flowers and really kids are flowers growing to bloom.

I had planned to attend a party but that was squelched once I found out the party was cancelled after I had already come to town and so I let the path take over as I float here on a bench without wonder but with being in tune with flow.
Clouds grow dark and darken darker as night blankets over. It rained early in the evening and I can't help but ponder briefly if it will again- will I be drenched, soaked and walking the four miles home...answer doesn't matter.

Travel free- ultimate high
play music on the streets
and in your head
Converse on literature with
a streetsician fiddler
old time folk blues
roots music
get to that root.

Dig deep, no deeper!
Embrace beginnings that are endings.
Fiddler's guitar friend had a broken string
luckily the Music Square was
still open
and on they busk their jam after a quick tuning of the string
fresh fruit canned jam sweet

People passing by and not turning an eye, either too distracted or to lost in this post-modern modern lifestyle to hear. Fuck if I understand that line. The night comes closer closer closer and then she is here. Street lamps amber shadows encompass. The streetsicians say good bye and we exchange pleasantries of our meeting. I assume they are off to play elsewhere.
So there I am asking myself what it is I am to be in tune to or looking for. People in their groups of familiarities of others walk by. A young girl shouts to her friend, 'run forest run' what an odd quote for a person much younger than the movie to know.
Jazz music climbs and crawls on invisible veins up and out of the doorways and windows of the Red Caboose restaurant while I continue to write street choruses.

Group of guys in their twenty somethings laughing and walking by decide they need a group photo in the flowers. I snap it for them with someone from the groups Iphone.
Jazz trumpet
Jazz bass
Jazz razz of piano keys
People pass

The flower cut out  is not really any specific flowers,
it's an artistic licensed interpretation of flower stems and flower faces-
sun flower, heart flower, blue trimmed outline daisy, a purple string thingabob and the fifth is a mini aray of daisies in blue outlining the center cut out space.

Meet a man named Skulls
he invites me to come along and toke
beneath the side entrance of the library
walk, talk, converse, exchange shit for chit.
Head back to main and as we do a Pirate:
in her minivan warship, white not for purity,
rather as a canvas for blood carnage and mayhem
to paint on and then to wash it anew.

Shot of whiskey
shot of whiskey.
Five dollar cover charge at the Black Oak Tavern.
Nasty midnight on a calm clear guided night.
Clear to the being awakened.
Thrash then rage, prove you are living.
Damn the self and prove your alive.
Rhythm of energy collected into the bar,
and I feed as a leech off of it.
More than that I am the traveller long wandering
cleansed bathed and washed for the first time in months.
Let the cage rattle roll break. Let the cock guzzling bird Free, be free.
Ears ring and echo, sound decibels die, losing the ability to hear at certain levels.
Even in this rage there is beauty standing out.
Vocalist I meet named Jack will rattle the rage out of his vocal chords later,
for now he drinks beer and enjoys the night.

Porcupine needles shoot out and sting. Get your asses moving. Get them fucked.
Get them paid. Or get them out there.

All these lines of short bursts:
a teenage kid pre-ejaculating to his first porn
and this is what it is meant to be like every time.
Hard cock inserted into a tight vagina-
fluidity of groovement fuels.

First band finishes set, in metered steps all comes to a low din.
Even in the silence and  for that the anti-silence and the absence of silence,
there is still and will be beauty.
Undefinable and existing A priori.
In the absence of existence there is still existence.
Even in the fading memory brought back with sudden interior light
there is beauty.
I blur through the second band in a daze of cigarette breaks and pen jabs into paper.
Then on comes Nasty Midnight and true verse writing is always one nasty midnight.

As I come to this point I consider some Dewey Cotton advice
toss in a bottle of good times and learn to see that the shady grove
is everywhere.

A cat attracted to all movement and my eyes dart around all night long.

As I talk to a girl named Sue with a blonde Mohawk and bangs, conversing on minimalist living life reduced to a duffel bag
in order to be ready if the scent of rambling guides your life onward
and her reasoning for her urges to do so-
as I am living in the same fashion.
She must be a Bodhisattva in training
Her answer to my question of why:
“The World is too big to not.”

I can not forget to write one verse for the drunken Pirate.
Boys have penises and girls have vaginas.
Sometimes even pirates have those
in danger of causing suffocation bodacious tits.


Poetry is not written
Literature of great magnitude
Epics of great fortitude
They are not written
All is travels on the road.

Does she know I'm a forger?
An average intelligence schemer?
Caught up in these repetitions.
Repetitions, my veins pump beer instead of blood.
Repetitions, my throat spews out wine instead of blood.
Yes I'd give this life to rest my head

Went from a lake of pine to a lake of glass.
From the northwest of the Catskills to the southwest.
From a land that seemed worn from usage to a land that seemed lush with the wild.
1100 acres and I explored most of them, from the Catskill rock formations to the pine floored spaces of the mountain forest, to the road of the Pennsylvania game lands where I walked two miles past old campers and run down abandoned houses that are the remnants of past existences back in the 19th and 20th centuries- across all this I trekked, sweated, and blared my headphones as I meditated and drifted out into the essences.

Saturday after everyone had started to leave for home except the few of us that were staying or had no way to go home for the night, there was a massive cloud with vortexes, cones, and funnels. It swirled and loomed large over head of Summit lake with large picturesque purplish hued cloud formations that appeared as a upside down mountain chain that stretched over the mountain range and off somewhere into the horizon.
It was one of those summer afternoon storms in July that flashes in after seeming so poetic. Suddenly there shouting out like some boisterous drunk that wants every one to know, “hey I am here damn it look at me!”
After the storm there are clouds that have the appearance of smoke slowly rising above a large fire. The sun reappears. The birds begin their song up again.

With the wet ground of mid-morning soaking into my feet I think about how the weeks of summer whir by in the same way as the plane ran overhead last night with it's light alternating flash- left, right, day, night- whir.

Last night I stepped outside for a cigarette and saw a star dive down and out or some orb of fire being leaving after the burning out stops. My body was a jumble of alcohol quakes and over exhaustion aches from helping a friend move during the evening- Fuck Nordictrack- Maybe I'm distracted and mind drifting.

Don't believe in love,
find someone that makes you say it nonchalantly over and over
as your stark naked, tripping, up on a roof top naked
jacking off fervently- Gusto!

Drink wine from a Nalgene bottle in the back of a Grey hound
chase down manifestations of Dhamma ghost in every town
Get living and stop trying to find ways to
Grab on completely or let go
Hike a mountain to a field of moss that floats out on a lake
Dive into a gorge beneath an old dam
Whatever it is you do
Do

The pages scribbled on blow in the breeze-
A lone man bellowing his blues
looking for a queen but only finds succubi
The leeches draining him
Do you know his blues
well he's going to texas
gonna shoot those blues away
two pistols two bullets two shots
going to texas, blowing the brains
out of his blues
And if he finds
and if he finds
An awakening he just might
shout AWHOOOOOOOO!

Jumbled phrases on crinkled water damaged pages
Jumbled ideas in scattered splatters
Toss it all together
Have one of mother nature's finest
A big fat doobie of a Karma burrito

Rules: Respect, Peace, and Fulfillment
settle for less- pain
settle for more- pain
myths are myths
You're your own God.

Muddy Walters woke up naked snuggling a midget in a chicken suit
All he could recollect, the midget shouting out “Tonight You.”
In the morning Sally calls, “Hey baby where you been?”
“Tonight with you.”

Motivation stalls out
these distractions failed
barrier encapsulates
trepidation
shaggy
disheveled
A snake slithers under his skin
pressure stretches his brain
to compensate clear head
inebriated

Barbed wire hands
Black beauty in a glass
June's humidity has got
laziness setting in

Somewhere in the distance,
a piano plays a cheery tune,
been so long since I heard one at all.
Barbed wire hands grip this
condescension dripping
glass

Give me a porter
Give me a bock
Give me a stout
then give me a shot.
Barbed wired hands of the fool.
Whose hanging from a noose...
Once his neck has snapped, breathing is all but done,
tie the carcass to a rope,
let a horse drag it through the town.
Let those hoofs beat and mash,
let the blood run as a stream.
And if anyone ask the question,
Revolutionary?
Reply to them, “revolt is dead.”

A town so cold and out in the wind drowning.
All the walls with their melancholy tap- tap.
Come along, maybe you will hear.
Come along, maybe you will see,
cracked levy about to burst.

World is stretching thin, distance between slowly
getting longer.
A glass shard tongue wants to say
to the emerald beauties how they are
the single rose each growing in a field
of rotting trash and decay.

There's a hungry scratching need to know.
It's why wild dogs need to roam.
It's why these beauties wish they could tame
that which never knew a home.

All that you can save,
a shadowy sliver of memory,
of the wandering.

With a rucksack on my back,
came to a crossroads,
one road named Follow,
the other named Live.
The philosopher stomach has an insatiable
appetite, the urge to know,
why the entire world
boarded the train
Trepidation.

Disappear

Sunday at Pine Lake, not a lazy Sunday- vibrant with life-
all these birds chirping, dogs and people swimming, fish jumping up from 'neath lilly pads,
insects sucking nectar from flowers, fat bumble bees zooming by from one flower to the next.
I was considering camping out deep up here in these Pine Tree'd woods that feel so free and refreshing, wrapped up in my blue and white corn husk blanket by a campfire beneath these stars and on the shore of Charlotte Creek river.
Temporary peace through nature.
Wine stains on notebook pages are a reminder of drunken revelry of funny vulgarity.
Soon I will walk the trek down this county mountain road and back towards home.
For now I absorb and sketch what these antennae of creativity can grasp.

Earlier, I climbed across the side of a very rusted train bridge that sits disconnected above the river.
This train bridge had half its tracks missing and gave various warnings of danger and no trespassing.
I felt like a monkey as with my bare feet I scaled along the side from one section to the next and then down to the shore to walk into the cold refreshing water to swim back across to the other side.
Tonight will be a calm and warm night. Sometime tomorrow there will be rain.

I put off the hike back for a little longer and continue to let this pen scribble ink word stains.
Why can't I lay here upon this grass and stay hidden off out in the woods as if I was a hermit for peace?
I could but all these signs posted on trees and bulletin boards say no overnight camping allowed.
Soon this will be another day that has come to pass.

On a friday night around 10:45 I get a text from my friend Chris.
“Drunk Sasquatch calling in woods.”
He sends me an address,
I hop in a taxi and drive up East Street  into the mountain above Oneonta.
An unbirthday party and most everyone, even the birthday girl
Are sleeping drunk.
Four of us sit by campfire drinking and howling out.
Well three of us were the fourth was sober...
Drunk, High
Wake up drink two shocktops for breakfast.
See my friend DJ as I walk back to town from home the next morning
I borrow his bike.
See my friend Finch I haven't seen in a year in Neawha.
Toke, Drink two Shock tops for lunch on a trail in the park to catch up converse.
Girls, sun waves, walking, high and at ease.

Walk up to the Saturday drum circle in Huntington park.
rhythm rhythm rhymes and carries thyme.
leave to visit a friend, toke, fill lungs with smoke.
Drum circle again
tap tata tap tatateteetetap
go go go go
sunshine hazed
sunshine hazed.
Drum cigarettes and sitting beneath a tree's shade in meditation.
puff and cloud
puff and cloud
puff.

Sunglasses to keep glare of light out,
Energy drinks to keep moving,
relax it is the destination.
Keep moving.
Drip.
Lack of sleep yawn.
Tired.
Too nice of a day to sleep.
Too much flow to not follow.
Listen with these spirit ears.
Follow.
F  l  ow

Phada
Dhamma
Drums
Deny the incarnations of love
that this body exumes fumes of.
Desire to care.
Give give give give give give give.
Do not take.
Cursed to suffer.
Suffer to give.
Give to suffer.
Give.

Fat cat karma cat fat
sits in shade.
Fat sat sit.
The wise Brahman
one fat cat.
A glutton.
Glug chug down flow.
One fat Dharma cat.
One fat cat.
Drums
D
r
u
     m
s

Smart water, I don't feel or think smarter.
Drums
Smart water, still not smarter.
Dried throat thirst.
Smart Water
Drip.
Drums.
   Toke
Drip
Drums.

Fingers on frets, fingers pluck, strum, groove.
Drums.
Fingers strum.
  Drums
Meditate in park.
Meditate everywhere,
at all times.
Meditate, transcend levels of being.
Define this being.
Fingers groove
Souls move.
Drums.
Meditate, transcend, deconstruct.
Define this being.

All I can do is give.
All I can do is take.
All I can do is listen.
Fingers groove
souls move.
All I can do is see.
All I can do is feel.
Fingers groove
souls move.

Day turns into evening.
Transistor
Sun moves low.
A voice of hum sings.
A drum is tap ta ta tapped.
A guitar is strummed.
Be grateful to those who are dead.
Drink some red eyed visions.
Sound of thunder
comes to take me home.
Transistor
I move older.
Drink some red eyed visions.
Sound of thunder
wash me clean.
Lay this body down.
Lay these arms aside.
Drink some red eyed visions.
Then tell me what's this being mean.
Tell me
Transistor.
Tell me
Transistor.
Fingers groove
souls move.
Transistor.
Sound of thunder
wash me clean.
Fingers groove
souls move.
Transistor.