Another sleepless night spent
messing with synthesizers, drum
machines and groove-boxes. Music
may have stalled my flow of words
but I dream of joining them together
and spinning songs out into the world.
I wonder when this penchant for insomnia
will create something worthy.
The storm outside is howling
and my mind drifts towards
philosophy, a thought of
pharmacophenomenology.

What of a philosophy
of psychoactivity?
What does a philosophy of drugs entail
if we are to do it justice?
Will it help us better assess the cognitive
component of substances, their suitability
for patients? Is there more to psychology
than cognition? Will it help us appraise
those supposedly ineffable qualities
of mind? Will it help us understand
the patterns humans engage themselves in?
Will it help one follow the string, the thread,
The knots and narratives that we are composed of.
These are valuable enough questions for me to justify
developing the pharmacophenomenological method.

I again glimpse of eternity.

I saunter where the shadows stain the streets.
I linger where my essence is silhouetted in the moonlight,
or beamed under a street light,
                                               or doused in headlights.

I loiter with friends in parking lots of frozen yogurt shops
in a small town--
listing torpid quadrupeds,
whose shells glisten and dazzle in the myriad of lights,
scrolling down the boulevard.

I find myself behind the wheel,
grazing among pavement pastures,
hungrily consuming the open road
on a silent night,                         in the still air.

          Night makes everything seem to go on forever.

From the speakers I hear the sizzle of ancient synthesizers
envelop the interjections of pulsating snare drum
slaps and snaps, cracks and claps.
          Hypnotized, I hit cruise control and drift ceaselessly.

At home, face illuminated in the television's glare,
my body buried under the weight of scattered sheets,
staggering dreams, snacks and drinks,
          my eyes burn steady into the void.

The television, likewise, burns into me,
as I ingest films that depict time travel in all its ambiguity.
I rip through the portal, feeling simultaneously
expeditious and sluggish.
          Did I stop time with breakneck speed,
or did I freeze like a river in the winter solstice?

Either way, I now stand outside the confines of mortality.

There's the sands of perception (identity)
muddied by the breaking waves of time,
where my sunken footprints
appear
and
disappear.

Relinquishing the captain's chair,
my mind fills with lucid dreams,
          from the TV screen.
Surely I know this is not reality,
but I cannot help it--
I am an accomplice in these chronographic schemes.

Though I appear in control, or at least aware,
I surrender my earthly duties to the conductor of time,
or its deviant: The Vexer.

The Vexer, the mischievous time traveler,
who dances between the dimensions,
with black holes for ears,
the speed of sound for a voice,
the speed of light for eyes--
it is the pestering worm digging throughout the galactic space apple.

The Vexer, who has wrenched me from my mortal footing,
to cast me adrift among uncharted seas,
with gloomy waters murky but heavenly
in its dark and rich violet glow,
like fires that burn hot hot on the color spectrum.
          A color less seen and therefore depicted as serene,
but all the more potent in its mystery.

The Vexer, with a wink of its cataclysmal eye,
grabs me by the wrist and tears me across the night sky--
I stretch thin between the television lines,
the endless roads and the mystic synthesizers,
peering through the night sky,
where human senses dull and the mind wanders--
          I have found myself in the Twilight Zone.

I am bound for eternity, ****** through the
tunnel vision telescope of man,
refracted as I bounce among the mirrors within,
expounded among the stars and the space between,
exploding in a brilliance in the vastness of its bliss.

The youthful laughter that ejects from the parking lots
of frozen yogurt shops,
the night drives with eyes that gloss over as it peers into oblivion,
dulled human senses that leave room for the mind to ponder,
the television screen that burns steadily into the mind,
the Vexer who oversees the mind's pondering of night life,
who like the court's jongleur skips and leaps
around the immensity of time's preponderance--  

Feigning insomnia to reap the benefits of illumination
in the infinitesimal night hour,
in these lingering hours that warp around somber hands
frozen on the midnight clock,
where thoughts of poetry flow and still bodies collect dew,
          the proximity of night life as it pertains to time travel:

The two are entwined.

Warming up like an electric orchestra,
the sound of your dad’s band practice seeped
through the vents from the basement.
Drums vibrated from the floor into my feet,
And we tapped our toes together,
thump thump thump.

Drowning out the 80’s punk, your mom
plays polka in the kitchen, making pasta. I stand
over the sauce stained stove watching the *** of water
sizzle to accordion cries and the idea of clogs. We sway
from side to side. Your hands hang off my hips.

Retreating, back to your blue room, we wait
for the wafting smells of garlic, grilled onions and
peppers to call us for dinner. You pull out your
keyboard, a pen, a pad. Pressing buttons, I hear
synthesizers and song samples through your
headphones. We smile, bobbing our heads in sync,
Bump, bump, bump.

~

Finding myself in a foreign living room,
I am alone. The TV is on mute and a “motivational”
speech muffles through his speakers. There are no
basement bands. No pasta, no polka, or clogs and cries.
Only sounds of silence. I press my feet against the floor.
I can’t hear the bumps, I can’t feel the thumps

there's basically
no difference between
clouds and fog, and
thunderstorms and reduced visibility
have both put the fear of God in me;
loving you is all
pain and lust, interchangeable,
interchangeable. slippery
squealing synthesizers, aching
for your touch and
dying to throw these
LCDs and LEDs and private
snapchats into the Recycle
Bin,
and I am glittering in the dark, swerving
across the median, drunk driving
on the thought of seeing you just a little
sooner than never.

The weather report called for a mix of sun and clouds.

The forecast read, partly sunny, partly cloudy, rain would change to sleet and snow. The temperature would rise to just below zero; a new all time high, as I lay sleeping, dreaming of electric jazz.

A purest said, “that ain’t jazz” as I wrestled him for the last copy of “Get Up With It” in a dilapidated record store. (This is the same guy from my baseball dreams. He hates the designated hitter.)

“This fusion is just the ******* child of rock & roll; a mere reaction to heavy electric guitars and synthetic synthesizers,” he shouts as I rip the record from his hands.

“This synthesis is more then just three cords strummed in a Capitol Records executives head,” I said. “This ******* brew, will return forever as long as I sing the body electric.”

I rolled over and pulled the blankets up to my ears as the clock radio played Red China Blues.

jbm
Oakland
11/26/98

Music Selection:
Miles Davis, Red China Blues

Droplets
of rain
on the leaves
make synthesizers
of the earth.

Echoes
begin in the brilliance
of
destruction.

Walking through the morning
in the decreptitude
of missed dreams.

I have been drunker
than any of you;
but you have all hated
yourself
enough
to
think
of
ending it all.

The drunkenesss
of suicide
is enough to understand
my pain.

In the night
you have contemplated
a thousand ways.

"God, I love you," He turned away. "It's hard to get that close to someone."
Then, he let her go, as one does. Because Life doesn't tell you to simper and sigh in the face of death,
Life is a phone call that you wait to receive.
It curls your bones with anxiety,
it is the breath your body needs as you break the surface. It is sweet windy spring. Cold milk. Firecrackers. Synthesizers. Loving until love becomes pain and turns back to love again.

When I’m struggling to write…
I like to think about what I’d say to a crush.

I only recently caught a disease called a break up, and there’s no cure for a love cut short.
Only Pain killers, symptom minimizers, synthesizers for all the oxytocin you’ve been short on…
And the still sodden service receipts for all the shoulders you’ve had to lean on.

But crushes don’t wanna hear that, so let me try something a little sweeter.

So… I think you’re so pretty, like really, really pretty. Like so pretty I would never say it to your face!
Like I imagine your line is long and your time is short, I imagine you’re busy being pretty and stuff…

I imagine... sunshine compliments your character…
I imagine watching you listen to music. Seeing the corners of your mouth dimple and dance and the sound of passion striking the vocal chords of the lyrical legends we dreamt of one day overtaking.
I imagine getting to sing with you… I imagine disturbing the floor boards. Heart beats like hi-hats, the ground beneath a dance mat, we’d toe the gap between us. Every inebriated motion, a mishap waiting to be laughed at. I wanna laugh with you.

I wanna watch elation escape your frame. An exaltation so insane you feel it kicking at your walls. Laughter like squalls, like wind, like fire, like… all the **** I wanna say.
It’s all just hot air, it floats away… and the problem still remains, I’d never say all this to your face.
The problem still remains that every sweet nothing is a paper crane hung from ceilings hoping one day to soar in your skies…
So, I’ll sit here… and polish your shine from a distance far enough to sustain a steady heart.

This is not a hope… or a plea, more just catharsis for those tired from shouldering the apprehensive affections that the best years of your life will present to you.

It’s okay not be flower picking. There will be times better spent watching them bloom.

We’re on October break, which is a 6-day weekend. For the last two weeks, everyone’s been making plans.
“What do you think of Cancún?” Sunny’d asked me.
“The only people going to Mexico are on the cheap or trapped in a trunk.” I’d answered.

After two weeks of weighing every conceivable terrestrial destination, amenities and available attractions, we (there’s six of us suitemates - Sunny, Lisa, Leong, Anna, Sophy and I) settled on good old Manhattan, where you’ll find us in adjoining-suites atop the Plaza hotel (thanks, Grandmère).

Things went CrA-CrA (crazy with a capital K) right off the bat. Sunny, as it turns out, KNOWS people here, and we decided to ‘walk on the wild side’ for one or two nights and check out a few fem-facing clubs. Now I know how sensitive we all are about pronouns, and what-not, but I’m going to try to simplify for a broad audience. These are lesbian clubs.

One thing I like about Music is sharing it with friends. Communities have always formed around art in whatever form. There are book clubs, film societies, Trekkies, Swifties and apparently, wild-*** lesbian dance clubs.

On our first night in Manhattan, the sun had barely set when Sunny said, “Ok then, let’s go!” And off we went to a “Femmquerade Ball”. I think that’s a combo of ‘feminine, queer and masquerade.’ She’d told us beforehand what to wear, “Take sweatshirts, those will come off - it gets hot in there - otherwise t-shirts, jeans and ballet flats - no purses.”

You know, I thought punk music was dead, ideating its death somewhere in the 90s. I was wrong, it’s ALIVE.
You know, when everyone’s feelin’ it, when two hundred people are rocking as one, club-life is transcendent. The club vibe was interesting too, there was a safety and freedom to it. You're in a crowded club, somehow without the limitations of the banal male gaze, with its sexist expectations. I don’t know how else to describe it.

I don’t think music has to have a message to earn its place as art. Folk romance music’s ok, jazz has its reach, opera is still happening and of course there’s regular dance music - cause sometimes, you’ve just gotta jiggle it.

That being said, there’s a saying that “Punk is truth” and that comes from its rawness and authenticity.
Punk has a ‘low barrier of entry’, as the academics say. It’s a game anyone can play. Punk isn’t autotuned, the bands use second-hand guitars, there are no synthesizers, the speaker stacks were shared, the vocalists lacked training, and I’d guess that none of the players were burdened with unpaid Juilliard tuition.

Punk’s always been outsider art, a scream along, you can’t go wrong, fire and every punk song is a garage invitation to joyously rage. As we drove to the club, Sunny had said, “Think of punk as dance music without inhibitions. It's straightforward and unapologetically for the people who can’t bother to keep to the dance steps and aren’t above getting in each other’s precious space.” Every word of that was true.

Punk lyrics are about the problems and issues of real-world people. It’s a roll call, a manifesto, implicit and explicit in stylish screaming. I’ve always called it scream-0. The point being, that while the rest of the world is restrained, heteronormative and reduced to a corporate gray backdrop, there’s still room for comradery, agency, outrage, pumpkin-Jello-shots (@ $16 each) and a bit of winking fun.

We DID have fun but I’ve been hoarse all day today. As we’d climbed into the car, last night, for the ride back to the Plaza, Mr. & Mrs Charles pointedly removed ear plugs from their ears - the kind they give to airport workers who work around jet engines all day. Charles laughed and said something, but I couldn’t hear him.
My ears were still ringing.
.
.
Songs for this
Rebel Girl by Bikini ****
Hash Pipe by Weezer

What things I've written
over the years, I wonder
what will they remember,
What image will be left for
those I leave behind? A few
weeks ago I had an intense
realisation. What would I do
if I were terminal?
I'm still wasting time trying to
come to terms with my question
and to find some strength from it.
I remembered to breathe today
(so often I forget). I had a couple tokes
and got a little ****** but I don't miss it
as much as I thought (though I miss the times
and the humility of tripping). I avoid work like
an expert, lapping up the sun while it shines and
buying synthesizers; I did just finish
8 months of therapy.

Another realisation, or rather
the application of knowledge
I already possessed, a cause is
merely something we construct.
Supposing how and deriving why
are a useful set of fictions to abide by
yet they cease to serve when I assume
it's my fault and I should be able to make
a change or difference.
I persecute and victimise, recuse myself from
my own life, wondering whatever could rescue
the person I was
as a child.

I have time to waste
                                I'm losing everything
I'm throwing it all away
                                 I'll put it all in a basket
I deserve to be loved
I am loved
                                  Throw me away
                                  Forget about me
Electricity runs through my body
Filling me with intense joy
                                  I ***** everything
                                  I burn like wood
My family is television perfect
                                  I hate them all.
                                  May ******* them
Music is my only solace
Her synthesizers fill me with peace
Her voice has the strength of prophets
                               Useless.
                               Hysterical and useless
                               It's Electric dysentery
Please take me.
Take me to a place between Salvation and Nirvana
That's all I ask of you
                                 Leave me alone
                                 Throw me to hell
                                 Let me be reborn

surmounted infinity
polar singularity-
a point that twists

x,
then-
i

humans may not compute
third order thoughts

we, synthesizers
of moment and potentiality
hairless clever matchstick apes
inventing boomerangs
and then, stock exchanges

cogs with crises
serial number attitude disorders

we may doggy paddle our way thru the cosmos
we may eat each other alive
its been a hell of a ride

I'll give you a few

why are we afraid of our own poo?

blah blah *******

I think I might have scared her away

somehow, and this is sitting in my stomach, won't digest, hurting

aching, like a coldplay song, extends through the bars, leading me to...bars

****, ****, this and that

afraid of ******* something good up, always afraid of that

like my life is a tender, gentle fabric, of brilliance, and my hands are hole punchers, synths, sythers, synthesizers out of key, constantly playing the wrong melody

and I have to repair every day, the wrong way

and nobody minds, its good and its fine

its all in my head?

or was it something I said?

80's synthesizers for the win  
put aside the nice make-up or the pretty lashes
a pair of earbud and a little DX7 pick me up playlist
and I can ride off into another sonic dimension
as I take a walk through the neighborhood

At the start of the seventies, a spark ignites,
From Newcastle’s heart, a band takes flight.
Roxy Music, a name whispered in the wind,
With Bryan Ferry’s voice, where dreams begin.

A tapestry of sound, that’s woven with care,
Glam rock’s pioneers, they’re beyond compare.
Synthesizers hum, guitars wail and cry,
In their melodies, the stars align.

Andy Mackay’s sax, a soulful breeze,
Phil Manzanera’s strings, a symphony with ease.
Paul Thompson’s drums, a heartbeat strong,
Together they create a timeless song.

From “Virginia Plain” to “Avalon”’s grace,
Each album a journey, a new embrace.
Brian Eno’s touch, an avant-garde flair,
In Roxy’s world, there’s magic in the air.

Their style, a blend of chic and bold,
Glamour and art, a story told.
In sequins and suits, they take the stage,
A visual feast, a gilded age.

“More Than This,” a whisper in the night,
“Love Is the Drug,” a lover’s delight.
Their music, a canvas, painted with care,
Each note a brushstroke, vibrant and rare.

Through decades they journey, a legacy grand,
Influencing many, a guiding hand.
From punk’s raw edge to new wave’s beat,
Roxy Music’s echo, a rhythm sweet.

In the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame they stand,
A testament to a visionary band.
Their songs, a soundtrack to life’s parade,
In every heart, their mark is made.

So here’s to Roxy Music, legends true,
With every chord, they renew.
A symphony of art, a timeless muse,
In their melodies, we find our cues.