Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Sunday, April 13, 2014

Ozark Punk

April's all green
finally
here in the Ozarks
by Beaver Mill Lake
the tiretreads get thicker
down these old roads
that last gooey bit of bait
and fishing tackle
plops into the water
that elegant stinkbait
the lake thick with bass and catfish
somewhere.
They say that punk rock doesn't belong here
well does it anywhere?
(these days maybe so I hear
but not here).
I've got my stratocaster
with the squiggly handmade designs on the body
and my Descendents sticker
and my Minor Threat sticker,
I live alone
I've got my disability check
so I've got time to kill
and I practice all day
long
for that day
my big break.
--Put out that craigslist ad for a drummer and a bassist
got the one response
but sounded redneck wingnutty, not that there's much wrong with that,
but possibly violent,
I just got that vibe
he referenced Hank 3 way too much--
So for now I play to the trees
on those lush creeping nights
where crappy and mosquitoes bite,
Those three big chords
maybe sometimes more.
I think, how do I protest this dumb nation?
I just keep playing,
every Monday I walk to the post office to drop my letters off that they'll never publish in Maximum RocknRoll.
This summer I know
that the air'll get thick
maybe I can catch a gig
or else I think,
I'll get over
playing this simple punk music
into the dead of night
and walking down to the docks
with my cold one at midnight.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

JOYLAND



for my poetry 101 class, I was asked to write a poem from the perspective of an alien abductee in an amusement park.  The poem should be informed by the abductee experience, however, not outright say what happened...I felt I was well qualified to write such a poem...

In the simmering salty summer
I got nauseas on the ferris wheel. 
I knew then
Something wasn’t right.
I expected those bright lights like God
To beam down again any second
And the weird opera music to start re-playing.
I was stuck in that Pynchon novel
 I could only dimly remember
-A screaming comes across the sky-
And then what? And then?
The salty cigarette I’d lit hung limp and broken
From my quivering lips
As the wheel like a slow weirdly inverted carousel
Wavered, and I felt all at once the terror in its slow lunge.
I never fit in-
Not once,
So no one noticed
When they took me away.
A catholic at heart, I recognized my maker
In those bright-burning lights
Off the side of HWY 17 outside New Paltz.
They dropped me here when they were finished with me
In a two bit amusement park
A half-hearted place called “Joyland”.
Oh the goddamn luck.
One time,
When I was high on LSD I thought the little green men were after me,
But this time, there was no drug I could blame.
I think the Gods gave me PTSD
And left me here
Alone
Hanging anxious and pitifully
From the ferris wheel
At this goddamn motherfucking Joyland.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Section 8B: How to Interview Yourself for a Director's Position You Made Up

1. Rooster, you're looking great today. What makes you the guy for Local Music Director?
Thanks, you look amazing yourself Mr. Question Maker. I think I'm the right guy for Local Music Director at KSLU because I am and have been committed to the Local St. Louis Music scene, I genuinely enjoy uncovering and supporting artists who don't get much consideration at a regular radio station. I also know a lot about the city itself, where to find some of what when we need it and how to do it if need be, and I, unlike Alec, have 2 chest tattoos.
2. So well thought out, Mr. Rooster. And I must say, swell choice with those sleek black sweatpants with the green stripe, I've never seen you in them before. How would you improve KSLU over the next year if selected as Local Music Director?
I would first and foremost like to say that I think we've been doing an admirable job improving KSLU bit by bit since the day I walked in, though I cannot take much credit for it. I would like to continue our awesome KSLU Sessions Series next year, we truly had some amazing, never-to-be-seen-again type performances in the first 2, and luckily, you don't have to see music necessarily to enjoy it and we're recording them. I would also like to open back up my idea of a Local Music Comp, maybe weasel my way into booking a couple of cheaper local shows at The Billiken Club, as well as continue working with Glassel, Alec and anyone else who will help on making the Production Studio all it can be. On top of all that, I'm in the process of writing a format for a Basketball show, which could help bolster our Sports Dept without taking me from my Local Music Duty.
3. You just capitalized Duty. And I like it, Mr. Rooster. Ok, last question for now. Who would win in a fight, a Jelly Bean, or Vinegar?
I would have to go with Vinegar. Doesn't Vinegar kill everything? Even Jelly Beans? I'm a lil scared of Vinegar myself now. I don't think we should be talking about this, Vinegar might be watching.

Friday, February 21, 2014

another foreign revolution,
i go to the liquor store
or workout.
what will become of the left?

Monday, February 17, 2014

Freeride Breakdown

Sittin' in the dark listening to bluegrass songs about walt whitman and coalmines
drinking coffee,
(that's not a facebook post that's a poem).
how I never figured you out,
figured you out so early,
in the coalmines of those bars and restaraunts,
you can't go back there
you won't go back,
you sit on a borrowed couch
in the back of your mother's house
and beg for beer.
Who knew?
yet I knew so well.
Out West they might still sing your name
from time to time
from that one time,
but who knows?
You've got to just
go there.
Life is hard,
back breakingly hard,
but you're back isn't all that broken,
you'd just rather sit-
never to go back it would seem
to that coalmine of a Soulard pub
now, looking for that ultimate free-ride
that'll never really come.

Friday, February 7, 2014

Be my date

I want that good beer tonight
-I've been a good boy this week.
The night will ebb and fade,
bending like the metaphysician's hex.
The cold of February is dry and like a freezing desert,
or the inside of a beer cave
in those ungrateful gas stations.
Be my date,
We can date for the rest of our lives
and all those Fridays
like every Friday of the last three years
You can crawl into my beercave
and light a little bonfire with me
and yeah we'll melt the ice.

guilty cheesebuger highway



On the highway
My road to commute
Is bleached bone white-
The grey sky
Yea it’s sundry and gray-
Those powerlines
The train tracks run adjacent
Carving a tunnel out of the cold air.
I’ve been here before-
I drive
Feel a bit free.

During lunchbreak
I fall into the guiltiest cheeseburger I’ve ever eaten.
Fried and battered white bread,
Double “steakburger”
Two melted cheeses
And an unfathomable special sauce.
I eat it all
In 4 minutes in my car in the parkinglot.

I get news from a friend in the California woods
He describes himself as a type of fungus
In the cracks of civilization’s concrete.
I feel brief lust for trees tall and dark
And air without cheeseburgers,
Dappled with warm moisture.
     
 But I stay put in this city,
To learn a craft
And indulge my whims
in the bonewhite winter
and the cheeseburger sky
and far off friends in the strangest of woods.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

still gone.

The stars in my spit
at the edge of sleeptime
in the nighttime
on the flat plains
of Wichita.
I am there
in that Kansas of my dreams,
those craven turnpikes
and the firecracker bombs
went off
on the dirt of smalltown Furley roads.
There were seven stars,
maybe eight
July 2,
2000.
A millinea's full of dust
swept up
under the air force base rug.
the poetry of the shopping cart
in that walmart
I wandered the aisles alone
one friday night.
Prom was a bust,
Sunday in the graveyard
the day after
listening to emo
on my tailgate,
also alone.
Another alone on an everyday night,
I was restless
I was glad to get out
at some point.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

raymond carver love song

roadway workers
and trivia stars,
staring out the window
looking at the cars.
all the computers of the world.
the uncanny lovesongs on 107.7.
the ghost in the dive bar radio or
jukebox.
cowboy boots tapping on dusty carpet.
catch a blue sky in a deliberate glance.
in the casino queen
the rule is chance.
and you lose your money over
mid-priced vodka tonics,
and all those shiney lights
on the slot machines.
this is a superbowl ad
on a secondhand tv.
then it came to me,
waiting for her i sojourn
to the shop n save grocery cart line.

that tobacco you left on the bar---
has it sprouted yet?

in the midst of the day
is it too late
to start again?

Sunday, January 26, 2014

sunday miscallany.

i look at my facebook
and see all the people i'll never know again
and a little facsimile of life.
outside there is a blue sky
as expansive as the wings of the biggest bird.
on the radio theres all those sad country songs,
those honky-tonk lagoons.
last night, i left a paper trail of paper napkins
picking up your spills
all up and down Manchester.
live a little,
fuck up your sunday morning.
those cigarettes never go away
they just get smoked by other people
billowing off into late evening pop songs.
    -i wondered
for a moment
at all that intangible
all those streets
with people
cat-eyed
thinking it was summer
just because it warmed up to 55 degrees.
-there is the concrete object
of my tea mug
backdropped by that big bad blue sky
and that slopping hill
with 8 trees.
i walk around to cool off last night's steam
and it fizzles into the shade
like chimney-smoke
and a hangover
from another era
and a computer screen
on
the couches of life.

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

nighttime is the right time?


Sometimes the night will take you places
you’re not sure if you'd like to go.
I think of my friend the Rooster
in those irredeemable bars right now
smoke mushroom clouding above heads
and the bleary eyed haze of it all.
I wake at 2 am                                                                                                                                 

my strong medicine
wearing thin at this hour.
Frank Stanford-you impossible bastion of snake bites
I feel you now
you prophetic Ozark bastard, you.
Making out in front of the bigscreen of dreams
all those ships that never sailed.
The dog is fast asleep                                                                                                                     

but me I've got the jitters.
I remember those north city nights
oh too many sirens
but the gunshots never really came
like one would've expected.
When the medicine man rips through your street in his oldass camaro
you can't help but wake up.
The old women bang sticks in dream alleys.
The vegetable cart man is fast asleep                                                                                             

but what about me?
I drink a cool glass of sour milk and am left wanting
in this twilight anxiety of smooth spaces.
Into the black humpbacked night-
Sun Ra's spaceship looms large
Gary gets dropped off there at the landing pad
he's taken off for the booze odyssey to the Eastside-
Farewell brave wayfarer
I am a wayfaring stranger in exile from my father's land.
Could this all be anymore oblique?
 

Is every poem about poetry?
I write this and feel relieved.