all things must pass...

2/24/07 1:50am

pale flourescent light on the metro north train...pink floyd...wish you were here...and the drunk kids running to make the last train out of the city into the forgotten dream of the suburbs...couples coupled off into the couple reality...and me, alone, forgotten, overlooked yet once again but somehow this time around the movie it doesn't seem to matter that much...it's not like that it hasn't happened a million times before and won't happen a million times again...I ask the young kid if he wants to sit down.

“I'm good, “ he replies.

And why wouldn't he be...stoned...drunk...high....with his chick...in the wanderlust of young lust...

they are getting a little loud and I thank the creator for itunes to drown out their useless patter...have a cigar now...fits in with my memory of Mick turning into a gangster in the movie “Performance.”


And the words splash real...it's been a whole long time since I could let the flow go...with the anger, dread and general self loathing that flows through my veins these days...

cheap audiences ab ound but not my mind...the Henry Miller rythyms I used to write to...the romantic quest for self no longer explode in my mind through my fingers on to the word processor....I've been stuck on the first page of my novel for fifteen years...a bad version of the Jack character in The Shining...and the times marches on making me feel smaller and smaller everyday as it fades away...no response back...ignored...so much for Proust, Celine or kerouac for that matter...it's about the holy cock and the young kid love of it but the words still splash real in the forgotten American night and my brother walked through the neighborhood and dojo's was gone a place where he had many a meal now a forgotten memory...we past it and then turned right on to second avenue and I said, “this is where the fillmore east was, right?” and my brother said, “yes, right there where a bank is now.” I hope bought this subject up because I have been reading a bio on Bill Graham and there were bunch of chapters dealing with the Fillmore East and talking about that specific neighborhood...

and now the train makes it stop at 125 street in Harlem....Allman Brothers “Statesboro Blues”...and the memories of coke runs from over ten years ago...I would take the train down to here and then get a cab over to 110 and Amsterdam to pick up the blow...tell the cabbie to wait for me and then back...it worked like a charm...I would be back for the next train north...sometimes doing lines with the cabbie before getting on the train...it was always good for a tremendous rush...it would be great to do a blast now...loaded up as I am with the fabulous macbook and the itunes...you know a little step into the bathroom and wham bam thank you man...but it is not like that anymore...everything is so straight..boring predicable...not really going anywyere...and that's where my anger and dread erupt from there...but the water is under the bridge with no turning back now...the neighborhod has has changed now...

and still the words splash real in the forgotten American night now just for my own self indulgence and no one else...it would take too much work for them to read the shit...why bother?...when you can blast away in a simple click and have video, cell phone mainlined into nervous system....

and the war goes on....and Bush does is moves...let the chattering class chatter because the rest of America, the real America would rather hear the latest news on Anna Nicole Smith...the symbol of the deep surrealism of American life....

and in the deepness of the sychronicity the Brothers from the “Fillmore East” segue into “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” and it makes me think of Burrie playing it at one of his gigs and I wonder what he thinks about sometimes when he thinks of his parents and his two dead sisters and it makes me think how my own whole persona from those times has been so damaged and warped and maimed the whole dream turned inside on itself in a hideous joke so distorted and deranged to make it seem like was it ever real as the dread and miasma has completely engulfed my consiousness and every waking momennt of thought with no amount of alchohol or drugs or anything can keep it away not even the mindless television deeper into the alienation the detachment the insantiy the paranoid view of humans as blue meanies stinking in their slim and their petty shallow ambitiions but of course me just talking about it shows just how fucked up I am because if I was together why would I even bother to be thinking about such bullshit and so it goes and so it goes but it feels so good to let the words go like i use to so long ago when the romantc dream seemed like such a plausible reality...