Anthony
Maximum, the kid, pushed into the living, divine. Funky monk tantrums and California bred deviants now leaves the windows all open and the bus rides along. Here is the present possibility of trouble, unattached, with teepee building sweethearts and mama broken hearts; the show just keeps on moving.
Far out, in the fields and on the highways, jumping from stages and reveling in the glow of ocean, cocaine and rambling Bobby Mghee girls looking for a home. Far out, in the merry go round of lost teenage possibilities constructing the hyperbole of assessment and rebellion out of C chords and late night band orgies, promising to pull in again, kindly, gently, with love, yet sharp; that piercing behind the neck, that global star ruttered on a promise; that simple notion not to accept the sticky gifts from slumping business suits and grenade holding men intent on the cash bargain, the psycho sales slip, the anti climax brother game.
Performances in styles that make the old school guys consider the Iggy Pop tangents and wrestle with happy New Years resolutions; The Gods display their head bob and their weave, the bass player lights a match and dissolves into perfection.
Somewhere along the grim streets and backyard chino gangland playgrounds lurks the songs for weary youth and rightfully suspicious adults treading water on overtime, pasting photos across the cluttered internal map; heroism on day time talk shows and reality cable networks, punching strangers square in the face with lightweight executive orders and lunatic health care bills successfully promoting the rich; setting fire to trash cans along immigrant neighborhoods, piercing the temples of rogue super heroes low on scratch while attempting to humor the heavies and the poet arsonists; running dirty from the dealers and the good girls in a perpetual loop; so lovely, with needles everywhere and fanatics on the cover of home made dirty magazines; and the rodent friends and stealing lovers convinced you are going to die soon, and you just might.
A hero spitting fire from the crown of his skull pleasantly skipping from one disaster to the next, awash in black ink and scars down numbered freeways heading north past Topanga to sleep with lazy, gorgeous, frantic butterflies and steal their stash.
Confidently aligned with gypsy voodoo suicide squad agents slinging Fender Stratacasters and praying in front of a high stack of Marshals pledging real life lunacy and confessing an aligned absence of mediocrity in technicolor, in ripped jeans, in purple cowboy hats, in dolby stereo.
Explained specifically for the mamas and the pusher, for the old friends and loyal band mates and clandestine ghetto rap machines funktifying the delta and the alpha, the long brown river and the malignant ghosts of Huck Fin all up on speed and punching; dragging around high school classmates and a drum set, roaming heavy along sunset searching for a high stack of bushes or a vacant parking lot to shoot up in.
This is obviously heaven, where you can flash a surly smile through yellow teeth and binged lips pouting after the latest exorcism, awaiting the new girl, killing time in Mexican border towns not pretending to be anyone else; perched on the corner of Sunset and Vine with a dirty secret and a rusty pen, hoping no one recognizes you, obsessed with poetry, punk, sex, grim and sultry with grease wet hair and no one left to care about.
This the bloody allure of daddy’s old rock and roll albums, and the new petty thief glamourific B-side singles that can’t get radio time and rebel against a home; the brooding impotence of ferocious, fearful in real time, lost without the reality of an enemy, tasseled by the glowing animosity of famous, ready to fail, ready to jump off the stage.
That dandy blue Chevy van, that horoscope painted black; shown the front door to infinity and fell down the stairs, and crashed into a redwood tree in Michigan and told lies internationally, before anyone had to listen. Love and the next big thing, dragging cargo and affronting retail with a double dose of hate and a myriad of questions for the saints on Sunset and heavenly bass lines on tape.
Take the last breath of air, share all that you know; hard punk macho pink neophytes in leather, The Gods humorously whisper. It is just enough to get the kids going, safe enough to live another day.
