Shiny Boots of Leather

It's a shame that two of New York City's most historic rock and roll haunts now only exist in cyberspace - namely Max's Kansas City and CBGB.

I was too young to have made it to Max's but was lucky enough to see several shows at CBGB, albeit long after its hey day as home to the Ramones, Blondie, Television, New York Dolls, etc. in the mid-70s (just after Max's first closed).

Max's was a regular hangout of the Velvet Underground, along with Andy Warhol and crew and one of the places to play in the late 60s and early 70s. Jim Carroll practically made it his second home as he illustrates in his book, Forced Entries. It's a deli today, which is a crying shame.

Why mention this? I was re-reading the Lester Bangs 'bio book' Blondie. Lester was, at least in my opinion, the best rock and roll writer the world has known, and one of the best writers of any kind. Not enough people know of him, certainly not those under a particular age. Sadly, Lester passed on much too young in 1982 and though he left a rich body of work behind, much of it is maddeningly inaccessible, save for a couple of compilations. The best of the compilations - and most commercially successful - is Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung, put together by a buddy of his and another pretty good rock writer, Greil Marcus - if you haven't read it, I highly encourage you to pick it up.

Lester worked for a number of magazines in the 70s, including Rolling Stone (where he was fired at least once) but his voice really took root in the pages of Creem Magazine (God, I wish I had saved my copies from that period). Creem was an irreverent rag out of Detroit, 'America's Only Rock and Roll Magazine' it proclaimed on each cover. Creem now sadly also only has a life online (of course, it certainly isn't alone in that equation). Lester did get some posthumous exposure when Phillip Seymour Hoffman played him in Cameron Crowe's Almost Famous but his work is largely incarcerated in those Creem back issues.

Anyway, I got off track again, as I'm wont to do.

What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah - Blondie.

Lester was was a subversive motherfucker by nature. The Blondie book he had been hired to write was supposed to be a typically shallow fan bio, published only to take advantage of their unexpected success in the wake of Heart of Glass. Lester, though, had other plans. He used this relatively high profile exposure as a bully pulpit in order to preach his special brand of punk religion. He confused and infuriated the publishers (not to mention Blondie) but it's a great read. He talks about the roots of punk and in particular the Velvets and Max's and Television, the Dolls, Patti Smith, Ramones and, yes, Blondie at CBGB.

Screw the boring ass Museums that dot NYC (with a sponsor's exemption for the Guggenheim, which is kinda rock'n'roll in its own right) - I would pay dearly to be able to visit this kind of history outside the pages of a book (no matter how well written it might be).

Ahh, but that's not right.

Rock and roll isn't like other art and maybe trying to fit it into that mold would be the worst thing that could happen: you become - well, you become the Hardrock Cafe.

Max's is better off as a deli. After all, what's more New York than that? Except for perhaps the fate befallen the CBGB building, once Patti gave the final concert there in October 2006 and the doors closed for good as a rock joint.

First CBGB was shuttered/abandoned and then it became a high-end fashion store. NYC is very well known for plenty of both. The fashionistos left the club graffiti and playbills in the bathroom intact as a shrine for the richies to marvel over when they need to take a piss while shopping for high priced John Varvatos clothes and fragrances.

Andy Warhol would smile. That's very NYC indeed.

The Skin of my Mind

I'm unclear the influence

of ravenous coffee

as pumpkin spiced muffins

bleed jack-o lantern orange.

I'm dying of sweatshirts

and muted autumn headlights

shining slick afterthoughts

of flannel umber frost.

-----

I nose the wheel down

an endless glassine impasse,

with the rain swept viscous undercurrent

of history on my tail.

The mid-semester ministry

smells of campus pub crawl heresy;

too gradient, I graduate

past blinding hate and faithlessness,

while raking piles of bonfire lightning

burst to flames of desolation.

-----

I fester on the done unyielding

and linger on shit maelstroms raging,

picking at bygone theoretical equations

predicting all my fuck ups to come.

-----

And always the here and always the now

and always the heart of this moment

peel forever lost

off the skin of my mind.

Night Sweats

Darkness falls and shatters,

the shards cutting into the stars.

They bleed the blackness

of infinite gravity

over shimmering light,

with a beauty so futile

that it parodies sanity,

and me watching

blindly ignorant of it all.

I stand stupidly naked

staring into the oblivious sky,

dressed only in my doubts

and questionable denim,

longing for the energy

to dance on the graves

of my failures left undead.

Instead, I sigh past the emptiness

and collapse into a laughter of tears

until the dawn,

when the stars' endless death throes

play on to another audience

behind the curtain from me

'round a planet gone mad.

Watercolor Oil

She reveals herself in water color

dripping off the faucet -

As for me, I look away

bent shaking broken naked.

She's brushing rushing sidelong

through the throng bug eyed nightly -

As for me, I find my gaze

drawn downward weakly, softly sadly.

She lives serenely in the moment;

there is no time for her but now -

As for me, I see 'now' rarely;

revisionist schisms consuming all my doldrums.

She dines at fashionable notable eateries -

I lick clean the floorboards of dive bars and state stores -

She's snow light dancing madly aching,

drunk with wit at Prince and Thompson -

As for me, I sit in silence

afraid of going comically melding mad into television.

Or, in the end, is it television off its rails

melding headlong into me?