low grey day

low grey day
alone with intent
all words fall short
with a sharp din
of inexactitude.

poetdog, 9/30/03

i don’t know much

and what have i been thinking, as i sit on the deck all day, asked the man whose name might have been simian, and what did i answer before the yellow butterflies came around? those butterflies, they must have felt the light, they must live partly part light. and partly part thistle.

so the man who might be simian, he told me to read the very last of tolstoy, as i sat on the deck, and probably i will. and he told me to watch for the history, the history of the land, and i will.

and so many people, all the summer long, all the summer, all the summer, but now it is gone, and now, here, is the fall. it is a fall with a twist, a fall with a wistful twinge of warm dusk air full of grasshoppers and bats.

and what have i been thinking?

well, it doesn’t matter.

my beach!

IMGP0562

Originally uploaded by drvcrash

my beach! my waves! my surf! go home!

formats. file formats.

been broadcasting on http://radio23.org . in fact, i am right now. alot of my music is local live music i recorded here. eventually, all artists will get paid. by the song play.

so i have been thinking about how this will come about, you know, with a minimal effort on my part.

so it seems to me.

if the music file, the video file, the document has pertinent information embedded, artist, label, author, so on. if this information is embedded in to the file itself, then the file sharing and broadcast programs have the information available.

musician exports file format (information embedded)
player/broadcaster plays/broadcasts
credit is given where credit is due, and money is given where money is due.

cha-ching$$$.

well tonight

well tonight i eyed this rad peavey, but i never got to pick it up. picked up the flute, tho, and some sort of drum that kept sliding around, but not me, just the drum.

and at some point i played pool, and at some point we talked about the blues. the old blues. the masters, the first ones to be recorded. and maybe who dares to play the blues, an maybe we will.

next week.

next week at styler’s open mic, where the equipment comes storming through the door at quarter after nine, and the coconut sits on the mixer, and the effects fly fast and hard, as they should, cos who knows what the hell we ar doing, cos we never did it before.

where the colossal fossil sauce rocked it out, and pulled out the hendrix and the marley and the sugar hill gang, yes, they did. and me, i guess i used to know it hands down, but now i know less than i did, but i think this is thoroughly understandable.

and this is ocmd music at the steer inn just down the road from where i once slammed on the brakes in my 1969 VW bug, and slid sideways into the intersection, then sat there, trying to look normal, until the light changed.

i might of ran over a toad, driving home, and this weighs heavy on my heart, but i could not swerve, my tires are bald.

and my old dog, hitch, she is sleeping on the floor. snoring. she wakes up once in a while to go outside, or eat some food, but mostly she just snores.

so that’s the happenings at the steer inn, i suppose. i tried to film the fake cow, but set off the alarm, and all the chickens were asleep.

but i rocked on the swing in the backyard. which is worth at least one more day on earth, as i see it.