Jay Birds Want to be FREE

Here’s a funny story. The local Seattle news, King 5, reported over the weekend that people all over Western Washington were scared and concerned about a mysterious white powder that was found on people’s cars and homes. Was it anthrax? Did terrorist fly a plane over the Puget Sound and distribute some horrible bio-weapon? Well King 5 paid a lab to analyze the mysterious substance and it turned out to be tree pollen. Pollen from pine trees.

Everyone is so worried about security these days. National Security, Homeland Security, Security Systems, Airport Security, Port Security, Social Security. Now we are even afraid of trees. TREES. Do we need a Department of Tree Security?

Let me clue everyone into a little secret: There is no such thing as security. Nothing is secure. No place, no person, no thing, no process can ever be secure.

When I think about it, I am pretty sure I don’t want security any way. A secure world would be very prison like. I want Freedom. Freedom to think. Freedom to act. Freedom to try things. Freedom to make mistakes. Freedom to learn from them. Freedom to pursue happiness.

Now I am not entirely sure that freedom actually exists either. But I would rather spend my life chasing Freedom than locking myself away in fear trying to find Security.

I was trying to keep two blogs going. Thunder Echo was all about art, music, poetry. And Black & Blue Heart was about politics and society. Well I have decided that those self imposed boxes were an attempt at security. I was trying to keep my art clean and my politics away from the people I work with. But I am going to throw those distinctions away in the name of Freedom.

From now on, I am going to post what ever I want about any topic on this blog, Thunder Echo. There will still be art, poetry and music. But there will also be politics and society and philosophy. It may get messy, but it will be free. And Jay Birds want to be Free!

Tastes like Wombat

Polar orbit moon shot
In the dog house with Woodstock
These doors are immense
But we can’t get through

Millennial snob haircuts
Queen Victoria’s a big slut
These windows are opportune
But we can’t get through

Peaking too soon
Some generations go boom
These walls don’t exist
But we can’t get through

Our special this evening
Is a well braised rabbit
On a bed of mixed metaphors
But let us prove our hue

Canal

I can still remember
Stumbling in the dark
Scraping my shin
Against the rusty pipes
As we followed water sounds
Until we reached the river

There is no scar now
Where we washed away
Dark blood that flowed
Into a darker night
Stars jumped in the current
While we sat still and calm

The mark that remains
Is the memory of the ground
How it crawled and flowed
As the sun put an end to night
Revealing a fragile swarm
Of a thousand baby frogs

Our footsteps were clear
Marked by broken bodies
In the dust by the canal

Mosquitoes in the Net

My Instamatic Obscura
Plays catch and release
With colors grey and fey
You must be an artist
To sport a haircut like that
But I know what I like
Mixtapes growl and hiss
But I know what I like
Lo-Fidelity cannot hide
Sequencing gray and fay
You must be an artist
To play catch and release
In front of the camera like that

Mosquitoes in the net again

Cold Comfort Crow

Obsidian black
Screeching like glacial ice
The crow

Crying like a koan
Talons pick at scabs
I didn’t know I had

Which is more tragic?
The constricting squeeze
Of certain answers
Or the black spaces
Of a question mark?

My heart flutters
Like dark wings
Rising from carrion

Which is more tragic?
The crow?
Or me?

2 Years Ago Today

Argentinian Colored Glasses

Dateline Buenos Aires, between shows
Record Company Big Wig stirs his martini
Don’t let this stuff get you down, he says
Poverty, drugs, prostitution, orphans
They have always been with us
But those of us of class
The intelligentsia
The politically astute
We know how to navigate such issues
Without destroying our spirit
The bar lights sparkle off his
Wrap around sunglasses
And his white, white
Smiling teeth

I look out the picture window
I take a long drag of my brown beer
The plaza la defensa is bathed in sunlight
The freshly washed tiles only accent
The homeless men with their
Cardboard signs and paper cups
Napping while waiting for the evening
Shoppers who drop coins while
Stepping gingerly around their
Greasy pants and worn out shoes.

Hearing my sigh, Mr. Big Wig
Presents me with a pair of sunglasses
Try these on, senior, you’ll feel much better
They wrap fully around letting in no light
Unless it is pleasant and soothing to the eye
Flip that tiny switch near your right ear
See how the dirty hobos fade away
Now you can relax
And free your mind
To pursue your art
So that men like me can sell it
In the market place
To other beautiful people

I must admit
The glasses do clear up the view
But how will I avoid tripping
Over the invisible people
Sleeping on the paving stones?

Ah, my friend
You worry too much
Let me call you a taxi

Jester in the Court of the AQAL King

Pranks, pratfalls and body paint
Amuse and disarm habitual defenses
Rude and crass gags
Offend only the uninitiated
But those with senses open
Stand amazed and grateful
As the Jester wields song and dance
Like the Zen masters of old
Knowing just when to startle
The seeker into dropping his mask
With a well-time whack of a stick
To the back of the head
Or a healthy belly laugh

His medicine is well received
In the court of the AQAL King
Play on Jester, play on

--To Stuart Davis

Sound Check: 1, 2, 3

Retellings suspicious
Transactions malicious
Tries not to be annoying
His affections are cloying
A pathetic heaving
Frantic cleaving
These demon days

Swimming through the late night
Scanning dark interiors
Surrendering to the
Shimmering chit chat
Summoned by restless
Shuffling of memory
Shadows cast by
Shimmering half light

Paid to stir the monkey
From deep sleep
Starshine Dracula
Lingers over sound checks

Monkey can you hear me?

His soul is vacuous
Canines ravenous
Circling the dance floor
Always wanting more
Sweaty thrashing
Sexual posing
This demon preys

Swimming through the late night
Scanning dark interiors
Surrendering to the
Shimmering chit chat
Summoned by restless
Shuffling of memory
Shadows cast by
Shimmering half light

Gently stroking monkey
On his cheek
Starshine Dracula
Continues his sound check

Monkey can you hear me?

His tone is melodious
Meanings poisonous
Drawn to the bleating
Of hearts still beating
That final trembling
Life is fleeting
The demon slays

Swimming through the late night
Scanning dark interiors
Surrendering to the
Shimmering chit chat
Summoned by restless
Shuffling of memory
Shadows cast by
Shimmering half light

Squeezing the monkey
Till he squeaks
Starshine Dracula
Finishes his sound check

Monkey can you hear me?

Just Now

Provincial Provisional

I’m just a small town hick
I come from a tiny planet
In a back-water arm of a spiral galaxy
That you’ve probably never heard of.

I cling to small unoriginal hopes
I suffer from typical fears
Overwhelming, but not very interesting
When seen from an intergalactic perspective.

I’m pretty small
And the infinite universe
Well, it’s pretty fucking big
Big enough to swallow up my
Well, my everything—Gulp!

What a relief
To know my ego
No matter how vicious
Can never taint
The Big Forever
In which we abide.

Just Now

New TEE Album Available: Just Now

Just in time to help you with your post-holiday depression.
Just for the loyal 23 fans who anticipate these things.
Just because we love making music.

JUST NOW
The latest studio album from
The Thunder Echo Ensemble.

Just Now is available for download from
WhatDoWeKnow Records.
Download it FREE
Just because
Just Now

Just because vampires love monkeys.
Just when you thought it was safe.
Just surrender to the moment.
Just Now
http://www.whatdoweknow.com/teejustnow.html

Dr. Zoom

Don’t let his mild-mannered appearance fool you.
Those starchy shirts and silky ties
Will make you think him prim and proper.
Don’t believe it for a moment.
His wire-rimmed spectacles
Reflect your expectations
Back at you.
But you can not see what he sees
Through his modest looking glasses.
His balding head will cause you to assume
A harmlessness common in these days.
But no.
His thoughts race,
Accelerating to the speed of light,
Exploring all regions of time and space.
This is no simple office clerk.
A force of nature is he.
An avatar of the cosmos.
Before you stands Doctor Zoom!

And he demands to know,
“Would you prefer Mexican or Chinese
For lunch today?”

I'm Listening To Music You've Never Heard

The band swings with indie pop hooks and guitar layers.
Riffing along with complex polyphony in building loops and dynamics.
Containing a variety of material which the band had concurrently been performing in their concert appearances.
It's ethereal and expansive, combining electronics and sampling.
But no music depends absolutely on the element of surprise.
Despite antic lyrics, there is an intense, brooding aspect,
A transcendent experience,
And impish wit is reflected in impudent use of the controls.
Pop music loves to look in the mirror.
Screaming, "Hold It Up! Hold It Up!"
The band segues from reggae into a free-form jam that builds steam,
Morphs into a jazzy bass solo and then into a wah-wah guitar funk romp.
As if pop forms weren't rewired regularly by tinkerers rather than apprentices.
Endlessly playful, which means you can play it endlessly.
Wish you could hear it.

Biocide from the Inside

Perspectives narrow and unbalanced
Totter and moan under the overwhelming
Weight, urgency, and terror
Of life

Lightning flashes of satori
Of revelation
Self immolation
Bring bliss, love, enfolding
And unfolding possibilities

But no permanent understanding
Is guaranteed by this brief
Experience

Skillful interpretation
Useful integration
Permanent evolution
Requires hard work
Brutal honesty
Infinite flexibility

Surviving the thunder
Requires above all else
Open hands
Open minds

Wrapping the lightning
In rootless magic
Or outdated myth
Or limited logic
Can no longer be tolerated
In the age of Biocide

We cannot escape this world

If we desire heaven
We must become angels
And work together in the mud

Come
There’s some lovely filth right here

One for the Road

Martini Gorgonzola celebrated his 50th birthday with a front end alignment and a brake check. While his Mazda was levitating on the hoist and being serviced by methheads in blue jumpsuits, Mr. G made a scientific study of the thin oily coffee in his Styrofoam cup. If he squinted his eyes to reduce the blurring effect of his stigmatism, he could almost see the coffee etching a ring into the cellular structure of the white petrochemical foam. He made a silent bet with himself, 3 to 1 odds, that the oily sheen on the surface of the coffee was actually petroleum released from the Styrofoam and not natural coffee oils released from the beans before testing the temperature with a tentative sip. He grimaced briefly at the sour taste and slugged the bad brew back like it was a double shot of whiskey. Well actually he swallowed the rancid brake-shop coffee in a way he imagined whiskey drinkers would slam hard liquor, having never actually tasted whiskey. “Maybe I should get drunk on whiskey,” thought Gorgonzola. “That’s sumthin I’ve never done before. Be a better birthday present than a $436 dollar repair job on the Blue Zoom Zoomer.”

The man named Martini who had never drunk whiskey crumpled up the Styrofoam cup and lined up a basketball shot to the chrome garbage can next to the coffee maker. But he was startled when the waiting room television made a jarring grinding noise and then started to whine. The crushed cup missed the can and bounced off the window, splattering coffee on a poster for Japanese tires. The VCR built into the TV was rewinding its tape while the screen showed blue with a series of white letters in the upper right corner: REWIND. Mr. G looked around to see if anyone had noticed the mess he had made, but he was the only customer in the waiting room and the only employee, a balding Asian with a name tag that declared his name to be “Gus”, was twirling a pencil in one hand and listening to a distant voice on an ancient black telephone, wasn't looking at him. So Gorgonzola walked over to the window and picked up the cup. Placing it carefully in to the garbage he noticed the oily coffee was dripping down the tire model's long legs and dissolving the poster’s ink. He considered using a napkin to clean it up, but was intrigued by the kaleidoscope swirl of red, black and cream colored ink—logo, tire and flesh running together. But the model kept smiling despite the mess her legs were becoming. “Maybe I should get laid,” thought Gorgonzola. “That’s sumthin I haven’t done in a while. Be a better birthday present than a $547 dollar repair job on the old Mazola.”

Another shuttering sound of gears grinding together came from the television as the video tape began playing again. The blue screen briefly displayed the command: PLAY, then a trustworthy gentleman wearing a red tie under his spotless blue jump suit wiped a red rag on a gleaming socket wrench and proceeded to congratulate Martini Gorgonzola on his wise decision to bring his automobile to Brake Masters. Gus said three words in what Gorgonzola guessed to be Korean and hung up the phone. Gus scratched his bald head with the pencil eraser, scribbled something on a yellow invoice and put the pencil, point first, into a glass bowl filled with kitty litter on the red counter. “Your car’s bout ready,” Gus said in a surprising West Texas accent. Martini turned and saw his blue Mazda being driven out of the work bay and into the parking lot. The attractive young model was still smiling even though the coffee stain had eaten all the way through the poster, and Mr. G began to have an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his stomach. “You want to settle up?” asked Gus. “The total comes to $325 for the alignment. Watch out for those curbs, now ya hear? Oh, and your brakes were fine. You just had them done three months ago. Should last you a good long time yet.”

Martini Gorgonzola watched as Gus swirled and blended with the phone and the counter, red, black and cream. The television assured Mr. G that all Brake Master Mechanics received periodic training in the latest automotive technologies. But Gorgonzola was more interested in the cool plastic feel of the floor tiles on his cheek and the hole that had appeared in the Styrofoam ceiling tiles just above and behind Gus’ swirling face. “Happy birthday, Gorgonzola,” he said as the hole grew wider to meet the darkness creeping in from the edges of his peripheral vision. “Never did like coffee much…”

Fishing for Mao’s 15

Psychotropic rivers run through
Origami
Pulsing rhythms pound

Particular particulates capitulate
Opinion
Portals quietly populate

People fishing on stilts
Obliterate
Pondering cultural revolvers