Pic, road flower

Pic, concrete scratching

Pic, rebar

Pic, Bean Noire

Pic, borrowed paints and templates Dreaming Keller

Pic, spring gape

adopt me before our fosters keep us

i mean, come. on.

Pic, where Holden is being worked on, plus 100 years

puppies

foster puppies Cody and Keenan and Marleys big ol head

Pic, wasted grate

Pic, Denver Register

Poke!

Pic, pipe

Today, all I got is pipe. Banged my knee in the court.

The snows got me in the Christmas spirit

Another Christmas

Stumbling, mumbling, and bumbling in the general direction of the door,
Light headed and rosie cheeked, sweat dripping down and obscuring my blurry view
through my scratched and dirty glasses.
Is it Sweat?
Could be blood.
Could be beer.
Did someone toss a drink in my face?
Tastes salty.
Would have been about thirty seconds ago, so it must be sweat.
Right foot, left foot, right foot... left foooooot, avoid the slight level change in the greasy plastic coated hard wood floor or else I'll end up on my face. Will take more than a few to carry me out tonight.
Why has that imperfection never been fixed?
So many before me before me have tripped and gone down in this very spot, not really their fault, mostly.
Not going to... trip!
God damn it!
Thank whatever that I'm blessed with such great balance, even when all sails to the wind.
Push the heavy, ugly modern glass door where a real wooden pub door with a brass elk headed handle and ancient glass once graced this yuppie pit of a block. Wide open, bouncing it bluntly off the wall.
Wow! Should fix that shit too, dummies!
The harsh, crisp reality of life slaps my face in the form of an icy cold northern wind. I hold back an earth shattering belch that could have contained chunks of whatever slop I had for lunch on my five minute break, and a fart that may be wet and rancid.
BoBo called those, "the gambler."
You gamble and let rip, you either win or you shit your pants.
Faint scents of wet asphalt and burning pine spin the wheel of my squeaky hamster cage.
A dozen or more mid thirty year old, well manicured white men, all in various, but not too varied, plaid long sleeved shirts that seem more expensive than they are worth, khakis, and cheap imitation Italian leather shoes glare at me as a smile creeps onto the toothless upper side of my lip. Their glances all dart every which way but mine.
Fucking clones!
Did I say that out loud?
Don't care.
How do these people live their lives? What do they do? What is going on in their inner monologue. I'm seriously curious.
I'd probably put a bullet in my head if I had to spend one minute inside their heads.
Do they have one original thought in their life time
Shouldn't waste the thoughts.
Overwhelming heartburn, that crimson liquid fire that can be traced every inch as it rises up the esophagus,  pushes it's way in to the fore front of my reality. I choke it back down. It's like swallowing kerosene with a few thumb tacks that have sat for hours in a camp fire. Only hard core drinkers can truly understand this sensation and the necessity to feel it. Public vomiting is not an option to an old pro. Got to stay mysterious and seemingly not completely obliterated or I may never be served at this hour again no matter how green my cash or pure my drugs.
The rush produced by this discomfort paired with the pint and a half of whiskey, and at least a dozen beers force a quick stop.
Someone is on the park bench.
Who is it?
Can't see. Don't care.
Plop down hard on the wet green steel, sending the bench and unknown occupant on an unwanted slide. The bench isn't bolted down to the chagrin of many an unsuspecting dog owner who returned to find their dog dragging said bench into audi's and porches in pursuit of canine companionship.
The thought brings a smile to my face and a chuckle to my lips which I smack with dry mouth.
Dirty looks, confused stares, and muttering under breathes dominate the now otherwise still air.
My arm is around one of their suburban yoga trophies.
She is very uncomfortable, so i apologize as i retract my meat hook.
She quickly gets up and scurries away.
"Merry Christmas!" I offer up.
No reply.
"What if she is Jewish?" baited a familiar pushy voice.
"Look at her Nate. If she's Jewish, than I'm Jon Bonnet Ramsay."
The familiar chuckle.
"Tuck and roll 76'er."
"Same to you, man!"
Fuck them all anyway.
This is my night, I can be belligerent. This is my block, my streets, I know every crack in the sidewalk and every secret behind every wall.
I won't remember them or their disapproving looks tomorrow any way. If any of them had a set, they would have said something.
They're all the same.
Not a word.
"Baaahhh!" I call loudly at the tentatively moving herd.
Fucking sheep.
They'll remember me though, no doubt, maybe they'll think twice about coming back to my pub lest they receive another free show. Thar's a hundred others just like me, waiting to entertain. All bent out of shape and snockered. All depressed and angry about what has become of their neighborhood, what has become of them. All ready to defend their turf at the drop of a hat.
Fuckers! come in here like they own the place, like this is their neighborhood now and the rest of us should just fuck off and or die. We built this place, quite literally, and we can tear it down twice as fast.
If any of them had turned around, or shouted back, I would have given them the side of my fist, My father would have done as much or worse. This is his neighborhood and his fathers, and his fathers fathers. I find strength and company from the dead in that thought. It will never belong to the soulless shills that now occupy this beautiful place, never truly belong to them. You can't buy and replace the culture of the place, you can re-gentrify but the soul still remains here. It always will. If you want this place to be more like the place you came from, you should run back there with the north wind and your tail between your legs.
I've been sitting a while now, not sure how long. My jaw aches, possibly from a punch received earlier, I can't recall who or why. My teeth feel loose and taste of puss and blood, mortality. My mouth tastes sweet with the fresh scent of decay and rot. Entropy.
My imperfect eye focuses back and forth from the grease of finger prints on the dingy bar window to the sidewalk as I shuffle off into the darkness bowling over unsuspecting night walkers that get in my path. Tonight I will fuck her hard and forget that it has been fifteen years. Ill forget his last breathes and then I'll forget tonight tomorrow. I still need to write Christmas cards. I wont forget this year.

Grill light

Pic, bulb

Time to dust it off this weekend

A few of my favorite things

Now. If only I had  time to write some more!

Pic, coloration and ant nation

Another two-fer. Ugh!  Back on timing tomorrow.

Bonus:

calder

Timed it just right. Nobody any where close by.

Gutter lit, gutter button

Missed a day. Two for the price of one.

Done

Pic, your shadow lies

big pimpin with stella the bean

Pic, romaine volunteers?

Pic, pokin

last chair with ski patrol

Pic, absent pencil

apologies to other guy. been lost in the woods.

 Big push until mothers day. I forget every year how busy this time is. Like a worker bee sprung from the dormancy of winter, I fly into action, sometimes half cocked and relying on instinct to lead me to pollen.

Every day, my next three days grow. I add add task over task, lapse time over time, add to dos on an already impossible list.

Breathe... breathe n the air.

Then I realize, I'm in charge. My schedule does not own me. My deadlines are self imposed. The weather gets bad and everyone can wait. I can wait. They can wait. We all wait.

 People are mostly reasonable and understand that I do not control the precipitation raining from the heavens and the temperatures that are inherent within.

A butterfly bursts from its cocoon to early and dies in the cold, Its splendor and short journey cut even shorter. 

I spin a second shelter and go back into the warmth of a living room fire and glass of scotch. I remember the things I have been neglecting and miss them like the sun misses the stars. 

I write poetry for none to read and judge it against a life time, 

easily dismiss,

deem it unworthy to see the light of day.

Who am I to stop that spring budding that is the outpouring of the first thought?

That idea that seems trite and ridiculous is the birth of a new story.

Shine a light on those shadows.

Cast aside self criticisms.

Let others judge what we so easily throw aside.

When I go without writing words, the words do not stand aside.

They do not roll away with the smoke to the clouds.

They persist and eventually insist on being.

Like a downpour after years of drought, 

time is irrelevant when the rain comes.

The rain always comes eventually, it cares not for time..

Lets flex the muscle lest it becomes sedentary and unreliable.

Some exercise is needed.

Some fire is needed.

Some whiskey wouldn't hurt. 

It's 4:44 and the radio man is no longer speaking. The envelope has been pushed to far and the reins have been pulled back tightly. Tomorrow will not go as planned. When my business self is overloaded, it shuts down. The left brain takes over and spouts forth from it's starving isolation like a levy held too high. I let the dogs out.

 A poem/song that may never have seen the light of day or heard the sound of music. 

You are not beautiful,

You are beauty.

You are not living,

you are life/

You are not loving,

you are love.

Would you follow me across the oceans of skies?

I gave you more than I had to give

and I can not tell you why.

don't let your life pass you by.

You are not passionate,

you are passion.

You are not breathing,

you are breath.

You are not of this world,

you are a world.

You have created life and given it purpose.

i would follow you to the 7th level

for just one whisper in my ear.

Tell me the secret 

that you hold so dear,

make it all seem clear. 

I stopped to watch the sunrise, 

with you so near.

i know I am here.

I think Pablo Neruda may have possessed me. i wish I could write in Espanol. 

and life insists, so i throw it some art

Pic, conflict in literature _

Pic, Basquiat

weather

Pic, Jones on a rainy day

Smallest sink in the land

Tile and tub refinish done. New light and fresh fixtures working. Smallest sink and vanity installed. Is this art?  Fuck it, it's Sunday, mate.

time to make the donuts. mulch donuts

Pic, spindle bridge

White man's back alley

Warning while holding your pisser

looking unfinished

For the first time in years, I subcontracted a job out to alleviate some stress and responsibility. 

Seems laughable now as I am way more stressed out and completely out of control.

There was supposed to be a concrete garden boarder here on the 25th. I contacted these people initially to see if I could rent a curbing machine and a concrete roller stamp. They convinced me that they could get the job done, quicker, cheaper and by said date. I called on the 22nd. They called me on the 25th, the day it was supposed to be done, and told me they had to reschedule because of increment weather. The 22nd, the day they scheduled me, was two days after said increment weather they spoke of. They were rescheduling me for, "the end of the week." I prodded and pried, but they would not give me a date. By Friday, the end of the week I called for the 20th time. They told me I was rescheduled for Monday. I inquired if they were aware of the approaching snow storm and if that would effect this date. They said no. I told them if they couldn't get it done by then that I would have to go another route because I had to be done by the first and that the consequences for me not being done by then would be catastrophic for my company and myself financially.  Flash forward to Monday morning.I called and inquired as too their arrival time.

"Sorry. We have to reschedule due to increment weather."

WTF!? 

What kind of bullshit company is this? They had been in business nearly as long as I have. How is that possible?

That's not even the worst part.They said they would schedule me at the end of the week! Seriously?!

"No, no,no!"I tried to remain calm. "That's what you told me last time, then you scheduled me for the following week. I told you if you couldn't get it done by then that I would have to go another route. Financial devastation. Remember?"

"We can't control the weather sir."

"I asked you if the weather was a factor before it happened. You said no. You knew as well as I did that this storm would be major."

"It was worse in some other places than others."

"That's a real answer? I'm here with my client and we want to know when you will finish what you have promised."

"Jimmy hasn't gotten back to me with a schedule yet. I'll get back to you later in the week"

"But that's when I was told I'd be rescheduled for. Later in the week. What does that even mean?"

"That's the best I can tell you sir."

You're best is shit. Here we are Thursday morning. It's later in the week. Still no word. If they schedule me for the following Monday again...

Wish me luck. I need it.

Sage pests

mike watt, meat puppets

The last time I saw Mike Watt play, I thought my chest would collapse from the sheer clean sound from his bass amp.That was in 1995 on his 'Ball hog or Tug Boat' tour. It was not the house system or the PA, it was straight from his fingers and from his bass amp. He is an American original and still puts on a show that is hard to believe. The sounds, the beats, the lyrics, the song arrangements are like nothing you have ever heard and are comparable to nothing else out there. Stemmed from punk rock, then stewed in hard core and original independent rock. It's hard to imagine chaos that comes together so well. Imagine Les Claypool played punk rock in the 70's, is bigger, deeper voiced and louder, and has a stronger stranger stage presence. When Mike looks at you, It's like he is drawing your energy from you and slamming it into his bass which in turn slams you back in the chest. The Bluebird is a small venue. He played until his bass broke, then asked brother Kirk to bring him a screw driver several times so he could repair his bruised and broken bass in between songs. I walked down to watch them break down their gear on the floor, as you have to do at the bluebird, separated by a single rope.  Mike packed his bass and gear on his back and gingerly stepped over the rope to take a few pictures. One picture with a fans 12-13 year old kid, both adorned in Meat Puppets shirts. Dads eyes were much bigger and more elated than the sons. Not sure that the son had any idea who Mike Watt was, but I saw him swaying and banging his head to their impossible beats. I put out my hand and shook Mikes as he was laboring up the steps I stood on.
"Another great show Mike!" I posed as I grabbed his hand and he pushed all of his weight on my shoulder with his other arm and leveraged his weight up the stairs. He is a much bigger and older man than the Mike I remember from 1995. You cant really see the difference on stage though. If anything, he is more electric now.
"Thank you, brother..." waiting for my response.
"Drew."
"Thank you brother Drew!"
He pushed up and passed me, using me as a handrail to get up the steps, leaving his perspiration all over my already soaked shirt.
I told Ben he had walked through the crowd, bass amp on back, moving to the front door. Ben said,
"He's probably already on the 15 getting off on Broadway and transferring to the 0. "
Probably true.
Always a minuteman.
Always a commoner.
Always a Denverite.
And then there was the Meat Puppets.( See photo two).
Saw them twice in the last year, but never as a headliner, full into their physcodellic power amp, blue grassy, countryish, got all the time in the world( we deserve this), jam crazy, tight,  way far out, adrenaline pumped heavy duty rock and roll. My ears still ring as I type this. A solid reminder of a band that influenced so many and is still touring and evolving every day. A 50 something wasted business type with a flannel wrapped around his waist slid into Ben's spot when he went to smoke, danced for a few minutes, then leaned in to tell me that this is not the Meat Puppets he remembered.
I said, " I know! Isn't it great!"
He slowly backed away from me as I asked him if he knew The Dean Ween Group, that they had previously toured with, and when did he see them last. Still a poser... at 50. Sad.
I spoke to Curt Kirkwood in Aspen after that show. He was sober and driving the van! Blown away. These guys to me are rock gods and have been since I was a long haired teenager. They're still driving themselves around this country to perform live. That is some love and a literal example of music over money. The only reason most have any clue who these guys are came from a certain MTV unplugged show where they were heavily covered by a band of real fans.
These guys still blow the roof off and leave you reeling.
This rock and roll review is brought to you by a drunk guy who has been cut off his pain meds and partially believes or wishes he was writing for the rolling stone.