Rock Me.

Speak to me now, while the hour is quiet. Car horns honk from a distance, and a fan blows cool air from the kitchen. Those actors in the movies sure know how to kiss. They make the emotion look real. Must be nice to be good at your job, to convince people of the unbelievable. It's not a moment too soon.

We're in a decline, or so they say. Two men make arguments for power. Don't really know what the difference is between them, except for color and age. Nobody stands as equals, especially not you and me. We're quite different. One is more talented than the other, but I'm not sure which. Our eyes don't meet. And our words quickly fly past one another. Is this the end of the day? Perhaps it's the beginning of a lifetime. Feelings of shame, discomfort and happiness swarm through the open-air arena.

Let your hair grow longer. Wear it with as much pride as you would shame. It's nothing to be afraid of, this thing we call love. You're just as scared as me. Oh, you can deny it all you want, but behind those baby blue eyes I can see your frustration and guilt. Those raw emotions tear you to pieces. It's the strength that bonds us. Pain fuels our motivation, and everyone else is just along for the ride. But I don't know what to say anymore.

The information arrives too quickly in massive amounts. I'm surprised more people aren't having seizures from banner-ads racing across the screen. It's all been shot to hell, you see. It's hard for me to relax in such an environment. I rarely look up anymore. Have almost forgotten that the sky is still there. But I won't stare, because it's rude.

And if the stars feel lonely in the darkest night's sky, you can bet your sweet ass that I won't care. I'm just as lonely down here. We're too far to be friends. The stories they tell of the universe can't be heard from this lengthy distance. Sure, we (the Earth) hear passed along tales from the occasional winds, but the translation is in a natural language that cannot yet be deciphered. So we'll just wait to see what happens. Technology has all of the answers. Just look at "Terminator II."

The warning signs are long gone, friends, and it is now every man from himself. Should have paid closer attention to the words of our mothers. They're the only ones who truly understand this crazy world. Maybe next time we'll say our prayers, kiddo. Indeed, maybe next time.

Lookin’ Back (On What Was Said).

I'm not sure what to think about rock 'n' roll -- or those who play it. I don't know what inspires such music. And I really couldn't tell you who is infinitely moved by its melodic message, if there is one. It's a creation of strings, metal, wood, plastic, various wires and sometimes electricity. There are some occasions when none of those elements are needed. The music can be made from anything, or so we've been led to believe. It's a sound that can break hearts and give hope; fill arenas and cause riots. The songs bring life, as well as death.

My guess is that nobody really knows what rock 'n' roll is. Perhaps critics can write a creative recollection or give a clever theory, but nobody knows. These words are nothing but truth. Don't let those crazy rock critics fool you. Everyone is just trying to make a buck; gain respect. I commend the writers for trying to give an explanation, but we're light-years away from understanding. The feeling of rock 'n' roll isn't something that can be expressed through words, written or spoken. Rather, it's the chill that runs through your body when a chord is struck; when that first painful note is sung. A lyric that makes you remember the forgotten past. In short, it's the teardrop that falls from your eye to the ground.

I don't need to know what rock 'n' roll is, nor do I want to. It could be a movement that has already passed. Here today, gone tomorrow. Remember the '60s, man? Maybe it never existed in the first place. Could the Beatles have fooled us all? Was Mr. Presley (the King) a figment of our imagination? All these years the Rolling Stones have been living a lie. And Led Zeppelin, the Police and Van Halen are nothing but a laughing stock of decades past. Let us cash in before our moment in the sun has disappeared, friends. The old bluesmen are sitting on the back porch of the South, laughing at us all.

None of this is a concern. Just give me the raw emotion it brings and the words it can inspire. Let the music get you higher than you've ever been. I'd like to think there was a time in my life when I participated in the creation of rock 'n' roll. "Looking back on what was said, money lies and people dead." Words from a song written way back when, first on acoustic and later through distorted amplification. A rocked-up blues riff accompanied the lyrics, which spoke of a criminal act gone wrong. Along the beaches of Mexico.

I've since lost my train of thought, as the church choir that lives across the street has entered through my bathroom window (into my ears) and invaded my focus. If nothing else, dear reader, remember this. There are many rock 'n' roll imposters among us. And you may very well be one of them. On the other hand, you could be the savior we've all been waiting for.

How Quickly They Forget.

It will be a nice feeling when it's finally flushed from my system. When it has all gone down the drain, this sample platter of foreign emotion. Pause, rewind. The moment has ended, now play.

There is nothing quite like a sunny smog free twilight. Even so, there'll never again be one like her, the one who broke me in two. With eyes of a CocoRosie hue, capable of moving the dusty portrait. Nearby hills. Commanding armies: from the Pacific Northwest to the lower edge of southern comfort. Please, illuminate the snoozing city skyline for me. Breathe life into its charcoal-laced lung. Once more, before I go, allow me to feel the moistness we briefly shared.

She sits alone on the beach, her eyes fixed toward the sea. Too many thoughts crowd this one's mind. The plants, the trees and the crickets - they race at an even pace. Overwhelmed by love, a frown paints her face blue. Yet the wind continues to blow through her natural wave, whispering wisps of secret lies. Not everyone can understand the meaning of the coastal breeze, but her soft smile of loneliness reveals all. Spies in the house of love sit beside our precious handmaiden, their arms wrapped tightly 'round her pearl white shell.

A secret only for you. My dusty eyes blow safety into your dreams. Colorless rainbows, fearful sights.

Shelter needs no home. The safety it provides is priceless. Like the commercial, and split second of happiness that was sold to me. Bought at a fair price. Still paying off the debt. Don't want to make the bet. Investment involves risk, from what I've been told. You win some and then you lose, or so they like to say. Have you heard mention of hollowed heartbreak on Sunday Ave.? Sixth and First? Is there a residency doctor in the house? The emergency room is closed on this moonlit mourn. And another life has been lost, destroyed by the growling engine we've equally created. Its pistons show no mercy. A victim of venom, slowly injected into that heart of echoless beats. Let's meet somewhere in between, you and me. Perhaps a lunch, or dinner beneath the smokey oak tree.

Speak to me in those high phrases, even though it hurts like hell to hear. One more time won't kill me, I suppose. And for the record, my friends, the silence is perfectly golden. Sit still, be patient. The San Francisco panhandlers, bearded and non, would be proud of this moment we've shared. New York City flights. Crying babies and boiled eggs. You're a lovely little lady. In the city of night. The stale shell has broken. Shake it again for me, babe, like you did last summer. Then, when the time is right and the music is soulfully saturated, give a little rattle. Finally, after all is said and done, when this evening nears its intoxicated end, roll through your pleasant dreams. Don't disappoint the gods, they're everywhere.

From daylight to dark, the seamless thoughts blend into one. Read closely to these musical words: luscious locks are here to stay. Indeed, curiously split ends have become close friends. Allies of axis. Evil is blonde. A block of words penetrated by pain. Inject my heart with your love; plant the needle deep. Exit with a cold silver strip. Let us not forget, sweetest one, how much has already been wasted. Go, for now, I'll see you in heaven's lazy morning. Later, in the evening, we'll sip wine. Divine in hell's after-party. Send me a postcard, kid, addressed to no one. I'll close my eyes and think of home. That piece of land, situated somewhere across the Atlantic.

The Land Is Full Of Shade.

It's quiet on the grassy hill. All of the trees have lost their leaves. No shade to be found in this land of shady people. The blues are sung from the top of the hill. Heavy effects are put over the vocals. It's an endless conversation. A blinding sun hides behind the weeds. And it's the same ol' blues riff I've been playing for ages. Coming straight from the soul. It's been done before, or so they say. The harmonies remind of the Rolling Stones. From the early days. The pause in the song. Just when you think it's over, the splash of the crash reminds you that you're still alive. But not for long. Because it all happens in the blink of a lizard's eye. Like those times when the snake is slithering across the white marble floor. Veins of gray. It's some sort of smooth stone. I sometimes hear the hawk calling me home. Flying in that circular motion, looking for me. Past the pines, among the needles. But I'm not around. So she sends the helicopters at night. Their spotlights beam down, searching for my shadow. It has disappeared, along with the sunlight. I can feel them coming, those dull October days, when the heat is perfectly hidden behind the beautifully miserable sky. I'm hidden under the roof an apartment building from the '20s. Almost as old as my ancestors. But not quite. Oh, here come those harmonies again. "An endless verse; an endless curse; from the kiss that you left me." Like it was yesterday, eh? Here come those salty water tears. Microwave dinners. A living space that is rarely clean. Barely there. "Her voice was soft and cool; her eyes were clear and bright; but she's not there." Some things are better off dead. Not to be resurrected for a few dollars. Even if it brings people joy. Memories aren't meant to be remembered. They die once they're gone. That's why I don't take pictures. No need to remember the past: the living or the dead. Yes, another rambling thought. They tend to come from time to time. When the moment strikes. A second later it's lost, falling through the cracks of my blind mind. "I am an American aquarium drinker." Where's the six-pack when you need it? The scotch is never around. Another night of sleeping sober. They happen too often these days. "What was I thinking when I said it didn't hurt?"

That Golden, Silver Screen Line.

I enjoy watching movies with characters who have one pointless line: "What kind of fucked up tour is this?" says a black man caged in a tiny jail cell while taking a tour of Alcatraz.

The movie is "The Rock." As the non-important man shouts this line in a most ignorant, sharp tone, I think of the actor's family, sitting in a middle-of-nowhere movie theater watching their son, brother or cousin while screaming with elated joy. It's more than likely that this will be the poor actor's only line in a movie today, tomorrow or ever.

While his family packs the first row of the Silver Screen theater, the actor waits tables in a less-than-stellar New York City restaurant, waiting impatiently for his next audition. No agent; no prospects. He has already taken on a second job to keep his studio apartment in Brooklyn. Every night, after work, he counts his meager tips and catches the subway home. It's at least an hour's journey, give or a take a 10 minutes. He's tired and depressed, but his mother and father are proud. Their one and only son is a true Hollywood star, rubbing elbows with the best of them, strolling down Sunset Blvd. with a woman on each arm. An Oscar will surely come, it's only a matter of time.

His life later passes, with an indie film role -- or two -- in the background. A failed TV pilot, and a few plays around the East Village. Toward the end of his long, storied career, the hard-working actor sits his grandchild on a tired knee. The now-retired actor tells the tiny tot of his glory years.

"Listen here, my boy. You've never made it in show business until you have a line in a movie that goes a little something like this: 'What kind of fucked up tour is this?'"

A Nightly Walk Home: Tales From Koreatown.

I truly hate the summer heat, when I walk into my messy, bare-walled apartment to find a fiery wave of air rushing toward me, worse than that of the L.A. rush-hour traffic on the mighty 101. It has been bottled in all day, and even the cracked windows don't allow for ventilation against the intoxicating light. My lovely shoebox of a home, with CDs and magazines scattered about, wrinkled clothes strewn here and there, and a neglected acoustic guitar with a missing D string rests against the arm of my uncomfortable couch. We had some good times, my friend, didn't we? Oh, those forgotten songs. My bed comes out from the wall; the baby-blue sheets are dangling halfway to the ground. Click on the "ovulating" fan to provide refreshing relief. It does nothing but tease moist skin with stints of semi-cool, repurposed air.

On this evening I park my car in the gated lot where I pay $60 per month to use, walk down the sidewalk, past the abortion clinic where the ghost of a cold-eyed silent man in a straw hat stands in protest every morning handing out pamphlets in a useless attempt to save the lives of unborn children, and reach the crosswalk that never allows me to cross. I make a diagonal dart to the convenient store where I only spend money on overpriced plastic bottles of Diet Coke. I stand patiently in line as a Korean couple ahead of me buys lottery tickets. I grow impatient waiting for fools who dream of unattainable riches. But I smile politely and quickly pay for my chemicals and caffeine before walking out into the pleasant breeze.

From the opposite side of the road I catch a glimpse of a man and woman standing near my apartment complex entrance. The woman is attractive with wavy hair, and I pay no attention to the man. By now, sadly, I've forgotten the loveliness of her face. I keep my head down, key in hand, and walk toward the locked door. "I love the way you walk," she says with sharp words aimed toward my direction. I give her a questioning look and reply, "You like the way I walk?" From there I remember nothing, other than saying, "thanks," and quickly moving on. She had a sassy way about her, so I receive the comment as sarcasm. I don't know who she is, and I'm not sure I want to. It's likely this mystery mistress lives within the confines of my own building and secretly spies on me as I depart from work every morning, peeking through her blinds or shaded screen door. I doubt I'll ever know.

Now I sit and write, endlessly delaying. Rest has become nothing more than a dream.

This 99 cent candle I bought a week ago is almost finished. I enjoy using matches to light it. And after I watch the thin white smoke gently swirl away from the now-useless matchstick, I set it down on the fake wooden table. Its purpose has been served.

The Lonely Words Always Stand Alone.

Listening to music in paranoia is never a good thing, but what could be greater than Cat Power performing on Austin City Limits? I'll tell you, if you'd like to know. It's her dance moves. Walk like an Egyptian. And if there's one thing I've learned in this half-century of mine, it's that there's never a bad time for a cup of coffee. One more thing, dear friends -- never trust a blonde boy wearing a black Public Enemy T-shirt with white bolded letters. I'm almost positive that nothing good can come out of a situation like that, especially if he's standing on a street corner alone after midnight wearing a baseball cap. It doesn't matter what day it happens to be, just trust me.

I was at Coachella the other day and guess who I saw? No, you wouldn't believe. I was standing in a sea of people, watching Amy Winehouse perform while holding a little red plastic cup, nervously sipping Tanqueray between songs. She's quite small and annoyingly thin. Well, I looked to my left, past the attractive bohemian girl sitting alone on the grass in the 100-plus degree Indio heat, and saw Ron Jeremy, the porn star with a moustache. Some fucking idiot stopped Mr. Jeremy in his tracks to take a posed, hi-resolution digitalized photo. The show was ruined for me. I hate big audiences. But I'm sad to report this is the second time I've seen Jeremy out and about in the L.A. scene. The first moment I caught a glimpse was while waiting for a bus to take me and a co-worker to the Playboy Mansion. But that's another story altogether. Maybe I will tell it some other time, perhaps.

Those birds never stop chirping, even after dark, when the monstrous helicopters sometimes roar over my rooftop. It's in the middle of the night, and I feel like I'm sleeping in the dewy South American rainforest. Do you ever feel like opening your busted window and yelling at the world in anger? I don't. What right do birds have chirping while I'm trying to get some rest? Silence, it's never enough. I wouldn't go insane without the annoyances. But if I could never listen to music again, I'm not sure what I'd do. Maybe die. There would be no other point to live. The feeling it brings cannot be replaced. I live adjacent to a man who never sleeps. He does nothing but toss and turn in his bed. Endless noise. I can hear every movement of his mattress through my paper thin walls. I can only imagine what peculiar sounds he hears from me, probably nothing. I'm silent like a blue-belly lizard, heavenly roasting on a stucco wall in the dead of the summer sun.

I never used to trust Canadians, but that all changed last weekend. It sometimes happens when trusting eyes hit you. And it doesn't hurt if those eyes belong to curiously smiling lips that have good taste in music. That's all I have to say about that, other than a single moment can sometimes change everything. But if that moment isn't realized, which so often seems to be the case, then there's no point in having placed your trust in those eastern Canadian eyes. I'm still waiting for my gift, and thanks for the free ice cream.