What's it all for? don't purposefully hurt anyone, any species. try to pay your way. Clean up your spills. Play with your toys til you croak. Ther's not much more to it.

Well here he is, tenor saxophonist Rane Bardfold, "Gizmo" of the globally-infamous Dutch Falconi Twist'd Orchestra, aulde dogsbody with a black cuppa coffee at his new Work Station.

What'l he ever do? Sure would be a great treat to simplify & complete the following manuscrpts: Hum For Kathi, Koni the Jungl Girl, The Reek of the Red Witch, Ela in the Rain, Legend of Lemon Girl [in which should be related the off-hand improbable tangential manner in which Kerouac's virus return'd--a more-than-rare trip to Town & Country library--after seeing Dr. Yee for Ear Iritations & Chronic Bronchitus--into the shadows of the small hall--cool uncrowded library--pale-yellow irridescent water-glimmers along the walls--1971--& ther's VISIONS OF CODY--Gizmo sign'd up for a Instant Gratification City Library card and started reading--he never took the book back--he was enthrall'd and soon compell'd--compell'd to
RESUME WORK ON

Man this coffee's good. gots a lotta Hawaiian Raw Sugar in it. Poppa's got a Brand Nu bag. bachelor life. He be in a band wher the spirited young leader--opinionated--yet Man of Deep Integrity--says
"I hate Bob Dylan." Dutch Falconi & the Edgar Allen Poseurs. Dutch: "Also I hate the Stones." Well Gizmo understands WHY, & in many ways he hates 'em too, yet he at same time acknowledges he owes an amount of gratitude to those Monumental Fuck-Wads. He and they grew up through dissimilarilly similar Times.

So not to dwell on it, but--
Even that Supreme asshole Rod the Mod Asshole Stewart. For Gasoline Alley. And then ther is Elvis, Clyde Mcphatter, Tim Hardin, mystic Van Morrison. John Lee Hooker. Lightning Hopkins.

John Coltrane. King Curtis.

Blah etc.

Dutch Falconi & the Sphynx deFacers be going up to San Fran tanite --Sa'day nite, jack--July 2/94--to play the Crash Club. We been hitting S.F. regular lately, thanks in large to the efforts of Dan Montoya our Road Scout--Brave Nu World, I Beam, D.N.A. Lounge --should I call Shelley, Gizmo asks himself. She might meet me.

Sonoma Shelley. A beautiful & Soulful Woman near his own hoary incalculable age. Been through some o' the same Zones he crawl'd.
Not fair to call at the last minute.

He be in a band. With the Heebie-Jeebies.

Stand back baby 'cause the Jynx is on me.

So get reddy, teddy. Stick the black bow tie in the white shirt pocket, put shirt with white-silk dinner jacket on hanger inside Protect Cellophane by Guard Yours. Put some Scruff-Kote on the ol' Air-Force issue boots given to him by his 21 year-old son. Granpa
be steppin' out tonight. Granpa Gots a Grunjy Gig.

Not that Granpa gots de right to use terms like "grunje" or "gnarly". They are terms, after all, that belong to a Different Generation.
And some folks is persnickety about such shit, but wott de hell
thinks Granpa--Gonzo! Hunter Thompson!

And while he's at it, one more "G" word: Groovey!

So get Grinding. Pack in the new box o' Rico Royale #3 Reeds. Assemble all Transport Items by the front door: Zephyr King Tenor Sax; dress duds to be don'd only at Show Time; Falconi Bowl Shirt for Casual Wear up the pike; black-metal sax-stand; black leather tote-bag for music charts; li'l round glasses with which to read the charts; health-food store energy-herb cap; small botle of mix/ Vodka & O.J. [e'en as our Black Hero approaches Trial for the murder of his wife & her lover] {why was he ther for Thanksgiving? Cuz he jazz luv to cut up White Meat} [bass-player Malcolm tells us & we all groan at the Cattle Club Sound Check last gig].

Gizmo's contention, natch, is that O.J. is innocent.

But p'rabs he should limit his contentions to the subject of
alcohol & fruit-juice mixes.

Okay. Brush ya Teeth, mom says. Shower, rerazor the Bald albeit Immutably Scarr'd Sacra Dome Electric; soothe with Coconut Oil.

He gets into the Scent. Coconut, ladies!

O well. Guess he's lost any woman-appeal he ever had.

Twilight Encroacheth. But he can still play the Horn.

Sort of.

Returning to El Live-Room, he catches sight of his White Legs in the Fool Length Mirror. By All the Bhuddas, 'tis Unknown to me. Hairless Calves. Why? And so WHITE!

Well they get no Sun.

But of course, these days the sun is Dangerous.

But listen you motherfuckers: Monday through Friday I jog around McKinnley Park or Sutter's Fort or somewhere 4 times. After I'm done with my Employment. It just so happens that at 8:30 or Nine in the morning as I return from Work I'm in my Work Levis.

So the calves get no sun. Thank you.

I like to get my Work done in the hours before the Heat strikes.

Is that so wrong?

Thank you.

I'm a Clean Up Man. I got a Route. I get a Check.

Thank you plenty.

The thing to do, and he does it, is after ya got everything reddyteddy to go, you lay Flat on Ya Back & Breathe Out.

Three times. Then you breathe In.

Repeat as Necessary.

The Irreducible & Irreplaceable Falconi Orchestra Guitar Player, Mr. Dan the Irrepressible Prince yells into his so-call'd beatnik window. "Hey Mr. Bardfold!"

"--Yo'! Hang on I'm coming!"

Ther's an Outer Door to this Big Wonderful House Gizmo lives in. Ther is no buzzer for Mr. Prince to buzz.

Gizmo throws on his Tuxedo Trousers & comes out on the porch. "That's what I told her," he says.
"Huh?"
"--Yo'! Hang on I'm coming!"

They drop their Undependable Attention Spans along with small grins to the ground. To the Mother. Wher such things belong.

Dan Prince: brown hair cut close around double-ring'd ears, not a pompadour, not slick'd down--loosely comb'd back from his forhead
--round wire-rims, elf-face, agile frame. Yellow sport shirt & darkbrown trousers. 60's Mod-Boots.

Gizmo looks him up & down. "You not got no tuxedo tonight?"
"I'm ganna change up there."
"Jeez. Well I wonder wher Mr. Brad Nasaka be. You din't see him?"
"De Nada. Just got here. See nobody, naughting."
"Well I'll be Whippt by Six White Horses. What time is it?"
"Ten after"
"This isn't like him. Usually he's early & I have to interrupt my Beauty Nap. Strange."
"He didn't call, or--?"
"--de nada."
"What do you want to do?"
"Well--you gotta watch yer shit huh? Can't come in?"
"The auto doesn't lock."
"Check. Okay. Well I'll bring my stuff out & We'll stand watch from the porch?"
"Sounds like a wiener."

Gizmo brings his sax to the door. "--wait--you could dodge in for a second: you need to see my new Power Station!"
"Yeah?" A skeptical smile.
"Get in here a minute."

Mr. Prince follows him into the Retreat and looks around. He purses his lips & raises an eyebrow. "Pretty nice pad."

"Check me out. I know you only got a minute. This is the new trench I dug--oughta fuckin' be able to hold off the Kong awhile from HERE." Gizmo waves his arms at stuff & grins as he sits down to throw on socks & boots.

In the corner, a Screen, a Dell 640 K w/256 Extended Ram Feed-Slot, a work-table, a collumn of Shelves, a Yamaha TX81z, a Boss RPS-10 Digital Pitch-Shifter-Delay, a Tascam 4-Trak Porta-05 Mini Studio.

Certainly not all that much, & they both know it.

They stare together at traffic. "Maybe I better go see if he left us a message," Gizmo says.
"I guess. It's twenty after."
"This ain't like him. Hope evrthin's ok."
"You never know."
"Sit in that porch-chair if ya like. Unless it looks too filthy."
"Ah it's alright--" Dan knocks some leaves out of the seat & sits. "Not too filthy for me," he says as Gizmo heads back into the pad.

No message. He calls the dude's number.

City dudes. Christ I shoulda stay'd in the Mountains. Wher I felt Natural. Blue Skies, Birds & White Clouds. But them hills kickt me out. End'd up w/a Stamp on my forhead:

UNEMPLOY'D

But shit. The stamp before that read:

TOO FAR

At any rate, he gets Brad's Machine & a Fine Young Thing Voice says
Hi! [giggle] Brad nor Suzi nor Greg or Anna-Ess
are here at this time to answer the phone. Please!
Leave your name number--and...measurements...okay?
Someone is...SURE...to get back to you [giggle]

Gizmo stares out the kitchen window at the blank boards of the house next door. He hangs up the phone.

Dan's still alone on the porch. Gizmo looks up the street through trees of every color--no familiar auto. "Dude I just tried his number & I got his machine. So he got to be on his way."
"Well if we have to we can use my girl-friend's car. Mine wouldn't make it, I'm afraid."
"Yeah my van neither."
They stare together at traffic. "This is NOT like him," Giz says.
"Hope we'r not dealing with a flat tire," says Dan.
"Not him."

They stare together at traffic.

"Cars," says Gizmo. He moves his sax-case on end & uses it as a seat. "I had trouble just last night. Shut my motor down at a Wiener-Schnitzl Window, they were taking so long. Then I go to start it back up--Nothing. De Nada. Not even a lame whirr or click. Just DEAD. Freakt me out."
"Jesus."
"I had my ex-wife & her new boyfrend in the short. And the kid."
"So what happen?"
"We push'd it outa ther & she went to call her brother. I fiddle'd with shit but nothing workt."
"Ya hadda lock it up & walk?"
"This next installment's funny. I'd turn'd the key a buncha times, checkt for loose wires, checkt if the lights still workt--nothing. Then the kid says Try Again and I did--and it turn'd over."
"Crazy."
"I KNOW. I dunno whethr to be happy or sad. Makes me insecure about relying on the old bomb for work next week."
"Battery."
"I'm not so sure. You know the headlights stay'd bright when I made spot checks, but it wouldn't start. What the hell is that?"
"Hum."
"I figure my starter motor's going out."
"Maybe."
" Or alternator. "
Well you gotta do homage to the Auto God. Ya KNOW that. The Auto God won't attend to you unless you send oblations. I mean, how often do you change the oil?"
"Shit dude I have NEVER change'd the oil."
"Well that's a sin."
"I watch my water & oil LEVELS--that's it I don't do nothin' else. I just expect the mothafucka to GO."
"Well you'r an idiot. You gotta honor the Auto God. Dude I change my oil every 2 Thou'. I make a religion of it. Christ it don't even cost that much--pour it in, ya know? I mean, what? A buck & a half or less a quart. Fact I use the cheap stuff. 99 cents."
"Yeah I know you make sense. I never could relate to cars. If I see something dangling under the hood, I figure it's a Rip-Out."

Prince stares at him.

"Yeah I know you make sense," Giz says.

Gizmo's bachelor neighbor puts on LOUD 1940's Big Band music. The Thoroughly-Accompanied lyrics come virtually CRASHING out a window.

feel broken hearted
I Can't Get Started
with you

They stare at traffic. Dan hums along with the tune. Then he nods his head up the Road. "Here he is," he says & smiles.

"All RIGHT. Eagle Eye sees 'em first."

Brad pops his head up sheepish. "Sorry I'm late--"
"Plenty o' Time, plenty o' Time," says Dan.

Brad's in shirt-sleeves & black bow-tie dangling from an open collar, slight build, neatly com'd hair & Intelligence behind
horn-rim glasses, plays a BIG baritone.

They load up and hit the freeway with Gizmo regretting he'd not been quick enough to request a pull-over at an In-Town mailbox so's he could mail a letter to Smud and a letter to Sonoma Shelley.

The 2 envelopes radiate from his front Falconi Bowl Shirt pocket. Ah but he's damn'd if he'll say anything After the Fact, fuck that. So he bites his tongue & stares into the Descending Sun.

Freeway Ghost Rider.

Across Water. Over ther a few miles is the old River Galley wher for 5 years he play'd his sax in a trio for Actual Money. The place is gone now. Replace'd by Actual Money.

Something stinks around here, in America, Gizmo thinks. He thinks it's the smell of money.

Prince puts 'em in a Crazy Thing. Gizmo don't know whethr to think of it as a Twist-O-Flex or a Fruit Loop--but they go back--back into Sacra! They have to. Here's why:

"AW Jesus--did I forget my Foot Pedal?" Illustrious Prince yells.

Huh?

"Your WHAT?"
"Aw man you guys I apologize--my FOOT pedal--I can't play without it! What the hell, I can't remembr if I loaded it into the trunk!"
"Is it under Brad's Tux jacket?"
Dan looks. "Nope. Oh shit."
"Christ," Gizmo invocates, "are you trying to Imitate Me or WHAT?"
"Do we have to go back?" asks Brad.
"I hate to say it but yes. I gotta have that pedal."
"Well let's check the trunk--"
"--naw it's on the floor-board in my car. Can't believe I forgot it--" Prince hitting his head with a palm. They circle back. Birds. The final phase of the day's Blue Sky, White Clouds line'd with Yellow. Boats. I Street Bridge Over Water.

"This is like something I would do," says Giz. "Dude! Got to be calling you Reprehensible." "Irresponsible," grimaces Dan. "Shit turds."
"The irreligious Dan Prince."
"Fwok."
"At least you ain't irascible."
They laugh.
Brad silently drives.
"Well, cool. I can get us all a yogurt for the ride. With your cooperation, Brad. Ther's a quik-dodge store just before my place. Every flavor, me tuddies. 3 for 99 cents."
"They got Lemon?" says Dan.
"I don't need one," says Brad.
"Can we dodge in a minute? I'll run--"
"Sure, if you want to."
"Don't forget spoons--"

Ther's a pretty woman in the store. Gizmo decides not to look.

2Oth & H. Wher his mystery woman Kathi Dual use'd to buy her
Camel cigarettes & her Miller Drafts. Back in 1985 after she
grew her 3rd Mohawk back in.

Giz brings back 3 Cherry yogurts & 3 li'l white spoons.

"No Lemon?" Dan asks.
"Seat belts," says Brad.
"Hang on--lemme get rid o' these letters at that mailbox, man--"

With a sigh Brad pulls over.

Gizmo gets out and his white-silk Falconi dinner jacket slips off the hanger out of the plastic into the gutter.

"Shit!" he yells, scooping it up gingerly, "I just got it outa the cleaners!" All three groan. A barefoot black dude leaning against the 2lst & H Laundromat laffs. Giz recognizes him from Poetry Jams --"Glad you see the humor in it," he tells the dude with a grimace.
He shakes the coat and laffs finally. They grin at each other.

"Looks okay," says Dan, sticking his head out.

The coat has a few tiny brown spots on it.

Gizmo runs his little letter-box run.

They rush to Dan's auto. The pedal is not ther.

They check Brad's trunk. The pedal sits ther gleaming.

"Really embare-ass-ing," says Dan.

"Ah we needed to get yogurts. Let's motate!"

Burning Ironic Urns

Bored? Never bore'd, Giz thinks, staring out the window at the Dixon, California road-sign, jeez I sure act the Hermit lately tho.
'Course I've always had hermetic tendencies. The Kerouac virus.
I could trip out for AEONS mayhap, completely solitary.

Tippy-tappy all hours on the little keys.

Dixon--once the home of globally-infamous Robt. Crumb, cartoonist.

Soon they approach the Sonoma turn-off; they pass it by. He stares goon-dreamy in that direction. Well she's Over Ther. Cooking clams for dinner. That impossibly sleek Shelley. A Real Woman. Survive'd all these crazy American Nights--these YEARS that brought her into middle age. She still has some Love in her.

Guess I'v finally Lost It. I don't go see her. I save the gas money & stay in Sacramento. Geriatric Shut-In. Incorrigible Hermit. ME! Roamer of Sierra Foothills! Chose the role of Poet at the age of 19! Sure that I would do it all!

Instead, it's tippy-tappy all hours on the little keys. Move over, William Burroughs. I see you in the mirror.

How many aeons could conceivably pass ere I Realize the Solitary writer-composer Role is disconnected from Real Life? What POINT in creativity if you aren't a part of a Real life Share-Journey?

And yet I got nothing to share if I don't work on my stuff. My stuff is what I DO. And it requires Concentration to get INTO it. And I require solitude that I may concentrate.

Tippy-tay away. To quote lyrics from Dutch Falconi's "Shoes of Despair". By god the day's descending.

When they get to San Francisco Dutch informs them he somehow forgot his tuxedo pants. But the Show Must Go On!

Crash Palace. Big Wall Screens, oily-bubble psychedelic Light Show, a Rill Scene that once would have brought exultation to the swelling breast of a 22-year old long-hair'd so-call'd "poet." Trouble with getting old is you lose the last tatter'd rags of feeling. Ultimately & in no time at all, if you live your life like Gizmo has, you just don't feel a damn thing.

"that which is far out & exceeding deep, who can find it out?"
--Ecclesiates 8:24. And 8:26 is about The Woman.

Gizmo lifts his braille fingertips from the device's Pearl Keys. His neck muscles feel tight. What a Jam. Pages of words.

Wonder who I think I'm doing this for, he thinks.

You either have faith or fear, not both. The only way to pass a test is to take the test, says Marlo Morgan, messenger return'd from her revelatory experiences with the Out-Back People on an incredible Four Month Walkabout in Central Australia.

Prayer that WORKS: clear thots OUT of mind, wait to RECEIVE.

If your mind is always yakking--like Gizmo's--how you gonna RECEIVE anything? And wasn't it Kathy Acker who pronounce'd culture dead & ther's no use trying to replace it with a "new cultcha"? What was it? What was culture anyway? Who are you? Who am i?
Do I rilly have a wheelchair crush on Kathy Acker, Mystery Woman? Just because she writes Magnificently & Explains stuff to me? YES.

Yeah I do, thinks Gizmo. Got a Big Time Crush on that crazy mystique woman Kathy Acker. Like to Kiss Her Rose Petals.
Like to get her on a Slow Boat to China.

What she says about Roads in this crippl'd culture of ours be some cleanly fine-tune'd WRITING.

"Ther are no misfits or accidents. Ther are only misunderstandings and mysteries not yet reveal'd" --Marlo Morgan, Mutant Messenger. "Best way to accomplish what you want is to WORK for it, on an individual level" --Oscar Acosta the Brown Buffalo Zeta hymnSELF! Ah! This remarkable writer-man! Here he is peaking then coming down lsd on a hill above New Mexico lake: "I am at Peace. Content with my commitment to the earth." And his book "Revolt of the Cock-Roach People" offers this quote:

Life is not what it seems. Life is pride & personal history. Better one die & the people live rather than one live & the people die."--Lopitos / Acapulco, Guererro 1960

"what matters is / how...you walk thru the fire" --Charles Bukowski

For example, thinks Giz, the Indefatigable Mr. Dutch Falconi walks through fire with Style. Impeccably-trimm'd Charlie Mingus Goatee and short Emporer Ming moustaches at each side of cherry lips, hair slickt Straight Back & Gleaming--or under a Thelonius Monk City Lid --Triple Rings in the Correct Ear--and only the knowledgable women of this world know what other piercings, scarifications, suspenders etc might be privately residing beneath those 30's & early 40's outfits--& of course those globally-infamous Shoes of Despair always religiously spit-shine'd for that Ancient Stage of Roses--Big Hands, Big Ears, Big Visions...

Jason Gutierrez--no Fashion Out-Dog himself--insouciantly kicks off his city shoes & stockings. He is our dark-hair'd grey-eye'd Esteem'd Conductor, and we'r lucky to have him. Both arms aloft-- this is IT--his thin white Conductor-Baton pois'd--

"Cheer up," tenor-saxman Alex McPhail whispers to me--each strand of his short-trimm'd blonde hair neatly comb'd back, blue eyes surveying All, Black Tie & Dinner Jacket. The crowd stares at us. "Gimme a blow-job," whispers Alex. Jason counts us in.

And the night Crash'd & Bash'd & Thrash'd, one might be tempt'd to say--and then the show was over & the fabulous Twist'd Orchestra clambor'd off-stage looking for beers & clothes & frends & money &
god knows what else. And the 3 yogurt-eaters throw their gear in
a small car & sail home. To individual goals.

Two eaters. "Last shot at the remaining yogurt, Brad--"
"You go ahead."
"Dan?"
"It's yours."
"I feel self-concious."
"Aw..."
"Brad? You sure?"
"Enjoy it."

Plenty Big Moon out that window.

So I hold this photo I found. It's in my hand right now.

A little boy sitting on an overgrown-path railing with a waterfall behind him & large ferns above his head. His hands are so naturally relax'd on his thighs, hips shifted, one leg dangling & the other stretch'd to the ground as a balance for his easy-going posture. He got on blue-jeans & a cool little long-sleeve check'd flannel shirt. He has a fuzzy small-animal soft-bristle'd crewcut and the sweetest of expressions on his toy face.

The photo is me at 7 years of age.

I like that kid.

On the back of the photo my mother's handwriting records, for the sake of Posterity & Eternity:

Rainbow Springs, Florida
1952
"Darling Rane"

What happen'd? I look in the mirror this morning at a gnarly dried-apple face. The oldest gap-tooth'd tatoo'd shave'd-head member of a young up-&-coming Mighty Fine Orchestry.

Something happen'd, like Joseph Heller says. Between that kid in photo & the old fuck sitting here with a laptop keyboard on his knees and his bare feet on a batter'd suitcase that for years has carried around an odious Ur draft of a Great Work of Literature entitle'd The Mythe of Ametrius. Warm silver sunlight cavorts into my open "H" street window thru chlrophyl & window-lace and I am impeccably thrash'd, trash'd, fuckt-up and mis-guided.

And augustly Alone.

A woman, a grand lady, wants me to come to Sonoma & watch fireworks with her tomorrow, July 4th "Independence Day" 1994.

She told me so on the phone. I will not go.

A pair of gorgeous females invite me to BBQ today. Right here in town. I don't know if I will go. If I go I will drink; it seems the only way not to drink is to not be around "people."

I am trying to say that there MUST be a story between 1952 and "now." But what IS it? How do I tell it?

Charles Bukowski recently died. So much for the Living Master of the Short Story. I have already this a.m. consulted the "tenor of his manner." Yeah, he knows how to set it out wher it's readable.
Yeah. Bukowski!

But isn't ther More To Be Said about that night of the 'Frisco Crash Palace? With its Big Video Walls & its Light Show & nose-ring door-men & nipple-pierce ticket girl? Sure ther is:
....

Gizmo snorts awake & they are almost to Dan's girlfrend's pad.

Brad at the wheel. Return trip. Lights go by overhead in the windshield. They pass a 7-11 and a Taco Bell.

Quiet little affluent neighborhood. They pull up at a corner house. Dan gets out & Gizmo helps him unload his Fender Amp etc.
"BBQ tomorrow if ya's wants to come over."
"Okay, Mr. Bardfold." "Call me if ya want directions how to get ther."
"Okay."
"Sweet dreams dude."
"Yop"

Lucky fella's going into that dark little house to crawl into crisp clean sheets with a sweetly naked young woman. Gizmo remembers such activity; he glances back down a litter'd & overgrown Road.

Cling very tight to each other tonight, young lovers. All you cute li'l Falconi fans. I've had a love like yours. Melody From the Skies. Blue Lights & White Dinner Jackets and Maurice Chavalier does the ol' Soft Shoe up crystalline Tinker-Toy spiral-stairs.

Lights overhead through windshield. "Call me up if you wanna barbecue," he says to Brad, who says: "Okay. Thanks." Brad's the newest Falconi member & a tad reticent.

Good man. Accuracy on Baritone Sax.

"Long fwokking drive, huh?"
"...yeah..."
"Pur't soon you gon' have your baby head on that feather pillow."

The young man's hands tighten on the wheel & then relax.

They pull up to Gizmo's pad & Giz gathers his goods--coat-hangers, cherry-red yogurt cups, little white plastic spoons, broken sax reeds, empty cherry-red coke bottle that smells of vodka & O-J, music charts, tarnish'd saxaphone in Alligator Case.

"Well go home & get some rest, sir," he tells Brad.
"Alright."
"Did ya get enough gas money from me & Dan?"
"Yeh."
"Arright then--see ya"