He juggles for his house-keys & regretably drops his black-metal sax-stand with a CLUNK.

Oops. Well that oughta announce his arrival to the natives.

The neighbors. His eccentric ways have the couple upstairs nervous; the single woman across from them knows him from another apartment building and has long ago accepted & discounted him, just as he has accepted and discounted her. They will not sleep together. Mutual loss. Little does the dear woman know what a good fat earnest hard-on he could have for her.

That's all men & women have for each other, if they'r honest.
Hard-On's & Wet Cunts.

All else is shallow flatulence.

Why boys, as a matter of fact on a night like this, given the slimmest of opportunities & without Reservations of any sort he'd gladly volunteer to be her "ci-ci-beo"--her lover, her "gallant"!

The Old House is Silent. She's not moving around up ther.

Anyhow, she's a Good Neighbor & a sweet-spirit'd woman--and as such, merely being herself is a vital & soulful accomplishment in these United States of Amerika.

Then ther's the bachelor downstairs, next door.

He shuts himself in & locks the dude's macho mock-sincerity OUT.

Ugh. That motherfucker.

As he walks into the kitchen he hears the dude groan. It cannot be ignore'd or denied: he's a burr up that guy's butt-hole. They try to ignore each other but they can't. They listen to each other through thin walls every day & night. They hate each other.

What to eat? Starv'd. Ah fuck it I'll just drink a cup o' milk and eat a quick metamucil cracker; I is gwine lay my baby haid on that Sweet & Soft brand-name pillow. NOW.

That cuss'd porch-light. One o' the illustrious neighbors finally replace'd the bulb. Now it glares in his front window at him how's he gonna sleep. He gets up & throws on his grey wool shorts & steps out to the foyer, clicks off the light--then locks up & goes back to the refrijo for another few swallows o' milk: best to drink plenty liquid with metamucil. Hallelujah for Metamucil Crackers! They help ya keep Regular! They help you shit!

He hears the dude next door whip around on harden'd linoleum in his loud leather Party Boy shoes. The dude opens a kitchen door, rattles around in his back store-room, then slams two doors and turns on his Obnoxious TV. The slime-bag Dent-Head is so consistently LOUD. Two A.M., for Christ Sake!

Jesus. If I had only had a preview before I move'd in. I might could have negotiated myself a Detour into alternative quarters--some righteous apartment on a tree-line'd poetic street.

Close the ice-box & head back thru bedroom wher his King Size Bed is stackt with clean un-iron'd shirts & pants, knotted sock-pairs, fold'd winter blankets and his encase'd King Zephyr tenor sax.
He sleeps on the Foo-Ton in the living room.

Ah! Bed! My lonely bachelor Reward!

The porch light is back on.

That fuck-wad low-life no-nation Sports Fan motha-FUCKR. He just HAD to Correct my Error. Snide cock-sucker. I oughta take a fucking baseball bat next door.

Maybe I'll turn it off again. He's waiting for that.

Ah fuck it. The couple upstairs probably want the light on too. It's American Policy. Suppose'd to Discourage Crime. We are all so cavalier with our electricity. We take it for granted.

He drops his shorts & pulls a grey wool stocking-cap over his Bald Doomie-Dome & hits the pillow, ashame'd that he has so many ugly thoughts for the dude next door, the poor stupid twit-head. He pulls the cap over his eyes & turns to the wall.

And ALL NIGHT he mud-wrestles with the stars & the planets.
It goes like this:
no no NO I'm not a Failure, not a Loser, not a Burn'd-Out Bitter Refugee from an errant rudderless 60's generation--NO--reguardless how closely I appear to be incorrigibl fuck-off & Cross-Eye'd Introvert, inept out-o-tune sax player & blundering social swimmer & inexcusably chromatic off-key vocalist it CANNOT i will not ALLOW it to be the WHOLE TRUTH about me NO--mud-grips & churnings in an Iron Field under Constellations--GAWD wott a BUMMER gig we just play'd--small wonder they call it the Crash Palace--again I see the lesson: you got to keep a tight agenda on yer performance prep if you want the night to go good--I pickt out a good reed & soakt it proper & arrange'd my charts to the set-list, place'd my absolutely essential See-Thru Sound Mirror up on de stage by my chart-stand-- then duck out for a coffee across the street with Dan & Brad--come back & the gaddam Sound Mirror's gone--I look everywher--nobody's seen it--WHAT?! Jesus-infernal POLTERGEISTS??! What HAPPEN'd?! But Jason's waving for our attention we gotta start--Alex doesn't spot my pedestrian Bud as he yaks with tall good-looking sandy-hair'd Bob Dowling so he knocks it over with the heel of his shoe-- beer glugs out along stage-floor duct-tape'd speaker-cables & mike-cords & the bottle's 3/4ths empty by the time i spot it-- Hell's BAT-WINGS i thought i'd secure'd it in a logical spot-- shoulda STAY'd WITH THE PROGRAM as the Sound Dude set up our mikes--my mike's on the left of m'chart-stand instead of the right--I CAN'T PLAY BACKWARDS shit my fault I shoulda been here to tell him, now how do i navigate through THIS debaucle--call on the interior Master of Disaster for assistance?

SOMETHIN' gotta be done QUICK I'll be Outa Tune all night & anyhow I can't play good sitting this low, everything I ever learn'd about saxaphone is related to standing UP & playing, I try to tell Dutch & he tries to listen but he has all these OTHER Whirling Galaxies to attend to, & the brave soul is trying to juggle & manage Concept --the Big Picture package--in his ongoing courageous attempt to balance all the glaring blood-eye'd contradictions innate to a
Big Band, all our needs and personalities, clammoring guests hustling for a spot on the Rumor'd List, back door creep-ins & rude Club Owners & Doormen & dense RockJock soundmen & other assorted creeps--what can he DO; we need a LOOK & the Urbane Dinner-Wear Sit-Down Look sho-nuff is The Look--wotta Concept:

23-piece 30's-style ORCHESTRA adorn'd with 2 60's Go-Go Cages
in which 4 scantily-clad women of the 90's Move to the Groove
plus occasional Penis Guillotines, fire-breathing midgets etc

ah needs a BEER--and I LOST Brian's Krupa Kong chart but I think I know it by heart but I may fuck up & Dutch was chagrinn'd to realize he forgot his Tux pants & long-hair'd clarinetess Patty's back aches from martial arts lessons and trumpet-players Bill hurt his toe & Jim barely got off work tonight & trombone Chris got a flat tire on the freeway but made it on time anyhow & clarinet Jake forgot her after-hours stinji-brim & had an argument on the phone with her mother & lead-singer elegantly-brunette Celeste had to jump on the freeway straight from a 10 hour day at WeatherStone & Brad's so tire'd of looking for parking in San Francisco he feels like quitting and Kurt's stomache is growling & Malcom's quit the band but he's nobly playing the gig for us and Mark's molar hurts so if I can't adjust myself & play the horn sitting down I'm a solipsistic self-absorb'd heel; O God I hit 2 CLUNKER vocal notes on Bad Girl what is WRONG with me, I know the tune--I WROTE th' puppy--I make practice vocal tapes and listen back & PROVE to myself I can render the melody intact but in the froth of On-Stage it's hit & miss whether the so-call'd SongWriter will fall off the horse--SPROING--it's like a New Mexico Rodeo you puts a Number on yer shirt & it's too late to Prepare Yourself any further the lights are GO you gotta get OUT ther
--the BELL clangs & boys & girls, the Gate lifts!

Then ride home bumm'd that ya sang outa tune, shit, AGAIN; can't be rely'd on, I fall off the horse 3 outa 5 that is not Professional that's simple amateur Wanna-be but Can't Do It--and empathy is in order for singers Celeste & Veronica who attempt to sing along with an Unpredictabl like me--then ther's the exquisite bummer of a month ago at the I-BEAM: we turn'd in at the Rest Stop on the hill above the bay & in the Men's Room Mirror I don't like the shape my black cap is in --it's lost it's original jauntiness--so i neatly lay in some padding to get the shape I want: I use small panels of industrial toilet paper from a toilet stall. There--looks better & nobody'l know--not that I give a damn if anybody knows, it's a simple matter of tapping the resources at hand--but still I suppose it's a quirky thing to do, go to a gig with toilet paper in your cap but I like the shape better in mirror so I'm gonna roll with it--we pile back in Brad's auto and descend into San Francisco, make the Haight Scene, the incomparable Dutch Falconi Twist'd Orchestra plays the I-Beam club; of course I forget I've padd'd my cap--at the end of an ok gig Dutch introduces Band Members from the stage--spotlight--Dutch introduces me & I doff my cap--toilet paper panels fly out--some stuck to my doomy dome because I've been sweating--o GREAT! What an Inspiring Presentation! The only thing to do is grin & act like it was on purpose--throw li'l white panels up In the Air--how do I manage to Set Myself Up with such REVERSE FINESSE--jesus christ almighty--embarassing--ludicrous--o well what the fuck--fuck a duck as Henry Miller would say--even tho' I'm the only one who knows how it exactly happen'd, I'm not gonna burst a blood vessel over it--"the Show Must Go On"--and empathy is in order like I say for the girls that try to help an errant sing-- --bravo for them they'r troupers--and empathy is in order for Dutch who forgot his tuxedo trousers & hadda go Out Ther in a pair o' baggy chinos limp from freeway-driving & equipment-moving--and who was weaving his Shoes of Despair vocal spell with Eloquence--really at the ultimate Warlock of Compassion level that he use'd to deliver when the song was new--then sonofaBITCH a GIANT FEEDBACK shudders through the Full Decible Mains & Monitors like the Underground Snake in Arthur Ma's TREMORS or in Kerouac's DR. SAX or Frank Herbert's DUNE or Kenneth Anger's CULT OF THE WHITE WORM my god unbelievable it cut right through the song like a guillotine --SPROINNG--& Dutch & the girls are left stage-naked to try to recoup & not drop the beat & Continue and Reweave & SING ONWARD with direly-require'd Instant Brio & they manage it Somehow, bless 'em--but what a Left Hook to the Jaw & Punch to the Solar Plexus THAT was--we're into Bob's alto solo now & he's helping things out with FEELING, yeah; in truth he's SOARING; GO MAN GO! Ah it's okay, it's good, the women are in tune, weaving the song into River, it's going; we'r outa the Crisis; thank the Celestials that women exhibit so often such Natural Grace; The Dutch's back on his path, HE's GOT IT--The Walls are 3-D Drive-In Movie CinemeScope Images of Moving, Fonky Gods & Godesses--a thrill & a chill goes up my backbone; stand-up bassist Malcolm's Thumping, pouring sweat, with All his Tacit Accuracy & Feel--his esteem'd African Ancestors chanting in his blood--drummer Mark's usually barber'd slickt-back hair is Flying Around--he's In on the Central Compton requirements of the blood-stream inner song & WHAMMING it--Jake & Patty & Brian generously providing that ever-sought licorice-stick sound, Brad's got the BOTTOM of the equation solve'd like a Mad Mathmetician Up All Night 'til Rose-Dawn & he's INTO it; our man Shade the Main Man Problem-Solver handing all competently from the back-room & Social Hall--just like in a Li'l Richard song--Scotch in hand--ChickenFoot Alex McPhail right THER wher we need that tenor support and rythmn-pump & eloquent tone, Kurt & Chris have Synthesize'd their beings into one Trombone Transcendence; they'r GONE with the thing, I can't believe it, wher am i, this is what I PEEPT might happen some night, this is MUSIC--all you Falconi fans out ther--something is definitely happening and changing WITHIN us a different way; the Prince is HURTING himself he's so With It on that Fretboard, YES; tuba-player Ron's booming out the Sound Messages to Andromeda--
Bill & Greg & Jim SCREAMING that hot liquid trumpet-honey into the mid-song Ensemble, Mark's got it in hand so sublimely now he's Blind--he doesn't even know he's on a stage--Phaedra & Honey & Sugar & Kali are exacting Instant Karmic Retribution from the crowd as they form their dancing Flying Wedge--oof!--so erotic, so beautiful they mutate the Giant Screens into Flash Gordon & sweet Dale in the UnderWater World of Mongo--John & Nathan in here with those inimitable tenor voices on the Chorus, perfect pitch and Tantric Affirmation they ALWAYS deliver--Celeste is singing like a High Aztec Priestess--her hair is Braid'd into the Stars--Veronica also singing Fine & True, her White Hair a Halo in the lights--and Dutch is coming Out with it now, he's bringing it out, here It comes, the life-loving INNER MEANING of Shoes of Despair, Christ Almighty Lamb Chops i see it Happening before my eyes--whew--1000 Ancestors are coming through him now; WALK in those SHOES, TALK in those Shoes; YES for Planet Earth, YES for the Mother & the Nuit Night Sky sparkling somehow in the ceiling right now of this purple & gold Celestial Crash Palace, Search Lights Stream in every phrophetic direction like an unPrecedented-because-UnSolicited InterGalactic Hollywood Premiere in wow what a CITY--look at the PEOPLE--they HEAR him, now; the Dutch got his White Hat on, peoples--the Crowd is undulating in waves, they can't MISS these lyrics--"TATTOO my brain, see if I care"--YES the Orchestral Ship rights itself, YES we Arc Out into the Ever-Lovin' Yoniverse; for in truth we are NOT a clown act!

NO! Not ONE of us is mis-cast! The ever-lovin' Falconi Orchestra is a GREAT BAND! A TEAM in the United States of America! All positions aboard-ship are integral! Robust! No throw-away roles on a ship like this--not even me, who can't BEAR to hit a clunker--I just surely must PRACTICE more, that's all--for the Out-Back People in Australia teach that ther is NO SUCH THING AS A LOSER--Amerika indoctrinates false value--the Buy/Sell Devalue Market Syndrom MUTILATES human potential, murders Soul--if you are born into an Out-Back tribe you are unconditionally love'd and emotionally spiritually endorse'd by your brothers & sisters FOR LIFE--the mutual commitment lasts the entire life--each soul is allow'd & ENCOURAGE'd to change & grow throughout the life-span-- --those Out-Back People be Exalted Philosophers who put their philosophy wher it WORKS---in their Real Lives--they are not the sub-human groveling desert mongrels Billy Graham & Jerry Falwell would tell us they are--I yell to the heavens as I roll in the mud this night under technicolor Milky Ways & Wild Waving Palm Trees that we are INNOCENT! Not sleazy opportunist materialistic back-stabbing money/status grubbers! We be Performance Artists in the land where we were born! NOT GUILTY! Because we'r not Adults!

ADULTS! GROWN-UP's with their Definitions! Retentive, bias'd, jaundice'd-vision'd ADULTS--the BIG kids in the play-ground with their OPINIONS & VIEWS! Their ATTITUDES! Kids don't define things, ADULTS do it--and their definitions are inaccurate and they IMPOSE them on kids. ADULTS say we gotta keep the electricity-wasting porch-light on all night! That an energy-eating pastel porcelain-coat'd Washer and Dryer set is INDISPENSIBLE to modern life--god forbid we wash our clothes thoroughly in a bath-tub and hang 'em to dry in the Sunshine--
It is the addle'd adult in me that says I have to dislike my bachelor neighbor. After all, he just wants to enjoy his music; sure he BLASTS me OUT of MY MIND straight through the paper walls, but I understand getting into the enthusiasm & vitality of sweet heart-pumpt mad Non-Stop Infinity-Kiss'd Music, "it's the GONEST, man!"--and sure, he just wants to Keep Up on the News, what's wrong with that? Altho' he perpetually plays that gad-am tv so LOUD
I often feel like knocking on his door & asking him "hey man can you please turn it UP a little more? I can't quite hear the gurgles in that loud asshole tv newsman's INTESTINES yet--!"

On the other hand he plays it real quiet some times as if he's ashame'd of himself; so I surely should allow him room to breathe, and not try to DEFINE his life-style for him, it's HIS life-style he's gotta work out & live out and try to find a tad of enjoyment for himself; sure he brings his girl-frend over & they fuck & suck & yell "Oh! Baby!" to each other at 3 a.m. & wake me out of my blissful Ocean del Nod with their screams as they knock the bed against the hardwood floor & walls, but hell that's just love & zest & appreciation for each other & generosity in sensuality, right? I'm going through a divorce & I live alone & I'm horny but don't wanna admit it or look for somebody new right now I just wanna be alone & think things over & work on my uncompleted Projects that have limpt erratically along on Sclerosis Braces through 3 marriages & 2 divorces but I surely shouldn't begrudge my neighbor & his girl their chance at Joy & Realization of each other & so on & so forth & everything like that Life Liberty & the Pursuit of Happiness--Different Strokes for Different Folks--
--Live & Let Live--so I move into the living-room, turn on the air-blower to serve me in some Night-Spores and drop back off into Ocean Green & Bubbles & Blue Swimming Fishes & Octopi.

NOT GUILTY! We'r KIDS! We don't owe them adults SHIT! Let 'em stuff their Star Wars & Leaking Nuclear Reactors up their baboon assholes! O it's an Overturning, tumbling Night of half-sleep for me after the Incomparable Never-To-Be-Forgotten Crash Palace gig! I just keep yelling for us all that we are INNOCENT! WE don't define things and we don't have to be TRAPPT by adult-syndrome Definitions! I CAN sing in tune!
I CAN endorse my brother next door! I CAN leave the porch light on if that's what he needs for awhile to feel good about his existence! Maybe he'll learn to wean himself from the habit later! In fact this Prayer is for him now--
He, we, each & every one of us is INNOCENT! Let the little children come unto me, didn't Christ say, I think it was something like that, "unless ye render yourselves as little children in no way shall ye see the Kingdom of Heaven" ? Is that what he said?

Who in fuck was he anyway? Willem DeFoe?

ALL NIGHT LONG I yell under the Vaulted Myriads "INNOCENT!"--it's like a host of devils are trying to claim me, or take us all away

& I must protest or they will succeed: "INNOCENT! All of us! We are INNOCENT!" I yell silent in my slip-sleep but it's like I'm yelling GUILTY! GUILTY!
No matter how earnestly I call ther's a cynical Judgement hovering around that doesn't believe me & I yell "Innocent" but I get fwokking pronounce'd GUILTY; it hurts, I CHURN IN THE MUD, I don't want to accept it, I KNOW it is a FALSE GUILT and it is not mine! And I don't know what persuades me that it's my job to yell for everybody else too but it's HOURS of this fucking BROILING, & even the Black Clouds break & ther is hard cold rain in my face and splattering off my bald head under tall dripping palm trees and laffing hyenas and thread-thin streaks of incandescant neon-blue suffuse'd-with-pink lightning.

And in the Window Morning I wake up & fix m'self some good hot black coffee and come over here to the Screen to Boot In.

And lay this out for you.