Friday.
Wake. Snuggle. Walk. Shower. Clean. Pack. Drive 9 hours to southwest PA. Arrive at venue. Set up. Sit at bar and get carded and complimented on my looks. I like this place already. Eat 2 of 3 awesome shrimp tacos, when a random rogue glass shard that no one can find prompts the staff to send me 3 new tacos. A tiny girl, Remy, inquires "what I'm going to do with all the interesting tools." I tell her they are for making music. She says she loves to dance and pirouettes on a circular rug, one time,…

The Hop

Wake.

Snuggle.

Shower.

Organic chocolate milk breakfast.

A good week to kick caffeine.

No time to pray your advice.

Colors of joy lining corduroy pockets.

Electric spirit taps out technivangelization.

Live from the tip of electrode.

Living on a limb.

Balance like a pelican.

A frog hops across the wet highway.

A dog scrambles for snacks.

Smack me awake.

A few wrong turns.

Tethered to any road.

No map necessary.

The honored feed me.

The Skip

Wake.

Fly through space in an electric chair.

…

I tried to stop performing.
It didn't work out too good.
I guess making noise seems to be the thing people pay me to do, and so I need to take care of my son.
But there is something else.
Singing keeps mouths away.

Dear all the people,

After 20 plus years of playing shows, I've decided to step away from performing live. I suppose I owe an explanation. Here it is: it is inexplicable.

My last live solo show in Wisconsin will be this Sunday at venue I haven't played at in a long time: The Coffee House on Wisconsin Avenue (631 N 19th St). It was one of the first venues I played at in Milwaukee. Whenever anyone asks me if I get nervous on stage, I say "Not the big places. but sometimes the small ones." This is that venue…

So, about "Dead Man Dancing:"

It's not sad. But it's definitely not happy.
It may not really be me at all.
It's a patchwork of mediocrity spit from aurally unrecognizable strangers' lips.
Me? Listen for me in the background among the noise, hisses, taps, clicks, and pops.
Perhaps hear me buried in the acerbic words, harsh tones, callous shrieks, clumsy fingerings, pick flips, footsteps, deep breaths, and chest thumps.
Try to catch me closing a door and opening a window.
Whoever was revealed became invisible.
…

What do I do with all this future garbage?
Who on earth is not a junk collector?
Why should I hold on to my coat?
Birds don't trade seed for feathers.
They just keep moving.
Towards a fat red sun.

Sometimes when my eyes hurt from receiving photons, or my ears are ringing from too many sound waves, I can't find silence. Not aural silence, nor the tranquility I want, because I'm also buzzing from excitement and anticipation.

However, then I sometimes realize that my head aches from thinking, and my face hurts from smiling, and my fingers hurts from playing, and my voice is haggard from singing, and my legs hurt from dancing. And all of these minuscule agitations and caloric burns help perpetuate that…