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Ah, what the heck.

The Words:

The river flows and goes; it's on unceasingly.
Whatever water is, it's other than it's gonna be.
Bubbles on the surface disappear; they don't for long.
And all the nippers that I knew back in the day are gone.

Seen a tremor. Seen a fire. Seen a typhoon.
Pray to Amida, 'cause I know I'm gonna die soon.
Now did I hear a sucker nipper say "what"?
This is the record of the ten foot square hut.

Sucker Nippers buildin houses like there gonna last.
They don't know shit about the future; they forgot the past.
But I ain't stressin 'cause it's nothin that I wanna grab.
Pick my house and I can move it like a hermit crab.

Don't interrupt me when I'm flowin on my koto,
Inlfatin, imitatin the ways of Minamoto.
Live in the mountains, I don't never wanna own a gun;
Rock the evanescent like my girl Sei Shonagon.

Now did I hear a sucker nipper say "what"?
This is the record of the ten foot square hut.

In my declining years, I deign to live alone.
I drop the mic. I drop the brush. I drop the ink stone.
But the I pick em up again so I can write a rhyme.
You suckers hastin, but I'm wastin all your precious time.

Don't even matter, cause you know my flow is pleasant.
My mom and pop is out there cryin like a pheasant.
Ever present evanescence is my lesson, and it's funky.
I shed a tear when I'm wailin with a monkey.

But I pity sucker nippers cause they don't know how to rap at all.
Lose all their money every time they move the capital.
Did you hear the news? I never get the blues,
Chumpin sucker nippers with particular views.

I'm a lonely rajaputra. I don't have to pay no rent.
When I read the Lotus Sutra I'm about to pitch a tent.
Never harm a living creature; I don't wanna get bent.
Kick it with the Dharma cause my karma's all spent.

That's why I'm droppin all the servants and the loot, so
When I get tired of intoning the nembutso,
That's when I'm rollin with my homie, who is ten, yo.
We picking cogon grass; don't even need a hoe.

All you sicker nippers no my crib is so fly,
Cause I like small huts and I cannot lie.

The river flows and goes …

Here’s a Billy Joe Shaver song for all you broke folks out there.

This is one of those songs in which I merely take some real events and make them rhyme. The color of the pickup truck has been changed for metrical reasons.

The Words:

Well, the first time you met my family
It was Uncle Bud’s Interment.
He was in an igloo cooler
In a yellow pickup truck.

They took the cooler from the truck bed,
Took the urn out of the cooler,
Used the cooler for a table.
We was all like “What the fuck?”

And after that you met my cousins on the lawn.
You said “I’m sorry for your loss,”
And they said, “Girl, we’re glad he’s gone,”
“Cause he was ornery and hard to be around.”
“He got meaner as he went into the ground.”
“But enough of that. We’re awful glad you’re here.”
“Got some mean potato salad. Grab a burger. Have a beer.”

And Uncle Bud was sleepin silent in the loam.
And the sun was slippin gentle
Down the maples of my Adirondack home.

Well I remember that cold winter
When we found him in the back lot
Lyin by his little tractor
Barely stretchin out his breath.

He’d built his own homemade enclosure
Out of one-by-four and plastic.
But it covered the exhaust.
He almost gassed himself to death.

And maybe if he woulda died upon that day
My cousins might have somethin else to say.
But some folks don’t even know they’re in the mud.
One among them was my dear old Uncle Bud.

Well these days I can’t remember
What I did there in that holler;
Why I woke up so damn early
Ringin bells and singin songs.

But I still have my hope of heaven,
Like some leaven in a starter,
Where the sons of Love will wake up
Like we been there all along.

And I still hope that Uncle Bud will be there too,
Shinin brightly with a light he never knew.
He won’t remember what’s it’s like to be alone,
Out where the sun is drippin gentle
Down the birches of my Adirondack home.

I finally released this odd thing that I did about year ago. It has trombones and accordion, and there was a lovely sculpture of a Ling Cod hanging above the pool table in the large room where it was recorded. There was also an Ocean nearby.

I have a novelty song problem.

The Words:

Well the Outlaws of Old, they were famous, they were bold.
They all obtained the famousest of fame.
But the famousest of names in the Outlaw Hall of Fame
Was the famous name of a guy by the name of Jesse James.

Now Jesse James was born on a war-torn, forlorn morn
In the abject, lonesome state of Mis-sou-ree,
Where, as might have been expected, he was adversely affected
By the awful, gruesome things that he did see.

So, like, one time, for example, they trampled on his grample,
And they tried to hang his grammle from a tree.
And if you had seen his mama that alone had been a trauma
And he prob’ly could have used some therapee.

Now from such a horrid start, he went to swillin straight Bacardi,
And whene’er he was to parties he was rude.
He gave everyone a hassle by behaving like an asshole.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
He probably had rabies and he bullied little babies.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

So he joined a group of haters by the name of Quantrell’s Raiders.
They was famous mutilators in the land.
They just rode around on horses, sore abusing all their forces,
Having fun and amputating people’s hands.

Oh but when that war was over, Jesse sat down to discover
What might be the skills and assets he’d acrued.
“Of such things you’ve not an ounce, sir,”
Said the local high-school counselor,
“Jesse James, youre’ a real screwed up dude.”

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
No, he couldn’t get a boot in, ‘cept for lootin and for shootin.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

But there was this famous writer, a professional benighter
And inciter of the feckless multitude.
He corrupted public mores with exaggerated stories
Of the glories of this sorely screwed up dude.

You see, they had this strange obession with insolent transgression
Since their late bid for secession went to seed.
They desired a concrescence of their violated essence,
Which they found in Jesse’s grim and lawless deeds.

So all the people gave him thanks when he robbed their stupid banks
And abolished all the value they’d construed.
He was a pure instantiation of social alienation,
Better known as a truly screwed up dude.

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
Although he never did get busted, he was awful maladjusted.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

Screwed up dude. Screwed up dude.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.
He gave everyone a hassle by behaving like an asshole.
Jesse James was a real screwed up dude.

Here’s another one of these. I tried to make it good because, like they say, “Etude? Don’t make it bad.”

All right, folks! Here’s the long awaited magnum opus of the one and only Fogline Musicians Guild, Sonoma County’s premier jingle ensemble:

My old chum Jason Gots has a podcast. He solicits words from people, writes a story around the word, sends the word to artists and musicians and asks them to make stuff too. Then he interviews someone famous that I’ve never heard of.

The word Jason sent me a few months ago was “crown shyness.” He explained that it is a thing which some trees do when they avoid touching one another at their crowns. I’ve never seen such around here. But anyway, here’s the episode of Clever Creature which features me and some friends doing “Crown Shy,” a song I wrote just for the occasion.

I’ve had some good musicians around lately, so I made this an ensemble affair. The players, then, are:
Demetra Markis – vocals
Mark Ogren – trombones (sic)
Dan Schoenfeld – button accordion

And, of course, J. Boor on mandolin, vocals, and a crash cymbal which I borrowed from my neighbor Eric.