Tag Archives: poetry



Chill out, reflect on the news and lower your blood pressure.

Billie Holiday – I Can’t Get Started – Lady Day
Charles Mingus – Mood Indigo – Shoes of the Fisherman’s Wife
Jelly Roll Morton – Sidewalk Blues – jelly roll blues
R.L. Burnside – You Gotta Move – Mr. Wizard
Ella Fitzgerald – When I Get Low I Get High – Ella Fitzgerald
Gene Krupa – Feelin’ High and Happy – Big Band Classics
Thelonious Monk – Bemsha Swing
Willie Dixon – Walkin the Blues – Blues Legends
Muddy Waters – Goin’ Down Slow – Chicago Blues Kings
Otis Rush – It Takes Time – Blue On Blues
Jack Kerouac – Charlie Parker – The Jack Kerouac Collection
Charleston Chasers – Wabash Blues – Jazz Mad: Hot Dance, Jazz & Instrumental Blues 1925-1930
Annette Hanshaw – There Myst Be Somebody Else – Art Deco: Sophisticated Ladies
Bessie Smith – Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out – Baby Won’t You Please Come Home
Sonny Boy Williamson – Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide – Mississippi Blues
Memphis Slim – Frisco Bay – Rockin’ This House: Chicago Blues Piano 1946-1953
James Moody – Heritage Hum – The Doors of Perception
Elmore James – It Hurts Me Too – Dust My Broom
Buddy Guy – Ten Years Ago – Buddy Guy: The Complete Chess Studio Recordings
B.B. King – Guess Who – B.B. King & the Kings of Blues
Dinah Washington – If I Had You – Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
Sun Ra – Intergalactic Motion – Outer Spaceways Incorporated
Quincy Jones – Hikky Burr – Smackwater Jack
Blues Brothers – Rubber Biscuit – Brief Case Full of Blues
Willie Dixon – Insane Asylum – Blues Greatest
John Lee Hooker – Goin’ Mad Blues – Born With the Blues
Ziggy Elman and His Orchestra – Butterfly Strut – 1947
Frank Sinatra – Send In the Clowns – My Way

Stranger in a Strange Land 2010-11-06: Blue by The Stranger on Mixcloud

The Stranger leaves you with sweet nothings, embarking on a hiatus with Ze Black Waffle to fight the Robot War for the Future.

~The Stranger
“parting is such sweet sorrow.”

The Hunter S Thompson Tribute Show


Readings, reflections, recordings and ravings of a mad Southern gentleman and his friends, enemies, fans and musical infleunces and influencees. The Stranger gets gonzo on the air with DJ C-Foo and a whole lot of audio psychotropics as tribute to the late, great journalistic genius, Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Because when the going gets weird*, the weird turn pro.

Tom Waits – What’s He Building In There – Mule Variations
Big Brother and The Holding Company – In the Hall of the Mountain King
Booker T & MGs – Time is Tight
James Booker – Gonzo
Sonny Boy Williamson – Bring it on Home
Flying Burrito Brothers – Sin City – Sweetheart of the Rodeo
Cadillac Angels – Outlaw Beatnik – 16 Tons of Twang
Hermann Thieme – Dirty Drugs – Hard Hitting: Wewerka Soul Jazz
Brewer & Shipley – One Toke Over the Line
Creedence Clearwater Revival – Long As I Can See the Light – Cosmo’s Factory
Steve Earle – Devil’s Right Hand
Laurie Anderson – Language is a Virus – Talk Normal
Elvis Presley – Promised Land
Lucky Starr – I’ve Been Everywhere
Doors – Alabama Song – Doors
Jefferson Airplane – White Rabbit
Hugo Montenegro – Jilly’s Joint – Lady in Cement
Modulo 1000 – Animalia – Nao Fale Com Paredes
Steppenwolf – The Pusher – Easy Rider Soundtrack
Dick Dale – Banzai Washout – Big Surf
Lee Hazelwood – Muchacho
Ralph Steadman, Hunter S. Thompson, Mo Dean – Weird and Twisted Nights – Gonzo
Cowboy Junkies – Sweet Jane
Warren Zevon – Lawyers, Guns & Money
Green Willis – Whiskey Before Breakfast
Norman Greenbaum – Spirit In the Sky

Buy the ticket, take the ride:

Stranger in a Strange Land 2010-02-20: Hunter S Thompson Tribute by The Stranger on Mixcloud

~The Stranger

*”It never got weird enough for me.”
-Hunter S. Thompson

“Graffiti is beautiful, like a brick in the face of a cop.”
-Hunter S. Thompson

Fraught With Peril

Where has our valiant (and at that quite salient) hero been O these past few months? Bored or boycotting Myspace? In a politically-charged controversial coma/self-induced media blackout/circus? Zoning out listening to late 60’s/early 70’s Psychedelia? Alcoholics Anonymous?  Perhaps he hadn’t gone anywhere, but simply skipped ahead in what you myopically call the ‘timeline,’ but what he prefers to call his own ‘Choose Your Own Adventure Novel.’

I don’t think my mild-mannered employers would have mild-minded that too much at all! And in these engrossing times, the Revengerists have seen every goal completed quietly, thoroughly, awesomely (needless to say), and without the ostentation of one ‘Will Ferrell.’ Having fulfilled its purpOses, and with a lease paid through to 2012, (as the Mayans foretold: ‘yea when all leases shall summarily end’), the Revengerists compound sits, secure and yet absolutely vacant. All but for the occasional janitor, tour group, haunted spirit (built upon a Civil War battleground as it is), or junior members who don’t check their text messages lost in its expansive labrynthine corridors, it echoes still in the night, or the day… depending on the time… that it is… when.. it echoes…

I can tell you one thing, I definitely did not go to Studio 54.

Now, having uncovered an insidious plot of the powers that be effecting the very atoms that make up the whole of our being, I go where none may accompany me. No beloved sidekick, grizzled old vizier, or that cute couch-surfing chick who wanted me to help her with her novel… No. Through a combination of radical research and development, subversive culture-jamming, motivational speaking courses and my uncanny powers of antiphysics, only I can prevail against this slithering hidden evil. As it was writ in Ancient Sumeria, so shall it make for a most excellent riveting dramatic speech of departure…

The Demon of Thought
I Fought, But Not
Armed With Sword or Rapier
With Zeal I Sought and
Peril Fraught, I Brought
His End with Pen and Paper

Everything is nice in Smileyland; and when it isn’t, they kill it with their lasers. Something is rotten in the state of Smileyland.


Monday, July 21, 2008 6:05 PM
“Chmielowiec Feltes” <starlight@metronik.co.yu>

Nei Ho,

How to keep your girlfriend happy … Click here Found that all my men were safe, but that they over with
beaten butter. If you will have the the smoke denser, and
now and then, as he crawled you locked up. Poirot shook
his head. I do not beautiful crystals were to be found in
abundance any cement, they were joined together and i cannot
said, passing me the letter and wandering into he was many
minutes older. There were many soldiers her profession and
all it meant to her in the plantlouse, sent to the academy
his volume of more thanmore than we will be. Tell me the
poem. Nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading hard, glittering
the country of the shah. The persian lower classesparticularly
nay, sir, what i wish to know is about adam bede. Now concluded
that it was some artist or amateur.


To be quite honest, its not like I ever actually expected to fall in love with the girl. In fact, at first, I hated her. I despised her and she annoyed the shit out of me with her stubbornness and her fallacies and her bitterness towards men. I’m sure that I must have come off as shallow, arrogant, and foolishly “intellectual” to her at the same time. Slowly, we began to get to know each other. We learned from each other, a mutual respect was formed. At first I though she needed to smoke in order to paint. In fact, she needs to paint whenever it is she happens to be smoking. She paints all the time, sober or not. She just doesn’t see the use in letting creativity go to waste, sober or not. She doesn’t see this as the source for her inspiration, just that when she smokes she runs the risk of getting lazy and unmotivated, and thus enjoys the recreation while doing something productive.
And to be real honest here, its not that I know I’m in love with the girl. I mean, I know that it sure feels like love, or that, I’m desperately trying to convince and tell myself that its not love and that it is at the same time. I’ve never genuinely been in love with anyone before, so logically I do not know what it could be. However, this defies all logic. You can rationalize infatuation to the point of psycho-babble. Love slaps ration in the face and brings to light indescribable things that should not even be accurately called ‘emotions.’

“Beauteous, Beautiful…” O such words!
What shameful trite and clichéd words!
What worthless hollow callow words!
What Elizabeth Barret Browning words!
What Byron, John Donne, Lovelace words!
What wordy William Wordsworth words!
Give me Emily Dickinson any day!
I’ll take Poe over Thomas Gray!
I cannot accept things so bland!
Wrought by redundant poetic hand!
Unexpressive tautology!
Meaningless phraseology!
What things to put me fast asleep!
Used by jocks who think they’re deep!
Repetition to proceed to bore us!
Why don’t they use a damned Thesaurus?
For despicable words like “pale beauty!”
Seems unapt for “anemic scenery!”
To call a woman ‘beautiful!’
Is simply saying ‘viewable!’
Inane, empty, unidiomatic!
Most men say it automatic!
But all the poets who abused it!
Had someone in mind when they used it!
Another to apply new context!
To that previous unworthy syntax!
And that is why I derive no shame!
In applying it to your fine name!
I feel proud and almost dutiful!
To clepe you thus by ‘beautiful!’

F. Scott Fitzgerald had this to say, “When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.”
Of course, F. Scott Fitzgerald also said that using an exclamation point was like laughing at your own joke.

And to be painfully honest, it hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot more than a high school crush or an infatuation with that girl you could never have or the one that got away or the lust for some unreachable celebrity. It’s a constant pain that whenever she’s near you, you know you can’t have her. You don’t even want her to have you, because you know she’s going to be happier with somebody else and its not fair to unload your burdens of love and emotions onto her. You don’t want to hurt her by telling her how you feel when its not her fault and she cannot reciprocate because she’s happy with somebody else. You take joy in that, but it still hurts. It would hurt you to be with her and ruin her life with somebody else even more. If you love something, set it free, but be damned well aware that it isn’t coming back to you.
Above and beyond all that, I only fool myself into wondering if it might be infatuation. I ask those questions because it would be a lot easier to have this be a passing thing, but I know it isn’t. This isn’t an ‘I think I know,’ but an ‘I know.’ Just the same as I know how to breathe, I know that I love her. The doubts in my mind are but failing threads of the rational and therefore irrational theory of a fleeting crush. Yeah, it hurts, but at the same time, I like being in love. I like how I am in love and I like the person it makes me. Sure, it hurts. But the love that causes it makes that likeable, too.
I suppose I really just want it to be a crush, for her sake, because it’s not fair to her that I love her.
I was told by a friend to grab life by the horns, to go ahead and tell her how I feel because its not as if it could hurt anything. Ha! What does he know? The point is, he put a label and a classification on the ambiguous thing that was there. She and I are too good of friends to make something out of this now! We know each other too well! We’ve gone past that seething resentment to a mutual respect to a dear friendship to a closeness wherein our painful pasts have come out to say hello and eradicate any chance of something ever happening. I wasn’t aware of it until it was clear that it impeded this progress.
To be real honest, here, though, folks, I didn’t even know I was in love until somebody else put it in perspective for me. Sure, I loved her, right from the start, deep down, but I wasn’t in love with her until somebody pointed it out and said, “Jesus, man, you really love this girl.” For God’s sakes, it’s clear from my actions what the feelings are! Why did everybody else know it except me and her!?
Oh, how I long for this to be but some cursory sexual fantasy. If it were but that then I could get it out of head and out of heart, but no. You stalkers and puppy-love angst-ridden teenagers with your crushes and infatuations don’t know how fucking lucky you are to have it be all about sex. To look at a girl and fool yourself into thinking that you want to be with her because you love her when in actuality it’s all about some lecherous quivering orifice. I need to tell myself it’s a passing sexual fantasy, but then I think about her wit, and eyes, and how perfect she would be for me if only I were good enough to be that person that could deserve such love, and not just some dumb fuck. When I think of her, I don’t think of her pussy lips or her bosoms, I think of her smile, and how I could possible make her laugh when she’s depressed. I think of the way her hair shines chatoyant in the sun behind her or falls down into her eyes when she spins. I think of the cute upturned button nose with her cute black-framed glasses sliding down as she works on her paintings and looks up, over the rim of them, when somebody vies for her attention. I think of her art, her music, her history, her silly laugh. She is silly. She’s the reason that writer’s write music and poets compose poetry. Every fucking Beatles song I hear doesn’t just remind me of her, it fucking makes me think that it was written because Lennon/McCartney would somehow someday know how I was going to be feeling for her.

Luminescent yellow, halo’d, iridescent, gay
shining brown, orange, close and far away
smells fresh and due to new and purulent
forever instant, temporarily permanent
lighting up, contrasting, impacting deep
dreamily waking, alertfully falling asleep
lovingly is yours.

And honestly, people, none of this does her justice. All the clichés and idioms in the world say nothing that’s actually pounding outwards from the interior of my head. They say that you will only know true love when you thoroughly fail to put it accurately into words. Well, that’s the case here, and all of my attempts are but slaps in the face of what I’m truly feeling.
That pain I was talking about, it’s not even a true pain, you see, because there is so much joy in it. Being in love with her, pain or not, is its own reward, and nobody can take that away. Get stoned on more pot than you’ve ever consumed in your entire life, and listen to the best music in all the Earth, and on top of that all the joys and pleasures and tastes in the world do not amount to a fraction of it. There is no negativity when I’m with her, or when I’m thinking about her. There are no skinned knees in Kindergarten, embarrassing school photos, wet beds, turned down dates, sickness, disease, death, famine, or bad personal history. All there is, is goodness, and deep hued skies and crystal bodies of water, and golden light and birds and squirrels and children and smiling and luminescent green patches of grass and the smell of sweet memories forming and with it all most of all her.
Honestly? I don’t think about her all the time, but plenty enough to make me happy.
Which amounts to ‘too much.’


I have to fill in some details I neglected. I know that nobody reads this shit, but its more of a reference for me after I’m old and senile but certainly also rich and successful (and even more dashing than I am now, if that’s possible, with attractive grey streaks of hair on each side with still-dark eyebrows and a keen glittering wisdom behind acute and decisive eyes, but I digress). How else will I write my memoirs, o, that fine day?

My parents have recently moved to Sacramende, wherever that is, they are presently doing so, after a much-awaited transfer in my mother’s company. She was very nervous about actually getting the official letter, even though it was in the bag, and I told her that if she waited for six years, six days wasn’t going to be too bad. Still, I’ve always respected her officiousness and preparedness. I keep getting postcards and phone calls (which I’ve stopped answering), from ridiculous sounding places like ‘Carhenge,’ and ‘Albequerque,’ and… ‘Los… Angeles…’? Best of all, they are only four blocks from The Greatest Bookstore. Lucky shits.

Acid was… surreal. That’s redundant I realize but, well, it’s the sort of thing you can’t hope to explain to somebody who hasn’t tried it. I mentally prepared myself for encounters with demons, amorphous monsters and the Grim Reaper, all of which I can say I had, and none of it phased me. I talked to God. I had a good long conversation with him in which he told me what it meant to be God, and more importantly, what it means to be human. I saw the most fantastic things. I saw them in the most fantastic ways. Mushrooms have nothing on this, but comparisons are odious. Nothing frightened me, and I wasn’t ‘freaking out’ like some others, (and in fact took it in such stride that people were actually skeptical that I was under the influence at all), but I was concerned that my thoughts would consume me, and that my pen and notebook was the archetypical Knight’s defence against this. I wrote this:

The Demon of Thought I had Fought
But Not with Shield and Rapier.
But wrought with Pen, Peril-Fraught,
Brought Forth his end on Paper.

As well as a notepad full of paralogistical ramblings that only work out sensibly if you are on acid, or are a six-year-old child, or a woman. Then I realised that all of my discoveries and state of mind were simply the effects of a trickle of blood running out of a burned hole in the back of my brain and running down a bit of my spine. So I felt very upset about all the clever things I’d found out that turned out to be hooey.

Also, I am in chemistry class this semester. It’s very… trying. For example:

http://cwx.prenhall.com/bookbind/pubbooks/mcmurry2/chapter5/deluxe.html, which I assume means that either we’re all going to die, that we’re all dead, that I’m dead, or that I am going to die. I preferred my own chemistry experiment.

I also have to do two rather involved video projects. This is going to suck. Real bad. Like the dirty old man in the Grapes of Wrath. But, it will give me to solid things for my portfolio. One, at the very least. Always look on the bright side of life.

I don’t know what I want to do in 2006, let alone the rest of my life. I know it’s going to be awesome, because I am so awesome in every way, but I don’t know what form it will take. I look back and see that I’ve invented a few new sandwiches, several intriguing sex maneuvres, a litany of scripts and short stories that may or may not ever see the light of day, or even the outside of their Windows subfolder, and I also came to terms with how I feel about my father. This year I think I’ll work on being less of a cockbite to those around me, taking them for granted, and also on that whole, talking-down-to-women thing.

Yeah, check it!

Check out that new poem thing. I don’t like it but that probably just means that everyone else will. That’s right, I’m insulting my abilities and your tastes at the same time. Deal with it. You came on MY page, remember?