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Collage like pastiche of ancient cultures like vomited up detritus from the bile of civilization

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Eating feta cheese at a park by lake Erie in Cleveland while kite surfers float above the cold water.

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Wedding Train pt 3

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The shrieking of maidens in hagia Sophia

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Penned by an ancient scribe

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𒅇𒈬𒂊𒉘𒆥kiĝ2 to seek

𒅇𒈬𒌦𒈾𒋼te to approach

𒆪𒁀𒊏dab5 to seize

𒉆nam destiny

𒀉‍𒆗𒈬usu strength

𒅗𒉌𒁉𒈨𒂗giri17-zal joy

𒈪𒉌𒅁𒊬𒊬𒉈mu2 to grow

𒁶𒈠dim2 to create

𒄯‍𒊕maḫ to be majestic

𒂵𒀭𒋾til3 to live

𒉡𒈬𒂊𒅆𒁺𒌦ĝen to go

𒉡𒈨𒂗𒁖dag to roam around

𒈬𒂊𒅆𒅔𒄄𒅔gi4 to return

𒄄𒈠[𒉌𒅁gi4 to return

𒁀𒊏𒁀𒊏𒁖dag to roam around

𒅗𒈾𒉘𒈬𒋫kalam the Land

𒉈izifire

𒅖saḫar earth

𒀀a water

𒅎tum9 wind

𒀭heaven

His heart rejoiced and was glad ; he was filled with joy. 𒄿𒊕i-rish𒅎mirim-mir𒈜𒁀𒋗lib-ba-shu𒄭𒁺𒋫hi-du-ta𒅎𒆷

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Coyote

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Frozen Snot: A dedication to the Train Kids of Spokane, Washington.

When I arrived in this town, I was homeless. I said a quick thanks, hopped out of my friend’s minivan and bounded across First Avenue with everything I owned on my back. Though I had previously spent some time exploring downtown, and had even made a brief appearance in this curious Northern squat since heading out on the road, I now faced the potential of sleeping outside here in February. Crusty, sloshy snow and ice. Not that White Christmas Hollywood bullshit, either. The stuff they’ve got here is gritty and gray. It comes down in piles in November and it doesn’t go away. Walking barefoot is hell. You can’t even snipe reburnt cigarettes because they’re wet. Everything is wet. You’ve gotta walk on the left side of the street so you can dodge the puddles that jump out at you from under uncaring truck tires. 

One of the first things I noticed as I randomly wandered downtown was the train. Spokane does this thing where they run the freight lines straight through the middle of town and out West to Seattle or Portland. Elevated on imposing steel supports, there she sat. Big fat deep wells. Unguarded IM’s heading toward open rail freedom. All one had to do was scale a 20-foot vertical wall and get over some razor wire. I’m not being sarcastic. An obstacle like that is pretty imposing to a normal person. Most Train Kids I know could do it in the dark after half a fifth of whiskey. Actually this is their secret. Whiskey gives homeless people superpowers that they have to pay for the next day.

I had one advantage over many of Spokane’s edge-dwelling street warriors: I had somewhere to go. My aimless wandering eventually led me to the bus stop. I happened to have two bucks in my pocket. Beside that was an address to a house on The South Hill. The circumstances of my day were a result of everything else that came before it, just like everyone else. Beck, an old buddy of mine from Music School, had invited me over to hang out and catch up.

I rode up to 37th and thanked the bus driver on my way out. Taking a guess as to which way the street ran, I started walking and immediately headed a mile in the wrong direction. There were some kindred spirits smoking on the back porch of their shitty apartment. “Not that shitty.” I thought. “They’ve got a dog and a heater.” Sloshing through the suburb took longer than it should have. I eventually gave up using the sidewalk and just hoofed it directly in the street where there was less snow. I heard the muffled tones of a lone trombone from inside as I approached the house.

This is where my impeccable Luck synergizes with a little bit of musical wit. I met Beck and his roommates and we all headed down to their basement. Besides a busted dryer and a ghost, they kept a multitude of instruments and amplifiers down there. 

My belief, especially when interacting with people for the first time, is that one can make everyone more comfortable by putting it all out there. By doing something that makes you uncomfortable and doing it confidently, your spirit defeats Inner Fear in a public way which invites others to do the same. With this in mind, I sat down behind the drum kit with a pair of brushes. The four of us jammed out on successively weirder and more improvised tunes, pounding on busted banjos and bass guitars and wailing away on an exotic arrangement of horns and household objects. The gang eventually invited me to stay.

Over the next few days I came into the fold with these people. They all have a Ska band called Ragtag Romantics and the band’s saxophone player very conveniently went AWOL around the same time I showed up on their doorstep. Rather than scrounging to find a sleeping bag and hiding under a bridge, I’ve been sleeping in a blanket nest on the floor of “The Ragtag Romansion.” Rather than busking in the cold, I’ve been recording sax parts for a zanney and wonderful upcoming album.

And yet I still see the trains. I still notice the elusive “scruffy guy on a bike smoking a cigarette.” I still see liquor stores and I know the grungy clientele that keep them open. After spending a year out among Combat Vets, Wizards, Skaters, and Self-Oppressed Free Thinkers, I cannot simply forget that these members of society exist everywhere. While the Normal Heads watch Netflix and sleep safe in bed, the toughest humans brave the night, filling dark public spaces with the warmth of their defiantly beating hearts. Dream Warriors, Romantic Artists, Goodhearted Tweakers… Whether you know it or not, these people walk the streets and protect you, and they do it in a way that you can’t really understand until you’ve had to do it yourself. 

Thank you, Train Kids. Stay Schwilly, Spange On, Good Luck hopping the fuck out of here.

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