INCOMING:

Up from broke sleep, legs think they’re still at sea,
head in a cotton wool box adorned with dripping words.
Somebody’s pulled the blinds over Essex since I last
past this way. Somebody’s training it’s monkeys to
dress for the coming of winter. But as I sIt here at
the lap top tapping, porridge steaming & camomile to
remind me I still have a choice, I download a track
from Rick. There’s a chord floating in on an electric
breeze, a kickdrum crossing the horizon. A familiar
bass I’ve never heard before, like the baying of a
foghorn in the night. How does he know how to connect,
straight to the cortex? My throat is not at it’s best,
I’ve started to sniff. The body is telling me it wants
time off, but the feet can’t keep still & now my body’s
rocking, I see words forming, melodies & incantations.
I see a room, like I always see a room, when the music
talks to me. I know how that rooms feels, sounds & tastes.
I know how to move through that room, how to hunch &
swing. The hands are dancing across the keys, but they
want to describe low arcs in the air. Now I don’t care
that the body wants to sleep, that the throat wants
time off & the legs can’t walk straight – too late.
The kickdrum is the dealer, calls me into the wires.
Higher, higher, higher & I’m welling up, damn! This
ain’t cool, but I’m carried on the message, like
‘you bring light’ & ‘it’s ok’. But this one’s darker,
longer, deeper & much, much more Welsh.

(K)

I TRIED NO REALLY:

I did, honest, gave it a bash & more. Five mugs of tea,
two buttered scones, an entire book of words & I still
couldn’t set the world on fire. Could’ve been genius,
but I just couldn’t hear it. Searched for a quirk I could
latch on to, a ripple in the groove to tell me where to sing.
I was open to anything, waiting for ignition, combustion,
a melody, a direction, an approach, a random, lateral,
chance encounter, a blip, an anomaly,a mistake. Anything
I could learn from, listen to, follow, but there was nothing
except the sound of my voice ploughing way over the top of
the music, like back in the 80’s. It made me feel a long
way away from anyone. I know I can do this, but it didn’t
happen today or maybe it did. Either way, I tried, but no
song came out to play.

(K)

SOMEDAYS:

Feel like being roped to the front of a boat in a storm,
you know you’re not going to drown but you wish they’d
turn off the wind machine. The great thing about storms
is you find ports in the most unlikely of places. Take
‘work’ for instance. Now I know a lot’ve people who moan
about work &, I’ll be honest,I’m one’ve them. It’s cool
though how things like work can become like a ‘day off’.
Yeah, even taking the bins out is quickly turning into
feet up in the sun. So if you see me with a wide-eyed
expression, If I look like I’m standing in a wind tunnel,
fear not. Shit happens for a reason & I’m just interested
in solutions. Keep giving me the work & deadlines to meet.
Drive the car, do the job, make the call. Put your hand
down the drain & clear the blockage. And ‘always’ remember
to wash your hands thoroughly before you pick your nose.

(K)

CITIZEN:

I’m shaking at the kitchen table. Couldn’t even get the porridge
in the bowl before the questions & needs caught me blind-side.
There’s a hollow in the ground I head for in the mornings, a hole
in the storm. It’s a conceptual bomb crater I can hunker down in
to let the scramble in my head line up in patterns that will do
good, positive stuff. The pot goes on the stove, the porridge
goes in the pot. A little milk, a little more water, leave to
simmer. Fill the kettle, find a cup, select the first tea of the
day. Lady Grey, Darjeeling or Rooibos, how’re you feeling?
If it’s a weekday it’s done in silence & it really is silence.
If it’s a weekend I put the radio on. Radio 4 is less dour in
the morning on weekends, feeds the head with positives, not that
negative obsession in the week. Kettle boils, tea bag in the cup,
boiling water, leave to steep. Porridge starts to pop, stir with
a wooden spoon ’till it’s just right, between rough & smooth.
Fish the tea bag out with fingers, pour the porridge into a bowl.
The bowl reminds me of Japan every morning, the shape & the colour
feel complete & serene and I start to soak up that feeling.
The colour of the tea is just right, not too dark or light.
I can see the porcelain through it & that feels clean & clear.
I soak up some of that too. Select a spoon, a tea spoon, to
eat your porridge with. This is a memory of eating porridge with
you next to the oven in Winter. It’s a happy memory that I let
permeate through the unraveling scramble. There are pots of honey
in the cupboard. Are you feeling ‘thick’ or ‘thin’? Spoon a little
in to sweeten & stir. Carry to the kitchen table, flip open the
lap top & select a photograph. Now you’re on a roll. The scramble
is virtually gone. The thoughts are lining up, clean, good
& positive. You’re interested in something, fired up, ready to
engage with the world. What are you going to title your piece
today? It matters. It’s the last wringing out of the scramble,
laughing at our self & at the same time remembering Sam Shepard’s
‘Motel Chronicles’, a book that gives us direction, without which
we’d still be out there drifting. The first mouthful of porridge
is a glow, we feel lifted. The first hit of tea is sharp, we feel
clear & grounded. The memory of that book connects us with gratitude,
remembering all the people who have helped us & their patience.
The words begin to tumble out, wringing out negativity, turning it
into poetry. Anything bad at this point is transformed into good
& we are pointed in the right direction, ‘Good’ & ‘Orderly’.
Now we’re focused to take our place in the world & be clean
& straight & useful. Ok, I’m ready now.

(K)

THE ROAD BACK TO ESSEX:

Stirring the Irish sea in our wake we cross back over to
the other side. Picture taking each other on the deck in
sunlit spray. All the Blues & Whites come out to play to
the song of rust. The hills of North Wales as we dock
preserve memories of childhood hiding in the dunes, scooping
dreams out of streams with tiny green plastic nets on
the ends of spindly canes. The cry of gulls scavenging
between buses loaded with stars, queueing to take our place.
Ireland has never let us down, nor do I believe it ever will.
The kickdrum speaks & we dance together. Casting off rain’s
lame attempt to bring us down. Dark becomes luminous.
Night chimes with smiles.

(K)

LOVIN IRELAND:

In the artist’s catering I say,
“Have you got porridge?”
The young bloke behind the sausage & beans wears a badge called
‘Savage’. He says,
“We do. And Honey. And if you wanna come back you can have Bacon.”
I say,
“Is this Heaven?”
He says,
“No, it’s Ireland”
I say,
“S’funny, I coulda swore it was Heaven” As I walk into the corn,
taking my first hit on the morning tea I’m welling up.
In Heaven they got everything!

(K)

CHECK LIST:

Wrap me in metal & glass. Roll me on rubber. Place me in the
company of friends & let me hear the sound of the road moving
beneath my feet. I can handle everything I’m given & I’m given
everything I need. My wants are obstacles to my happiness &
acceptance is the answer to all my problems. Today, I’m sober.
It’s already a good day.

(K)

HOT IN COLD:

Everybody keeps telling me it’s cold, but I’m warm, hot.
Boiling from the inside out, open all the windows!
I’ve been running standing still. Tried problem solving
other people’s problems (got to laugh) – didn’t work.
Tried scattering cushions for when they fall – couldn’t
keep up. Tried ‘understanding’ – that works, then it’s
not enough. Tried researching the cause & the solution –
that keeps me off the streets. Tried making suggestions –
that goes down like a brick. Tried ‘love’ & that’s
about the best. Add to that ‘keeping the mouth shut when
I’m tired & feeling hard done by’ & we’re heading in the
right direction. Strap on ‘Patience’, ‘Tolerance’
& ‘Empathy & you’ve got a winner. Dancing between all these,
ignoring a head that whispers, “what about me?”
I’m burning up. I got a radiator inside, fuelled on
keeping quiet. A thermostat that never kicks in, temperature
rising. Open all the windows, set me out in the rain.
Dress me in t-shirt & skiddies. I’m firing on all cylinders
& some I never knew I had. Mining reserves of energy beyond
my allotted stash. I dare not slow down or I’ll burn & crash.
When the time comes, give me 24 hours & plenty of road.
I’ll need parachute breaks to slow this head. A bottomless
kettle & a fat mug of tea. Don’t call me when I’m out on the
road. I’ll be too far gone to reach out & help –
addicted to the kick-drum.

(K)

BACK ON THE PLANET:

Released from lock-down, a night in a cold narrow bed at
the back of a bunker of windowless corridors & air conditioned
neon. Fresh the streets from The Palace of ‘Shut the World Out’.
Out on parol, no evidence for incarceration. On the loose,
driving back roads again. Radio up load, airwave surfing,
Reggae on my mind, New York in my veins.

(K)

WHAT DO YOU DO?:

When someone you love won’t eat & is dying in front of your eyes?
Everything else gets very small. Look after yourself. Don’t panic.
Sleep, eat, drink, stay strong & keep your head on straight.
Leave a bag packed ready by the front door.
Patience, Love & a sense of humour.

(K)