Rock Accountant

Month: May, 2020

God Snuck Home

The bit of God

that snuck home with me,

after I died

for a while in the hospital,

is plonked in the corner of my bed

arguing with my dog.

My name has not come up.

Hello! Who are you?

I am in the kind of mood where I might spend the day calling up a hundred or so of my “friends” on FaceBook, of whom I have no recollection, and breaking that to them uncomfortably.

Please hit me

Not hitting the “like” on a FaceBook post of mine is no different than passing over a blind beggar’s tin cup and smirking.

Blind and a Pig (I’m Told).

Pretty Monkeys

There is very little about us that is not sexual. After all, fucking is the only reason for us to be here. “Go forth and multiply ” was not God telling us to do math.

What separates us from the apes is our sexual costuming.

Granted, that is a big addition.

The Jolly Bigoted Hills of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania 1950

Most everybody from Pittsburgh grew up on a hilltop.
Hills surround the city.
We were bigots and racists.
All of us had our peak, the results of the game of musical chairs that is continuously playing in America. Our timid arriving immigrant masses huddled on any vacant space they could find. Then they hard prayed the English language would become decipherable to them in time.

Our little ethnic villages stood like bearded goats on these elevations, each confident that their summit was closer to whatever they believed was God above them.
There were no hills for women, as they were scattered equally and none for gays and lesbians because they did not yet exist. Blacks somehow did not get any top land, so they got a middle ground and called it a “side.” Jews seemed to be hiding around the big University of Pittsburgh. They appeared to feel safer there. I hardly knew about Jews when I lived there in the fifties and sixties. But we knew all we needed because of jokes at their expense.
Mind you. We made fun of everyone except ourselves.
Class envy existed, but nobody had very much of that. We were all kind of a shitty shipment of lower classes, so fighting about so little would have just proven demoralizing and too obvious.
No, the best playing fields for prejudice lay in the more fertile areas of skin color and accent.
I grew up in a time when snobbishness was a greater offense than discrimination. Nowadays, conceits are confused with power, and bigotries punished like little homicides.

The geography of my youth helped me stumble into a critical ditch of reality in my life. It is that crowds are meaner than individuals. One person can reflect before they make a mistake, but a group cannot.  
Groups develop from the fear of friends.
There was no one to show this to me when I was a kid. Hurting someone weaker or different is reassuring to anybody frantic for acceptance.
You do not have to come from Pittsburgh to know that.

Teaching Rock Stars Math

Between shows, much of my time with The Who was spent reviewing each artist on their multiplication tables.

PUBLISHED: May 21, 2019

FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

The Buddha needed a burger.

He felt terrible about the wanting, what with his having renounced the physical universe and all, but he was always the kid who ate when he was sad.
It was the run-in with that skinny little girl this morning.
She pointed at him in front of everyone during his levitation, screeching, “Momma, why is the Siddhārtha Gautama so fat?

“Fat? She thinks I’m fat?” he spoke to his mind’s eye, which was orbiting Neptune at that very moment.
He cracked his flawless eyelids and studied the little girl. Then, while trying not to be noticed, he peeked at his vast stomach.
He was fat. And suddenly, His Enlightenment was gone.
And He returned to Earth.


PUBLISHED: May 19, 2017
FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds
PUBLISHED: May 19, 2019
FILED UNDER: Unnoticed in Clever Worlds

Wildly Uncooperative Positions

I dread political parties that exist self-uncritically because inevitably they clump together into empires of blandness, and spend their lives attempting to prohibit common sense in others.
These dull enclaves communicate with each other through dreary catchphrases and name-calling.
Often they force me into wildly uncooperative positions.


A Pleasant Man

Between 1972 and 1991, 78% of all rock shows used B.B. King as an opening act.
I saw him perform at least 22% of those times.
99% of those audiences were white, and 99.95% of them were impatient to have him leave the stage to get to their headliner.
Only 45% of the headliners had ever heard of him, and the remainder adored him because they thought he made them look cool and because he came cheap.
B.B King would have played to a herd of sheep if he got paid.
The sheep would have been bored but the big winners.
He appeared to me to be was the highest of all things, a pleasant man.
That is, on the rare occasion I paid any attention to him.


Wishing our kids into dreams

I had dreams that
the black kids did not.
I would have had even more,
but my parents knew that hope
was careless.
Their parents scared dreams
out of them
to protect them.
I guess they had never seen
even one come true.
My parent’s wishes,
if they had them at all,
slowly starved.
Ghetto dreams want to be stillborn
so kids never have to
wish they had been.

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