Friday, October 27, 2006


I smoke too much and there’s this lingering feeling of unaccomplished talent within myself, if I could just concentrate on one thing I could get that thing done. I write, I play my guitar, im buying art supplies to start painting, I drink, heavily, wait tables, converse too often with lawyers, not enough with new characters, dream of moving away, stare blankly at walls, enjoys brisk autumn air, continue to watch too much television, believe in a life spent outside the norm, continue not working out enough, eat too much, and poorly, envy fictional characters, resent real ones, think about too many girls, and the wrong ones, outgoing and introspective, drug use, meddle, speak my mind, stare at an unused camera, blink instinctively, throw cigarettes butts out the window, eat tuna fish regularly, lay in my bed far too often, waste beautiful days, think of humorous situations from the past, bite my nails, shave every three to five days, don’t comb my hair, drive drunk, drink wine to sleep, stay awake too late every night, need to find it.

My head spins as uncontrollably as my eyes blink. I think to myself im having fun but there are millions of things better I could be doing with all this time I waste, and now at 358 in the morning I get up to write my story of how I think things are going so far.

Believe there’s one better out there for you. One step higher than the one you’ve stepped to.
You can always climb a latter, just getting in the shower is a step in itself.

Grow from here.
Take lessons, write.
Get a second job, get out of debt, you can always get drunk.
Money makes this sad thing turn, you gotta make some or find another way.
Keep throwing out the butts, but, less and less the packs and cellophane.
Introspect your outroflection.
Hand your self the keys, and strike up the pick once a day.
Get those paints and brushes, slowly build an army.
Connect your self with the right people you don’t need.
Throw a penny off the top of a high-rise.
Eat a large meal after you go running at night.
Smoke your cigarettes, leave some wine for a friend.
Go to sleep as your body sees fit.
Don’t explain, incorporate.
Brush your hair if it makes you happy.
You don’t have to worry about driving drunk for a while.
Go to sleep after writing yourself a story you don’t like.
Lob a hand grenade when they hold a machine gun to your head.
Bring yourself to every country state and city you’ve always wanted to see.
Forget calling people friends, just their names.
Don’t think too much about what they say.
Talk to yourself when someone’s listening.
Throw the grenade.
Eat the forbidden apple.
Live where no one wants to.
Embrace pain.

lets go crazy for a month,
like lunatic monks in ecstacy
forgeting to breathe

lets be wild for a week,
you in frantic motion
and me condensing like rain

lets be a mess for a day,
naked and like so many embers
catching fire in the brush

lets fuck it all for an hour
'cause you got the air on your side
and I got the earth on mine

lets have a time for just a minute
when even a minute
can cover untold miles

lets explode right now

Monday, October 23, 2006

newcentury choir

you got some bad information
somebody steered you wrong, babe
telling you about the temperature neon burns,
the bright pain on yer retinas -

close those eyes and trace that
scar with crayon, some kid'll
tell you it looks a lot like
Ghandi dressed up in flashy rayon suit,
"got money for nothing and my chicks for free"

he knew that revolution con game -

shoot out a few walls or
don't eat for a few months
and soon your face is on a
t-shirt, or some college kid's screen saver

feet scraping the road is the newcentury choir

I'm lost in a thousand Americas

eyes like yours were made to crumble walls

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Stars Wars Episode Eleventeen: The Clone Fashion Wars

you don't have to limp faster
to have your limbs fastened
we've been waiting for you

surgical circus clergical
all cleaned up for the imperial
manufactured by appointment

send us more human parts
send us more human hearts
keep the clones coming off the belt

send us the machina
deus ex machina
esproc namuh a gniraew si enihcam eht
just like the humans like to wear overcoats
and call them their epidermal hosts
humans wearing human's coats
humans dancing in skin coat corpse
without a pulse it's just a fashion for the machines

Thursday, October 19, 2006

When all the love we shared
Is no further than a phone call
And all the hardships swallowed
By the wall clock and calendar
We can eat together and laugh
Laugh like only divorcées can laugh
And share the drinks and clink our glasses
Cheers-in’ what we made each other
Cheers-in’ who we are for knowing

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

i've 12,000 years in this voice
and it's transistor whispers,
fuzzy around the edges
when you listen late at night
for an answer
or even just someone else's prayer

i remember
the break neck
cocaine moments
where i spun u clumsily
in the other worldly light
and the lyric was just so dead on
cuz caught up in the whole frozen notion
the world spinning
slowed down sudden
and it felt like
"this was the first day of my life
i feel i was born
in the doorway"

all these words
just shots in the dark
at women's hearts
and publishers' pockets

a thousand empty eyed
indians dying
in a midnight vision
drowned in cold sweat
the ghost of the west
with cold cold breath

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Double Bypass

I can imagine him under the bright lights
Getting carved up like a pumpkin

And is there anything
More spine-chilling

So somehow
The gore

The suspense

And the reminder of mortality

Fit right in
This Halloween season

a star
is an apocalypse
of itself

and beauty freind
is just the taste of destruction

the color of blood
so sexy in the right lighting

war from a million miles away
makes me go "awww"
cuz its fireworks
are softer
on the retinas

commin down
off the acid
in this rest stop at the end of a universe
eating Mcdonalds fat
straight off the sacred cow
with postwar litter
and an apocalypse sky
in the night
under fusion eyes
and interstate noise

the mass
the mass
of blown out hippie trash
blown out a back end
of an american dreaming
after the show
these wind washed souls
and their eye socket ghosts
of kerouac
and dust suspended
in the parking lot light
and the jam still going and going going and going on and on and going on
in their
lit up brains

the legen of buffalo meat
drying in the sun
all these ghosts and visions
from fairy tale history

all these ghosts and visions
of cigarette smoke
and worn jeans
of the men we could have been
been in childhood sunsets

yeah well
give me blessed coffee in mornings
and cursed booze in the darkness

these creatures
with silver angel wings
pearly fangs
sucking at my aorta
carrying me off to dreams
thrown away

the jukebox neons
leather interiors
of unholy
american automobiles
Johny Cash's
and my
transparent bottom of the bottle
under all these night eyeball stars
and old world myths

crimson folk rock
with the sun rising
on it just right

poet idle
in the car with Morrissey
crooning slow
the empty ghost
of the shopping plaza
half open eyed
cuz this is life
and this is death
and this is time
and the world the world the world

chilled air
clotting the ink
and synapses
and capillaries
so that words
and heavenly
inspired thoughts
back up
and trip
ugly mess
and ruin

sunset halo
and autumn sky

these catskill promises
of freedom
and wind
in grass on mountainside
dissolve angelic
in the afternoon

the world shaking
the sun
birthed this morning
apocalypse red

Monday, October 16, 2006

New Idiom website

You can now check out past issues of the idiom on its new and improved webiste. also check to see if there are any mistakes in your work.

Friday, October 13, 2006

I've cried more in the past two days (no worries, it's welcome) than I have this whole past year.....

...just thought ya should know,
considering I just met you all in a bar.

Letter to God

Dear Phil,
My name is Chris, I love the bass. To me it is the glue that holds the entire universe together. You know that stuff that you guys got into in "Rising Low". About the big bang theory, and being able to tap into that energy. That stuff is what I base my musical aspirations on. The special part about the bass is that all of us bass players sort of feel the same way about playing bass. There is no question about our roles in the band. However, I like to put it up to a higher source. It is amazing when you find all these theories that bass players have. Amazing, that somehow, they are all the same.Recently I took a class called "Quest for the Holy Grail". It was a literature class. In that class we studied all the books that were written about the Grail, or using a Grail style story. For example, "The Natural" might seem to be a movie about baseball. But look at the clues. Most obvious the team is called "The Knights". Early authors used Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table as their Grail stories. Since then the Grail has taken on a new meaning. It is not just a gold cup anymore. Through the years it became things such as what ever makes you happy, people, places, and in the most recent "DaVinci Code", the lineage of Jesus Christ. My point is, for hundreds of years authors have acknowledged that there is a Holy Grail. For years bass players seem to believe that there is this supernatural precense to bringing the bass. Which is what I am trying to figure out. I want to sort of write my chapter in the bass story. Is it a supernatural thing, is it science? It is not coincidence that the bass sounds diferent every time I pick it up. I heard that there is a musical note coming from the black hole at the center of our galaxy that is 57 octaves lower then middle C on the piano and translates into a Bb. This note was discovered by NASA, and is going on right now but we can't hear it. I feel that when we play music especially bass those waves colide and make for some interesting sounds. I recently read a book about Jaco Pastorius. The book said Jaco was crazy about this book called "The Urantia Book". It explained the cosmos, the order of planets, then got into the angels. Sort of a chain of comand, so to speak, of angels. In the last part the book describes the musician as the interpreter of the angels. So why do we feel this way? I feel I was chosen to to make my contribution to music here. Because I am lucky to have this information come my way, I feel it is my responsibility to contribute to the on-going story. What do you think? I am currently living on Long Beach Island, New Jersey. I am about an hour and half from New York City. I am hoping that maybe we could together for lunch, or dinner, or maybe take in a show. Because I want to know your side of the story. I'll even fly out to California for the chance to discuss this topic with you. Thank You
Christopher Jones

What is Caesar's?

so i stumble (stumble), hobble up that crooked cobblestone road
high on static (magic), cranes whooping swooping sway
sugar crystal bristles (shrill), staining the footprints of my neck
spacing the words you forget
chafing the thighs of self-contempt
an anchor of sorrow hoisted high but still heavy
it would seem that i'm ready

and it's like i'm standing on the summit of Golgotha
when i reach the prime of this life
a 23 year long march to deliver a thief
it's oh so compelling or do i mean dispelling

Thursday, October 12, 2006


The kitten hasn’t died
When the cat is grown
Ask yourself where passion goes
When at last its gone

Suggestion then to jingle again
Like the spanked tambourine
When chastised in the first place
For youthful jingling

And drinking from the fountain
Of the smilers rebellion

They smile unaware
Unaware of their own revolt
Not in attempt to save themselves
or “buy the world a coke”

they smile because their not afraid
and because it feels so right
they know without knowing
the difference between
growing-up and being uptight

One example we may fallow
And a secret of theirs may be
To jingle like a tambourine
And untie monotony
To fallow passion wherever it goes
And set our soul kittens free
To live without timeline black and white
To practice Neoteny

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

I’ve got a game
Where I play god

But it’s not quite as fulfilling
As the other one

I play a fish breeder

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Saved and Spare

take the change
pennies tossed to the street
lost the right way
back to a heart ache
could pour cold steel
down the back of my throat
could pull at the triggers
could hold back and choke
cause I’m more afraid of love
than the tears that never come
so scared of sitting still
but not afraid to run
could be a coward
or lost to the over glaze
but I know just when I’ve found it
and when it’s gone astray

so take the change
as pennies tossed to the street
run them under water
baptize their memory

Monday, October 09, 2006

north korea's got nucleur weapons

all i gotta say is
'bout fuckin time
where the hell they been

so maybe the blessed road is like crazy time
cuz neither got no beginnin
or no end
cept the ones relative
to you

autumn eyes blinking

he was blown out
and she was
a night of children and sparklers

parking lot

the dust kickin up
and the ghost of jerry
hummin mystic blues
was it incense or pot
among the dreadlocks
and music

Sunday, October 08, 2006

time's been tough on the search for possible replacements
for a 20th century talk-pattern to pretty up
the ghosts of the memories of junked trains
dragging us over the distance of this
one wild land, winds of dust leaving a layer
as abrasive as a sandpaper heart and a
concrete kiss.

So yeah, I guess I'm worn down to the bone,
bleached in the sun like what happens to
all the great gunslingers...

if it didn't rain all year, this would be
the perfect desert, 'cause you, I know
you're a mirage, all shimmery and

visions in blinding color

naked visions

I'll wait for the new world at dawn

Saturday, October 07, 2006

kiss me here
right now
and don't think about anything spinning around us
in all these periodic elements
cuz i don't believe the past is real anymore
and the future surely comes
with no guarantee

so girl, really
this is all we got

harmonica soundtrack
and all this folky adventure

we were the worn and dirtied hats
of a mythic burnt down american dreaming
we were the momentary disappearing sparks
from a dead zippo

but the holy steam engine
made bright blue morning
possible again

when the little boy on the hiltop with his ripped jeans shields his eyes from the sun and stairs out into the existence and all the whirling isness, will he see us striding mirage across that thin line where heaven makes love to earth or just another bit of marble with etched words

the coal mines and the steal bridges
when the wind hits em just right
howl out infinite songs and ohm
simply ohm
simply ohm and on
like white noise
the sound of it all
ringing in ears that can't hear it
cuz its just to much perfect shining holy

be white noise with me
i can't think of a better plan for the afternoon

do all yous believe
quiet tongue
that i can do a billion
in the rapture night?

let me say
mine eyes
have seen these
miracle children
dance whole universes
up from the dust
in instants
and out of time

all we have is the miracle
and the night and the dust

shooting star
up there in the holy nothing
shatter me
these handfuls of morphine visions
from months ago
and rest stop romances
can't hold me together
for much longer
cuz true being is combustion
as hot as it gets
and we like the sun
can't stay one


all the flaming words
from a thousand bearded poets
can light the jagged path
but can't do shit to walk it

Friday, October 06, 2006

Sailing the Euphrates on Opium a year ago

My Dark Daddy’s telling dirty jokes to the wealthy woman on the sofa,

So far things are a going so good,

Sewing circle,


‘Pardon me’ the prim say

As they push past hip, tall, long neck, slight drawl,

Dark hair with them baby blues,

No square with them new shoes,

And in this locale only live wire star fires, lovers

But yes, sadly yes

Coming to an end

Babylon tomorrow,

Sun’s rising now.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

at least I kept my feet dry

at least I kept my feet dry, while puncturing
rainstorms kept blowing
and rivers of spoken worlds kept flowing
with precision, clashing at the bleeding seams.

all 12 giants are made of nickel, and movement
seems a concept so quaint
like when you're moving but you ain't,
stayed in seconds, watching already over dreams,

Where each night, with our spins making us fools,
letting Time go by,
to where laws don't apply
and a kiss just means whatever it means.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

with lack of oxygen

another face to cross off your list
of uncommitted climactic conquests
although it wasn’t made easy
wandering through the rough terrain
the terror of falling a stress on the brain
caught short of breath
an occasional toppling rock to the head
as you stumble carelessly into the mountain
without the necessary equipment
the right approach left to be said
never realizing how hard it could be to forget
the chasms the peak of her left
the earthquake of her soul at rest
with lack of oxygen