The Right Column

Joe Perry

Joe Perry is Awesome. In Boston it's a given. You just can't escape it.

In October of 2014 I was in California driving through the middle of nowhere and then, on the radio, it was Joe being interviewed by a local California DJ, possibly out of Sacramento. Joe discussed his book which had just been released. He was candid and honest talking about the material It was so weird hearing him explain why he did a book, and why he chose to write about what he did.

Those guys really are guy-next-door kinds of guys. Joe has so much talent, he's able to chop through difficult rifts with ease. He's got the chops.

Back in the seventies this friend of mine used to tell about being home in Framingham and new people had moved in near by. The new people were having a lot of parties. They played loud Rock music, and it was new Aerosmith music which hadn't yet hit the airwaves.

The story goes that Aerosmith had rented the near-by house. They were working on new material there. The guys next door.

The Rock Star is just a normal guy. I Hope he gets well quickly.

He's got the chops. He probably just thinks it as he plays it, like he can sing through the guitar. Amazing. A real talent, someone to emulate their style.

Mr. Perry has a very serious fan base. He's the real deal. Rock Star, guy next door, real person, virtuoso guitar player. Mensch. Hoping he's better soon. Rested and Contented and brimming with himself.

12:14 A.M.
July 11, 2016

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You've got the deer-in-the-headlights
look about you.
Look about you.
You've got that deer-in-the-headlights
look about you.
Look about you.
You've got that deer in the headlights
look
I don't know why
you're such a crook
I don't know why
you're my misch-took
you've got that 
deer in the headlights
look

In the head lights
in the head lights
in the head lights
In the head lights

Look about you
Look about ch'you
Look about chew
Look about you

I don't know why
I don't know why.
I don't know why
I don't know why.

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Did the Sun ever really go down that night? I parked there, watching for a long while, not realizing that I'd left on my head lights.

Did somehow the Sun just duck within the clouds till day break, and amble along the far horizon till it got to the otherside?

This lonely sea
is my lonely house
one and only
off in the shops 
singing

This quiet beach
roars with thunder
feeling alone
long rocky jetty
and high seas.

She's afraid of the cluster
she sees it, won't say
what it is.
She's lonely for breakfast
the eggs are cold
she's had enough of it
for now.

She'll let you know when she needs
something.
It will be your problem them.
you look to the sailboats.
there is no escape.

You'd go back
and rewrite the poem
make her loose a lot of weight
get back into shape.

The poet doesn't know her.
He can only imagine how you really
feel about her
draging her giant luggage
into the suite of tents and houses.

She has to bring it everywhere she goes.
She brings it every where she goes.

but if you'd ask her
she is a rockstar
and they come to see her
when she comes
when she comes

If you see her in her tourbus
along the highway where the cliffs are
heading off
to Californ-your'way
to sing you a song
that she wrote
on the side of a cloud
when the moonbeams were waving down at them
she sees it all
and sings about it
with her super mystic brain.

And she's back in best pitch
keeping tune with the other rockstars.
Everything she ever says is always in tune
she sings with her voice, if you know the song
you know how masterful she does it.
Like birds.

And all day if she's gone dark for a while
down into the mire of her depressive lyrical shine
light from her words glows in the hardwood bog where the beast lives
that beast she imagines, a delusion?, none shall say.
She tells no one.
But you can hear it stomping and splashing.
It's misunderstood, she thinks.
To have it's dreams to be cut back
some suburb would encroch upon the delusions
she sees it far off along the highway as she is driving through
rockstar in her mind
off in the quarters of temporary fame
he drags
her things to the bed on the bus
tells her that it's intervention now,
no more bagging, no more fag-hagging
it's to rehab now,
full moon Solstice
appocylypse dark star
explosion.

She will have a second act
it will be her and he and the wonder wee
they'll shine like the diamond sunset
along that Adorondack horizon glowing
dreams of forever love of you and all ( g a w d )
she dreams it that way
the agony is also some sort of illusion,
though the pain is real.

Off in the twilight places
of life
landscape of forever marching along as neon
ridgeglow and stepple outlines
aspenglow
alpinesnow
alpine snow glow
let it go . . . 

Off in the twilight midnight places of far horizon
the sun never really sets if you go that far out there
she's dreaming as if they'd drove all the way to the arctic
where the sun really never goes down
what strange world is this
those who haven't seen it, been there, don't know.

It's Winter now in her heart.
The doctors at the clinic are kinder.
She has to be anonymous but they all know who she is.
She is just trying to find out.
She's been the same person forever she thinks
but how far back can anyone really remember.
The dawn
in Ohio
has a wondermint of kind light being bouncing raindrop rainbow
silence
the sound of windsheild wipers
slapping to Bowie.

She has misted eyes now
the rain was but some passing clouds so brief
like fame.

Millions
of Junebugs
flapping high
in silver clouds of
moonlight setting
sun is rising
Solstice dawn
eternal
fame of
life that matters.

She has to believe in something better
or else just stop the bus and let her out anywhere.
She'll trust in the Lord and be glad
wondering off naked
which is exactly why
her husband said he needed to get her to someone
who might help her
look through it
sort it out,
stop sorting,
stop looking
forever is now
what are you waiting for to do?
What is it that you needed to do now?
Your life plan,
the anti-apocylypse of constant rebirth
of solid loving people
forever entrapped within pleasent
surroundings of
other souls lost in the landslide
availanche
of sudden self apocylypse
and Solstice rising
setting
rising
setting

rock star on a bus
rock star getting off a bus
getting in a cab
in the window, going by,
holding on to her man
letting go
opening the door
walking up the steps
in to the rehab.
Everyone there
knows to not know
who she is
but to know
exactly who she is
not
but
yet
love
but not
yet 
lost
to hear the sound of fame
shattering
like someone kicks an amp
with a spring reverb.
Claank.

Fame Clank
at the end of ego
she escapes
from the delusion of self that she had harbour
and retreats
to a more ancient
delusion.

Fame Cloak
she hides
along the moldings and rails
the new drugs
she is on
take her to a wasteland of color and shade,
relative romance
someone winking
vulnerable hearts
lost in rapid fury.
He can know nothing of her real pain,
this poem is but imaginings.
She can't share
what you don't really want to know anyway.
You'll hae your own wastelands-of-self to concur.
Don't think you need to know hers, 
walk her paths
you never can
she must alone
by herself.
You have your own wastelands of self to survey,
why get lost in hers?

Later
when she's back on stage
you're in the front row
she's midsong
someone had made the crowd clap.
She looks out,
right at you, you think, but she doesn't know you . . .
"Stop Clapping."

Because it's not in beat with the song.



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Music music music music music music!

selectors

March 11, 2015


clean water, even for enemies.
if you have this attitude, you won't need this attitude.
delete your delusions.

Music of
 Christ! 

Dance to the Jam if you want to! 
🌛
    Lovers
    and
    fighters
    are often the same
    



  

Please visit my DEMOS

   Live your life
in constant resurrection!


    Fear the Lord ~ ⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰
 But He's always good to you ~ ; )
     so
 

Praise the Lord while you still have voice in the world!

I got nothing more