Ever Since Nebraska

I decided to create a myspace to host whatever recordings I come up with here in Seattle. Because I just moved to Capitol Hill and am still jobless, there has been ample time to discover some of the nuances of self-recording.

I decided to name the project "Ever Since Nebraska." It was the title of the first E.P. Nick and I recorded as Fireworks, a recording we used to maneuver into the bloated, prosaic world of Tucson music. Fueled by coffee and No Doz it was probably not as mindblowing as we imagined it to be, though a columnist at the Tucson Weekly did write a glowing review that we got a lot of mileage out of. I miss dearly the camaraderie of my former bandmates, and control freak though I may be, their creative input; I am not nearly as talented as any one of them.

With that said, I decided to cover the titular track from Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska" record. Keeping with the aesthetic of the original, I recorded it live and with plenty of reverb.
Here's the link: http://www.myspace.com/eversincenebraska

Speaking of Springsteen covers, my friend Jack has his own version of "Atlantic City." He's an eminently talented guitarist but still new to the world of singing. His version is here:
http://www.ilike.com/artist/Jack+McKever/track/Atlantic+City

The picture is of me feeding a wild rez dog in Monument Valley, AZ. Not exactly Nebraska, but pastoral all the same

As they drove west into the sunset, the dusk seemed to linger on the horizon for much longer than it should. All across Noah's line of sight a pale orange merged into yellow and then blue and then dark, but it seemed to take forever. He felt a sort of cognitive dissonance because for a brief moment it was as if the sun was unsetting itself. He realized that the dusk lingered, not of its own will, but because in a sense he was chasing it.

He'd seen thousands of these Arizona sunsets but on this open stretch of Highway 191, on this Friday night, it caused him to speed up...65, 70, 80, 90 miles per hour until it seemed like he drew out the process an hour longer than it should have lasted. Gabby didn't comment on the speeding. In fact, she and Noah remained silent for most of the hour. And when the dark finally won out, about 30 miles outside Flagstaff, only then did they resume conversation.

Indian Killer

I just finished Sherman Alexie's Indian Killer and am stunned by this lackluster effort. I've read two of his short story collections, Tonto and the Lone Ranger Fistfight in Heaven and Ten Little Indians, and found them both entertaining and innovative in construction. And so it pains me to write negative things about Alexie. He's an easy guy to root for and abundantly talented. But, Indian Killer finds Alexie mired in a permeating hatred that deprives his characters of depth and interest. The point of view oscillates amongst a vast cast of characters, providing snippets of insight into their lives without fully developing any one of them. The white characters are stereotypical to the point of caricature. They are buffoons, violent, stupid, wooden, set pieces in a war against five hundred years of oppression and violence. Certainly Alexie's poor development of white characters provides a greater commentary about the pitiable state of mainstream American culture in general, but in doing so he makes these characters uninteresting to the reader. If you have a novel full of Rush Limbaughs and racist rednecks or bleeding heart Indian wannabes, it might make for entertaining plot twists. It might provide a satisfying piece of genre fiction. It might even make one hell of a movie. But, it does not leave much room for the pleasurable textures of literary fiction.


The book at large is riddled with ultra convenient plot developments that come off as contrived, sloppy, and perhaps worst of all, just plain lazy. The dialogue is another lowlight. Many of the conversations sound awkward and sometimes unbelievable. For such a respected author, a torchbearer for the second wave of the Native American literature renaissance, the lack of effort evident in this novel is, at times, shocking. And speaking as a fan of Alexie's, I find myself disheartened and hurt.

The Double Dream of Spring

I gotta start by saying I miss you. And I love you. And sorry ‘bout last year. I thought it would be nice to give you back your knife as a present. You always did like the detailing on the pearl handle. I thought maybe you could use it wherever you are, but after I buried it things got tough. They only send your pension checks once a month, and they ain’t much. Momma can’t pay a thing with the money she’s got, and me and Lelen needed to eat. You should of heard Momma carrying on while we were in the pawn shop.
She says, ‘Now, Gabby, how you gonna go and give a dead man a birthday present and then pawn it off. That just about makes you the biggest Indian giver in the world.’
And boy was I embarrassed in front of the man at the pawn shop. And maybe she was right, but I bought formula and diapers and a quart of rum with the money I got from it, and you know, I don’t regret it cause I know you woulda been okay with it. And Momma was okay with it too once she got a couple snuffs of the booze in her.
You’re probably looking down on me right now, and you see I got something here with me, so I’ll just go ahead and come out with it. I’ll never be able to replace that knife, but I got you another present, and I promise I ain’t gonna go and dig this one back up. Partly because it doesn’t have any re-sale value, but mostly cause I think you’ll like it more than that knife anyway. It’s a book of poems called the ‘Double Dream of Spring,’ and it’s by Ashbery. I know you always liked him, so before I leave here today, I’m gonna take a shovel and bury it real deep next you, so you don’t have far to reach for it.
I bought it at that place in Flag we went to when you first moved out here. Momma and I took the bus over there a couple days ago, and boy, that store hasn’t changed a bit. I was poking around through the poetry section when this younger guy says from behind the counter, ‘Excuse me, m’am. Do you need any assistance?’ Just like that. In that snooty damn voice they always use when talking to us. And you know how those businessmen are anyways. It’s the same old story, they either act like we’re stealing or they try to rip us off, and this one was no different. He was eyeballing me and Momma and Lelen from the moment when we walked in. One hand on the phone to call the cops and one hand on the cash register. He was wearing this sweater vest and tight little plaid pants, and I swear, he was just about as obviously queer as you can get in this world. And so I says to him. ‘Yes, young man. I’m looking for a book a poetry by this guy, but I can’t remember his name. I’m hoping you can help me out.”
He kind of relaxed and then says real condescendingly, “You’ll have to be more specific than that, m’am. We’ve got hundreds of books of poetry here.”
And I start poring over the books pretending to try and remember Ashbery’s name. I say ‘well, it’s just on the tip of my tongue. It’s Ashley, or Adeli, or Audenberry…” And the clerk just keeps staring at me real annoyed like, and I go ‘Oh, hell I don’t know. He’s a big queer and he’s real into surrealism.”
Boy, did that grab his attention fast. He darted over and says, “We don’t tolerate that kind of language in here.”
I look at him all innocent and said, “Well, hell, I was just trying to be specific.”

Hungry Heart

Noah stood up from underneath the hood and reached for the can of Schlitz that was balanced on the front bumper of his 72 Ford. He wiped the sweat and grease from his brow with his left hand and then, with his right, he put the beer to his mouth and swallowed the contents in a single swig. He squinted down along the road to where its jagged ruts met up with Highway 160, and barely, just barely, he could see Gabby's figure striding towards.

Even from a distance, he could tell who it was by the three legged dog loping along at a desperate pace to keep up with its owner. And as she came into clearer focus, Gabby's style was unmistakable: a creased brown leather jacket, black jeans, and black boots caked in dusty pink by the redness of the earth. She wore a pair of headphones held together by duct tape that clashed with the dark sheen of her ponytailed hair. Her army surplus bag hung over her right shoulder stretching down to where it met a large knife hanging from her belt. She looked ominous, if still familiar. A few years ago a friend managed to score a video tape player and a copy of "The Road Warrior" from the Mexican Hat pawn shop. Noah laughed. The resemblance to the Mel Gibson character was similar, except Gabby was real, and this wasn't the post-apocalyptic future; it was just Arizona.

Breathe it Out (loosely)

In-Country

Gabby
I screamed out for you
Under
A blood burning moon
And all I
Could see was mortar rounds
Cutting
Into opulent stars
Exposed fat drooled out
From my mouth shaped wound
And flowed in the paddies already stained
In Quang Tri provincial, Indian Country rain
Mixture creating ambush manure
For a brown rice stronghold, Viet Cong owned home
Methodically the medic snaked to my side
Put his hand to my face, put an end to my voice
“Stop screaming, Chief. It’s just a fucking scratch.”

But I was leaking electricity
through my ribcage. Field dressing swelling
like punji snake infection in a pond of spring
Engorged by the form of the melted plains
With a furious desire to deedee open holes
Gashed in the country by our C.O.’s
They hide what blooms abject and naked
Fingers in my wounds freshly awakened


Fluorescent lighting filtered through my
flaking eyelids
Hospital walls with
white painting flaking, exposing naked
faces who told me
“Two weeks of lying
here in this bed.
5 all together will get you up
and back in to the field.”
Like Mangas on his last legs, boiled in fragments
My scalped crawled with distrust
Baptized by their rust

And as the time of my first night
Drew out like a blade forever
Denton armless Texas Sam sat up next to me
in his bed
full of fermenting urine
The invalid prophetic, storyteller told me
“watch out for the cockroaches
They’ll crawl up
In your catheter if they think that you’re dead.”
I knew he was right
before I could see them
cause the boy woke me up on that first night
screaming and thrashing
his stumps in the air
I shook him and pulled a bottle of jack from under my bed.
Put it to his face and he said,
“Thanks, chief. I ain’t big on Indians, but I got sense enough to thank a friend.”

“Charlie
Motherfucking
Viet-Cong
got me
with a
bouncing betty.
Now I’m a
Man sized baby."


The best thing about Sam
Was the way that he talked
Though he was just 19
still a boy
he could make me laugh so hard
I wanted to cry

With his back to the sky in the enema room
Nurses reaching in him
he said, “just go in your bed
or they’ll dig in you too.”

And one night on the ward
Color out my face
Melted into a haze
And everything felt just like
It was held together

By waves and I felt
That I couldn’t see
Sam when he told me
Why he didn’t like Indians

"Tina was about 12 when it happened to her
They plucked her out of our yard
Took her out on the road
And their truck blew a hose
And they junked both of them
Just like trash


But, I never saw her cry…

In from the country out on the road
They raped my sister in a broken Ford
Mestizos dwelling on the drainage of time
Sucked back their oil from Tina’s hide
But my granddaddy took it like you would from a child
Who plays with fresh gold just to watch it shine
And though I never saw her cry
I could see the rawness between her thighs
Like the color of
the rust
on the truck
She slept in
Across the cracked
Vinyl seats
The stuffing her only source of heat or clothing
She spent the night naked cause two snakes were waiting
Out by the old well where she played on her swing set
That we tore down when she fell


And now her rust colored thighs
are imprinted on my eyes
Her rust colored thighs
They'll never leave my mind

In this country or out in the country or Indian Country
it doesn't make a difference
Raped without repentance senseless
Fucking girls who can’t have kids yet
And If I had just two simple wishes
I would get my arms back with them
And strangle those motherfucking Injuns
Cause that’s just what they deserve

In Country

Gabby
I screamed out for you
Under
A blood burning moon
And all I
Could see was mortar rounds
Cutting
Into opulent stars
Exposed fat drooled out
From my mouth shaped wound
And flowed in the paddies all ready stained
In Quang Tri provincial, Indian Country rain
Mixture creating ambush manure
For a brown rice stronghold, Viet Cong owned home
Methodically the medic snaked to my side
Put his hand to my face, put an end to my voice
“Stop screaming, Chief. It’s just a fucking scratch.”

But I was leaking electricity
through my ribcage. Field dressing swells
like punji snake infection in a pond of spring
Engorged by the form of the melted plains
With a furious desire to deedee open holes
Gashed in the country by our C.O.’s
They hide what blooms abject and naked
Their fingers in my flesh now awakened

Famous in the underground

We're back live. With special guests, explosions (figuratively, maybe), Akon, Damian "Pink Eyes" Abraham of Fucked Up, and as always, the entire Chitwood family: Lelen, Gabriella, Tommy (in disembodied form), and Jimmy. Plus, Springsteen is stopping by for a warm up on his way to the Super Bowl.

December 6th: the Living Room

December 18: Dry River