A rats nest of tangled wires for electronics long forgotten
I left a banana on my kitchen counter, it is now rotten.
Reminding me of the bananas of my youth
when I played a whore,
in Egypt with a tourniquet and some cotton.

The mail is yellow and faded and spilling out of the box
And I’m kicking myself for not changing the locks
It seems though my sister has pawned my guitar
For a baggie of shards or some sticky black tar.

A Rubbermaid tote full of “video head cleaner”
And floppy rubber dongs I used to jam in my hole
A faded photo of grandma, so long since I’ve seen her
May God rest her soul

About forty feet of chain for the sling
This and that and some other thing.
Is it time? It is time.
It is time to clean up the house for spring.

Backstory:

I think most of my stuff is self-explanatory, this one is a little more abstract.

I had come home from Los Angeles for the first time in maybe a year or so(?) and I did indeed find a rotten banana on the counter.

I also found a couple of bloody alcohol pads and syringes on my bedroom floor . They were not mine and I had a pretty good idea of whose they might be.

Everything else about this post is 100% all in my imagination, this post is my lamentation about cleaning my sisters drug paraphernilia up. She didnt steal my guitar. (shes never stolen from me, ever) and im sorry if this is why she doesnt talk to me now.

I just .. had no words for it and wasnt going to tell anybody so rather than getting on a high horse about it , i imagined one of the many cesspits of dope and despair ive seen in my life and wrote as if i were coming home from rehab (i had been given permission to take absence from treatment, yes) and cleaning up my own aftermath. Maybe in Chicago, long ago and far away, but absolutely NOT in this house

my great grandfather lived in my house.

my grandfather lived in my house.

my aunts lived in my house.

my mother and brother lived in my house.

my great grandfather used the same worn out 100-year-old key to unlock my door.

at the time i was being doxxed and threatened by crazy people and didnt want to give them too many clues about my home. they were very close but they were publishing the wrong address, ie, the house that my mother was renting at that time.

its just as much about my sadness , over this discovery , as it is , about what ive seen in the lowest of my lows, a little bit of it in my house, a little bit of it in your house, but i am going to tell you this, my house aint no motherfuckin shooting gallery. im not sure how she got keys to my place. i would not disrespect my family like that by having my place in this condition.

No guitars were harmed or stolen in the writing of ”Spring Cleaning.”

I was just lost in my head , literally, doing my spring cleaning after a long absence and it was a veiled reference to how … much … i hurt .. for both of us in a sense, but to come back home to .. what was actually a drug and alcohol free home … and feeling slightly violated by all of it. When im restoring hardwoods or whatever, im doing it with this sense of ”150 years of my blood lived and slept here.”

in a sense it took me back a decade or so to chicago, as i found a friend of mine bleeding out and dying from trying to mainline with his dialysis implant, we cleaned bags and bags of needles and vodka bottles out of there to spare his family the horror of seeing it themselves

“spring cleaning” is a veiled metaphor for once again, keeping someone elses needles secret and quietly burying them in the trash

the words the story whatever just came out of me… its a pretty damn good mirror of my internal reality and or imagination that day. Its an accusation dressed up as a confession, greatly inspired by matthew ryans ”a complete family” (she’ll be sentenced this upcoming january , its basically our intertwined and yet hopelessly disconnected lives in slow motion) and the uttter scandalousness of ”whitneys drug den” in the national enquirer, you know ”pleasing herself for hours with sex toys” sweating in her big ass fur coat, to lay all this out over a rig and a bloody alcohol pad is … dramatic .. but i left this one up for a reason, its my favorite and my least favorite post of all

9/28/2022