Poem: "Creed" by Meg Kearney from An Unkindness of Ravens. © BOA Editions, Rochester, New York, 2001.

Creed

I believe the chicken before the egg
though I believe in the egg. I believe
eating is a form of touch carried
to the bitter end; I believe chocolate
is good for you; I believe I'm a lefty
in a right-handed world, which does not
make me gauche, or abnormal, or sinister.
I believe "normal" is just a cycle on
the washing machine; I believe the touch
of hands has the power to heal, though
nothing will ever fill this immeasurable
hole in the center of my chest. I believe
in kissing; I believe in mail; I believe
in salt over the shoulder, a watched
pot never boils, and if I sit by my
mailbox waiting for the letter I want
it will never arrive��"not because of
superstition, but because that's not
how life works. I believe in work:
phone calls, typing, multiplying,
black coffee, write write write, dig
dig dig, sweep sweep. I believe in
a slow, tortuous sweep of tongue
down the lover's belly; I believe I've
been swept off my feet more than once
and it's a good idea not to name names.
Digging for names is part of my work,
but that's a different poem. I believe
there's a difference between men and
women and I thank God for it. I believe
in God, and if you hold the door
and carry my books, I'll be sure to ask
for your name. What is your name? Do
you believe in ghosts? I believe
the morning my father died I heard him
whistling "Danny Boy" in the bathroom,
and a week later saw him standing in
the living room with a suitcase in his
hand. We never got to say good-bye, he
said, and I said I don't believe in
good-byes. I believe that's why I have
this hole in my chest; sometimes it's
rabid; sometimes it's incoherent. I
believe I'll survive. I believe that
"early to bed and early to rise" is
a boring way to live. I believe good
poets borrow, great poets steal, and
if only we'd stop trying to be happy
we could have a pretty good time. I
believe time doesn't heal all wounds;
I believe in getting flowers for no
reason; I believe "Give a Hoot, Don't
Pollute," "Reading is Fundamental,"
Yankee Stadium belongs in the Bronx,
and the best bagels in New York are
boiled and baked on the corner of First
and 21st. I believe in Santa
Claus, Jimmy Stewart, ZuZu's petals,
Arbor Day, and that ugly baby I keep
dreaming about��"she lives inside me
opening and closing her wide mouth.
I believe she will never taste her
mother's milk; she will never be
beautiful; she will always wonder what
it's like to be born; and if you hold
your hand right here��"touch me right
here, as if this is all that matters,
this is all you ever wanted, I believe
something might move inside me,
and it would be more than I could stand.

Your president.

Just got back from the Buzzcocks at the Triple Rock. For so long I've been telling the story about seeing them and Gang Of Four at the Longhorn in 1979, while Joe Strummer, Mick Jones, and Paul Simonon looked on, that I'd almost gotten bored with the myth-details. It's a good fable, and I guess I always assumed it would be my greatest-ever Buzzcocks yarn.

Wrong.

They were flat-out amazing tonight: Old men and fire. "Orgasm Addict," "Harmony In My Head," and the top mosh-getter, "Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't Have Fallen In Love With)." That night in 1979, the Clash was buzzing around the Longhorn (they played the next night at the St. Paul Civic Center with David Johansen and the Undertones), and my brother asked Strummer if they were going to get up and jam.

"No, mate, this is a Buzzcocks gig," said the president of Garageland.

That was the stuff of legend, this was the stuff of life. Tonight was a Buzzcocks gig to beat all Buzzcocks gigs--heydays or history be hanged: Everyone who was there wanted to be there; everyone wanted to flail or nod along to the (seemingly) simple blitzkrieg choruses and Pete Shelley's romantic take on well, just about everything.

What's more, before the 'cocks tonight, I caught Graham Parker, outside, on the roof of Britt's Pub.

For free. Hype- and otherwise.

Unlike the youngish Buzzcocks crowd, tons of old punks and rockers were there, quaffing and eating dinner and coralling their kids and soaking up the sun before the harvest comes and we all hunker down to chill again.

I saw Parker at the old Guthrie Theater after Squeezing Out Sparks was released, and while it may have been a transcendent show for its time and place, it is also now a distant memory, for he laid to waste so much about the American Dream tonight, as only an empire-wary and USA-weary Brit can do, and sang songs from one, ten, and 20 years ago that proved to be spookily prophetic about the United States' leaders, environment, and wars.

It was a tremendous, unsettling, hopeful night. A re-meeting of the tribe and the tribes' chldren. People talked about new records and old records, casualities and up-and-comers, and everyone made fun of Katherine Kersten and the bullshit that passes for goverment, media, and religion these days.

And quite a few folks -- what else ya gonna do? -- danced.

Chris Hewitt writes my mind.

100 degrees in the shade means drinking and sweating at Lee's Liquour Lounge with none other than the Belfast Cowboys...

by Henry Heyer-Walsh

A window broke today when someone threw a rock at it.

A lightbulb broke today when it burnt out.

Also, a car broke when some Chinese dude karate-chopped it.

And someone's finger broke today when battery acid flew out of a toy Tonka trunk when the mom got choked up that her little angel's car wouldn't start. There wasn't much to do with the finger because it was swallowed up by the acid. Maybe that was too much info, but that's what we're here for.

That is all for breaking news.

Around the time Peter Jenner, first manager of Pink Floyd, and I became friends in the late '80s (he went on to manage Billy Bragg and Robyn Hitchcock; that's Peter and I below, after Braggy's show at the Fine Line this winter), an NME interview with him appeared with the headline, "I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives." Now we all do.

Jenner is one of the true gentleman of rock and roll, and he's been instrumental in guiding some great artists (including Iggy Pop), as well as upsetting the music-industry apple cart. Here's a nice bit from Quinton Skinner on Syd's legacy; here's a good oral history of the Floyd that includes Jenner's insights into the mad genius that was Barrett.

Sunday morning at the dog park by Lake Of The Isles, hanging with the other Sunday morning lollygaggers.

Out of nowhere, like Davy Jones or the Krakken or a Liriano fastball, comes the Animal Control truck. Out jumps the Animal Control guy. All the other yardbirds freak. Or, at least, all the other yardbirds who don't have their proper dog-park tags, including me.

I do not freak. I stay cool. I make a break for it. I head straight for the guy, figuring I can get by him and the fence before he knows what's hit him. But he has seen this tactic before and he nails me.

As he takes my driver's license and goes to the truck to write me up, I return to the park as a dozen of my fellow would-be dog-park fugitives make a beeline for the other exit.

Run. Go while you can. I may be poorer in the pocketbook but I am richer in the knowledge that I have taken one for the team, fallen on the sword for the whole. I do not seek thanks or monetary retribution for my $75 citation, because, as I tell the Animal Control guy, he is just doing his job.

Just like me. I am Steve McQueen, escaped and captured and now out of the cooler with information that will benefit freedom fighters everywhere:

Get your dog tags or pay the price.

There is no way of telling people they are all walking around shining like the sun.

-Thomas Merton