Peter Case

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so white & dry & innocent but evil—the sweetness that creates a sucking sound—a light in every dark heart—candy lives that go down easy  attention spans that spin at the sour—the dirty truth you have to get down on your hands & knees to ride—the faint trail in the dust that leads out through the lines—white footsteps in the green wet grass straight to—SUGAR ISLAND where the deal goes down—kill for a mouthful to bury this turpentine taste—the big size drinks at the asphalt corner stand—in a big plastic sweating cup—each sip leads unbearably to the next ’til

I wish I was somewhere far away on the side of a mountain—sleeping on the floor with a couple of blankets & a bowl of rice—distance—the kiss of the new encounter—aroma of a different egg & leg—so tired of getting’ up & goin’ to school everyday—’til the juice is sucked out of every orange leaving only freeze dried tomatoes—the stranger with a brand new three minute relationship—up all night & wandering to break the spell again—they wanted him in office to throw a wrench in the system—the dog’s been asleep on the

The companionship of Watching The River Flow, later Tangled Up In Blue, and others—Dignity I pulled the car over when I first heard it on the radio—Jokerman–I brought home and alone listening was transfixed—it was riveting—so alive—earlier I learned that white & black folk music go together—that the sound of the words is as important as anything—somehow it led me to Shakespeare—Kerouac also a part of this—the WORD—Eliot as a kid—Stevens—now Notley—that life is an adventure, an opportunity, is important.    Life—is holy—Death so powerful—the mystery—anima—the invisible world—the champions of civil rights—the

patient & strong  grey bristle-haired & cute, stubborn according to legend, silent in speech except for their call, the horn-like voice, four feet on the ground, straw bound and watching always watching—swishing flies with their broom-like tails—the soft snoot the adjustable & attenuated pointed twitching ears, the huge forward teeth in rows chewing corn, hay, carrots—the silky muzzle—the forbearance of the animal—here in all being but a passenger amongst humans—no they’ve been passengered but carry men women & children on their backs—the odors of dirt & manure—hay & the dry breeze—in their

discolored from rain on the tarmac near Detroit—TSA left the snaps half undone—and now it looks bruised—my old twelve string—called it “the cannon”—it’s loud & deep—sometimes feels alive in my hands—a sound I’ve developed to express the american red brick honky tonk beauty I’ve been feeling since 1970 or so—the twelve string is a spiritual  instrument—I said it for laughs but it’s got a lot of truth to it—the thinner octave strings suggest another parallel dimension—a realm that follows & corresponds to this one—this heavier plonk—jangle the quicksilver brightness of the treble—the deep notes with their higher twins—cut

On this track, it’s Case & Ridgway bringing the noise!  I’m out on tour solo, now, and playing a few gigs with my pals Dead Rock West, rocking the house, I promise. Tour listings and links at www.http://petercase.com/gigs/   Here’s another jam, from McCabe’s, with Ron Franklin, and DL Bonebreak from X!   12 hour turnaround you get up to the room after navigating a freeway & a service road—then, a crowded motel office—now crossing the parking lot with

Still out here on the road, gang. Don’t forget I’ll be at the 30-A Songwriters Festival in Santa Rosa Beach, Florida this weekend, then next week in Atlanta, Carrboro and Charlotte. I’ll be appearing at all of those shows with my pals Frank and Cindy from Dead Rock West, which is going to be super fun, I’m really looking forward to it! After that, I return to the West, playing for KC Turner in Sonoma, CA at the Hop Monk on Jan 28. In February I head North to Portland, Eugene, Seattle, and Prosser,in February, then back home

by Jack Kerouac The secret of Shakespeare: two parts: one, he wrote costume poetry for the state — There’s your fortune — Had (amongst his Ovids and Montaignes) a copy of Plutarch’s Lives and a book about Kings of England, and set the scene like a Hollywood Historical Costume Picture (think what he would have done with DeMille equipments on the Redcoats of Canada, the court of Catherine the Great, Napoleon and the whiff of grapeshot) — Made dandies, couriers, ladies, fools and generals and emperors talk with yapping mouths — a

definition:  “the inspired declaration of divine will & purpose”“an inspired utterance of a prophet” always heard a lot about prophecy, but never really understood what it meant—seeing the future, crystal balls, dreams, voices & lights, all figure in, but it seems that prophecy is also having the clear use of your senses & mind in the present, able to see the obvious—cars rolling down the highways by the millions: I predict—the day of the automobile will soon be over! insane irrational buffoons in power: I predict—disease, death, & sorrow will ensue—Blake