Jon Rockefeller on Facebook

For Vivian

I
I just learned that my friends are dead
9 of ‘em in burning shadow-clocked mobile homes
Blazing early morning mourning about 5:30
And three of ‘em, tripped sticks, xanax eyes and booze-limbered bodies
Confused by the distorted turn of the loquacious night, so innocent and fun
Three of ‘em shouldered the door wide open and fell hard on the semi wet grass and slightly chilled air of the early morning Texas lake-side weathered turf
But this morning was not dewy and chilled
They fell to the earth, and landed on embers and char
Inhaled the chilled fresh air, but coughed up soot and smoke and the taste of campfire
Looked back and saw no lakeside, but a great big, bright home
All covered in catastrophe and ugly, depressing, life-changing wake-up calls
Not thinking party thoughts of comedy and good times and, “haha hey he just fell on the ground”
But instead, “oh no, my friends are in there”
And the friends
Jesus, the friends
What they were thinking, none of us could ever comprehend in a thousand burning comprehensions
Of understanding…
…Understanding

II
Burnt are the images the three won’t forget
And their regret is for sure a lasting ember
Burnt is the mobile home: a hell-like coffin
A scalding smothering with dragon-breath eye drops
The carbon of six destroyed families
Those poor families
And six remaining diplomas on graduation day
Burnt is the grass
The dew is back in the atmosphere
And the chilled air is somewhere else
Drifting calmly past random people, unaware of the dead bodies they’re breathing in

III
The fear in the three will be explained in great detail
And the fear of the six
That’ll only be expressed through imagination
All the last-calls and I’m-gonna-get-outa-here-in-a-fews
The three condemned to last in clandestine denial, staring past the hypnotic, vacillating fire
Confused in their jaded states
The apathetic medics who don’t think twice about what they’re doing
Not that they should
But that’s how infinitesimal it is
To them
And to us it’s a great misfortune of random events all cluster-fucked together, so rapid and random
And I was on the phone with somebody else, having regular conversations
Unbeknownst to the cloud of smoke that blinded God for an hour
I feel like that and I wasn’t even there

IV
Six of my friends burned to death this morning, one of them so very dear to me
They weren’t bad people
They weren’t great people
But they weren’t normal people
They were my people as I am theirs
And we will never talk to each other ever again
Because they’re dead
They burned to death
While I slept in my bed
Snoring with my two dogs
With the television on and the light off and the window shut and locked
And six of my friends burned to death

Vivian Rodriguez is back...going to PH tonight...is you goin'?

-Jon Rockefeller
03/06/2011

I'm Sure Their Names Mean Something

Big mouth plaster casts and migraine tortillas all along the cloudy river, up the mountain, down the tooth caressing her own little tea pot poodle bought in a backyard drainage facility only to be chopped up and served as stew. When she came down I instantly questioned her morals and ideals and all she ever leaked was awkward answers anguished and languished, forgotten by car accident memories and concussion games, flagpole infested and Pulitzer pressded, with a tiny pinch of bitters. Oh those bitters always find their way into doldrumming oil industry parking lots, all screen doors and questionable camera queues just waiting for that one cat to show his face – eyes primarily, but he’s particularly afraid of spitting cobras, and never got over Steve Irwin’s death. Explaining to him why the cameras were x-ray was like explaining algebra to a wall, because algebra is invisible, and the cat is the size of a small country. I hear it’s because he got tired of waiting in line for food, so he ate the entire McDonald’s. Bodies cant digest that stuff, with the lawn mower cap gasket blue and twilighted all bricked up just smiling too large for television, too large for the moon, which has grown legs in its old age but never can find the time to use them, sits in its recliner all day, which was a gift from carpenter Jesus, while taking dance lessons from posthumous Michael Jackson. Da Vinci’s the most promising student, if you base it on flattery, of course, but what would I know? The last article I read was about bob Dylan playing electronica music. I also heard that DJ Tiesto is America’s most promising folk artist. Folk died in 19-something, it was hit over the head with a giant tin pan in an alley. Talk about a successful factory. When captain Picard gets involved you know it’s serious, because Mr. Kennedy over there can’t keep a straight face, which is what’s making me laugh drool on my dogs dirty paw all smack marooned and whiskey bombed with a lack of music - sound in general, really. Aw that damn ragman with his circles and block, don’t talk tape furnished heart escape too late. Getting flak for that one crack made by earthquake, nameless, fameless, aimed out of misery eyelids livid and knocked out cigarette bird talking eating baguette, Frenchmen wife marionette. tickets licked it bought a bic and kicked it to where that manifest destiny died in its tracks on the trail lost in itself from those narcissistic conversations with itself, to pointing paintings and beating itself all over again and again and again and again surrounding itself with friends, finding itself with its friends in its crack dens and deceased kin watch it, kicking itself for wasted years, like that cat with the poorly located injury, who loved the girl, but she got away from Hemmingway. Minor blues injuries. Those damned inquiries where all you say to me and he to she and her to whoever’s cosmically next in line discriminatory coat technician laboratories. Whatever. Why would I care, I’m just an observer of all for all after all can’t quite all go to ball small little birdcages in instant mix for Kool-Aid addictions. This cat, he walks in sits down smokes in his room a light cigarette and puts it out a quarter too early, and appears a quarter past 3, a quarter short for a ticket, a quarter hour late, drops a quarter dollar, and realizes that this is all because he left the other three quarters in this old bombshell ceiling, half worn down by nature and fully drawn to be disguised, and this is why he has no whole. I says, hey you, why no whole? He say, hey you, don’t instigate, im a loose cannon, and once fed a shark with a bowl of raisin bran. I was then made aware of his amazing strength and will and wondered what whole cat would be like. So I says, where’s the rest of ya? He say, I said I left it. I told you this already, I left it in my bombshell ceiling and now have to travel all the way back to it to become whole, yet for some reason, every time I try to do that, I end up side tracked and paralleled, and helicopters follow me home every night I’s scared I’s scared. I offered liquid liver with brain contoured whisker diver dressing and a fresh Chinese suit from the future and he denied these things, he just loved that one quarter of himself, hated half of the whole and wondered when he could finally get his three quarters back. I then found out that this bombshell ceiling was no ceiling at all…or a bombshell, but actually a woman who’d been divorced for a couple years, and she had this cellar door, made out of a skull and spirits and souls, and an eighth was missing. Don’t worry about 7, 9, and 10. They’re safe and all right. All fight and fright continuing to brighten all sorts of days including mammogram phonographs printed by Satan, which of course would be rock and roll and while all these kids, conversed and mind constricted whitherspoon contortions and shortened motives in constant driftwood antics, concerned by the slightest sounds, weary by the movement of tectonic plates and natures mentality to move forward, forward, forward, echo. So he walks in sits down reads a mag article, looks up peers down the hallways, showdowed closely by pencil shavings, that damned snoop. Pistol brave and calling I do end up getting a response.

Suitcase of Reasons

It might be what I think it is I do
Why I get nowhere
And constantly mistake my senses
When it is why I do it to know about myself in those situations

And by myself I'm lost in my thoughts
Cause while I’m thinking
I cant get it out of my head
That why I'm alone right now is because of my own denial
And of what? There’s no description
Or maybe there is and im just blinded by my insight
Too distorted through the haze of my false knowledge

When I play my songs around you
Hoping that you’ll listen, you never do
You never catch what I’m saying
And all I’d like to do is communicate with you
But that just ain’t happenin’ now is it, babe
And when I rub my eyes open to the new days tomorrow
I’ll have a suitcase of reasons that weigh me down
But babe, you’ll be fine don’t worry

the Laws of Gravity

I broke a piece in broad daylight an’ struck an Angel delivering drugs to the Devil himself an’ I smelled brownies. Ha, you are a good Mind mime mom, threw a flock of seabirds at Me in trashcan weeping of “Shot himself” Fathers an’ crosshairs were in my eyes, benevolent with mixtures of Brutus, the homosexual bride, brutal with broken bonds beckoning burglarish bribes, belligerent about being brought books in broad daylight, an’ I wept more. Flowing from my tears rode a Monster foaming at the mouth who called himself the President of the United States an’ I said, Fuck, so loud you could hear it where sound don’t travel, the small intestine, which means it went up yer asshole. JESUS! What is it when leave blow t’ward the deck down along the Cove?


A scary fucking drawing, that’s what, when yer father is dead an’ rotting in a suit an’ tie under ground with evil eyes glaring through an old man who stole them an’ saw sight like solitude, slipping Singapore slings in yer fruity tuty drink you call apple sauce. Why am I so God Damned insane writing like I’m about to kill myself, though I won’t, an’ don’t want to, but some do an’ they shrink into little tiny balls an’ roll with it until they get stepped on an’ flattened so they can’t roll no more, an’ thus are forced to end their lives, an’ I sung a beautiful song with a old guitar an’ cried like a butterfly looks beautiful, an’ she did, an’ it did. O, an’ I don’t really love, I’m forced forced forced to write an’ I can’t, but I do. An’ they all in classroom glares stare at me, drinkin’ coffee O an’ breath sittin’ lust, black in Mexican salsa dances. Take a break an’ bleed blood blue an’ bled bed dance says, No, an’ I do anyway, writin’ sloppy in desk dreams while other sleep sigh high fly cry mime shine dine fine kind an’ show distortion through their noses, O sweet Satan Susan, Jesus God dog cat bird…

LION

…Earth an’ Gods an’ I love. But why do I love? No one else does, not even this paper an’ pen so innocent within or maybe they’ve killed a man, throwin’ away all their dreams in a trashcan silver an’ gold can-can, can you go that far or do you have a teleportistic transportational telephone? I saw that smirk, you did, too. My arm weakens an’ stiffens an’ dries to a crisp golden yellow noodle for to put sauce upon an’ eat it. Alfredo most likely. I’m too pale for tomatoes an’ sausage lookin’ glass dreamboats in space, on airplanes with keys as cold as ice an’ web like razor sharp internet connection sharks teeth eatin’ a lobster at the bottom of the sea. Sweet Marie warm Sunday mornin’ in ancient grass cloudy non-sensicle from stoners in a park godamnit drug worshipers is bad as Baptists an’ criminals an’ jewel thievery an’ pirates O God pirates sing an’ breathe an’ reap, O…

THE MONSTER

He was a Monster in the Sea
With tangerine teardrops
&
Lemonade teeth

…a pirates life for me. O God for me, please be better an’ strong an’ have a pleasant odor or else go fuck yerself with that land too grand for people who swear or drink or even are mean an’ unequal, man. What’s yer definition of bad, God, or good? O yeah, not good at all you Spanish swine, no talking in yer petty, mean-toward-white-folk language…

HA!!!

…Arms flailin’ about walkin’ by polo shirt man stretching, O yer hot man yer on top because you push little innocent kids around an’ Slap the Ham to internet porn an’ sing whistles of Charlie braums bourgeoise pigs. Almost every last one-a-you kick Karl, but creeks in disguise with a Q, as in the letter. YES. “A” for Apple, “B” for pushover desks sustained in air, waitin’ for time capsules to insert yer mind. Charlies horses are very sad now.

What is this harble-jarbled mess?

THE END


-Jon Rockefeller

Can't Stand the Rules, Can't Stand the Ladder

Trippy blue oysters were in my throat, I could hardly breathe. “Jesus the water in my breast, I saw that fiend, he dressed in black. Fuck!” Airplane memories and grim thoughts attacked my smile. Jack was a Cat, floating Libra dances tango to death in endings at subscript font.
Laughter spread through the auditorium. The ceiling was against me, I knew. And narcotics agents slit my throat, only to realize I was made of bubbles and red salmon came out of my brain. Lucid dreams dreamt in the night and large beginnings crashed into a red corvette. Killing the only known descendant of George Washington Carver, the peanut man. YES it’s true. Sunshine almost always makes me high. HAHAHAHA… Arch of past feel my roar! Why is this city so small, I thought aloud. Bring me to the sky oh acid dream, bring me above and beyond. Mother, don’t kill me. The floor seemed massive and the air seemed tight. I was confused at the sight of closing my eyes. Drum beats rule the brain. Fast-paced and moving to light orchestras. Bop bop bop bop bop bop.
Jack looked like a Monster, furry with eyes like the night lit moon. Drool ragtag memories on ancient bed spreads and cherubic dance moves hid behind our car, the Ghost Man. Trees looked to me like a spaceship knife.
“How are you standing on your hind legs you sick mongrel?
You aren’t my father,” asked Jack/Rabbit slims. Jerky daze.

-Jon Rockefeller

Call the Coroner, This Man is Dead

I can’t tell a story
I can’t sing a song
I can’t write a tune or a melody or strum soft
I can’t write about people I don’t know
I can only write bout characters I perceive as my own
I can’t walk no more or even sleep or make love to my girl
I hadn’t even taken the time to write my will
I can’t see no more trees or feel no more breeze
But I can’t stop shivering
Call the coroner this man is dead

I can’t drive a car or talk to my best friend
Or read a book
I can’t even get in a brawl with a look
My eyes ain’t movin’ no more, my kid is still asleep
I keep trying to shed a tear but I can’t even weep
The ground has never been so intimidating
Or my new wooden barracks where my head is illuminating
I can’t pet my dog or unlock my front door if I had one
Call the coroner, this man is dead

I can’t stop remembering bout the last thing I said
It haunts my memories
As stagnant as they are
Like a cest pool of knowledge all wasted in the earth
Why am I meant for
A tragedy’s harmfulness
It hurts my feelings which might as well be a guest
Call the coroner this man is dead

Thinkin’ back on all those little moments
Childhood is over get a job and start yer payments
Tax the living, cuz livings a necessity
Tax the dead cuz death is a truth
And tax the liars cuz lying is wrong
And tax the right cuz the left is down
And tax the down so’s they get up
Tax the behind so they get ahead
Call the coroner this man is dead

Oh, mama your face is an imprint
On the back of my hand
I know it
Like putting trust in a single strand
Of golden hair but black is my true love’s
Too bad I won’t get to meet her
I can’t stop remembering the last thing I said
“call the coroner, this man is dead"

Jon Rockefeller
12/10/09

Too Rare To Live: Chapter I

We were on our way to New Hampshire, to buy a car, when I suddenly thought about the immense journey ahead. First we were going to drive a pickup from Dallas to Oklahoma City. Then catch a plane to the outskirts of New York, have a man with two first names pick us up, and carpool us back to his home in Auburn to buy his car. My good friend, Jack was to join me on my quest. He always knew what to say, when to say, how to imply it, and who to. He knew his literacy like a Shark knows its prey.
The airport was gigantic. Difficult to find your way anywhere. We were lost. The song on the radio rang a bell, but I had swallowed a few vicadin when we got to the metal detector line on the way in. I hate airports. The last time I was in an airport, I and the group I was in were searched rigorously, because we had been put on the “chosen” list. Anyway, Jack and I were in fear of missing our flight.
“We haven’t missed a flight, yet,” said Jack, speaking the truth. I was lost somewhere in my mind thinking about that damn flight. I replied with a, “yeah, I agree.”
People in the lobby eyed us intently, waiting for us to make a move. What that move was now, I have no idea. But I followed along pretending as if it was the odd guy standing next to me they were laughing at or something. But deep down I knew the truth. I checked my pocket for the hashpipe. It was still there. Good. The pill was in full throttle – if that would be a
rightful term for it – and people weren’t speaking English, except for root words like “have” and “Enjoy.” It was very strange the way I was feeling. The airplane, stagnant. Fat couple next to me. Smelly. Hightowered water spread like jungle weed. Lord flies and hypocritical monkies laughed and jeered at prisoners of lust and marriage. What life is a man’s revolver?
“How much for the piece,” I said. “It looks like a god damned bubble.”
“Well it has AC, and all the electronics work, the interiors nice and cup holders…”
All I heard was squat. Just like a salesman to add superfluous things and get me interested into paying out a wad of cash for his problems. If it was so state of the art, why was he selling the damned thing?
“What’s the mileage like?” Jack eyed him intently.
“Uh, well it’s good, it’s good. You know I really don’t know that stuff,” He seemed phased by the question, but it would not hit him like this stone.
“It’s crap,” I said. “It’ll never do what we intend for it to. Do you think it could off-road, travel upside-down, and hit water as if it were a pedestrian? I didn’t think so.”
“But you said you would buy-“
“Forget what I said, I lie viciously. Don’t listen to a word I say. Except now, because I said so…swine.”
Jack pulled me to the side, saying, “Get a hold of yourself, man. We need this ride. What are we going to do, walk away? Civilization is at least twenty miles away. We can trade it in for a Bronco, don’t worry. I’ll handle this, brother, just examine.” So I did.
That is why I like him. He’s a Virgo, and Virgos always think ahead. Leos speak just to speak. Sometimes I wonder if what I am saying even exists. Sitting alone, in my apartment, I will randomly yell and talk to myself aloud, saying things like, “the motor is running,” or “How do you do, sir of tangerine eyeballs?”
I don’t really know why. Maybe just to hear myself and make myself aware that the human mind isn’t the only existing factor of reality. That there is a world full of people and difference and goodness, right past my 8ft high wall. Am I crazy? Do my neighbors hear me and secretly have a vendetta against the crazy Hippie scum next door? Or am I really all alone on this big massive revolving rock we call a reality?
Next thing I knew we were at Forest Eagle Hills Auto Traders: World Renowned for Service and Servitude. I wondered if that were true. I’d never heard of them on the West Coast, or Texas, or in Canada. They were lying to us. You can’t trust anybody these days. Not even the President. That started with Nixon. Anyway, we found a Bronco. A very nice blue and white Bronco with all-wheel drive and a CB radio, so we could talk with truck drivers and pretend we were that kind of crowd. Jack chuckled at the idea. It’s always nice to make a good friend laugh, especially Jack. Making him laugh is like breaking a code created by da Vinci himself. I was always proud of making him laugh.
We pulled out of the Dealership parking lot going about seventy-five, Jack driving. The world was suddenly purple and green. The people wore clown suits and danced to a rumba beat. I was shocked at the sudden change and heard a voice screaming, “My God, we’ve entered the 7th dimension! Deadly and gone. Hit the gas, man, before we’re infected.”
Asphalt hit the earth in a strange tone, I felt I was lost in the Sun. Jack kept a lookout in the Cockpit. I hopped into the backseat to lay down, I was feeling a bit loose-eyed. Normal, I thought, just a sobriety trip, I think, did I take something? The thoughts running through my head were strange. Mexican tornadoes filled the air. Leaves blew on the car, and then all was calm. And the tide slipped back into the ominous sea of curiosity. That flicker, the spark of vision beyond sight. I dozed into a dream.
I awoke in a strange Mongolian restaurant in Vermont. The aura of the place was very psychedelic. I swear I saw Genghis Khan on the ceiling. Bricks were showing through the paint on the wall. The air said it was many, many years old. The Cafeteria was too loud, though. Groups of friends screaming and bickering and moving, just for the fuck of it. The motion was getting to me. Not too groovy a thing to wake up to. I cupped my hands firmly against my ears, but it was no use. The sound was getting wretched. Screeching babies with red hair and Gang bangers filled the Arena. I was trapped by brainless motives, teaming rampidly like bacteria on meat in a dumpster. There were high-pitched blasts from a playful bunch. A good song was playing on the loud speaker, or whatever you call that thing. I had wild mood swings in action, and now I was feeling incredibly groovy. “How long have we been here,” I said. The food was half eaten, and the crowd was staring at Jack, lost in a dancing revolution. He felt the music, it wasn’t his fault. Pounding his feet in rhythm, clapping his hands and singing in a bluesy timbre, “don’t bring me down, you can’t bring me down, I’ll walk long and low and sing low and mean, you can’t take my soul away from me.” Feeling enlightened, I hopped up and danced with him, singin’ away. Smiling like the ocean mist, he looked at me and sang, “Thanks for believin’, believin’ in me.”
The people stared intently, scary at us, as if we had just eaten the heart out of some innocent monkey who worked at a circus. Did we eat the heart out of some innocent circus monkey? The bad vibrations were getting to me. Especially after a dancing revolution as powerful as that one.
“Jesus, what’s with you fucking people? I can’t think a God damned thing with eyes like that. Look away, swine, lest you be punished by the laws of…Discrimination and un-openheartedness.” The air was negative, and Jack and I swiftly glided to the Bronco, dine and dash style. It was time to get into the Salvia. Jack pulled out the pipe and proceeded to load it while I drove the beast into a proper alley way that would protect our intake from the public eye. He finished and we hit the holy pipe. Inhale, exhale, take a break. Inhale, exhale, waft.
Suddenly I was laughing hysterically and swinging my body back and forth. The air was cold and I was flying through a highway made of yellow PBC pipes and black space. At the end of the highway was a tunnel made of a gigantic teapot with a face carved into it, much like that of a wild, acid-crazed Disney movie. Then I flew into a giant ocean of yellow rubber and latex. I was drowning in this liquid-like substance of nasty chemicals and food coloring from another dimension, and I couldn’t talk on account of my intense laughter, but finally got out the words, “Help me,” and went back to the trip. And soon after, the wildly extensive hallucinations ceased and I gently rolled back into reality, a little clumsy, but soon got over that. I turned up the volume on the radio and lit a cigarette. The song was Axis: Bold as Love, Jimi Hendrix. Jacks favorite artist. I dig him myself.
I pulled out of the alley way and went into gear. The road was wide, and open. I turned out of the parking lot of Ceasers’ Palace and got the Beast running down the street.
After causing plenty of trouble by night time, like unscrewing a fire hydrant, and stealing street signs and toking in public, we decided to flee. The drapes of the diner got too hot, and delivered the wrong groceries. It was getting tiresome and closed in, and eventually I could hardly breathe that incredibly bland New Hampshire air of the rather large Northeast. We got on the open road.

-Jon Rockefeller

Sensei Surreal

I

Our land
And hypnotic ways
Of illusions and trickery
Entwined with the highest passion and skill
Quickly moved and moving
Physically and spiritually
Dancing on water
Softly with vibrations
And wicked contortions of attack
And passion
O, so much passion in those dark deep surrounding eyes
Of colorless knowledge
Eyes of an ocean just constant movement
And transcendence
And dharma
Nirvana
Those heart words that created love
“Our land”
Simple but possibly the most beautiful statement I’ve ever heard
With such ah!
Tears led his riot
And death followed so quickly

II

To be killed by your lover
All physical and beautiful
Intoxicating
Why didn’t you block
To finally prove it to you
Ah, you do love her
And she didn’t believe till she struck your vital organs
And you sat there
Eyes meeting and wandering and playing over
Past scenes
And telling with words
What your heart says
“Our land”
It takes an occurrence to laugh
It takes suicide to cry



III

How empowered I feel
My eyes are tearing to force this
Desolate Scream out
This solitude sound
The past is so beautiful
And the future is not
I’m trying so hard to find this button to push
To motivate my resources
And no button exists yet
Hopefully I’ll find it
Before it’s too late
I will find or create
“Our Land”



Jonny Rockefeller
11-4-09

Medatative Militant

The Sky is a physical solidity
Which I Love
It Echoes my Madness
My Madness is my Love
And Desolate Angels
Sing My Solitude Blues
Love the Cancer

Behind A Thousand Gates

In the tree tops we did declare
The sun couldn’t be seen anywhere
Right then I moved to touch her hair
For, this emptiness inside
From her a power to subside
And I fell completely behind
A thousand gates

My Scarlet haired lover in disguise
Had onyx jewelry eyes
In my old shame I shed my lies
Pushed the paintings from my way
Which held old memories
Of names I try to leave
Behind a thousand gates

We held our glasses, so we could see
Our distance was our curiosity
I wasn’t aware that she had needs
To which I could not relate
And she said “It’s a shame
Being trapped behind a thousand gates”

In the clearing of the dry dusty leaves
Her face was gloomy and opaque from the steam,
The train is leaving upon which we leaned
She stepped aboard and wept
Through variations of sad
And she left me behind
A thousand gates

I last saw her leaving fast
I never got the chance to ask
I took a sip from my flask
Stuffed it back in my shirt
Right in front of where it hurts
And I muttered a word
That stays behind a thousand gates


-Jonny Rockefeller
10/2/09