Out of the Blue

Might be a little sloppy, but I can be that way. Looks like I almost forgot my own words, too. What the hell, sometimes I just make them up as I go along anyway. And I didn’t know April Bacon was sitting in the audience, recording it with her cellphone. Likely, it wouldn’t have changed anything.

Still, and though I wrote it a while ago, it’s a good song.

Under the Influence

I am under the influence.

I should not drive a car.

I should not handle

sharp objects

or heavy,

dull ones.


I am under the influence.

Deeply under it.

Of winter



I am under the influence of Mark Rothko.

Of the Lone Ranger and Tonto and Sky King and Fess Parker and George Reeves.

Of Mr. Wizard and Mike Mars.

Of invisible ancestors

Of Chagall, Blue Rider and Montparnasse

Of Bob Dylan and Brookyn and dead rebbes

I should not wrestle alligators

Or hippos.


I am under the influence of the short-lived perfection of apples.

I should not climb a tree

Or plant one in the electric soil.


I am under the influence of blended whiskey.

Of day old bread dipped in six bit wine.

Of caffeine and hot sauce

And Soutine’s meat.

I am under the influence of frightened people.

I should not run with scissors.

I know that.

It would be a bad idea.


I am under the influence of a chain of springs.

Of no laughing matter, my friend.

Of hangers and needle points.

Of belt buckles.

I am under the influence of lost causes.

I am under the influence of Ashcan and Cobra.

I should not smile at babies.

I should not sail a boat, handle heavy machinery or talk to prostitutes.

I should avoid rooftops.

I should certainly





I am under the influence of innumerable breasts.

And collar bones.

Of necks stretched like the scraped residue of hash pipes.

Of Miles.

Of cold fusion.

Of bald lies and hidden meanings.

I should not play with matches.

I should not play with strangers or my food or with words.

I should avoid accidents of letters.

I should seize my pen from my claw like a frog catching flies.

Then I should hold my tongue.

For a time.



From  Spoken War

Meeting the Living/The Julian Beck Interview

I met Julian Beck through Jack Gelber in 1984, shortly after the Living Theater returned to New York for a run at the Joyce Theater. The press was harsh; more like ridicule than review. After 10 years of self-imposed exile and more than 30 years of relentlessly experimental work, the Living Theater was broke and broken up.  When I arrived…

To read more and listen to the interview: UbuWeb Sound :: Julian Beck