I Ain't No Good Man

    I ain't no good man.
    Ain't even a great man.
    I pointed my finger when it was me done the wrong,
    Demolished the neighborhood and blamed it on the neighbors,
    Barked in your face and called it a love song.
    You presented some flowers, I rattled the saber.
    Ain't no good man.
    Just a man.
    What I got is some instincts and bloody knuckles to back it,
    Good love in my heart, good intentions and all,
    But fact is I'm rabid however you stack it.
    Good grip on your leg in my jaw when full moon calls
    Ain't no animal
    No buck, no lone wolf.
    It's worse: I'm a man, got opposable thumbs,
    Top-heavy with brains and a conscience poking me with a stick.
    You can forgive the shark, he ain't got no wisdom.
    Me, I got no excuse, just a hand full of brick.
    This jerk's heart hurts.
    Angel devil man.
    That's life how it is, man. Soft in one moment,
    All full of tender and made of bright clouds,
    Then boom, it's riots and things you never meant
    But did anyway, up front and out loud.
    Man.

I Ain't No Good Man

Wakin' Up Is Hard to Do

Changes need to get made.
This bed I laid in
Is disintegrating under the weight of time.
Made-up mind:
I will walk no further into this darkness sublime.
Opened eyes
Drink this world full of worlds, their bitter irony.
Medicine tastes like poison, poison tastes like honey.
Waking up is hard to do, and getting up, well.
Guess I'll push my spade and grimace in this sunlit hell
(Another day, another delusion
To hack through the confusion)
And sleep my way through wakefulness,
Sleeves rolled up and focused,
Undreaming, grim and conscious,
Sharply coiffed and well groomed.
Too long, didn't read?
This should get you up to speed:
A man ripped from the womb
A little too late, a little too soon
Sets fire to Elysium
And walks out of his bedroom.

Waking Up

A spoken jazz poem about rootlessness, the search for meaning, having it all wrong, synesthesia, and just rolling. Written midsummer 2010, recorded late summer 2013. (Note: The first two words are cut off: "I am...")

The World Is Upside Down and Backward

Here I read a funny poem for all my friends on Christmas Eve. I don't know who wrote the poem, but it was popular with the A.A. set I grew up with. It's a remix of "The Night Before Christmas" in which everybody, Santa included, is drunk.

The Drunk Before Christmas

Recorded by Justin Dullum at D.O. Music House, Minneapolis, MN, 2002.

Sound And Fury

A quick poem, spoken.

Image: Skull of Alexander Pearce http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Skull_of_Alexander_Pearce.jpg

Forward

A trip backward to the beginning, almost.

Transcript:

Lord, I need a lift. I need to get from here to there. You're the expert, but if I may suggest a route, hang a left and aim for the glowing.

"Hang on to your shit," spake the Lord, and floored it.

In reverse. Pinned by velocity to the back of the passenger seat like a sixth-grade science project, I could just make out my past flying by.

As Minneapolis receded into the future, I saw the places I've been. At this divine speed they appeared as wet Polaroids -- not fully developed.

New Boston. Manchester. Fall Branch. Azusa. Pasadena. North Hollywood. St. Paul. Mounds View. St. Paul again. Yonkers. Roswell. New Haven. Geneva. Minneapolis. Washington, D.C. Minneapolis again. London. Paris. Fridley. Canandaigua.

We passed green foothills in white caps, threaded through S-curves wiggling between sheer cliffs, blasted out into great expanses of desert.

And then we were riding on water. His taxi skipped across the Atlantic like a checkered yellow stone.

The Lord never asked me whether I was comfortable.

"Thirsty?" the Lord did ask unto me. "Yes," I replied, upon which He handed me an Evian bottle full of brilliant ruby wine. I downed it.

Yea, the Lord got me completely wasted. He pulled over. I fell out of the cab onto a cobbled street. The cab had turned black. "Nice trick.”

London. West End. The Hammersmith Apollo loomed high above my head. The marquee read "BLAST!" Blast, I'm late for my entrance, I mumbled.

"Don't worry," spake the Lord, "You're fired. Get in." I looked at Him, looked at the marquee, looked at the black cab and climbed in. Sigh.

The Lord buried His sandaled foot in the floorboards and off we flew, still in reverse. "Paris, right?" I asked, fumbling with the seatbelt.

I stood on the beach of Brittany at sunset. The blue swingset. The oyster bar. My friend Jake, stoned and puking up oysters. Bliss.

The Lord shoveled me into the cab again, took the wheel, and punched it back to Minneapolis. University of Minnesota. "I'm already tired, Lord.”

High school: Marching band, theater, English class, cross-country skiing, crushes, Live, Dave Matthews, lockers, cars and bicycles.

Middle school: Shame, darting eyes, righteous indignation, the stench of skepticism wafting from Mead notebooks. Picking fights with gentle giants.

Elementary school: Mr. Galinsky, a class music video, the Bookworm program, a rosy girl of long black hair named Chastity. And Katie.

Baseball cards. G.I. Joe. Transformers. Mr. Rogers. Barbara Mandrell on PBS.

A wooden fence and a little blond boy named William in red shorts. Me in a photograph.

An Easter Basket of green plastic grass and chocolate eggs. The reassuring smell of cigarette smoke on Mom's pea coat. The last memory.

Everything goes black. "Lord, I can't follow You here.”

"Then you aren't ready to go all the way, " spake the Lord. "I'll pick you up in 87 years. You owe Me six hundred large."

"Put it on my tab," I tell Him.

The Lord sighed. "Thanks for riding with Us." I helped Him with His robes, slammed the door and gave the roof a pat. He threw it in reverse.

The Beginning.

Image: https://www.flickr.com/photos/13184821@N07/7262207852/

Unusual Cabby

This exclusive, behind-the-scenes, raw, uncut audio recording from last night's Yard Party jam at Yard Party Studios in St. Paul, MN sounds absolutely nothing like the Sister Sledge dance tune of the same name. For Yard Party's "We Are Family," I'm inventing a new genre name: Monster Truck.

Quote of the night: "That was intense, y'all." - Sanaphay Rattanavong

Vocals: The nasty Sanaphay Rattanavong
Guitars: The dirty Gerald Prokop and Sanaphay Rattanavong
Bass: The powerful Joel Johnson
Drums: The drum-head crusher Will Conley

Yard Party - We Are Family (Monster Truck Remix)

Lyrics: Will Conley, January 2013. Music: "Wisdom Body" instrumental for Raekwon of Wu Tang fame.

Lyrics:

Super Duper Rap Songy
by Will Conley

Yo this is primo poesie, talkin' 'bout the dank musty
Smells like posies but mostly this poetry blows up thee, trust me
Thrusting, magic spelling your destiny, the best of me is testing
Your vibration receptors and sound collectors with firm but gentle pressure

Like Dexter, from cover to cover I'm murdering pages with my verbiage
If I got a demon inside, I'mma grip the pen and purge it
So the beast's urges and the grim reaper's dirges prove worthless
Like paper tigers and holograms of Tupac Shakurses

It's curses, death to death and a war on war and there's always more,
When I scribble the best of me on your destiny and tear your doors
Off the hinges, with these writing implementses, my preciousss
Syringes. Injections of insurrection you guessed it:

Rebellion. Injections of insurrections, you guessed it:
Rebellion. Rebellions of insurrection, redundant:
Syringes. Syringes of rebellions, you pressed it:
Injections. Injections of rebellions, you bet:

Insurrections. Insurrection against everything you ever thought
Pumped into your veins I am the sonic boom you never bought
Free of charge is how I operate
Charged with the negative and positive ions of pump-iron acetate

I'm on something to aleviate the symptoms of survival
Icons Cupid and Venus, love it has no rival
In the medical profession, I'm requesting a reprisal
Of the definition of insanity, shit you thought the Joker was crazy?

Your outlook is maze-y, reply hazy, try again
Shake that Magic 8 Ball and see what comes up then
Read my palms, push down your qualms, keep calm and carry on
When I light that long fuse to the bomb with aplomb in a song.

When I light that long fuse to the bomb with aplomb in a song.
When I light that long fuse to the bomb with aplomb in a

Boom. In a hundred years we'll all be dead, does that mess with your head?
Why would Willy worry when he's bouncin' in the bed?
Forever's overrated when you Write, Said Fred
I'm: Too sexy for my second-hand threads

Haircut. That's what I need, I'm looking for a job.
If you lookin' for a genius, then I'm looking for the mob
To lift me up and crowd-surf me to infamy
One day I will be famous like Lohan comma Lindsay

You feel me? I'm a little bit bananas but I bet you couldn't peal me
Regardless of your hand skills, your manual dexterity
You can't manipulate me, make me, shake me, or rate me
I'm Minnesota nice as a rock but I'm a Pisces

I'll slice thee

Thank you.

Super Duper Rap Songy

A very dirty Valentine's Day song written and sung a capella in 2007 by Will Conley.

Lyrics:

I love you in the most immoral and base form. (Hey!) You are my Valentine of questionable repute. My love for you needs its mouth washed out with soap. (Yeah!) Your heart is my joy, but your body is naughty. (Unh!) I think we could both use a spanking. Dirty, dirty, dirty. It's just wrong how much I love you, my Valentine. Thank you! I'll be here all week.

willconley

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