gG- The Fibonacci Sequence

Fibinochi Sequence (featuring Mad Sc.m4a

Bobby Brenner was the first to meet his maker's end
from the heart of his enclave deep within a Bayou lagoon
as our moon caved in with shaded craters and split

yeah, we'll know soon,
this devil ...

was out on the mend.

While he targeted pointy fingers at the far off train
chugging through like gristle glistening on the tarry roads
with the maven of the albino crow ceased his game of peck and receive,
yeah, that's how the devil plays his game...

only to win.

To dwell in darkness of the morning while we sleep awake
each sound a gong of fury forsakes a will to escape
from the country side hiding a curried sunrise of
the memory of his mother as the lights dim down.
yeah, that's where it all went down,
this devil...

decided to wait.

No sounds could ravage all the ruins wrought by reeds of river streams
and steam rose from the estuary and baked his calloused feet
each victim's blood clot like coy fish in the middle of the Dead Red Sea.
"yeah, this blade shines for all damnation," he screamed.

look how he gleams,
look how he dreams that, in his mind, Bobby Brenner will always be a winner.


in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.
in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.
in his mind, Bobby Brenner, will always be a winner.

Another Dimension, Another Mind of Microfilm Projectors

a sea of, confetti bursting from the tiny mouths of purring, calico cats,
as open caskets, bellow words of consternation, a picture of me, coffee in hand, with
microphones, chalkboards, European post cards, a day inside the laundry mat,

the face of the gypsy, wide eyed & expecting as the world is hungry, spending its fate
brilliant neon, colors flash to beats that carry rhythms of the urban demand, and
bmw's, sports cars, 2AM in graveyards,
the planets now
know all
our plans,

in Morocco sands with a gem in his hand,


then fog is, breathing and the shadows start to tango to the march of the mend,
Lee moves then, onward up the middle while the night is filled with the alms of the dead , cue
shaded hues, gym clothes, exaggerated metal pose, dizzy from the bakery bread,

With a body, made of magic yearning for mighty, blowing infinite winds,
the sheep is, soaked from top to bottom and the autumn leaves melt in the rain, with
wrestling nights, backyards, science fiction book cards,
the lasting look
of his
sunken frame,

in the Kenyan plains with his blood in my veins

The Mind of Microfilm Projectors

under my skull,

there is a hum coming from microfilm projectors,
lying at the back of my geranium potted cranium,
displaying images from the dusty lens of a bubble-wrapped, ailing apparatus, as

one might witness:

a sea of confetti bursting from the tiny mouths of purring, calico cats,
as open caskets bellow words of consternation, there's a picture of me, coffee in hand, with
microphones, chalkboards, European post cards, another day in the coin-op laundry mat,
brilliant neon colors flash to beats that carry rhythms of the urban drive and demand,
in the Morocco sands
with a gem in his hand,

then fog is in my windows and shadow puppets start to tango to the final dance of the dead,
watch as Lee then gives the signal and they all march down the middle to the drums of the vain, cue
shaded hues, gym clothes, exaggerated metal pose, we were dizzy from the scent of fresh bakery bread,
vomit red and bubbling, and the patient goes on mumbling about his love for Petty's songs and refrains,

shoes all muddied and stained,
the lasting image of him lying there all peaceful without any pain
all free, six feet under

under my skull,

there is a windmill warranting another rotation,
there is a flask of knowledge draining itself without an explanation,
there is a projector beaming the final scene of my imagination
spliced, dizzying, and ominous
and it dims completely
until black

The Melody Man

"Yes, but how do I create this type of music?"

He asked of the patron to his right with a

drunker slur if only to converse in the humid, evening air.

"To make music,
music that truly speaks from some other place and time,

like conversing with the eagles high above of all the ages,

into the depths of the deepest mines,

I can tell you what you must do,

but you must listen carefully as a

soul listening to the eternal design."

This mysterious man with the fine tailor suit leaned in, continuing with eyes filled with fires green and spectacular,

and he said,

"To make music for the ages,
you must have a woman yearn for you like some hysteric, waking dream of want and need,
I mean, my friend, it's where
she seems as if her only preoccupation becomes minutes of reflection, then silent,
and the music echoes, lessens, and your hearts just beat
-slow like a moonlight flow-
glowing upon her red warming cheeks
urging you on to peak, to rampage, earn and seek
as lips speak in many dialects unending diatribes taking weeks of
scribbling onto pads made of bright colors like autumn leaves,
and you notorize your tribute and be
as yet another church left to burn on the plains of Eve
but if only to paint some pyre with an image scorched upon her

sweating, sultry temples rustling about like torrent seas."

The preacher man went on
And the fledgling artist yawned,
slipping off his shoes to rub his chaffing toes,
and they continued on,
" For even in the heat of the moment,
Even in the throes of a discussion about a friend's unforgivable deceit,
You must simply know by the tone of her response,
that it is now the time of the midnight eve
her perfume speckled on the front of her wrinkled blouse
her dress pressed against leaves an imprint of a mourning tree

And you will see, as the notes are sent into space to sway your ears,

you will only hear each other breathe

and you will see that it is she, the wandering phantom,
speaking over centuries
holding scepters unlocking secrets
into the beats of the betrayed
into the hearts of the lame
the shameful language calling to, simply be, be the spirit of the composer

be the only donor of a song to help her grieve

while your head is left to the pillow as it schemes for more ways to hold

her waist, her fingers, her sweet music,
only then will you hear the music as she becomes a banshee shriek.

And you are there, and only then will you hear,

the music of above all ages and then sow with conspiring seeds."

The preacher slammed his hands on the table,
and the young man was off in his own world, trying to believe,
until the hovering figure billowed out his mouth,
only then did his advisee hear the woman speak.

Another Lucid Day Dream

While day dreaming I imagined:

An army invading our great nation, and as they paraded our concrete jungles, waving their flags high and mighty, they kicked Americans to the side like running into a room of balloons...greens, browns, blues, blacks, whites...flying in infinite patterns, popping under boots, shooting up and over, some of helium some of regular carbon dioxide from the lungs of the girl with the odd styling, it looks like she has a violin for a head, by the strange way she combs her hair, to the side, she uses her tongue to tie them shut

then i wake up

The Resident Meets the Meter Maids

They divide and conquer
the nation of a certain residential street
in the peace of San Francisco with
its street lights speaking of one another
through power lines who flower
into levels of communication
neither evil nor benign
but expansive
as time becoming the essence

as a careful stroll of the meter maids will neither
impede the race against the frames of another faction
nor erase the buzz of automobiles scrambling
for a home in their eternal search for the left or right
eating of offspring from the side to side of street sweeps
little miss pacmans
eat the pretty pellets of parking spaces
reserved for dwellers of overpriced boxes
made of plaster and other compelling indications

their mandarin muffled by stereo static
their pugs speaking from large, glistening eyes of confusion
their pit bulls stare down for a space to place their fangs in
the side of the terriers shivering brown bodies
strolling down with a look of affluence and grace as
their hipster masters are lost in the middle of a mix
their long clumsy arms about to free
their fervent desire of a treaty with
their damned devil dogs barking for the Zodiac
about to dispense his pestilence
reserved for the neighbor
wanting only to
simply
park
his fucking
car