New Blog

Hi kids,

We've Moved!

You can now find posts and Kid '77 updates on Tumblr. Look here:
The TwoSense Zion (tumblr)

Thanks for following.

Recent Developments

Some of you may have heard over the past few days that Kid '77 has parted ways with drummer JJ Chamberlain. I wanted to take some time to post a little information here.

This is by no means a contentious break-up. I think the split stems from a difference of musical opinions: in recent weeks we felt as if JJ's passion for music lay not just in playing hand percussion, but in songwriting and playing guitar along more folk/americana lines.

As a band we will continue our friendship with JJ and we can do nothing but support and encourage his musical endeavors in the future.

Thanks for taking the time to read, and thanks for listening.

Neil.

Feeling Synced

I finally synced this blog with my band's webpage. (woohoo!) But it also means I should start updating this thing again.

So here's two pieces of micro fiction:

Mid-life Crisis

Gerald walked into the supermarket and picked out the greenest Granny Smith apple he could find. At the checkout stand, a pimply faced checker said, "You know, when apples have their bottoms all closed like this - You see? - they're WAY too ripe."

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Uncle Jayden

Everyone always talked about how energetic Uncle Jayden was, but when I met him all I could think about was how tired he looked.

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Until next time. Peace.

The Waitress

Saxophone black beetle eyes,
her chief concern was the
two hundred dollar alimony.
That, and the slow tips
from the graveyard crowd.
What woke her up
before each shift was the coming move.
Two months time would have her
in Salt Lake City, out of Desert Town,
or whatever town it was
that had her stuck, stuck
in the last rut before the end
of what she called, The worst chapter
in my life. She said,
It was a long time coming.
She said it like she was a train
rocking down the line
with its horn piercing off key
and there in the middle of the tracks
was her ex-husband
and, in his hand, a fist full of sand.

Wyoming

A half-empty Greyhound bus carrying
an autistic toddler crying
across a doldrum interstate
windswept by panoramic Winter nothing.
The cries are met
by the silent bag eyes
of bus people, eyes which reflect
visions
of snow & sagebrush & deadpan pasts
at the rate of 65 m.p.h.,
a rate which gives each eye
a nocturnal nature
even as the nowhere-veiled sun's reflection
skirts off the ice
at the edge
of a dead swath of freeway.

Fuck the Working Class

It's that repressed creative impulse snuffed into timeclock drone drone drone - but hey, least you got a job - drone drone drone and the day goes by and the TV hums and the SUV runs and the ladies on the weekend go grind grind but still the weekend goes by and then it's Monday Tuesday Wednesday, coffee grinds and Fox News by satellite, pills that come in pocket sized packets, little Coronas that come in fake plastic buckets, ganja weed in your rice crispies - whatever gets you by - cause the timeclock's grooving and it's got a twenty dollar bill for each tick you take with it so tick tick, tick tick and twitch twitch, tick until you've earned enough to earn a little bit more cause people there is jewelry, there are gold chains and diamonds to be paid for and you ain't gonna catch that kinda coin with your head bobbin brain in the air singin hey hey Jerry are you up there man cause there's a silence in the land that the recordings can't fill and I'm too fucking spaced to put the turntable needle in the right place: This is not a joke - there's no time for acid cocked spinal grooves, not when there's a straight cocked shadow skull stalking our skull bobbin rhythm, not when there are watches to be paid for, big fat beef eater Rolexes that say my job is better than yours, my car is faster than yours, my dick is bigger than yours, my bank account got more get up and go go than your kickstart poor man's agenda, than your dry-joint hungover Monday morning Tuesday morning Wednesday morning gotta get up and go go sort of dread filled wastefulness that drags until your watch, which isn't a Rolex, no longer ticks and the only tick you got left is the tick of another two weeks gone by and a paycheck in your hand that says, "Come on baby, let's go buy a new watch."