Let's start a jam band . . .

When do sixteen minutes

of free-form, acid induced, modal noodling

become sixteen minutes

of unifying human intimacy?

For surely drugs and guitars

Aren’t a particularly rare combination of commodities

Proof positive the armies of 21st century

Twenty something poet- muso-philosophers

With their marijuana tucked into their bedroom shelves

Between the undigested literature that they contemplate

Reading each night as they pick at the infant dreads

Forming in their oh-so-hip mass of neglect hair

Before entirely forgoing the weak aspiration of

Perhaps once actually opening the parent volume of

The next quote they use to get fucked

While drunk at the party

Of a friend, of a friend, of a friend of the band’s

But I digress …

It’s just so tremendously frustrating, isn’t it?

That, like, nobody ever gets your transcendental

Neo-psych-surf-garage-noise-funk jams

With their falsely Eastern suggestivities

And fuzzy, wah-wah pentatonic grinds

Driven by droning back-beat percussion

And hilariously unintentional porno-esque bass counterpoint

Yet that cute little bird with the braids

Wrapped in her patchy North-Face fleece

Chain smoking American Spirits out back by the abused and empty keg

Totally digs Phish

And you’ve now the responsibility of coming to terms

With the rapidly manifesting fact that the underlying motivation

For your last two years of artistic indenture

Was not for the unmediated expression of your soul’s emotional occupance

But as Vince Neil so craftily phrased it,

“Girls, girls, girls.”

So I guess that there’s really only two ways to look at this

One: you can assign to the universe a gross degree of inequity

And continue to milk your undeserved estimations

Of grandiose misunderstanding and unrealized artistic potential

Or Two: choose to see the streak of luck in this

And I highly encourage you to take the second viewpoint

Seeing as previously your only capital of similarity

Was how much both of your bands suck

Which we both know you’d never publicly concede

And odds are neither would she.

Besides you’d never really want to be the next Dead anyways

I mean, look what happened to Jerry …