I been had by the weather. The ups and downs. Heat and cold. And that did a number on my head. So this Talkin’ Headline is late this week. Still, it’s all the good headlines from Monday. Do you remember any of this stuff happening? Seems like most of it was about a month ago, huh?

Yeah, okay, I know I didn’t post a new song yesterday. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow. I had a busy week last week and I’m running with that as my excuse.

Anyway, you get another installment of the Talkin’ Headline Blues. Enjoy.

Also, I played the Logan Square Farmer’s Market on Sunday. Maybe you saw me there. Maybe you saw Mayor Rahm come stormin through right past me while I was singing “Pilgrim of Sorrow.” Maybe you’ll see me next time. I’m gonna try to be out there as much as possible. Either officially in the sanctioned tent. Or unofficially.

The slow crawl comes to a halt in the middle of the road leading to the sanctuary of Heaven. The Lord Almighty looks down and sees the spilling out of all the blood of the Earth, an even flow, bubbling across the mountain ranges and deep in through the river valleys. The smell is intoxicating. Not in a good way.

Then, the ringing phones at the dial-in bank display photographic images on small screens made to allow for private conversations.

As the variable-speed fans blow air all over the heads of women sitting in bathroom stalls, outside there is a gathering of insects in the trash heap in the alley. Everything is broken down. No one can communicate with anyone else at all. I grunt and moan and you grunt and moan and then we just move on through space, breathing no oxygen and taking up no physical moments.

The slow steady steam down to the ocean flowing with debris (logs, leaves, roots, muck) out into the wide open with a current that picks up that steam-rolls that rushes over and over and over and under continuing all the way to the pastures to the silt ponds to the neck of the woods to the thick forests of dead wood and moss to the blankets of salt at the delta.

Three towns over the towns forming a halo are flattened. Thank goodness for low monthly installment plans. Thank goodness for the good old American Flag flapping in the howling wind that rips and tears at the underbelly of all that is good and sacred. Thank goodness for the backs that are made to stand on for so long.

I’m a prop. How about you?

It’s all about being consistent and not wavering and never letting on what your secret formula may be. It’s a sleight of hand and it’s gotta be quick and abrupt and, most of all, shocking, otherwise a great snore descends over the sky and the thunder bolts sound muted and lazy in the late Spring heat.

Wade into the water falling from the sky ripping at the gravelly road on which you walk. Great pectoral muscles ripple in the tiny atoms dispensed in puddles gathering dust and termites.

See how much nonsense there is.

Don’t be bashful of anything. Drop your pants and slink into the night, watchful of the weary trash cans collected on specific routes. There’s disease here. Don’t take any medicine for it, though, or they may be unwanted consequences, such as bloated bladders and hypertension in your head. You would try to explode the entire world in one try. Failing you’d gain a deep sense of depression. But there’s a special drug-of-choice for this specific ailment too. It also cures chronic sex syndrome. Be careful with it. Sit in many bathtubs. Chop down all trees. Marry yourself to the idols of Christmastime.

But, in the end, don’t worry. All is well. The Earth is still spinning on it’s hell-fast axis. People are still passing each other in hallways without notice. And all our lives are still private.