Blood On Your Cricket



Justice bought and sold down the barrel of a gun

When hatred is the weapon there’s no where left to run

We place our outrage on display

Whenever violence comes our way

Turn on the news kids died today

Never action just words to say

Rapid fire with military sights

Brining slaughter to brand new heights

We sit and cry about our rights

While families cry into the nights

Guns in the streets

Bullets in the air

We don’t do a thing

Like we don’t even care

It wasn’t from weapons

Blame it on parents

Blame mental health

Blame incoherence



I’m sorry that you lost your son but that’s no reason take my gun

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people

Many times using guns

The religious right will always fight

Until they start shooting nuns

Political conversation

Is mental masturbation

Trial and tribulation and

Painful aggravation

Point of exasperation

We’re a nation of iration

Of paid for political stagnation

A nation that has had it’s fill

You know its time to act

God dammit bullets kill!



Justice bought and sold down the barrel of a gun

When hatred is the weapon there’s no where left to run

Maybe we should start discussion

Talk ourselves into concussion

Breaking news another eruption

Please excuse the interruption

How many children were blown away

How can we condone more murder today

Is it parents that haven’t shown the way

Or the mentally ill that get thrown away

How many tears must be shed

How many more families must we console

How many more wakes until we wake

How many lives will it take

Before we take a stand

As the number of deaths inflate

It hurts me to think

The best we can do

Is engage in a circular debate

Our conscience is in pain

Jiminy is in the thicket

You can wash the blood from your hands but you’ll never wash

The blood upon your cricket

We all know nothing will be done

Any asshole can get a gun










JT’s Story Of Life







A Fairly Accurate Fairy Tale Selection by JT Hilltop


We can’t wait until our babies can talk until they can talk. That’s because once they start communicating the first thing they learn is how to ask questions. Not a question here and there but a barrage of never ending questions. “What’s sex Mom, what’s the finger mean Dad.” They wanna know everything about everything and the questions don’t stop, “Mommy, where do babies come from? Daddy, why were you moving furniture around last night?” Its just in the very fabric of our being to be inquisitive because even those unable to speak are curious. Inquiring mimes want to know.

Back when I was just a mere tadpole burning questions festered in my head as well. I drove my Mom and Dad crazy with an overwhelming curiosity. “Why do I have to eat spinach? Why do I have to put the seat up after I pee?” And so forth. Unfortunately the answers I usually got to real questions was go ask your mother or go ask your father but still I trusted that the two of them had the answers. Then one day I had an epiphany of sorts. If they give me the answers then who gives them the answers? Who the heck is explaining everything to them? Grandpa talks nonsense and Grandma just repeats herself so it can’t be them. Where the heck are Mom and Dad getting all the answers they give me? So I did what any curious young word detective would do, I launched my own investigation

. It seems they got their answers from some house like building they called church. Apparently this church place is only open on Sundays and in order to get in everyone had to be dressed up real nice. So I guessed that everyone who went to church got the answers to life if they got all dressed up. It’s some dude who wears a robe with a funny necktie thing they saw only once a week on Sunday that has the answers. He seems to be everyone’s father. The father stands up in front of everyone and talks, sometimes even scolds everyone. Then after yelling at them in an apparent attempt to make the parents feel better he makes us sing songs and repeat phrases like “amen” “and with you“ and the like. They pass around some baskets and people apparently either write their questions down in an envelope or they have to pay money to get answers. Mom even gave me a quarter to put in the basket so I assumed I had to save up enough money to get my answers from this father dude. After he finishes all his jabbering and singing he waits by the door to talk to everyone on the way out. I guessed he then gave them the answers to everything. But I had my doubts. I mean like why does this dude who dresses so damn strange seem to know everything? But this is the guy who gave my parents all the answers to all the questions of the world. This is the dude who told Mom where I came from, and told Dad how to make babies. But how does he know so much? I needed to find out. Another investigation.

I watched closer to see how it all works. First we all go into this huge room. A gigantic room actually, and this all knowing dude stands up on a kind of stage he calls the alter all lit up with candles. He stands at a podium and lectures everyone in the room, all of whom are sitting on these hard wooden bench like things. I don’t believe the designer gave any thought whatsoever about how peoples asses would feel just 5 minutes after sitting. I could see all of the kids and half of the Dads squirming around trying to find a position that doesn’t leave bruises on the cheek. That must be what they mean when they say turn the other cheek. Anyway this funny looking dude stands up there and tells stories about a long long time ago, tells us to open our song books and makes us sing songs. Then he gets mad and tells the adults how to live, which for us kids is the best part because its Mom and Dad getting some of the shit they give us constantly. But still, its boring as hell, which apparently is a word I can’t say even though its in that book the dude reads from. Is that where he gets all his info?










As it turns out he does know everything because it tells him in that special black book. it’s the Big Black Book of Everything he calls “The Bible” and it is considered by just about everyone to be the end all and be all of answers. Some people call it the holy bible. Funny word, if I heard a story with lots of holes in it I would think it’s a lie. Yet people put their hand on this book and swear to things and everyone else accepts that as absolute truth. It made me wonder what could make one book so damn powerful. If this book has the answers to everything and I read it myself I’ll know everything too. So I took a copy, which didn’t seem like a bad thing to me until Dad screamed when I got home and he saw it. Now I know what stealing is and that its wrong to steal. For one thing stealing results in an ass whooping, so you see, that book taught me something right from the start. I was learning already

I finally did read this Bible when I got older though, and what I did read absolutely amazed me. This book, this holy bible is filled with some very strange stories, even stranger than green eggs and ham. It was quite hard to read because even though the words were English words many of them made no sense. Like what is a begat? And why are so many people doing it? So I read it over and over until I could finally understand it. It was loaded with all kinds of rock throwing, sword fighting, and stories about whales and endless rains, and fights with whole buildings falling down and blood. Holy (there’s that funny word again) shite there’s a lot of blood. I wondered who wrote this Bible and why so I asked the Sunday dude with the funny collar how and when it was written. I have to tell you I was quite shocked when I found out. This shit was written thousands of years ago, and it is a kind of history book written by god. The story of Everything by God. Well he didn’t actually write it himself but it was his book, or as the father dude said his “word.” I think he had some holy ghost writers pen it for him but the first five books were written by this like four thousand year old bearded guy named “Mosey”. Not only did he write it, but he had a starring role in the second through fifth chapters. The rest was written by some out of work history teachers called scribes. That is until this Spanish guy named Jesus comes along, then all the different religions have different history books. But my interest was in the beginning, the first five books that seem to tell the story of everything. In the beginning when man created god in his own image. Or do I have that backwards? Maybe this Mosey dude was dyslexic. Somebody needs to spin these fantastic fables out.

So now that I’m fully grown and have an understanding of how all this church and Bible stuff work I decided I would spin this story with my own biblical proportions. I started thinking back to the time when my Mom and Dad would read me stories. All these wild fairy tales of ladies with hair so strong and long that a man could climb up her hair and save her, or a little girl that ventured into the house of a family of bears. Bears who ate porridge and slept in beds. There was a cross dressing wolf dressed as a grandma, houses made of candy, and even three little pigs who each made their houses from different things, one straw, one wood, and one was apparently a freemason who built his with bricks. All the stories were quite harmless really, and very entertaining to a young child. And I had no clue at the time, but these stories had more than just entertainment values they taught me something. They taught me about what my parents called morals. The moral of this story is don’t steal, or the moral of that story is to be considerate of others and be good, be home by midnight or whatever. The point is the purpose of those stories was to teach me what’s right and what’s wrong in a way my young mind could comprehend. As I got older of course I realized that pigs can’t talk let alone build brick houses, and bears live in caves and shit in the woods, and they don’t even like porridge. I learned things from these stories even though they were completely made up. It was just a way to get me to understand right from wrong in a way I could understand at the time. But now that I’m grown up they still expect me to believe in a garden with the first two people ever and some evil talking snake., a man building an ocean liner called an ark and grabbing two of each animal, insects, birds, all of them, and gave them their own rooms. Some kind of floating creature hotel filled with honeymoon suites. It floated around with them for forty days and forty nights while it rained continuously. Somehow they all ate, but not each other. The lions played with the lambs and the crickets and the birds and none of them gave into the temptation for forty days. It got me thinking about these bible stories. What if the funny collar dude was making up stories like The Brothers Grimm did? What if it is just stories written by his mom and dad to help teach him right from wrong? I mean it makes sense, right? Just like Rapunzle, or Rumplestiltskin, or Goldilocks. Maybe these stories of Adam, and Eve, and Noah, and Cain and Able were just fairytales to teach him morals.. What if they are really made up stories written to explain to the children of thousands of years ago how to behave and how to treat each other? And of course how everything came to be?

It brought me to an internal understanding. This bible, this holy book, is nothing more than the history of humans as told by the people who first learned to write. Most of these biblical tales are merely a recounting of stories that were told around campfires or homes around an area of land we call the fertile crescent. Now I need to rewrite these first five stories in the bible in way we can all relate to in more modern times. I need to write my own big black book, JT’s Story Of Everything. Bring it on!


Days Of Skull and Roses


The 60’s were days of hope, intense and genuine built on a platform of innocence and fantasy which were fueled by drugs sex and rock and roll. Raw and unkempt was this movement of youthful enthusiasm, pure creative energy, and a thirst to experiment. Experiments in sight sound color art and yes, chemicals. The drugs were not the main focus at first but rather a sort of footnote, a little oil on the wheels of creativity to enhance it. Unfortunately it has come to define the decade in many peoples eyes.
The decade was sullied with the atrocities of war both overseas in Viet Nam and here at home with civil rights in the forefront. But it was that sullying, the soiling of our values and natural evolution of humanitarianism that inspired a collective rebel spirit. In the midst of this expansion of the minds came a band that would have a polarizing and empowering effect on its fans. The Grateful Dead.
Even the name of the band had mystical roots, previously know as The Warlocks upon opening a book and pointing the name Grateful Dead magically appeared. The meeting of a lyricist without equal and a guitarist without equal contributed to forming what can best be described in Robert Hunters own words. Their a band beyond description, like Jehovah’s favorite choir.
Last night The Grateful Dead wrapped up a five show reuniting that was filled with as much magic as the band itself. They did everything right, from choosing who to sit in with the four remaining members, to where and when the shows were played,(finishing up where the last show that included Jerry Garcia was on the fourth of July) to the decision not to have a fake hologram of Jerry on stage. Trey played masterfully not attempting to duplicate or imitate Jerry’s guitar riffs but joining in the spirit of improvising his own sound which was one of the things that set the Dead apart. The Phil zone was in full stature, the drums/space/drums had evolved and had a distinguished and fully matured sound, Bob was playing and singing as good as ever, and a few times I almost mistook him for Jerry with the full face of hair. Or maybe it was a recurrent experience who knows. Chimenti and Hornsby filled in beautifully on the ever rotating keyboards and in my opinion the band sounded fan-friggen-tastic.
When Jerry died in 1995 it was pretty clear no one would be able to fill those huge guitar strings and for many of us it was like Grateful Dead limbo. But this past week the Core Four gave us an amazing present. After almost twenty years they have given us closure. The music will live on, the Core Four will continue to play, and somewhere the spirit of Jerry is smiling and saying “Great job guys, the way it always was, the way it always should be.”

I Was A Fly On Nixon’s Wall


The short lifespan of a fly doesn’t have much in the way of excitement so when I woke up in the oval office of The White House I knew I had a good story to tell my grand-flies. You know it must have been quite a ride landing me here in DC with Richard Milhous and his cronies but more on that later. First a little background about the life and times of us pesky flies.
All in all it’s a boring life. Oh sure if we find some dead body its like an all you can eat buffet for the entire family but that’s just a night out to binge and purge. There’s not a whole lot of exciting occurrences for a fly. Avoid that sticky gooey tape thing, play dive bomb at people heads while they try and swat us, and wait around to find some tasty shit. Literally. We live short simple lives and have very few needs. Air traffic patterns to confuse predators, anti-web maneuvers which, by the way seldom work, friggen spider bitches, and some good rotting flesh or defecation. Basically we eat puke, and eat again. Then we rub our hands together to make humans think we’re hatching diabolical plans and then just head out to look for some excitement.
Oh yea, about that fly paper. That’s my pet peeve man its a real bitch because we think we’re gonna get laid and then all of a sudden glop! Bastard humans make those sticky tapes smell just like lady fly fluids and I’ve witnessed many a friend die thinking he was gonna do some mid-air muff diving only to find himself trapped dangling in a gluey mess with a dozen other would be amorous fly boys. But I don’t want to bore you with the details of the danger of life as a fly I came here to share the interesting conversations I was privy to while I was hanging out in the oval office here in the Whitehouse during the days of what humans call the Watergate scandal. From my vantage point on the wall I was able to hear quite a tale with a cast of characters that, well lets just say for them to call our larvae maggots is extremely hypocritical. They think their fecal matter isn’t odiferous but any fly worth its proboscis can smell a politician miles from the beltway. But how did I get here? C’mon, I’ll walk you through it.
Okay the last thing I remember last night was falling asleep all snug in the hidden hair region of a women that I picked up bar. I had just flown in from Boston and man were my wings tired. It was pouring rain so I found this cozy little bar in Washington DC looking for a safe place to rest when I saw Destiny. Destiny was her name and my destiny was to find a comfy place to sleep in her warm pubic bed which is exactly what I did.
Destiny was at the bar drinking and when some dude started hitting on her it woke me up. “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing alone in a bar like this?” Phhhhtt. Real original! I started dozing back off because I had a feeling this clown wasn’t getting anywhere near my curly hair snuggle mattress. Not with an opening line like that.
But the dude was persistent so I couldn’t fall asleep. He told my ride his name was George and he claimed he was some powerful man in DC. Oh yea, and a Scorpio. Small talk? That was microscopic talk, this dude was going nowhere. I fell asleep when he started asking Destiny what her sign was assuming Georgie boy wasn’t getting any honey tonight, at least not from Destiny. I got the feeling the asshole was married and Destiny would no doubt pick up on that too so I felt safe and sound curled up in her warm curlies. But great God Brundle-fly was I ever wrong.
I woke up and found myself not in a soft perfumed curly muff hair mattress but in a dark coarse long brittle hair bed that smelled of cheap scotch and stale cigarettes. I found myself sleeping in the thick ugly mustache of none other than G. Gordon Liddy. Seems somehow Georgie Porgie got lucky at some point last night and I was given a transfer to Liddy Lip Central which brought here to the oval office of the White House.
Now G. Gordon was a real son of a bitch even by fly standards. Let me just say that I had no trouble throwing up on his smelly-ass lip rug to dissolve some of Destiny’s leftover love juice for my breakfast. He makes puking easy. Apparently he was some kind of bigwig in the FBI and has been screwing people over for a living for some time. He was a personal friend of the other asshole in the office, Richard Nixon. Think I’m bullshitting? Well I shit you not my friends because Tricky Dicky here taped the whole thing to validate my tale s listen to my story as I play the taped conversation and you’ll get what I mean.

Love Is


A little love ditty(?)

That’s the way love is that’s what she told me
Snuck up on my heart and then she rolled me
Took all I had fled away through the door
So why the hell did I go back for more?

Blood for blood
Hate filled love
Not the life we both dreamed of

Eyes wide open
Eyes shut tight
That’s no way to have a fight

Follow my love I will always remain true
Betraying is something I could never do
But then I saw another and lost all control
I offered my heart but she wanted my soul

Commit a sin
Leave a scar
Instigate an act bizarre

Open a wound
Shut a heart
Entire worlds torn apart

Love has many a hazard hidden
When you eat the fruit forbidden’
Scratch like a cat and purr like a kitten
Watch you back and I’m not kiddin’

Love is mystery magic and thrilling
It can be fiery hot or icy chilling
Dive in head first if you’re willing
May be dangerous but its fulfilling

Share a bed
Share emotion
Promise always deep devotion

Share a laugh
Share a cry
You’ll never know if you don’t try


he ran

He ran out of life
Before he ran out of time
Imprisoned by thought
Chained to apathy
Searching for more
Finding less

He ran out of light
Before he ran out of fire
Burning with pain
Blisters and tears
Searching for a spark
Finding scorched ash

He ran out of passion
Before he ran out of desire
Weak in the flesh
Dead in the soul
Searching for hope
Finding despair

So he ran out