Many of us have been outside the castle of success for a long time, close enough to hear the music, far enough that nobody threw down a rope. But now the joke’s on me: I’m storming the gate as the walls collapse. The Hollywood castle I spent my life firing poetry-on-arrows at is being sold for parts.
Fortunately the wilderness has been fine to me: I played in a band, got taken hostage by police in Serbia, rode bicycles with masked kids in Mexico, played my brother’s song with Glen Hansard for the Prime Minister of the Czech Republic.
Now the drawbridge is down, and my film Brother Verses Brother is trying for Oscars this year, and coming to theaters with Picturehouse in early 2027. I hope to see you out there - it’s actually exciting! And people in Hollywood offices are (occasionally) returning my calls.
But it’s all over, some will say. I have a friend, a onetime wildman megastar, who lives on a farm and extolls the beauty of monogamy. I have another friend, a former studio head, who now insists none of us should enter the castle at all. Though I don’t doubt their sincerity, I notice that they reject the feast after they’ve already eaten. Sure, but could the rest of us have a bone first?
Maybe as billionaires and robots take over, we need to find ways to just tell each other good stories. The robots may treat us as doggies soon: neuter us to make us more docile, keep us around to remind them to take a walk and smell piss. Well, doggies have more soul anyway, so we’re in good company.
Ukraine & Spain
In-Edit, Barcelona. Brother Verses Brother screens at In-Edit, Barcelona’s international music documentary festival, in a few days, on October 31 (my mom’s birthday) and November 3. Sing along with us.
Molodist, Kyiv. Brother Verses Brother is screening at the Molodist International Film Festival. My next film Helicopter begins in Kyiv and I wish I could be there. If you are there, or know someone who is, send them down.
PS If you upgrade to paid this week, I’ll send you a private video greeting from Spain.
PPS A poem in honor of our election. Please vote:
HOMECOMING POEM When I'm outside my country it sounds like a madhouse. From the bottom of the apartment stairs we hear mommy and daddy scream. But when I mount to the kitchen the shouting doesn’t sound so crazy because these are my people whether I like it or not and they do have a zesty way of expressing themselves. Still, cooking oil drips into the stove and might burn down the whole block. So I go to my room, shut the door, turn up some poetry real loud, send paper airplanes out the window, and remind myself to wake when we smell smoke.