Hey kids and kids and kids, I'll be performing at Co-Lab this following Tuesday the 17th at 7:30! Hey, I'll be portraying Atticus the Four-Faced Man. What is that? Who can say? Got to come out and find out! To celebrate, here is a new poetry series...and a picture...of a hand!
the misfits: terrible day
Che counts one to three to four to nine
and breaks the glass in the alley with his small baseball bat.
the buzzard flies into the city and chokes.
some small vagrants wandering do their worst, ravage a business man, wear his coat around their waste, and flush his briefcase into the gutter.
Che smiles, grabs an old pizza box, causes it to flap, and jumps off a fire escape into a dumpster.
Hey guys, it's been some time in between my posts, and all I can say is, life is hard, busy, fun, disappointing, pragmatic, not pragmatic at all, and endearing. Okay, to make up for the long wait, here's a new poetic series I wrote recently in its entirety. And check out: bohococo.blogspot.com, too, because November means it's time to start posting again. And there's going to be a Boho Coco reading at Co-Lab this November 17th (at 7:30) as part of the E.A.S.T. 2009 studio tour. Cool!
yeah killer come get me,
I want my toes bitten off and sacrificed.
there is no love that is not love. no taste that is not taste.
come to me, wear your red candles,
I’ll wear my opals and my trousers and I’ll scream.
killer: third day
on the third day you’ll take me to the riviera and we’ll light tiny paper ships aflame and set them in the stream.
take me back into the wooden cottage, slay me,
drink a bottle of port and go to sleep.
a French named sing songy type
came around the corner wearing a cummerbund
and waded deep into the crowd of strangers.
if my hand is raised
take away the night in my fingers
and down down the alley go
like a messenger doused in cologne.
I’ll be sunshine
on the beach blanket.
dance in the sand
a beach a dune
too much glare
the killer sets to work and
orchestrates a volley ball match
fall down the landing.
wear a blazer.
take time to
be a bandit.
cut with scissors.
he wore the monkey suit, she a barbarian,
and they collected candy from strangers.
later, in the midst of a spree,
the two fornicated on a veranda floating in space.
they tossed peanut butter trinkets into the night and touched mask to mask.
except for me and my poetry. More reminiscent poems from yesteryear. Enjoy. Also, writing groups sure are swell. If you're not in one now, get in one tomorrow, hate one the day after tomorrow, reconcile with the group the day after the day after tomorrow, then go on a steady alimony check with said group years from now. Then fall in love with the group again. Then travel to Mars and find a new group, cheat, establish a new family, and die a happy sad bastard. Whoa! ! Anyway, poems from my years of growth: go.
Okay, here is something from a few years ago. I work in an art gallery, so hence the title. The form, if I can truly recall, reflects back on my earliest stuff (ee Cummings spacing and all), and I believe this series of poems was my attempt to reconcile the difference between what I had adopted at that time and what I did back when I first started righting. I'm not sure if I even like this, but c'est la vie.
gallery girls 3 (kinetic gallery, two girls)
the yin - yang girls looked a t all the spin ning object s of the world.
they matched in dark and light.
checker board s k i r t s
maligned dirty tops. haircuts thatwerepuzzlepiece s.
they both drank that night , fi ll ed themselves with pseudo intellectual w i n e and
dashed dashed dashed dashed dasheddashed da sheddas heddas h edda shed
off in high heeled shoes . they were loose , they were clum s y . they wanted tofallover , des per ate ly, one atop the other ,
so thatthey might laughloudly and CalL the attention of every o n e else
around . sex sexsex sex
kittens . . . . .
Hey, this next piece finds me in the throws of my narrative discovery period. I can say, most of my writing is influenced by my strong reliance on narrative, but during this period of my writing, I was heavily into exploring the possibility of narrative and mere narration. Also, this scene is influence by Jesus' Son, where he goes to the laundromat and sees a guy he thinks is divine, but in my mind, represents the devil. Go!
he had red pants and a buttoned shirt ripped open; a tattoo of a heart pierced that flesh. his mustache, a thing of miracle, hung loose above his thin lips. I wanted to see him charge a taxi in midday and stomp it into the ground. he leaned in to me and whispered that he was merely a myth. do you want it that bad, he asked, and lit the last cigarette in a pack. I watched the smoke lift gently to the ceiling of the Laundromat. how evil, how cool, he had a leather jacket sat in the corner upon a fading polyester upholstered chair. go fuck yourself, he hissed with a snake tongue, then turned to stare down a young pretty woman just entering view. run run, I needed to command, but I coughed from the smoke and sunk into my seat.
Okay, shit just got real. Here is a piece I performed at Domy Books back when AustinNewBlog was really starting to gain traction. It was a fun night, and reading this again brings me back. Also, the character of John Johnson was some fabrication given rise by my and Jeff (Daily's) exploration around the beginning of this blog. We rented a shitty hotel room and I made the character and his life up on the spot. I'm done with the character now, but it was an interesting poetic persona to put on for a while. He really fit my concrete period of poetry.
John Johnson’s prayer
let us go
now, poets full of night, lust adventurers,
great seers of future teeth,
good architects of semen and pink corvettes.
let us remove our flesh and sing in praise: yes I will be a red wheelbarrow cob-webbed and upturned.
I am beautiful, o we too, blue lights strung on evening banisters,
we too are beautiful. let us be dreams let us be hunters, let us return return return to dust bowl cities slumbering. let us be firecrackers, dizzy Roman candles and the smoke.
let us be children touched by ocean waves.
let us be small,
and brave and listless.
bramble tree, broken glass steel rod. amen.
Well, it is tempting to post some poem from a new series I've been working on, but I figured instead to post the latest non-series titled work I've done. After I stopped with my untitled poems, I really became interested in series poems. Still, every once in a while, a specific stand alone poem will come out of me. Here's the latest. Thanks for reading.
I had a dream where
the whole world was
and smiling faces.
later, I woke up, went to work, chatted with some co-workers, ate my lunch,
went to night school, learned about some stars, came home,
ate dinner, hugged my girlfriend, read some comic books, looked at pornography, watched my cat sleep, listened to music, and fought sleep.
Hey fellows, I was reorganizing my writing files and decided I'd post one poem from every year that I have on my computer. Enjoy (and boy, sometimes looking at old stuff can be really embarrassing; hopefully we're all good enough writers now that we can smile at it instead of cry).
2002 First we have a poem I wrote for a poetry class. The assignment was to write in the style of a famous poet. This one is based on William Carlos William's style (one of my favorite poets!).
It was in winter – probably – she came walking by in a purple coat.
Can you imagine?
Her arm stretched out too much - she must have had a lot of purpose in her mind.
But she marched past me, no reason for us to speak.
Why should strangers converse about purple anyway? What would I have said?
Next we have a bio I wrote for a zine that never happened. The zine was going to be done by myself and some friends in Charleston, SC, and it was called 'The New City Set.' Unfortunately, we kind of all lost interest in it (and to our inexperienced selves, it seemed very daunting).
Christopher Savage dreams of tall steel buildings with bright lights and waits for someone happy to shout out loud. His favorite thing is hope and his strengths and weaknesses are still optimism and impatience. When he gets old, he’ll be invisible to all the negatives of a dried up world.
2004 Here is a poem from one of my very first serialized sets of poems. The first set was called 'City Times,' the next set was 'Wonder Times,' and this one is called 'Personal Times.' Way back in these days I would try to empathize a style I wasn't using in other poems with each series. 'Personal Times,' features the use of quotation marks and speaking through the characters.
Personal Times 1
Vincent Obtuse is the father of time and he says ,
“in the beginning , things weren’t all that different .
I remember …I remember
Molly would play with Rebecca , in the noonday sun
and they’d act like they were dandelions blowing around , twirling their arms freely .
Yeah I remember that ,
like it was yesterday .
But now it’s the end ,
I’m still here and everything else is fading away ; but it was all so beautiful.”
Next is a poem I don't really remember much of, I just chose it at random.
the age of restlessness has bitten upon me and I am here for as nothing can ever be. the last time I rode a bicycle was in eleventh grade; the sky was wonderful in that silvery age. but far gone. away. all girls have come to eat up my good soul. and now,
meltdown. in sixty seconds, all is lost. I will climb out of my bedroom window and escape. It is all that is left for an adventurer and his lonely will.
I write tonight with eyes closed and trust close behind, stalking me. it is not you and I, perfection, it isn’t in anything we’ll ever know. grow up already.
we roll across plains of humanity unknown and forever unbound. all my life I’ve just been trying to shine. to smile. and to escape.