Wednesday, April 30, 2008

dictionary 5.mp3

Have you ever noticed that dictionary rhymes with pictionary?

Dictionary 5: seat-of-the-pants

good god,


just made it through by

the seat-of-our-pants!

I thought

for certain we were goners.

boy oh boy


John gonna’ be surprised when

he finds out

we made it home.

Monday, April 28, 2008

Spontaneous Poem (mp3)

Chris, Erin and I created this little tribute to the Velvet Underground way back on our famed crazy blog night. I ask you readers out there to indulge our raw audio poetry and enjoy the scratches on the film.

dictionary 4.mp3

Here is another part of the dictionary series of audio poems. Hope you enjoy, baby boy.

Dictionary 4: V-eight

we prayed for the V-eight

to keep,

to plow forward,


all the freezing snow

that hailed upon us

that night.


had no idea where we were,


if the engine gave out,


be lost perhaps forever.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

hospital time

Hello sweethearts, Poppa Savage and Poppa Daily have a new offering from the hospital series for you folks to ingest. Hope a spoonful of this makes the medicine go down (yes, I'm sorry for having just made that joke, but you try being funny while watching the special features on the movie Parenthood).

obese woman in wheelchair

Yes, Zelda has fits, and yes she stammers. She can’t seem to get around the hospital at all. She spins in place in her wheelchair, one hand often tugging on rubber wheels, mouth vacant at times, eyes pale. She is mindless, mostly, with few moments of sanity and brevity. The saddest part is her realization of her dementia. The nurses of the floor try not to pay her notice when she asks them to let her go. These are the last moments of her life, she admits, but does not cry. She, in her lucid moments, would rather watch the people on the floor come and go. She would rather grab at their hands and ask them where they’re off to, where they think they’re going. Zelda would climb and clamor towards the reception desk on strange nights, swore that she should be naked, and try to answer the phones. It was a game of lust and clumsiness; Zelda was unsure of all motion. Spinning, over and over in circles, was her only redress in the face of the hospital steps and elevators and long winding halls of bland carpet or linoleum. Her only real escape was in the alleys of her dreams.


She was dancing with a bear. A big grizzly wearing a top hat and
whistling. Zelda yodeled out a merry mountain tune. The clouds were neon pink
and the earth was lava. She heard footsteps. She saw ghosts everywhere with
golden teeth. She was happy. The bear took her hand and fed her grapes. Oh,
how she fell in love every summer.


Zelda awoke this time to fuzz. She was conscious for three hours only the day previous and seemed to be rewarded a sparing night of clarity upon waking. She rolled from her room to the floor and was poised for the search and discovery game. Here a nurse bent low to tie her shoe; oh black weeds of hair, Zelda thought, oh grand hips of old age and slow motion. There stood a warehouse man, young of course, bold with his brash stamp of brown hair; Zelda imagined for him a plane crash, or a dreary pool drowning. And further on, Zelda found little cries of children, old television screens, endless reams of white frocks, and the errant bottle of toxin or two. She rolled to the edge of the hall and let out a unanimous roar. Her mind felt warm, too cool to be in the possession of a forty-nine year old. “Here you are, old girl,” she whispered, and watched the attendants come marching her way, ready to bandy her about and reprimand her for her yell. She began to wheel towards them. This time both hands cooperated and miracles transgressed. She imagined herself a bullet train and sped on. The orderlies shrugged smiles from their faces and prepared for a motionless impact. But at the last second, a gurney of unknown origin sailed into a cross-section of the hall and butted Zelda’s chair. The old gal was tossed with force and her hefty body slid from the seat. She landed on her side but managed to crash her left temple with a white wall. She watched the rampage of the concerned orderlies dash her way, then it was lights out.


The sky was dripping goo, perhaps paint. Zelda grabbed a paintbrush and
dipped it in the sky. She was eleven feet tall and strong as an ox. Her best
friend Daisy was baking squirrel pie. The image of sweet morning dew reflected
in her eye. Zelda took off her clothes and humped a tree trunk until bloody.
Her smile said it all. It was dinner time back at her grandfather's cabin.


It was not Zelda’s fault that she be stricken down and tied to a bed. It was not her fault that when she came to she was biting and scratching. It was not her fault that life seemed to fail her. It is not the place of any individual in the hospital to tell her what was and wasn’t her fault. Zelda decided herself. Everything, she determined, the rote wind of the sky, the callous caution of young love, the eagerness of doctors to jangle their car keys, was her fault. She was convinced and began to shake her head. Slowly the dementia settled. It was not fair that such a woman have blistering lips and fattening thighs. It was not fair that she should rest atop a mattress for fifteen hours daily. It was not fair that a callow girder might give way and collapse upon her spine and neck. Zelda did not laugh, she did not smile, but she didn’t cry either. Her eyes deadened. Back to dreams, at least, and she was free in many ways.

dictionary 3 (mp3)

Here it is, blueberry gang, the third eponymous release from Webster. Dig. Click the link, Barton Fink.

Dictionary 3: hoodoo

the efforts of all the great


all the stalwart women warriors,


been for naught.

the evil object full


its hoodoo


its early magic and late



brought down the greatest city

that ever


like a breath of fresh air,


vanish into



Friday, April 25, 2008

dictionary 2: repine (mp3)

Here's the second part of the dictionary series. Love and kisses.

Dictionary 2: repine

for all this,

I repine I repine.


lost love and crumbled architecture.

you all knew me then,


with feathers loose from

my hair,

and flight in my background.

I repine

I repine.

for all the sloppy ways

I should have saved the world,

but didn’t,

in midnight hours


I let the homeless go hungry.


when I climbed down from the trees,

as a child,

and put on a clean shirt.

I repine I repine.


my soul still be dirtied and happy,

let it still have all the structure

and comfort of


away from a saved world.

forgive me,

if you


but give me these few free hours



state all the terrible things

I’ve allowed


to all the wonderful

moments and



I repine

I repine.

dictionary 1: alacrity (mp3)

Hey folks, Jeff and I are performing tonight, so hopefully you're there and we're melting your face. If not, here are some new audio poems Jeff and I have whipped up. They're all based on random words I happened to flip the dictionary open to, hence the title. Remember, just click the link and you'll hear me speak (almost rhymed that, but c'est la vie).

Dictionary 1: alacrity

the charming young couple,

with a resolution


almighty alacrity,


their flashlight upon

a stale dead



dreamed, someday,


their children would rest there


their own

lazy bones.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Jeff likes art

Here is a darling video of darling Jeffrey destroying some darling art work of his (toss assist goes to me). I love this piece of digital cinema.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Sound of His Voice (mp3)

Time for more audio magic! A CHANT POEM called THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE is waiting to haunt yr dreams. Erin speaks...listen and try not to shiver.

Monday, April 21, 2008

return of the picture

Hey guys, I don't know if you've had time to recover from that chant poem Jeff just posted, but too bad. Here's a new picture poem Erin, Jeff, and I cobbled together on our fated night of blog repute last Saturday. Also, boy, isn't it hot out today?

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Let Me Out To See The Town (mp3)

We had a blog night to end all blog nights last night. Chris, Erin, and I worked through the wee hours on a great many projects. We will be posting all our new work soon so keep a watchful eye on this here lil blog. LET ME OUT TO SEE THE TOWN is one of several recordings we made last night. It is another CHANT POEM and I think it speaks for itself.

Friday, April 18, 2008

upcoming performance

Holy cowabunga, Jeff, Erin and I will be performing at the Austin Video Bee Extravaganza # 3 next Friday (check out the jpeg at the top of the post). In honor of this most amazing wacky wild occurrence, I'm posting a play I wrote that Erin and I will do live at the event (Jeff will be narrating). Hope you guys can make it out to the show.

ps. Jeff, Erin and I will be working on some fun new stuff tomorrow, so keep a look out as this blog explodes not unlike a cheese danish dropped thirty stories from you grandfather's apartment window

A brief history of the US Presidency in three acts

Act I:

Hades, god of the underworld, calls forth George Washington into his lair.

Pluto: “Georgie-boy, what’s the haps? How’s that country of yours doing?”

George Washington: “I dunno’. S’just, it was supposed to be cool. You know, down with the king, up with the people, all that shit. Pursuit of happiness? …today? Eh.”

H: “Well, come on. It didn’t really start that way did it.”

GW: Agitated. “Alright, fine. But it wasn’t supposed to suck.”

H: “Sure, sure. A lot of stuff sucks these days, though.”

GW: “Well, honestly, things have always kind of sucked.”

H: “True.”

End Act I

Act II:

JFK and Nixon are hanging out together in a whore house, shooting craps.

JFK: Tosses dice. “Uhh…what’s the matter, Nixy? You’re a little glum, chum.”

Nixon: “What the fuck...I hate commies. I hate catholics too. No offense Johnnie.”

JFK: “None taken you prick. I mean, who love commies anyway? Their stinking missiles just laying around. Their beards. S’no good.” At this, Nixon feels his five o’clock shadow and nods his head.

A whore walks by and taps JFK on the shoulder, beckoning him to follow.

JFK: “Oh oh oh, I’d love to take her up the Washington monument, know what I mean Nixy?” He winks and pokes Nixon in the ribs.

N: Chuckling, “Course I do, bastard.”

JFK: “You really want to know what I love about women?” The two trade silence as Nixon ponders. “Everything. Later chum.”

JFK gets up and follows the woman.

N: “Well go have fun then.”

JFK recedes from view.

N: “Presidential pretty boy.” Nixon tosses dice. “…ass.”

End Act II


George W. Bush stands before a bathroom mirror, practicing a speech for his father.

W: “Now, listen up, Daddy. I wanna’ be president. I wanna be president real bad.”

W stops and looks closely into mirror, pressing fingers upon his skin. He shakes his head negatively.

W: “No no no, Dubya! That just ain’t gonna’ do it. Gotta’ be more officialating. More commanding-like.” He clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “Daddy, I’m ‘onna be president. I need to be president. The people…want me.” He pauses, pleased with himself. “Yeah. Just like that.” He rubs his hands together.

Bill Clinton pops his head into the bathroom.

Clinton: “Hey Dubya, mind if I borrow this tie?”

W: “Uh…that tie? Yeah, sure, go ahead on. Oh, and tell Laura to send in a sandwich. A presidential sandwich. Yeah. That sound about right.”

End Act III

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Hump day?

I think everyone who calls Wednesday hump day should get tossed in a sack with a horny seal (and yes, I mean the singer).

by the way, these three poems are the latest three I've written; how about that; also, I'm sure me and Jeff will email this to everyone anyway, but we are performing with others for the Austin Video Bee next Friday at Victory Grill on East 11th starting at 10:30PM

untitled 4228

elegant sex guns

poised in the mouth

so sharp

she blasts across the meadow


it is


untitled 4229

random multiples of men


in the courtyard beyond

as brick



they sink in the pasture my


green hat

to fly away atop the rift of the


untitled 4230

cyst wrist has

elapsed the monthly

worry of the


John wagers

he should shut the door

of the ice box

before Barbra

eats her way out of the bedroom

and buries him

under the porch


the fruit flies

the loaming dog carcasses

Monday, April 14, 2008

mondee po'tree

Goin' back to my earliest poems, I found these selections fit my mood this Monday. I felt youthful today, like a child. The following poems come from a series of mine called 100 American Haikus/or 100 3 line poems written way back in the late 1990's. I would like to see these in a book someday.


A baby’s pacifier
an old man’s pipe
keep calm.


Rain cloud
coming towards
my house.


The magic of
a boy’s
childhood games.


I’m afraid
of something
and I don’t want to say.


As a child
I thought-
where did the sun go?

Sunday, April 13, 2008

we're gonna have a proesy good time

Hello eager beavers, it's been some times since I've put a prose poem on the blog beast, so no time like the present. And how are you doing? Living it up? I had a dream last night where on million bugs flooded into a two story house I was living in with my parents. It was kind of like that scene from The Craft. So I'm doing good too. Wink!

travel logos 5

Just to leave off stopping for now. We can’t be hurt and we are vagrants. Zero sleep. Destroy every last little thing that crawls in your carpet, touches your windshield, flares in your voice. Completion was never the point. Illusion rests in time and order and if you would dance you could be greater than god. Greater than the heathen and pagan and christian buddhist atheist chant. We are god words and simple and crude. And being born is like stealing. Like cheating. And being now, we are the greatest of inspirations. Past future tense and leather. Take away all the pain of your moments then consume it. Bite your own teeth. It is simple and overly redundant. We need it. Create every breath you hold. Give it freely. Don’t know but care, don’t care but know, haunt the hills, haunt the snow, haunt the sun and haunt the globe. We are the truth written in stone or rock. If your hair wasn’t colored red than it would be blonde. My eyes, if not green, would be black.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Closing Time (mp3)

Remember that dream I had where I played in White Denim? (Let me refer you guys to my post under the "ramblings" section concerning said dream) Anyway, I dreamed the music and lyrics to this song called CLOSING TIME, and I finally got around to recording it exactly as I heard it in my head. This is 47 seconds of "punk rock."

Friday, April 11, 2008

hill street blues

Here is the next installment to Jeff and my series 'Hospital.'

paramedic team

Walter Denigan was ready to sail across the city and find the dying woman and resuscitate her. Shelby Dexter was not so ready. She glanced over her partner’s face and shrugged. If it was to be fried rice tonight, she was alright with that. But she’d be damned if he was driving the ambulance again. This paramedic team took their turns and they took their good turns. She smiled as he asked her about her father. Yes, she replied, he’s still doing well, and she asked for the keys.

“Well, I guess. Just remember, tonight’s supposed to be a bummer. The moon’s out. Right?”

She nodded when Walter smiled. He was right. She could see through the windshield. The moon was fierce; all the cracks were exposed tonight, winking.

The first call from dispatch was only fifteen minutes into their shift. Shelby answered with a certainty and ordered the operator to take her time with the description. It was to be an elderly drunk crowing about on seventh street. Get him, take him in, be kind; she told Walter to strap in.

“No worries,” he chimed, and tossed his white box of rice out the window. He glanced up and down the lane, blushing as the sirens flared. The ambulance flew on rubber tire wings. The city laid out like a palm leaf.

The old drunk was brazen. He must have had a switchblade at some point; his ear was bleeding. Shelby approached with an open palm. Walter waited, tall as he could, with his arms pumped and his mustache trembling. Let it come to this, he remarked, and recalled the uncanny swagger of his dream from the night previous.


Walter held out a wolf’s head bleeding. The hallways of an ancient English
castle were bending in the shadows and crackles of a thunderstorm. He was not
alone. There were at least seven other blurry human figures. He felt fingers
stabbing him. He felt tongues licking him. The thunder suddenly stopped.
Walter was in a field. Shelby was near him rocking a baby tiger. She threw
the tiger to the ground yelling. He walked over to her. She bit his ear.
Walter punched her. He took out a shotgun and fired three shots at the baby
tiger. He felt like skinning it and eating the cat for dinner over a crude
fire in the middle of nowhere.


The bum was not pleased in the least. Shelby rushed him, faking right so the bum headed left. Walter gripped the vagabond by the shoulder and tossed him backward into the ambulance cab.

“Just fucking hold up!” he barked and pounced upon the wino. The booze of the atmosphere peaked, and suddenly all appetite died. The bars were closing. Shelby helped strap the homeless veteran into the back.

“Let’s go,” Walter demanded, and Shelby fired the cab. The whir of sirens, the calamity of red lights, and soon enough, Our Sacred Lady opened her embrace and accepted the fool of the skirmish.

Walter and Shelby rushed the gurney strapped hobo into the waiting room and raced back into the night. We brought him in, so what, Walter thought. It was his turn. Shelby tossed him the keys, and in no time flat, they were back on the road.

The thick darkness of the night came next. It was subtle, to collide with the ivy black of the city. They were well aware of it. A paramedic’s vocation trades in the secret knowledge of the wilderness of the metropolitan dream. Shelby made no pretension. But the radio was quiet. She told Walter to keep her steady and she passed into sleep.


She was holding Gilbert. He was choking and screaming. She flew through the
air. Her prom dress flapped. The cheerleaders had vomit dripping from their
chins. Shelby was in the locker room. A bald man bit her butt then handed her
an aborted fetus. The wine flowed freely in the gymnasium. Oh how she wanted
to shake off her dress and swim through the red wine sea. Then she heard her
father’s voice.


The blur of sirens and the chaos of the hot sound woke Shelby. Someone had jumped from the third floor of some apartment complex. He was okay, or so the reports came in, with busted knees only. So much for the glory of the bizarre and tragic, Shelby thought.

“We can really take this one, Shel,” Walter reported as he maneuvered around the system of the city. Shelby was grateful for Walter, for the third shift, for all elements of a life easy and true. When she was with her son, she was uncertain. And with her husband, even more so. But here, among the feet of the sleeping skyscrapers, she felt smooth and svelte. When things go wrong, she plunged defibrillators onto unsuspecting cadavers and struck lightning life in their hearts. She smiled.

The ambulance pulled onto the scene. Walter caught his breath and sent the sirens silent. He jumped from the cab, Shelby too, and they raced over to the youth splayed on the sidewalk. He kept preaching ominous phrases of perdition. I am the lonely one, he repeated, over and over, and Shelby swabbed an arm across her forehead. They loaded the boy onto a gurney and shoved him into the back of the ambulance. Shelby had to sit with him. She was uncertain. Her stomach growled. She shoved some needles into the youth, hooked him up to some medication or other, drew some fist or some blood or some tenderness. Walter blasted across town. Soon enough, Our Sacred Lady and the waiting room. Shelby stared at the busted boy and remembered how she used to cry at funerals.

After they dumped the boy in the emergency room, Walter and Shelby decided it was dinner time. But Shelby told Walter to go ahead. She found a quiet corner and hushed herself. She slept, dreaming perhaps, leaving Walter to fend for himself.


The Blue Ridge Mountains. Shelby, her son Jim, and an elderly woman, all
seated, were eating from a picnic basket. The woman held a deck of tarot
cards. Jim was only 4 yrs old in this scene. The tarot reader set her ham and
cheese on fire and told young Jim to, “fetch her, her walking stick.” The
pastoral landscape was undone by the sound of sirens. Shelby shook. Where was
Donald? Calculators fell from the sky. Jim was a grown man of 25 now and was
copulating with the tarot card woman. He moaned and yelled for God. Shelby’s
ears were bleeding. The sirens were too loud.


Walter found the cafeteria alright. He saw Kumar across the way and waved. They weren’t friends in real life, only here on the third shift. It was an act of exhaustion. Despite Shelby, Walter knew he was a beast, a forever man on the twilight shift. His wife was gone, kids grown, and he had little else left. Just television on dvd. So he let it go. He got some oatmeal from the kind lady behind the lunch counter and dove into it with butter and brown sugar. He knew Shel was off somewhere, dreaming beautiful. He loved her, as only extremely lonely friends can, and waited for her to wander her way to the cafeteria. This was their nightly ritual, one and two and sleep. Walter set his head down upon a cool blue plastic table top. He wanted to wake up and find the ambulance kicked over by dozens of unruly gang members. But it was just sleep, a moment or two, and that was all.


He was eating at Burger King. He was in his grandparent’s car. The sky
looked like New Mexico. A raven haired attractive woman, topless, massaged her
left breast. He saw the words, “carry cart burdens" written in the sky. He
would remember them later for a second or two upon waking then forget them.


The two partners jumped when their break had ended. Back into the cab, taking calls, falling into the cracks of the street. There is a moment at night, just before the sun takes over, when all seems perfectly still and modeled. God must have been a paraplegic, Walter thought, lusting after harmony. Shelby thought something else; her boyfriend, the bar district, drunken avenues and forms of guilt in crash victims. Once, when she was thirteen, her father found himself smashed inside the front seat of his car. She was in the backseat. An ambulance roared onto the scene and saved his life. Shelby looked out of her passenger window and caught quickly her reflection. She could see Walter too, just beyond. They raced by a fire hydrant that had been kicked-in weeks previous. The dormant thing laid upon its side, no longer leaking water. Dispatch had set them up for a stabbing. The victim was still alive for now.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

poetry in the aisles

Hey guys, it's been a while since I've posted some poems, so here are some of my latest. Hope you like, jump a dike, take a hike, or ride a bike (no, that's not one of my new poems, but it should be!).

untitled 4167

broken teeth

of the homeless in the bucket

beyond the highrise

she shoots down

the sheets

with checkered pattern




it is the end of all things to be thinking

of slim

shaken vagabonds with

the drink

and the shake


the wistfulness of ancient


year olds hitching

across the


untitled 4177

the night is young


open our doorways

of screws and hooks


latch down the key


I jumped twenty stories


find newspaper and

rice leaves


ancient dogs bursting tongues on

fire hydrants

oh city of savants

come cripple the elderly couple

as they sit in

the park


toss paper clippings of city mayors

to pigeons in popcorn

untitled 4170

streams steady



in love she cries


her life for

the wicker

trees to be wicked in evening





she is the caterpillar on

the window

you as a child shriek and

smash the shade


the supple green

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

We Are Escaping Ourselves (mp3)

CHANT POEM!!! Ok, here is a new burning track from the madmen who created Austinnewblog. This is what Christopher calls a "chant poem." He means vocal variations on a single phrase with some sorta musical backing. I decided to create a "rawk" blues heavy riff gtr piece for what became one of Chris' wildest performances to date. So, play it loud...WE ARE ESCAPING OURSELVES!

Sunday, April 6, 2008

we've come for your dead

And we've got defibrillator's. Here is the next post of Jeff and my hospital series. Again, Jeff wrote the dream sequences and I composed the fiction (yes, I used the word composed; I felt like it; fine; I don't care; go ahead if you want to; whatever; sure, right, okay then; well okay then). Enjoy.

Elderly Head Nurse

Sheila took off her terry-cloth robe and removed her glasses a moment. What was it her Harold said earlier? ‘Take your time?’ ‘Take it easy?’ She was unsure, but sipped her coffee, and pulled her focus back on. I am the only nurse here tonight, she reminded herself for the seventh time, and spun around in the computer chair. Dizzy dizzy, she halted herself and got up.

The sole patient in the post-op intensive care unit was named Samuel. The last name was a mystery to Sheila (she refused to read surnames for her own reasons). Samuel’s face was covered in white bandage, his whole body in fact, and he could barely move. He had had major surgery, his spine and his heart. His hands were calm beetles, nestling at his sides, sheets tucked and tucked.

Sheila stood before the patient, watching somewhat breathlessly. He was hooked into tubes and IVs, breathing apparatuses, a pacemaker, and too many kinds of sensors. His body, thought Sheila, was a cocoon. His eyes were slippery stones. Sheila glanced over the frame of the man and placed her hand on his barren foot. Cold to the touch, she withdrew.

On nights where she was the only nurse in the post-op ICU, Sheila would wonder of the hospital’s true age, of spirits, things left unturned, old babies, children stuck in dumbwaiters. She imagined Jack Nicholson hopping mad with an axe and an orderly’s uniform. She imagined her Harold rampaging about in his puppy dog slippers. The bells and whistles beeped and Sheila removed herself from Samuel’s presence. A few winks, maybe, she imagined, and hid away in the ICU lounge area. She set the alarm on her cell phone and proceeded to shut her eyes.


The creek outside Sheila’s brother’s house in Tennessee was empty. Her
brother and his wife were digging in the muddy river bed. They yelled,
“Treasure!” She walked over flaming coals to get to them. When she arrived
the river was no longer empty. The dead bodies of her brother and
sister-in-law bloated and blue, floated for a moment, then they disappeared.


Sheila awoke slowly, not with any sense of urgency that an intensive care giver might usually possess, but with deliberate glacial pace. A happiness was hanging over her head. It was time to crack her dictionary and read, to cite words of random importance and draw the web of all meaning around their faces. Sheila, it was well known, was a woman of strong faith, not in god per se, but in the chaos of the world. She had once seen majestic beauty spread about the cancer of a woman’s stomach. She had seen the miracle of a hip replacement. Pondered the significance of a burst appendix at forty-two. Sheila had even marveled at the daily ritual of shaving an invalid’s legs. Comatose patients were the most darling, and Samuel was not much of an exception. Before cracking open her book, Sheila stopped by to visit her resident.

Something seemed to have changed in the man. His limbs were still frozen, eyes dead, feet bare and smooth. But something had changed, she was certain. Maybe this too was the alert level of living she had always desired. Harold told her she should have been born a peach, a silk worm, or a mystery novelist. In her heart, Sheila smiled and winked. Samuel did not move, of course, but he moved.

Sheila retreated once more and found her way to the computer chair, her book, the glide of the tiny white fan that blew around the particles of the room to cool off her neck. There was sound of a distant radio playing the popular hits of the eighties and nineties filtering the void of the background. If I float off right now even, she thought to herself, and opened her book and stuck her nose in. Several moments later, she had fallen asleep again, no alarm. Oops, she snored.


The boat rocked back and forth. Sheila was alone waiting for someone to row
her back to shore. She was in a parking garage. A man she had once loved had
driven off, leaving her behind. The city was instantly unfamiliar. She ran
out of the garage toward the downtown lights. Her emotions were bruised; tears
welled up in her eyes. She trampled someone’s rose garden trying to make a bus.
The bus drove away. A sensation of urgent urination gripped her.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

get some healing in you

Hey guys, I'm posting the first episode of twelve in a new series Jeff and I have thought up. The series is titled "hospital" and it revolves around the different types of people in or around hospitals. In terms of the collaboration, Jeff wrote the dream sequences and I wrote the narrative sections. Keep your head up and your ears open, because this is just the beginning of this trippy fandango. Happy April Fools Day (or is it Fool's?).

young male intern

The night began slowly for Kumar. He stood on the corner of the converging avenues and watched a slow parade of traffic lights. Empty streets, ghosts, he thought, and shivered in the night air. His shift was set to begin in ten minutes. Already he could hear the ambulances. Already he could feel needles upon his back. He felt ready. Kumar’s first year at Our Sacred Lady had been difficult. His girlfriend had left him, his dog was sick, his car had broken down, his mother had divorced his father. He felt like a sheet of paper. And working the third shift left him feeling completely alone. Even now stray cats mewled out in the distance of sewer drains, uncaring and completely calico. If he could catch them, maybe then. But Kumar let the thought drift. He headed into the hospital, eye on his wristwatch. The night had officially begun. Kumar thought quickly of his dream.


He saw Asian twins, whores most likely, sitting on a pool table. They were
muttering in Arabic or gibberish. He was in some strange bar he had never been
in before, but it felt like home. Kumar got himself a drink. An old man sat
next to him on a stool, streams of blood came from the man’s nose. The Asian
twins stood up and had lizard tails swinging behind them. They moved toward
Kumar slowly. The old man held out a knife and chased Kumar around the bar.
Kumar wanted to scream, but no sound came from his open mouth.


The first patient Kumar saw was a homeless man who had smashed his head on a broken cinder block. The bum was drunk. His face was red crashed into ivory crashed into old stains of soda pop and burgundy. His name evaded Kumar although he’d seen this man in the hospital before. And a nurse could not seem to be found. Kumar had to hold the old man down himself, pleading with the lunatic to calm himself. For your own good sir, Kumar found himself saying. Please sir, he repeated. The iodine on the shelves begged to be poured over the sins of the homeless man, they rattled on their tin stands. The scalpels pleaded to dance over flesh. The linoleum floor decried blood. But Kumar held the man, steadied him, a nurse was found, and the vagrant was subdued. Peacefulness fell over his storied face, and quickly enough he passed into slumber. Kumar swiped a broad white apron-ed forearm across his cheeks. The sweat of the night, like insects in the air-duct, was all pervasive. But he contained himself.

At around two in the morning, Kumar felt a heavy drowse creep over his face. He tucked away in the back room of the library and told himself fifteen minutes and the world would be right. Kumar passed out, head down, wristwatch timed for alarm.


The jungle. Mrs. Grace, his third grade teacher, was naked except for hiking
boots. She was laughing and masturbating. A person sized mosquito flew at his
face. He jumped. He fell to the dirt. He had to do whatever he could in order
to avoid getting bit by this giant mosquito. Mrs. Grace was gone. In her place
was a marching band. "Stars and Stripes Forever" rang out in the jungle.
Strange hounds howled. Kumar woke with a jolt.


The waking world, when it’s easy, when the hospital is ready, is a thing of ballet. A careful order that dances in seeming abandon. But Kumar was aware that such was not the case. A delicate balance is always achieved, despite the chaos of the emergency room, despite the flow of IVs and anesthesia. Kumar was aware that this first year of living with the hospital would be the hardest. But it was also magic. It was a grand entrance with white paint spilled over its threshold.

Kumar found himself back upon the street corner, counting emptiness. If some lovers were to pass at this brisk morning hour, all would collapse and revive in clearer sense. He tossed his face away; the sun would rise soon enough, only several hours. Traffic lights continued their endless campaign down the street. Red, yellow, oh green, he witnessed and imagined race cars as he huddled against the brusque gusts of cold. He tried not to think about the woman with slit wrists, the kid with a toy stuck in his ear, the old man who had busted his hip, the sweet teenage girl who had slipped and broken her jaw. Kumar thought about his dreams and glanced into the face of the statue of Our Sacred Lady. She had deep-set eyes and a careful demeanor. She held a scale in her hands. She was draped in a stone toga. Kumar wanted to write his name across her feet, but refrained, and returned to the hospital. Only three more hours to go.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

disconnected times mp3

Hey guys, here's another audio poem from Jeff and I to you. Oh so serious, look out for the big finale.
ps. just click on the title of the post to be taken away to a world of sound and poem

Tuesday, April 1, 2008


of the damned. Ha ha ha. This is my brother Ryan interviewing me for some reason or another.
(ps. you think you're Tom Cruise).