prose time...but how you feeling?

Hey fellow mellows, it's been some time since I've posted a good ol' fashioned prose poem, so without further ado, eat your hearts out.

travel logos 7

You fool. Speed by the cops. So so stop, don’t even stop, don’t tell your dada daddy. Don’t grab up at your ankles when your bent over and shaking like a leaf. Don’t just give up on yourself or your paltry haircut. Don’t just clamor for sunshine when you know you’ve been burnt and tanned and destroyed by the summer. Just drink your cherry wine, smash your lungs and limbs in alcohol and salvation. You are the lost engine driver on the way home to Rome. You have lost everything dear to you. Like me, like love, like your favorite pair of smooth leather black gloves, like a kiss you used to remember so well it excited you. Fall asleep, turn over on the mattress. A whole other world calls out, calls your name. Don’t block your ears and say, “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy!” Go loops and spins and twirls and crashes. We don’t know the words anymore. Touch yourself, say, repeat, say, “I’m still here. I’m still here!”

a double shot

OK. OK. Yesterday, was a two-fer post about a musician's two sides. Today I want to post two character sketches. These are a few weeks old but I feel like continuing a theme so here goes. The first poem is better than the second. Also, the reference to a certain Batman villain is intentional.

War Between the States

Up and down
Blue and gray
I feel pretty good today
Considering

One moment wild
Then full of shadows
Myself and I are uneasy bedfellows
Dig?

Catch me if you can
I'm ready for the war
What I am I can't ignore
Unfortunately

Take a picture please
& capture this version of me
***********************************

I See the Kid Who Tries Way Too Damn Hard All the Time Now

W/a crooked cap complicated
consciously strange attire
contrived
I see him out the corner of my eye
outside the library
Where I eat my lunch
His cigarettes
His loud slankster shout
Into cell phone headset
All of us can hear you
We don't care though

I see him all the time
Why must we share this town?
I hope he never tries to talk to me
Who cares about the injustices he's suffered
Who cares about his new love life
He's trying way too damn hard to be cool and important
He uses words like obsequious in casual conversation
Goddamn it!
He annoys the fuck outta me

poems about music

The two poems posted below are about a year and a half old now but I read them this morning and found something in them I liked. They both focus on the "songwriter." One is a superficial look, while the other is about the quiet/alone times.

Folksinger

The way I hear it
It’s ok for me to sing off key & weird
‘cause I wear rustic clothes
And have an uncombed long ass beard

I’m a folksinger
‘cause I play acoustic guitar
If I played saxophone
You might call me John Coltrane

I’m a folksinger
Though I don’t sing about folks
I sing about myself
You can call me Walt Whitman
“How do you do?”

********************************

Bedroom Opera

Late at night
When the sun’s asleep
The day has gone
And a singer sings a simple song
He doesn’t have a lot to say
And what he says he says all wrong

The lights are golden
The sound is murky unclear
He imagines an audience but there’s no one near

The afternoon
When the heat is high
He strums out of tune
He knows the darkness will be comin’ soon
Love and glory have passed him by
All he can do now is howl at the moon

The lights are golden
The sound is murky unclear
He imagines an audience but there’s no one near

we are the champions

Hey guys, best and best all around! I just finished my novel (of course, in the roughest form possible; much much editing awaits). All I can say is boawouduhadoifeoijohqaui bf uoiwehfohaodighiuwh foihqdoui fhopaid hf uiqhweiuf jioefqo2~!!!@%%#^&#%^*$#@!!! Yes, that's a word (look it up scrabble maven). In a celebratory manner, I have posted a paragraph from its final segment. I know it may be rough and it may seem hard to put into context, but basically the immortal is finally dying as the universe dies itself and he is remembering bits and pieces of his life. There. Now I'm off to sit on my balcony, listen to some music, drink a Newcastle, and think about seven years of writing this motherloving fiction angel. Peace and love.

Come on back, the band leader declared. It’s as if we can never go away, never fade, the immortal told himself, and blared on his trumpet. There was a time unequal to all others where he blew brass across a hot muggy night. Back back before fire and fine cars lasered around the countryside, before flying contraptions and the blank stare of satellites had killed any mitigating silence. Back the first time around, when the world was young, when man was still new and inexperienced. The night of the jazz solo. The immortal took his fine trumpet, buffed it in-between songs, and was content to look out amongst the crowd. As the sweet mist of music developed again, he closed his eyes. Blue notes, he felt, red ones and the buggy yellow. He sighed and leaned back as the helm of his horn lifted through the air. This was not his band, but he was a famous face in the crowd. He made the room spin. A cat dizzy and loose. Oh fresh, the band leader spoke again and again. Roared. The room was a divot, a whirling dervish spun mad with lust for the sweat of a good woman, a good man. The lovers in the corner did not raise their nods. Eyes were made to be lost in other eyes, of course. The music spoke and it preached, and the lovers in the corner did not move. Hand in hand, the immortal wanted to be his actual horn, the air of his lungs. He thought of nothing. He left life, left living, left the club and the night stairwell, the booze so free, and he floated into the ether. This was the want of his entire life. He figured the future then, how many children, the barge of buildings, a flow and note of time lost, the cosmos, the fleeting chance for violence and beautiful surrender, and went up into the spinning fan blades. Ice in drinks. Young things still on the prowl outside. His face was a fire, his lips a torrent of heat. The trumpet sounded out as all other instruments faded. “If I am to come back, let me be free,” the immortal hissed, balled into himself in the dying present. The universe was dying, oh it is dead, oh god. The trumpets of the past have all gone wah wah wah.

death of the girl 5.mp4

Hey, Erin's says having sex makes you a man, although, if you haven't had sex, she's worried (sorry if this is weird, but the last phrase is exactly what Erin just said to me; out of context!!!). Alright, last installment on this latest of audio poems. Hope you guys enjoy and hang out and smoke a piece of grass.


text version:

death of the girl 5

a statue of woolen

hands

from frames

of

old junk yard

dumps

heaped over smokestacks

and flailed in a kiln

for you

dead

now and buried without a body.

a girl fragile

and

so coconut

and bang bang

my baby she got out in the light

for

hours and never

came

back.

we’ve got that whole

story in our

mind

and fang and drool we

weep on

the ground

for we lack

some silver from a girl we once knew

death of the girl 4.mp4

Hey fellow fuckers, here's the next installment in the "death of the girl" series. Hope it breaks your heart. Boo hoo.


text version:

death of the girl 4

I saw muggers’ glee smiles

saintly

in brief at unlit

busstops

along Comal and

raped and bandied

a girl

in the night she

was

steady and torn from

her acid wash

jeans

oh dying

is not a friend

poetry is medicine

Hey, here's some poetry for you free feeling lovers in the world. Hope it touches the tender spots and makes your hurting go away.

untitled 4515

smashed rivulets of

glass

in his eye

it is god

almighty

wearing

a disco suit on

a Saturday

ordering

hot dogs for girls

with

bright lipstick

they laugh

oh

they laugh

you know

it

skids into the city

life

of buildings noble and true

on

the riverview

untitled 4516

you

have

a golden friend

who lives

in a small buick on a

corner

you know to be

inhabited by

neon

bottles

and

think of the slide of

radioactive

legs

and a hairless women

atop

statues of horses

and

you can be an iron gate.

give yourself the

bramble tree

the

wooden sword the

old

daffodil

come back to the museum

Here's the next part of Jeff and my epic new collaborative writing piece, 'museum.' If you like this, please subscribe to our newsletter, "Hey, what's up Austin?" It's a favorite thing on Santa's list, also, it doesn't exist. Also, awesome reading at Book People, Dan Boehl. Also, I love your last name. Also, how's do you make it seem so easy? Alright, enough questions. Now some time for some serious farce.

2.

Next up on our tour – if you’ll just follow me this way; ah ah ah, watch out for that mike, ha ha ha – we come to an exquisite piece of summer flare. The artist’s name is Bob Biderson, and he hails from northeast Ohio. The summers there are particularly hot, but also, in the snap of a week or two, not hot at all. Bob’s piece here focuses on the aspects of summer that have been associated with barbecue grills and what not.

A bar b q grill sits near the left half of a white oval room. The grill

is marked with only a smudge of soot. It has three legs and a red round

head. A bag of charcoal briquettes rests alongside and remains un-

opened. Plastic knives are strewn around the piece in a circle. Plastic forks

are stuck standing up, jabbed into the floor. Beer cans hang from strings

from the ceiling and a huge slab of burger is nailed to a white wall. It

is fervent yet yields no scent.

Bob was interested in the visceral poetry of a summer barbecue. He wanted to show what family gatherings could conceal. The circular position of knives and forks suggests something of the occult – tools of the occult, as I kid from time to time – and might even suggest further a demonic rite of passage come summer grilling time. He obviously reinforces this iconography with the burger nailed to the wall. It is hung there like a tiny savior, not allowed to roast in its purpose, but to float forever above the housing of the grill, away from the flames that could prepare it into something edible and desirable. The unopened charcoal bag suggests the un-ripened fruit of sexual bliss the summer might prolong – it is hot after all, isn’t it folks? And the beer cans, daintily held aloft by the tiniest of strings, foretells the doom ever-present in the traditional barbecue gathering. They speak to the lust of the drunken escape – abandon, even – in spite of more harmonious roles of familial belonging and brotherhood.

As for Bob himself – what was the artist like? – well, he was a peculiar, fascinating sort. He was rumored to have shot soft-tipped arrows from his balcony at night and to have once chased his wife down – she driving in a car – across seven city blocks in the buff. He was educated at the New Lowman School of Art and Design, but dropped out in his final year to pursue cattle ranching. It remains to be seen what these eccentricities have added to his work; he is still an active artist and has plans to unveil his mysteriously titled, “Ox Head Bridge,” for us in the coming year. It is top-secret – as are all current commissions by Biderson – but is said to create a hunger so great that it can only be matched by the disgust it generates.

Yes, yes, really great, I know. Go ahead, peruse. Mind the plastic ware: some say it has a life of its own. Please, inspect the burger – oh especially the burger – and feel free to read the wording of the charcoal bag. Bob – being ever present-minded – wrote and decorated it himself.

death of the girl 3.mp4

Hey, click that link up there, big ol' sweet pie in the sky link that it is, and get whisked away to a death rattle of exuberant fun fun fun. And if you don't believe me, go out tonight, find a dirty ol' creek, take a swig, and taste the gravel on your tongue. It's the same thing, my friend, but don't take my word for it. Ah, before I get swept away in largess. The poem appears below in text format!

death of the girl 3

bang a pot in the kitchen

with spaghetti

and

the flavor

of mushrooms

and a hang dog

look

.

I saw crimson bands

run

race around her face

in

glasses and communion

holy

city of glass

she

eats the rafters of tiny

rooms

East Austin

lovers

the nothing of fingers bark

and

bang

scratch across the alley

remembered

some

arbitrary

sequins

on the lapel in the closet in the house

with green

paint peeling about moonless

veranda

oh

nights to fall in love

are hot oh gosh

my

my mother shrieks

you fetid

blank sheet of toilet

paper in the

trash can

homeless sleeveless

disdain and

hobo

thrift

toss

me on the floor

spend and spill hours

useless

pastel paints

and

function of the

river folk scabbing

their

bike wounds with acrylic

stick

stuck envy pigs

sailing in truck tops

in the eve

see a man come

upon a woman

like

thrifty and dangerous

and cough in her face the effigy of love

she slammed him

on concrete she tore his limbs

she ate

his stomach and

tossed back

the face

of the face

of crows and lamplight

lightbulbs

burst

I enter the room

.

treat callous and disregard

your

phone and

your television screen

Untitled 4276-4280 (click here to listen)

As promised, here is the next set of untitled poems recorded by Christopher and I (may I refer you to yesterday's post?). This set of ten untitled poems was a lot of fun to work on. The music is a combination of low guitar buzz/drone and randomly edited "found" sounds from iTunes radio. Can you hear the sound of tomorrow, today?

untitled 4276

it is the grizzly bear

of the meadow

come

along for honey

that

grows strong in your

guts

until

then

you see the midnight glass

and the bartender

and

he smiles and takes you home

and begs for

the wealth of heaven

to spill upon

a lonely bathroom floor

untitled 4277

if all time

is the whole

of the universe

blackened

you trip

past the veil

of the bride

but you’re just a little

boy

still

and you are twenty-five

and your poetry is

rankles of

paper

kicked curbside by the sweeping

efforts

of

menacing

posses

and hipsters

untitled 4278

carefully

I miss

the misspelling

of my

name

and avoid the arrogance

of

god in his

wooden house

untitled 4279

cocaine

kids

peeling

their

faces

from

the

sidewalk

are

not

Sunday

afternoons

but

billions

of

burst

spiders

under

the

cover

of

a

girl

in

New York

trying

to

ditch

school

the

next

day

untitled 4280

the red bicycle

in

the apartment

slumbered

in

new

way

my girlfriend

told

me

this in

the kitchen

with boiling

water

oh

hot sun summer.

she tells me to wake up or the parade

the

parade

is all

I can

have

Untitled 4270-4275 (click here to listen)

Here you go kids more music/poetry from the barnyard to your yard. This is Christopher's reading of a set of his untitled poems 4270-4275. I will say, for my part, I am really happy about the electric gtr playing on this recording. It is rare for me to be surprised with the overall quality of tone and improv. So there's that...The next set 4276-4280 will be posted in the coming days. (dig the photo...thanks ms paint!)

untitled 4270

I who have
become

as old roads

dust
kick the dreary old man
across

the road with the knapsack

and

tell him

that rose buds

petals

flowers red so

ripe and the valley

ravine

I have gone into the forest

I have

taken the root

I have eaten the glade

and oh

she shouts it can be so easy

with white paint

upon her face

untitled 4271

I can’t stand that

I’m

the guy who gets older

and can’t keep

his liquor

and its under the basement

tiles

neon gold light

and all

untitled 4272

I saw the lost children of the night

in their

bicycle parade

dead eyes

and white hair

oh my god

I recoiled

for fear I have not known

before

or since

untitled 4273

in it so far he has chased

his own

flame

and burnt his only

skin

down down

to

lidless crisps

of the mountain country

where

when a girl of thirteen

first sang

a song

oh golden chandeliers

can cripple

and crack

untitled 4274

he began to believe

if this doorway

then why not

he

can become the wooden slats

of the blinds

on

the white walled windows

but if he does

oh

the chaos of his butterfly cage

kicked loose

by

violent twelve year old boys

untitled 4275

tonight as I colored

my skin

red

I missed the bus

and

she was raped

and golden chains

some song

of broken tire

the whole world

is boiled

water

I left the bathroom

running

down empty streets

and

still I was not enough

death of the girl 2.mp4

Hey people, how about that week of live motel shenanigans? Never thought things could get that far out, eh? Anyway, here's some more audio for you and on a decidedly more morose matter. Click the link and get swept away by my words and Jeff's music.

death of the girl 2

small holes for a mouth

and eyes

and a nose

and teeth that button

up

the back

she goes into the motel and

weeps

Erin, Lindsey, and I, oh my

Hey fellow bellows, here is a video from the motel of Erin playing Jeff's guitar, Lindsey playing Erin's violin, and me hamming it up reading Jeff's poetry. Dig!

New Work...from a New Writer...

Posted below is a contribution from a friend of the blog's named Broderick. His short prose piece is a little weekend treat for you all youz kids out there on the internets. Enjoy and if you want to contribute prose or poetry or art or whatever, just e-mail us and if we pick up good vibrations you could be seeing your work on display. - Jeff

Lanie Visits II

Lanie had a certain feel. She was a sun in a box. Her bouncing ball followed the sound squeaking out of the stereo. Silently, she approached the door. I, on the other hand was a walrus drifting in a mellow ice. I flopped out of my comfortable couch to get the door. The bell had already rung twice; any more would have just been rude.
“Hi”
“Hey… come on up”
I stared a little while. She looked great. Lanie had been rummaging through her sister’s closet again, in search of something new. The wind blew gently, her sisters dress drifted slowly with her red hair, only to reveal blue jeans she probably bought last week from a store at the mall. I don’t know why she did it, probably because it’s “indie” or good for the environment or something like that. I didn’t know anything about fashion.
We went up the winding stairs to the music room. There were instruments sprawled all over the room, as well as a tower of records in milk crates slowly growing in the corner. I sat down on the couch to continue my duty. She looked around the room, like always; I figured it was some feminine ritual in order to suppress any comments about the absence of any apparent organization.
“What are you going to play for me today?”
“I don’t know. How about you decide?”
She wandered over to the tower and moved a couple of boxes around. After five minutes a cry for help came,
“Where’s Sonic Youth?”
“In that white bin you just moved, in about the middle. It’s in alphabetical order by artist then the albums are in chronological order of initial recording date”
“Oh…”
She pulled out the dusty square with a candle on it. Then Lanie put that black disc on the turntable and the needle glided merrily. She then turned her attention to me.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Messing around with the record.”
I had recently received some fragments from my crazy old uncle. He said he bought it after flunking out of some school. He hung out in New York for a while, bought the record for my mom, then broke it some how. Anyways, I figured I could salvage it by soldering the jagged pieces together.
“Oh… what’s it sound like?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’ve been so obsessed with it.”
“You know if you put as much effort into your social life you could be pretty popular.”
“Most of them don’t have any mystery though. If you know all the archetypes you can read ‘em like books, not the good ones either.”
I think I can be absolutely unreliable sometimes. That was just another pop in the record, another random burst of thunder, another blast of noise. The ancients saw these as omens but modern science has destroyed their myths. But Lanie shines on, despite a cloud of a boyfriend.
“Just look at your boyfriend, there’s no happy ending in those pages.”
“Oh stop it. He’s sweet and its not like you’ve had a date in what, two years?” I tinkered on with a small smirk. I seemed to be a square peg in a round hole; I didn’t fit either.
“You’re going to go off with this attitude and then what? You know I’m not going to be there for you to brood….”
There was a small pause. We both stared at the inevitable knife of time as the record squeaked. I know one day it’ll be over. But today wasn’t that day.
“Anyways, I know this girl who’d be perfect for you. We could double date on Saturday. You know, the typical movie and a dinner.”
We laughed at my prospects. The sound waves were calm and they washed upon our feet. Then he stuck a gigantic rock in the middle of the beach.
“Oh, that’s him. I have to go.”
I watched her drift into his car. It was a red mustang. In a sense, he was the car after all; he looked just like it. That bastard probably spent more time with it that Lanie.

Saturday eventually rolled up to my doorstep. Lanie’s boyfriend drove us to the movie. I moved in and she was there with long blonde hair and a small yet pointed nose. She was wearing a white shirt and a denim skirt. We were in our seats with thirty minutes to spare so I started talking.
“Lanie’s told me so much about you, especially your music collection.”
I nodded. Her eyes rolled around the room, searching for something, or somebody. She wouldn’t look at me, and I knew I wasn’t that hideous, but then again, she might not have any beauty.
“So what kind of music do you like?”
“Whatever’s on the radio, what else is there?”
She girlishly giggled and twirled her hair around her finger. Oh God! What had I gotten myself into? Her brain seemed to be as white as her shirt! I seemed to be stuck in one of those blind date shows. However there aren’t any subtitles to make me laugh and I’m the one having a bad time. Never trust optimists about people if you’re a pessimist: they overlook the flaws that are blatantly obvious to you.
I tried to move to sports. Bad Move. She just went on and on about how “hawt” the football players on the school team were. By then I knew her eyes were longing for one of them, my only consolation was that my mind was yearning for something else. It was a silent disagreement, but a fierce one. The only thing worth fighting for was the end, and every minute moved me closer to the electric end.
Finally, the movie started. It was a drama. I hate dramas. Every one of them is a sadder sequel to your life. So I tried to look to the characters for something thrilling and there was nothing new. It had all of them: the angst filled protagonist, the oblivious parents, the girlfriend, the nemesis, well, all of them but not even in an epic way.

Afterwards, we went to a casual restaurant. Lanie’s date was spurting out his interpretation of the film as the other diners clinked their utensils. He made it seem like this huge psychological turnaround of utmost importance. He kept on saying, “You might not have caught it, but it means…” Lanie just fawned over every word and my date was stuck in an infinite loop of “Like, oh my gosh, that’s so true!” and “You are so smart!” I politely stapled my tongue to the table; it was in character. I started focusing on the blob of sound before me waiting for something to break.
Then it happened.
“Tonight’s the day candle…”
“You might not have caught it but the protagonist’s line there was totally a reference to the Great Gatsby and it meant that he was alone.”
What did that jackass know about Fitzgerald, being alone, the movie, or anything? I abruptly stood up and extended my fist to his empty existence.
“I never thought I’d see a dark star falling.”
It was a perfect contact as if it was meant to be. His bulky form fell to the floor. The restaurant went silent. Everyone stared at Lanie and my date as the two girls gathered around him trying to stop the stream of blood from tissues from their purses.
I knew I wasn’t going anywhere except for his home if I stayed with Lanie so I walked home. There was a full moon and the night, cool, crisp, and welcoming, seemed to invite me. It was about three miles from home so there was plenty of time for meditation and singing. When I got home my parents were asleep so I just went to my bed and faded away.
The next day I decided to go over and apologize because I figured, as much as he had it coming, I probably shouldn’t have hit him. Luckily his parents were home so I wasn’t going to have the shit kicked out of me on the spot. Surprisingly, his parents were nice. His mom thought it was good of me to apologize. That relieved me because I knew I wouldn’t have to face the court and a wall of paper. He took my apology but was apathetic. I could tell it was a mask.
I tried to call Lanie but she didn’t answer. She was nothing more than a specter that week, or maybe I had just been the ghost all along. I saw her at lunch and was about to approach but he was a wall of a caveman.
Eventually, I got a hold of her on the phone.
“I never want to talk to you again!”
“Come on Lanie…”
-Click-
I held the phone up to my ear for about five more minutes hoping it was only a bump in the record. It was the sound of losing Lanie. I continued on as I did before her, and I eventually got that record all back together. I put it on the turntable and waited for it to revolve. “Amazing Gr…Click. Buzz” The stereo hummed on in pain. The needle was broken.

lost poems, oh my!

Hey guys, if you've seen the myth of the motel (posted previously this week: http://austinnewblog.blogspot.com/2008/07/myth-of-motel.html), the improv piece I did about John Johnson, the dead founder of the Boho Cocos, then you'll remember the mention of his lost poems. Well, they're lost no longer. I've found them. I've got them. And for your pleasure and purveyance, I will post them from time to time to snap your head around. I decided to call them the lost poems of John Johnson, but, I don't know, he was a weird guy. They're numbered similarly, but with slight variations (and some even have titles, but we'll leave those for later). I don't know, I can't really explain the guy, he just inspired us fellow Cocos, and now we've got some of his work to inspire you. Well, here goes fellows, two poems I recently found in a secret hiding spot. The work of John Johnson, dead legend, quiet ghost.

the lost poems of John Johnson 6…

strawberries

under the bed

we

make love

and it is the melody

of a blind

man

raging on and on

with

black marker

across blank subway

walls.

girl,

get thee gone,

take me with you,

cut

my hair.

the lost poems of John Johnson 7…

no sign of love

in your tears

welled

across a blank mirror.

you think of

Sunday

church yard razor

fathers

with old faces

akin to

broken beer mugs.

my girl has a rainbow.

Beatriz,

you shrink, you run,

the cars of the highway

are bold.

they want your

hide.

they want

to take you in their trunk and immolate

you.

Jeff reads, I play

Hey friends, here's another video we made in a cheap (not so cheap) motel room. Jeff reads what I wrote and I play his guitar.
ps. I don't know how to play guitar

Jeff's in the bathroom

Hey guys, some more video for you f---ing faces. Get ready, Jeff will romance with his post-birthday hangover in the Bel Air Motel bathroom. Viola!

Travel Logos 98

This recording was made during our motel night sessions. A piece by Christopher, featuring "room" acoustic guitar by me. Feast on "Travel Logos 98!"

here comes Lindsey

Hey guys, another female is making the scene here at the blog. Boo! Down with the oppression of Jeff and Christopher! Boo! Yay for the female voice. Hurrah! Lindsey strikes with an awesome poem, a shower curtain, and a shitty motel room. Dig!

Motel Sessions (mp3)

Another bit of inspired audio for yaz. This is "motel sessions," a mini-epic 20 part poem hammered out on a typewriter by Christopher, featuring the ambient violin playing of Erin, and recorded by yours truly. Room 56 had some strange magic that night and this recording is a gem. A true field recording!

Erin reads some poems for you in the motel

Here's a video of Erin reading her awesome poetry. Now I know a bunch of you (especially you, Kat) have been clamoring - I say thee clamoring! - for more work from Erin, so here you go. Man, we had a crazy ride that night in the motel. Dig!

a new audio series: death of the girl 1.mp4

Hey, here's a new series of fresh poetry written by me and accompanied by a wall 'o' sound via Jeffrey Barnyard Daily. A little morose, I know, but watch the happy camper motel 56 videos and you'll be right as rain in no time.
p.s. just click the link to hear the sound

and here's a print version of the poem:

death of the girl 1

oh mascara god of Austin

in the dark

you

bicycle in circles

and

die in the gutter

like a kitten

oh a kitten

and frail with black vomit

in the alley

so

sweet

in love with nothing

and

the ivory clouds that cling

to the mast

of heat

that wears your skin

here's a play from us to you

Jeff and I participate in a short play I wrote about the dangers of being an idiot.

the myth of the motel

Hey guys, Jeff, Erin, Lindsey, and I, rented a motel room over the weekend and took along a typewriter, a camera, a guitar, a violin, and an eight-track recorder, and had a hell of a time. Let's just say that austinnewblog had a shindig in a beat-up old room. This first video posted is of a myth I improvised as we first got into the room. Hope you guys like it (also, who's that girl hidden in one of the shots; is it Beatriz?), and there's a whole lot more where it came from, so stay tuned all week as Jeff, Erin, and I (and yes, even rarely seen blogger Lindsey) give you tons of new poems and songs and stories. Dig! Boho Coco! John Johnson!

In the Air (mp3)

Here is part 1 of the two part oxygen themed "chant poem." This is some intense shit friends...

Like Dust (mp3)

This posting is the first of what will be a slew of audio coming at ya over the next week or so. We have been recording at various times and various locations around Austin for the past couple of months and producing quite a volume of work. This is part 2 of a two part "chant poem" dedicated to the sound, feel, and poetic charm/enigma that is oxygen. Stay tuned.

please enter the museum

Hey, debuting a new collaborative writing project between Jeff Daily and myself, here is 'museum.' This is the first post of perhaps eight detailing a fictional tour through a fictional museum by a fictional curator. If we offend any of you, oh good gravy! Jeff wrote the descriptions of the art objects, and I've written the dialog of the curator. So goodsly goods then. Also, happy birthday to Jeff Daily, some eighty years old today. Hang in there, fella', you still got a long way to go (congratulations, bud!).

1.

Welcome. Welcome, one and all. My name is Grace Madero and I am the directorial curator at the Boho Coco Museum of Art. I will be giving you a guided tour today of our collection. Some say it is prestigious, but please, save all platitudes for the end of the tour. Also, please hold your questions as well. Thanks ever so much. Now, if you will, please follow me.

Real quickly: on our right here are our enormous elevators. They’re composed of construction materials left over from the previous Boho Coco Museum and tension wires that have been bathed in a mixture of blood, semen, and tears from about fifty or so world famous artists. Renee – oh I’m sure you know him – is among them. Yes. Yes, very special. They zip our art around the building as well, so you know, it’s a good deal for us. And also – just quickly – the Luba Lulu Collective outside of East Aulton fashioned these hulks, so I implore you to seek out their work. They’re really a swell bunch of lads. And, hey, if any of you are in need of some elevators – well… ha!

Continuing then. Here we come upon our first exhibit just around this temporary wall. If you look up, you’ll notice the ceiling is composed of green-tinted glass. It’s slanted as well, but that’s more of a functional question than anything else. The glass panels have been thrice blessed by Amazonian shaman. It is a piece unrelated the one we are about to view, but it’s not less glorious. Really, really lucky to have it.

Anyhow, the exhibit. Yes. Please, gather around. Take a look.

A microphone sits buried in feces, trapped under a tiny glass dome.

It is like the sound of silence. There are pictures of rock stars, the

ones who left behind beautiful corpses, adorning the white walls of

the gallery. Brian Jones stares like a prince. Jim Morrison, bearded,

looks like a mountain man. Janis Joplin grins after the most

wonderful shot of Southern Comfort imaginable. John Lennon

shines on behind oval spectacles. Darby Crash and Kurt Cobain

have the bloody raw punk scarred faces of sad angels. The cord

of the mic has been severed and left lifeless out from under the

dome. On the floor between the feces mic and the photograph

lined walls is a trail of muddy footprints and dollar bills. The air

is stale.

This exhibit was created by a young artist – well he died young – by the name of Arthere Remount. He made this piece in nineteen eighty seven. He called it his – what was it? – his piece de continence? He was actually in town when the museum purchased this piece. Somewhere amidst all the fecal matter tucked under the dome is a golden ring his father had given him upon graduating from the New School School of Art and Design. Yes. Really, really lucky to have this piece, and that piece of information, in the museum. I’ve been told the feces are meant to represent his time spent on the rock ‘n’ roll circuit. Apparently, he was a roadie for some bands. I’m not sure which ones in particular. He spent – oh let’s say five years – performing work of the roadie variety. Afterward – Arthere has often been documented saying – he would spend many sleepless nights with the scent of burning vapor in the air. Apparently the rock shows were fraught with wire snaps and electronic implosions. Instruments gone haywire and such.
His dilemma with this piece, as I’ve come to understand it, was that he did not want to glorify the rockers for dying. He only wanted their fetid sense of death – gone now some twenty, thirty, even forty years – to produce a mental sent for the image of the feces mic. Arthere did not even like rock music, or so he told me once. He was, really, he was a great man. This piece speaks to the struggle within each of us to be famous, but to struggle through endless mess to get there. Or perhaps, once there, to struggle with the world we become surrounded in. Yes, the Boho Coco is a lucky place for this. Please, approach the dome. Remember not to touch, however, ha ha.

Austin World Poem Project Just Got A Little Bigger

Hey! We're in the double digits, thanks to another anonymous poster! So, without further ado, here it is:

The equation of water
is always coaxed out of a stone;
a blank bell ringing
in the middle of the day.

The river
she sings
the song of the
red scent of
crying
the daylight descends on the
dying
never to drink from the fountain
again.

Thirst wants what the stone needs
But the face lies in pools of greed.
A King upon the throne of the new liberal media
Seeks to set a new standard
of violence.
Pools of bullets smile at the snug rain.
America comes at last,
To the big table.

Running water rings
resonates
it is time

Running water
The running water we run to
We seek our thirsts at last

And our thirsts subtract the rain
And our marbles are equal to or
lesser than the ocean

And our music
disintegrates
into sand

Over our heads
we
scream

for water
and it drips

and the smallest of us
huddle on
limestone singing

There are two sorts of magic
One sending
The other receiving
You taught me this
You taught me that love is a tide
Back and forth and back again
You are my Moon
I am your sea
Throwing your light back
Made into a million lights
By your sending
By your receiving
By my sending
By my receiving
We are the Heart of the Universe
Back and forth and back again

They say water seeks
its
own
level
Your eyes are dark pools
In the light
I hold my breath and dive
Down, down
Into the dark liquid
Fire of creation
The stone Madonna
weeps for me.

new poems

Hey bloodthirsty lovers, here are some more poems I've written. Dig!

untitled 4465

images of barn

doors do

not

upset me

she says in

her

ruby colored lip lip

I am too

simple for such

nonsense

and a comet of ice

crashes the surface of the moon

and tiny people pop their

elbows

and taxi cabs

crash into a dark river

untitled 4458

I have a heart oh

oh says a sign

on the basement level of a parking

lot

urchins come by

with

black diamond

knives

and the squee of the squalor

lives

are ending

countryside

fire chats

and

the devil in his coat slipping on some ice

untitled 4456

shoe show go

get

me my favorite

newspaper

please

go get the pearls from the cabinet

and dine

with me

dine

we whittle and

worry

oh

to have lobster tonight and

to

believe you

have

a cross tattooed across your

left breast

is all so

blankets

white

and scattered in the basement

Untitled Hum (able) Po'tree

...just a rough draft of a sing along new poem...

I sang myself to the railroad tracks
so I could mythologize the heart attacks
of the many stale gentlemen
too bored and old to make new friends

I waited for the whistle of the train
and the thunder before the rain
w/open eyes so sleep deprived
I felt the earth sigh before she arrived

I saw a notated perfect melody
before I could place the key
on the guitar's steal muted string
Funny how love changed everything

austin universe prose project gets a little bigger

Hey guys, here's another addition to the AUPP from Jeff Barnyard Daily. He's got some magic up his sleeves, yes he does. And please please please (as James Brown would say), don't go, send some more material, all you happy campers out there. Thanks.

p.s. the reading order goes me, Erin, anonymous, and Jeff

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

Cuba Gooding Sr. wrang his hands until he discovered the method of hula hoops. Crack open the plastic, and sand pours out.

--

The America she knew was quickly fading. She hailed a cab and when she finally flagged one down the backseat had used condoms and the smell of b.o.

"Take me to 21st and Main," she said.

Her heart was racing. The museum had brought back painful memories. Why did she go and stare at the Rothko's? Why did she feel swallowed up?

--


topics and suggestions for future prose:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops
vinyl records
cowboy boots
Spain
math equations
seagulls

SC

Another chapter from Sagittarian Conflict. Its been a long time, yeah?

It was a row of three small wooden houses all open for a huge gathering type party. Two motorcycle gangs, a heavy metal band, midgets playing technicolor cowboys & indians, strippers, and I had a toy pistol that shot fire and foam, mud everywhere, a bearded man who told me, "In the 60s I was in Mexico. In the 70s I was in Latin America." He walked off. A Husker Du documentary played in one of the rooms at full blast. I think it was the middle house. Mike and I went to see comedy starring lame duck actors. Two girls from high school that I don’t remember that well were there too. I overheard them talking about NYC, etc. - it was quite bizarre –
Famine’s car, my favorite flavor cherry red, girls together outrageous the bullshit cliché kind of arrested outside the Snappy Saves Con Store. Where the hell was he going? 10 p.m. with a bag of ice flooding the trunk. The Texas summer was-a-melting everything in sight and sound. This will keep the amputee comfortable. Yelling into a pay phone. How do I? Oh. Paper cup exit. The con store was empty save for a lone Philander by the name of Finish. More cups, I need more cups, possibly thirty. Do you think that is enough? Famine needed change.
The obnoxious rings buzzer bell clang of the pay phone outside the con store awoke Famine. Do I dare answer? Of course, it was for him. Famine’s head ear situation to female voice giggle hello from the other half and yes I’m quite lost. I need better directions. I’m at the snappy end of the street where the trees play.
The vacuum’s rage suck up the spirit dust collected dander drift, Famine sits with Walker. Electrical restoration this morning in the octagonal room dome topped. Ms. Disco is downstairs doubled over in pain. What a life this is. The tired feet sore and mysterious stomach fires twist. Prescription fiction. Almost three years had passed since Famine was elbow deep in dish water half eaten garbage discard. His life was like a poorly written TV series. Teenagers waiting to become horny academic university suckers.
Sucker punch the backdrop was green a table made of catfish. Fishing might make killer’s coast. Wave off the love sick dudes drill for gold in the teeth of tomorrow’s hounded jaw. SCENE: The Blandytown Mausoleum. Famine felt like a pedestrian’s ghost staring out the large windows as Johnny Kinghandlebar and Pancho raced snail’s time. He couldn’t grasp the significance of living deep in the central heart of downtown off the poseur’s nob and within the confines of the conceptual intercourse.
My watch never has the right time leave behind Monday paint job for out of here t-shirts. A ransom object playing the Handy Herman Harp whilst in the tunnel ‘neath Phase II. Famine thought his sidekick Ms. Disco was hiding something important in her very close veins. It turns out he was wrong “Sister Morphine” was playing on the stereo. Since arriving in Blandytown, Famine had, in fact, shed his skin. Gone were the visible Claire scars. The spiral chronicled in Part I of this tomb, now seemed ancient ruins to the McCoy boy.
[Banners of the German language]
A nude descending staircase. What ya git in the gotcha bag? Sonny y dildo asshole ride for free. Dump the pump, ouch! Lower gas prices Shirley Fischer Price. Temple of the Dog going hungry like the wolf. In Wolf City, Wyoming cavefish the swim adult poles have mercy on Kid Kelley. Remember my vision of Ida Lupino? The paintings of Helen Frankenthaler jumped on to the red wagon of sin city and asked for a code green escape plan (das eist besser).
The ever-rattling key chain. Famine was reminded of the chain gang he had left behind in G-vine block. Oopla! The supervisor lost her larynx in a card game. The steaks were raised. The next more knee zing up the ante stuck family elevator shaft big dummy short story lost his mouth running off the winged mammal theme.
The wiring in the place is 95% up and sparks. Fouled fly everything. Supervisor opens his cranium. Red and green wires are to be cut accordingly. According to the stars. Astrological foreplay aside, the ass eyed midget ate my lunch. I gave him twenty six dollars for the sweet piece of ass only to be dreamed of by one family across the bridge. Three tears. To roll down his cheek after that night he played the blues until 4:30 a.m. Then he went to sleep. Woke up the next morning feeling like a refreshed sea lion after a kill.

First Time Yet--Two Additions in One Post

Thanks to Mary Francis and Don, the poem has jumped up two levels in just one sitting! This is amazing; thank you guys! Please bug your friends and have them contribute, too. The goal is to get the poem as long possible, and since you have contributed, you can consider yourself officially part of the project, too!

Here it is:

The equation of water
is always coaxed out of a stone;
a blank bell ringing
in the middle of the day.

The river
she sings
the song of the
red scent of
crying
the daylight descends on the
dying
never to drink from the fountain
again.

Thirst wants what the stone needs
But the face lies in pools of greed.
A King upon the throne of the new liberal media
Seeks to set a new standard
of violence.
Pools of bullets smile at the snug rain.
America comes at last,
To the big table.

Running water rings
resonates
it is time

Running water
The running water we run to
We seek our thirsts at last

And our thirsts subtract the rain
And our marbles are equal to or
lesser than the ocean

And our music
disintegrates
into sand

Over our heads
we
scream

for water
and it drips

and the smallest of us
huddle on
limestone singing

There are two sorts of magic
One sending
The other receiving
You taught me this
You taught me that love is a tide
Back and forth and back again
You are my Moon
I am your sea
Throwing your light back
Made into a million lights
By your sending
By your receiving
By my sending
By my receiving
We are the Heart of the Universe
Back and forth and back again

All the Activities...

The world of austinnewblog is busy these days. Several new projects have taken shape over the last week and I'm happy to see participation from new voices. I've been busy behind the scenes it seems and haven't posted for awhile so I thought I would post some work. What have I been doing you ask? I've been editing book length manuscripts of poetry for possible publication, I've been trying to line up some more BLOGTASTIC live gigs for the fall, I've been mixing new audio recordings for the blog, and I've been enjoying (ha!) this Austin summer. What have YOU been doing? The following poems are drafts from a book of lyrics written between 2004-2008 with the working title of something like Songs I Used to Sing.

My Songbook Be Daily-a-Growing

When I wrote Suavamente
I let my heart get away from me
But now we’re mortal again
I guess you could call us friends

My songbook is-a-growing
I can’t remember all these songs
My songbook is overflowing
Won’t you help me by singing along!

When I wrote about the frown police
I thought they were on my side
Ups & downs will never cease
I have too many songs to hide

My songbook is-a-growing
I can’t remember all these songs
My songbook is overflowing
Won’t you help me by singing along!

I wrote a collection called Miss Cretin Prosody
Outta all these tunes I remember maybe three
I got twenty albums on my back
Maybe I’m starting to crack

My songbook is-a-growing
I can’t remember all these songs
My songbook is overflowing
Won’t you help me by singing along!

******************************************

Finally Another Dwarf Appeared

Got my head wrapped in daydreams
I rarely see them through
Got my life locked up in music
There’s not enough time to do what I need to do

I’m walking in circles
Burning holes in the floor
Please don’t ask me anything
I don’t want to see or feel or hear anymore

Then again I think
Nihilism aint that chic
Then again I could be wrong…

********************************************

Cartoon Heart

He sits on his boyhood bed, comic book in his hand
He is reading about a detective named Batman
He would love to take off his mask
He would love to reveal his secret identity
He believes in love

I get up in the morning and go to work
As a security guard I stare at life’s funny face
I often dream of meeting the special one
I often dream of meeting anyone
I believe in love

Cartoon heart
Big and perfect red
Cartoon heart
Love is the only concept to keep in yr head

Austin World Poem Turns 7!

Thanks to our last poster, sue, who generously donated seven lines, the Austin World Poem is in its seventh revision--out of infancy and into full-blown childhood. Still looking for any one who wants to post our way, so if you haven't yet, please do!

Here it is now:

The equation of water
is always coaxed out of a stone;
a blank bell ringing
in the middle of the day.

The river
she sings
the song of the
red scent of
crying
the daylight descends on the
dying
never to drink from the fountain
again.

Thirst wants what the stone needs
But the face lies in pools of greed.
A King upon the throne of the new liberal media
Seeks to set a new standard
of violence.
Pools of bullets smile at the snug rain.
America comes at last,
To the big table.

Running water rings
resonates
it is time

Running water
The running water we run to
We seek our thirsts at last

And our thirsts subtract the rain
And our marbles are equal to or
lesser than the ocean

And our music
disintegrates
into sand

from the fire and the vapors
rising through and over the
revelry, the echoes resonate
a distant chanting, thumping along the veins, thumping along the bones
left there
charred and sunken
rooted into the darkened earth

a quick poem from a quick shot

Hey, I was reading over some older poems of mine (not old now; settle down), and thought I'd like to share this one with you guys. Hurray for saving writing in electronic form!

untitled 4054

think of thick lips slapped against the

board

and you have wood

and

you have a face

and the girl thinks of subterraneans

cavorting with

orange eyes

sticking

in fence posts their

beloved childhood

dollheads

and

oh

and

I think of barbarians of the coast

rummaging

my flesh and taking

tally

with my tailbone

all

redheaded lovers that live

in blue button homes

Anonymous poster number 1 for the Austin Universe Prose Project, holy schlamoley

Thanks to the anonymous poster who gives us the next phase of the Austin Universe Prose Project. Also, it's really great to see Erin's Austin World Poem Project taking off. Congrat's Erin, and I can only hope my tiny baby can grow to the size of yours. Alright, here goes, original prose piece followed by Erin Vaughan's followed by anonymous number 1. Cool, daddios.

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

Cuba Gooding Sr. wrang his hands until he discovered the method of hula hoops. Crack open the plastic, and sand pours out.

--
and here are some suggestions and topics for all you other eager beavers out there:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin
vinyl records
cowboy boots
Spain
math equations
seagulls
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops

Thank You, Thank You, Anonymous Poster #2!!

It's so exciting to see how this poem changes. Thanks very much to the five of you who have contributed, your additions are wonderful. Poetry can often be a solitary and competitive pursuit, so it's really amazing to see something collaborative come out of it. Here is the poem, in it's sixth round:

The equation of water
is always coaxed out of a stone;
a blank bell ringing
in the middle of the day.

The river
she sings
the song of the
red scent of
crying
the daylight descends on the
dying
never to drink from the fountain
again.

Thirst wants what the stone needs
But the face lies in pools of greed.
A King upon the throne of the new liberal media
Seeks to set a new standard
of violence.
Pools of bullets smile at the snug rain.
America comes at last,
To the big table.

Running water rings
resonates
it is time

Running water
The running water we run to
We seek our thirsts at last

And our thirsts subtract the rain
And our marbles are equal to or
lesser than the ocean

And our music
disintegrates
into sand

To All the Vaughan-Savages of the World

Octobers

I do not remember the scent of magnolias
Nor the specific grit of sand beneath my fingernails.

But I remember when they started to tear the bridge down
with Dynamite and sentimental iron beams.

I remember the ghosts of Civil War soldiers
clashing by night before a sinking lighthouse.

The nights, so bright, and hallucinatory blackbirds
croaked as the palms' fronds groaned to be torn apart.

But he was the parking garage I could never find my way out of
And you were Vanity Fair while I wept at the House of Blues.

Fires burned in buildings above us
and the sky was purple with pollution and lamplight.

Drunk men swam naked through fountains
while the cotton stuck to our skins.

Every night was filled with peeling peaches
and the crossword clues were ones we could always solve.

Austin Univers Prose Project update

Hey there fellow starbrights, Erin Vaughan's already replied (and so has someone else; who can it be? I'm not telling yet) to the AUPP request. Hers is an inspired piece of grand prose. Me like. Also, her suggestions for you future posters are at the bottom of the post. Also also, any anonymous posters out there need only post a comment and you too can be included in this most historic of endeavors, plus I'll blow kisses to you across the interweb. Great!

here's the genesis paragraph:

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

suggestions:
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops