I'm getting wild

Here's a final video from our media blog post week. See you guys tomorrow at Domy Books (913 E Cesar Chavez St) at 8PM. Come one and come all.

End Times #5(click to download)

“End Times #5” is available to download above. I recorded these tracks in a tiny little room at my home. The idea was to give the impression of music and drama without traditional things like chord changes, melody, or strict rhythm. I also like the challenge of creating sound for a piece that lasts for about 30 seconds. Quite a challenge!

Christopher rummages about in your dreams

Hey, here is an older video of me in Jeff's old apartment recording some material for the chant poem "we are escaping ourselves." See you guys Saturday.

End Times #4 (click to download)

As we get further into the "End Times" the poem/music become more a movie than anything else and with that in mind listen to this posting of "End Times #4." I tried to create a sorta film score here. The sound effects and ominous tone fit not only with this poem but also the entire piece as well. Good listening!!!

text version:

end times 4

the man with

boots strapped high

his

rifle upon

his back

and the grizzly bear woods

invited him

friendly

with the snapping of twigs

--

a hunter

is one with the

leaf

of a tree

as it falls gently

into

the breach of a meadow

--

crack!

the rifle recoils.

terrible things in blood

and

the grass left

lilting

poem I wrote at a movie

Hey fellows, this is the third post for the day, hurray. This is a poem I wrote tonight as I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey (during the intermission). Just another on-the-spot, inspired poem for all you fabulous fabies in the world.
Also, I just wanted to mention that you guys should check out this site by quarterly journal, Candy and Cigarettes:

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=206247249

They are having their second issue extravaganza at Club de Ville the night of our reading at Domy Books. So come hear us perform at 8PM, then gallivant over to Club de Ville and enjoy the festivities they have planned. Check out their site for more info and a page that let's you check out their journal. Cool!

poem for you:

poem written at Paramount Theater during 2001: A Space Odyssey intermission, Austin, 8-27-08

I see a

red curtain and

a

married girl

the balcony

streams feet and

gilded banisters

and I write

because I am seated

alone near

the top

looking down.

the music is

bland

wind electric

chandeliers

lower crooked

gold green.

I gaze

upward to find

an angel and

a harp

and oh oh

floral patterns.

thus far I’ve

seen

apes and robots

and

bones.

popcorn

if you dare

spill me

rows of kisses

and wide-eyed

searchers.

Erin and Jeff in the wild

Hey guys, here's another video from the vault. Watch Erin's hat! Gaze upon Jeff's beard! Listen to me say "Go!"

End Times #3 (click to download)

The saga contines…Hi, how are you? Its Wednesday here in Austin, TX what day is it where you are? I’ve posted the third section of “End Times.” The music for this part is a bit more quiet and introspective. I feel writers everywhere (really any creative person for that matter) can relate to Christopher’s poem. Listen. Bye until tomorrow.

text version:

end times 3

the writer in the

basement

with burgundy

curtains

says

oh

it all so swell can be

my

day if only

a writer

can say and

o

my my

lover of old years

has spilled milk upon her

chest

and ruined the silk

dress of yesterday

flashback to Okay Mountain

Hey, here's a short video of Jeff reading a poem at our reading at Okay Mountain last June. Dig!

End Times #2 (click to download)

The dark and moody “End Times” is back at you with section II. Christopher’s writing (and reading for that matter) inspired me to try some slightly new recording techniques. I didn’t so much compose music and “paint” music. Each section of this poem required a slightly different sound while at the same time I wanted each piece to sound like one continuous thought if they were ever played back to back to back. Recording detuned electric guitar strings being scraped and scratched with picks, fingernails, and dimes or pounding a distorted keyboard set to sound like insects all under the most over the top reverb are just some of the musical actions I performed on these “End Times.” On #2 I blasted a long distorted low note then went about plucking a completely out of tune electric guitar to produce the almost bell sounds you hear toward the end of the poem.


text version:

end times 2

the sky can be pink

nova

in the morning

before we’re

done

with ourselves

--

the seed of humanity

is

born

from a river

of hiss

and coo

and fishermen

that

cast out lines

of pure gold

into

the stream

--

it can then be said

of the folding

hue

of blue

in the horizon

that a mother’s

eyes

or

a crook of a father’s arm

a flashback to Motel 56

Hey guys, along with Jeff's post of an audio clip, here's a video clip to satisfy your desires. Look for more clips all week long as we wind down the days to our next performance. Also, watch me and Jeff look simple in this video as we wait for the right moment to jump into our reading.

End Times #1 (click to download)

Available for ear pleasure above is the first of an 11 part poem written by Christopher. The music I recorded for this section (and for the following parts) is full of very quick bursts of abrasive, metallic, dense and surprising audio mystery. I’ve never recorded sounds that reminded me of Lynchian nightmares quite like this before.

here's the text to follow along:

end times 1

the maiden of the morning

stood

alone

in the cabin

woods

near the lake

and

sang a lament for

all

that had happened

and

all that will

--

in the cabin were paintings of fire,

paintings

of

old men with black scarves,

paintings

of

roads that led deep

into darkness

--

she was not waiting for her husband.

the maiden

waited

to see the sunset

the birdman part VI

Hey love kids, how was the weekend? Getting ready for a performance from the Bohos? Well, come Saturday, you will be entertained. To celebrate the coming of austinnewblog's second live performance at Domy Books on August 30th (at 8PM, wink wink), I'll be posting little odds and ends we've accumulated during various recording sessions. And of course, more of the Birdman will be flying into your coup. Have a good week and don't get drunk on Tuesday.

the birdman began to cry. he was perched upon

a gentle fire escape.

across the way, a beauty was putting away her suitcase and

clothing. she was a black swan

in a desert or

something glass and quiet.

the birdman began to cry.

the second post - two prose poems based on Woody Allen's new film

Hey fellows, here is the second post (and it's a double within a double) for all you lovely people out there in the readerverse. I saw Woody Allen's new film, Vicky Christina Barcelona the other night and was inspired by it to write these two prose pieces. The basic premise of the movie is a love triangle, and a particular scene sees Scarlett Johansson knocking on Javier Bardem's door, ready to engage in a tryst. So that's where these pieces of wunderbar come from. Enjoy my friends.

travel logos 103

crash of piano stairwells down into a night of sleepless I love two girls in the spirit of old trees split by lightning. my face is easy to imitate. I have large cheeks and hazel eyes and a nose that is slightly stiff. my teeth are something else; she knows and she knows. I have a face of mischief, but it is my knees that buck. I kick. I scary and terrible and cobweb and old wooden floorboard and toss the steel hammer into a sheet of plate glass. we want the blood of the world; I love no one.

travel logos 104

a knock came upon the door. he opened and she, blonde as fire, entered. they

shared some wine. his fingers were trilling. she told him, oh, of the void and

the sense she had of sensing emptiness. she told him that her dreams were of

ivory elephants and purple spears in the ground, or the sky, or the sea. away to

the sea, she said, over and over. Antonio joked about his beard, his face, and

told her he was a brilliant painter. she believed him instantly. I know of such

things too, her eyes told him, and they kissed. the carpet was not a place for

love, but it held their bodies and careened under the motion of hips. all over

the world of volcanoes and glass fountains and the angry lion cages and the

asses of the hungry and the poor and the destitute shaking and screaming and

saying oh yes oh yes we are vessels and of this you know everything my love

to be a flute in your hand or a snake underfoot and shoes on a wire. ugly night

winds came upon the windows and Zelda lifted her nude frame from the floor.

if this is the best of all my intentions, she whispered. Antonio lay asleep,

innocent. his body sighed, it heaped, it held still then rolled. he was so

defenseless and Zelda began to cry looking upon it. the wine crashed in her head

and she ran to the bathroom. the mirror was wanting. the toilet was wanting.

shower head and tile floor, wanting wanting. she sat down in the midst of the

room and counted backwards from ten. all is easy, and she imagined herself

knocking once more upon a door. and tossing wine. and a wind and a marriage.

Antonio woke suddenly and realized he was alone. the wine served him better.

he placed his hands over his chest and began to count upward to one hundred.

the first post - the birdman part V

Hey guys, my internet connection was being stupid, so I'm just now able to get online and give you the next part of my "birdman" series. Hope you likes. Also, hey, look how hard us Bohos work to bring new media to you faithful readers (hope to see you at Domy on the 30th; wink wink). It's all for you, baby, and it's beautiful too.

an ugly gentleman with high

teeth finagled around a dumpster. the birdman pointed

his pistol.

the vagrant halted. the birdman laughed.

you can have it all.

he left the bum to his broken oranges.

Beelzebub (Jeff's Dream) [click here]

This is the Chris Daily version. Groove on the sweet music!

demo: Beelzebub (Jeff's Dream) [click here]

A few weeks ago I dreamed that my old high school friend David and I (let me direct you to the Restless Stags & Clean Wrinkles links on our blog roll) were in an eight person folk rock choir. We were performing in a small room and I sang this song:

Once I had a girl, she was devil
Once I had a girl, she wasn’t on the level
She was Beelzebub
Yeah, yeah oh yeah

I had a friend, his name was Lucifer
I had a friend, he reminded me of her
He was Beelzebub
Yeah, yeah oh yeah

The song, as I remembered it when I woke up, was kinda blues folky with a minor key feel. I demoed the tune as a simple two chord thing on my 8-track in my apt. Then I sent the demo to Chris Daily. He took what I did and improved it. He added wonderful musical touches and some killer guitar playing. Listen to the demo first then give your ears a treat by playing the Chris Daily version.

the birdman strikes again: part IV

Hey guys, it's been awhile since I've dropped a line on his adventures. Here's more of the birdman for you fabulous freaks.

the nature of a crime fighter, a super hero,

any old piece

of laundry atop the basket, prized

and fresh and newly

clean,

is of harrowing lights from

midnight lanterns, or the faint hiss of escaping

fog on a twilight street.

oh god it is beautiful, the birdman said,

and took care to stand still

under a street lamp corner. if a villain be muggy

and rugged now I have

much for him.

he was a birdman and thusly could not contain himself.

Hark! & Holy Shit! (click here)

Keeping it nostalgic...I've posted a recording of my poem Hark! & Holy Shit!. If you want to read along go back to my post (Success!!) on June 22, 2008 for the text. This is for several old friends...does anyone really remember Grapevine?

here's to old poems from old notebooks

Hey guys, I was going through some old notebooks to look at old drawings of mine after visiting a show on the artist Sol Lewitt at the Austin Museum of Art. In my stumblings, I came across this old poem I wrote some years ago and thought I'd share it with all of you. Here's to the past and all the wonder it contains. And also, I hope all of you out there are having loving days, great days, and if not, well I hope they get better. Enjoy.


you can't escape it,
I can't escape
it,
we're both in love
with the
world.

no smoke burnt from
the bark of the
ginger tree for
us to inhale.
razor wire,
flush open windows,
we can't fight
sunlight.

--

someone heard gunshots,
I think it
was my friend Jarod,
but that doesn't make
any sense.
wage a war,
find love,
the sun shines on all the wounded.

Christopher on the edge

Hey guys, here's some more video, giving you a sliver of a taste of what you can expect at our upcoming reading at Domy books on the 30th.

Christopher reads a poem

Hey guys, if you watch the previous Jeff video posted a couple of days ago, notice that this one starts immediately after. Ohhh! Movie magic. Also, this poem I'm reading can be found in our new literary zine, Boho Coco. Find it if you can!

Derailed on the Train Bound for Glory (mp3)

Today's post is a special one. Musician Chris Daily is going to be performing a unique solo set of tunes at the Domy Books event that we keep telling you fools about that will take place Aug 30th/8pm. Chris is working on a still untitled new CD in his one man production studio in the suburbs of Dallas/Ft. Worth. I've been lucky enough to hear some of the early demos for this CD and it should be at least as good as the last four albums. Ha! Chris's music is a strange beautiful combination of a vast array of musical influences somehow sorted out through precise home studio tinkering. If you think Lee Hazlewood, Tim Buckley, Miles Davis, Warren Zevon, Grateful Dead, Van Dyke Parks, Harry Nilsson, and The Band is weird group just get ready for the mp3 available above. Have a fine weekend groovin' on this sweet jam.

the museum is still open

Hey fellows, here is the next installment in the 'museum' series. Hope you guys are digging it, and oh goodness, isn't that curator just a blowhard? And hey, did you guys go check out the Boho Coco literary zine yet? Don't miss out (or just come to our Domy Books show on August 30th at 8PM). Cool.

4.

Alright, guests, just this way. Next we have a series of paintings depicting the sordid drinking life of film icon Humphrey Bogart. …I think he was elegant, don’t you? Anyway, the artist who composed these pieces, Aretha Dere, had what you might call an obsession with good old Bogie. She wasn’t just a fan, she would say, she was a lover.

There are five paintings in all. A movie legend stalks the frame. His face

is prominent in the first four, but only his knuckles and a glass of scotch

are evident in the final. The colors are mostly black or white with hints of

blue. Some have red when alcohol is prominent. Bogie does not seem to

care that he has an audience. He is cool as a cucumber. And most assuredly

sad. Too sad perhaps.

Yeah, there’s not much to say about these pieces –at in my opinion. Some argue that the image of Bogie suggests the aegis of the 20^th Century. I say: blah blah blah. Listen – I know it is expected of me to defend art in all its glories, but I was never really a big Bogie fan to begin with. I mean: Casablanca; great film, sure. And the image of his haunted eyes in the first two paintings in this room: brilliant, sure. But the Maltese Falcon? Really? A bit much for me. Kind of like the third painting here. Too much bravado. Dere – however – would say not enough. She held a belief that Bogie was more than just an image of sliver on screen. His very potent smile – she would say – indicated the American will, the right to rise and decimate and conquer and win. She saw in him – a quintessential actor, no doubt – the potency of American virility. With the fourth painting – Bogie turning a blind eye to the shattering of his liquor bottle – she suggested that the American spirit has been abandoned. I mean, of course it has. I suppose that is my problem with such figurative material. Her handling of paint is deft, certainly, but the prosaic statement she supposes is a bit sub par. Of course, my opinion need not be yours. I beg you – I suppose I beg myself – be humble before such works of aching obviousness. Who knows?

There are stranger worlds out there still. Hell, I might go see Bogie on the big screen at the film festival next weekend. I don’t know. Who can say? I must says – however – that I do enjoy the final painting in this series. I find it bold. To simply show a hand reaching for alcohol – for an object of slow dissolution and destruction – is a difficult undertaking. Be brave: that’s ultimately what these images purport to say. It may be best to believe them sometimes. Please, pace around. Be enveloped by Bogie’s stare. Feel free to take a moment.

Jeff is your man on the street

I know you didn't wait this long for your man, so here he is.

Ubiquitous Fire Water (click here)

A new chant poem for a new day. This is the sound of moonshine....

the birdman part III

Hey guys, here is the third installment of my poem "The Birdman." Also, big news: the austinnewblog literary zine Boho Coco is now out and about. You can find free copies at: Waterloo, Book People, Cheapo Discs, 12th Street Books, The Hideout, Progress Coffee, Bouldin Creek, and End of an Ear. Go out and get 'em while they last. Also, there will be more copies at our August 30th reading (at 8PM) at Domy Books. So go and chase those things down already; lord knows they need proper homes in the hands of literary lovers. Also also, Jeff and I were out and about today ourselves, shooting some video in some strange places, so look for that all week too. Cool. Enjoy the poem.

he made love not too long after.

a woman

of pale flesh, pale fire, did so lonely look across a cafe

as he entered.

the birdman was ready to chew off her shoes,

but she looked at him between cigarettes

and tapped him on the shoulder.

if a dream is only to be alive and to realize that

the hours are

not right

then the birdman made love until waking in the arms of a small

thing. her lips were

red as colors so bright not meant

formally. the birdman heard the roll

of the taxi outside

and thought of his daughter. she was

a lover too, fighting it out

somewhere amidst fire hydrants and curtain calls.

actress, he whispered, and his tiny

lover gazed upon him. then

he was

prepared to be alone.

North Austin.mp3

Hey guys, I was stranded in North Austin near Research tonight (I got off the bus at the wrong stop, trying to find my parent's apartment; don't ask!!! (I got honked at)) and created this lovely little audio only clip of my impressions and feelings. Come to North Austin, stay for the gravel! Click the link to be taken to a world o' wonder.

the birdman part II

Hey fabulous funsters, here's the second part to "The Birdman." Look out, he might be perched outside your window now. Also, go read Watchmen if you haven't already. Cowabunga! Also also, the literary journal form of austinnewblog - Boho Coco - will be hitting stores (ie. coffee shops, bookstores, broken into apartments) tomorrow. Cowabunga!

the birdman

sat in the corner of the alleyway. I oh I oh

I am a criminal

and what would I want, he pretended to think. his wife

was

in the past, his

rose leaf face was now,

the tire of the cab at midnight was two hours waiting.

the birdman was happy. he felt cold pistol in his hands and

watched older

children escape the strange rancor of the alleyways.

I am to be bitten tonight by the moon

so gallant, he hushed, and sat in the corner of the alleyway.

poetry Saturday featuring the Birdman

And everybody's having fun! Here's a new long-form poem I've written that I'll be posting in segments. It's titled "The Birdman," and it was inspired by Alan Moore's character Nite Owl from the awesome graphic novel "Watchmen." Alright, have a good day my best of friends.

at first

it

was merely about feathers in the chimney,

sparks of sapphire

to a common man,

but he must have been dreaming of giant birds. he must have

been dreaming of god.

a picture of a woman in an old robe red regal gone

sat upon the

dresser next to

him.

he was beside himself.

the old feeling struck once more,

to be new, to be humble, that made him correct

himself. he grabbed

a gun

and headed into the night,

like

the first few times, fighter of crime,

bat or owl,

fighter of injustice. as a child he dreamed of being a super hero.

the next wing of the museum

Hey dirigibles, here is the next scintillating part of the 'museum' collab-writing effort between Jeff and myself. And if you have brown eyes, well then, you're already seeing the truth. Dig!

3.

This next room here – and notice that all the walls are brown – contains several artists from the ‘Brown Collective.’ The collective was a group of like minded artists that believed the color brown was an access point for truth – heaven, or so I like to say. And although the idea may sound ludicrous to you, our first artist here - Deacon George – found it to be transcendent beauty.

There stands a brown stick, natural in appearance, but artificial through

and through. It smells distinct and impartial. Its crooks are careful

and strategic. An eerie sense of otherworldly origin is evident. The

stick erects itself from the ground through sheer will. Atop the pointed

stick rests a brown eyeball. When walking around the stick the eye

follows. If one stares intently at the eye, tears may come.

George first posited the idea that if the eyes were the gateway to the soul, and if his were brown, that the color itself must be some indicator of truth. By utilizing this color – by creating things such as his stick here – George sought to commune with the truth. He would go around town painting brown mustaches on movie posters. I once read somewhere where he said he wished the sun was brown. It was this passion for the color brown that got the ball rolling for the collective. The truth as we know it is elusive, but here, George said, here is a touchstone for those hungry and eager. And he delivered that message to fellow artists and they, dutifully, followed.

Our next artist, Regina Gray Gray, was the first follower of George to expand upon his idea. Oh gosh, she was a wonderful damsel. She took the color brown – the search for truth – and simply ran with it. She broadened the scope of the entire collective.

There is a painting of brown border and brown interior. The only

noticeable difference is the hole punched in the center. It has the

shape of a fist. It is menacing. The great hung painting in the center

of the room is a grimace. The painting explores in truth and tone.

Glory in the tough, violent textures of thick oils.

Gray took George’s idea of brown’s representation of truth and juxtaposed the artist’s reach in her interpretation. If brown was the gateway, she boldly claimed, then to place it taut upon a pictorial frame and pierce it was to pierce the truth itself. What insights might we gain, she wondered. She punched the hole herself. Apparently – oh this is just such a great folksy art story – shortly after Gray’s father passed away, she created this piece. She wanted to touch the other side, reach beyond her mortal capabilities. She was not religious, no no, but out of desperation, she sought to achieve an utter act of humanity. This is a piece of twisted grief, here on display for you. I like to think of her, her suffering, as I gaze upon this beautiful canvas. Did she reach a new truth? Who can say? But Gray did consider this moment to be the actualization of the ‘Brown movement.’ From then on, she supplanted George as the main proponent of the brown idea of truth.

Which leads us next to Maxwell Barshoom. He was Gray’s first lover and contributed found objects that were brown or browned by their neglect.

A pair of loafers hang from the ceiling, suspended by wire. They

do not smell, but they do look worn. It is easy to imagine an artist

kicking curbs in them. It is easy to see them upon an average man’s

foot and removed with fury at day’s end. A brown bag rests underneath

the shoes. Half-eaten foods languish in the sack. It is oddly comfortable;

it is oddly familiar.

Barshoom titled the piece “home-sweet-home.” He felt that the shoes symbolized travel, and to travel into the truth – he said – one must be utterly prepared. The food in the brown bag acted as fuel and would – in his words – yield energy necessary to walk with the truth. It was an act of divinity in Barshoom’s mind. He did, in fact, wear the shoes on several occasions, the final being to a terribly wonderful discotheque that used to be nestled in the warehouse district. On that night, a famous comet soared in the overhead, blazing a trail in the sky. Barshoom took this to be portent and dove straight into the Bo River that very night. He did not die, but from then on he would wear only white shoes. Apparently his color perspective had changed. Funny enough, Gray called the man newly colorblind. He dropped out of the movement shortly after. There is a song – I believe – that goes something like the brown shoes don’t quite make it. Or shoes make the man?

Yes, next we see Karen Nederson. She was only in the collective for a few years – just a minor character really – but she did contribute a rather splendid idea to the language of the browns.

There is a large photograph of a voluptuous woman painted head to

toe with brown paint. She is nude. She is a goddess, a mother.

Her face is blank, eyes closed. Her hair is done up. Her feet are small

and lacking, but not beaten and used. Her arms are stretched out

towards the viewer asking something.

Nederson thought that if she painted herself in the truthful color of brown, she could be a vessel for the truth itself. She deemed that in her guise, she would be a fount of wisdom and of beauty. The paint, she exclaimed, must be applied only to a nude frame, for to stand in the shadow of the truth strips us all, as she would often say. Funny story, actually: she was arrested twice in the village for public nudity. Ah, what a crazy kid. But, like I said, she only stayed with the group for several years before proceeding towards racier aspects of the nude female form. I think she had a show recently, yes, at New Task Center for the Arts. I believe it was titled “Butterfly,” but was not too successful. But, c’est la vie, right?

Anyhow, that leads us to our final artist on display, the magnificent Ted Tigh. He was the last of the true brown artists. His was the most gallant concept of all.

Hung low from the high ceiling is an airplane wing. Alongside is a

picture of an entire aircraft painted over in brown. The entirety of the

subject is mesmerizing. At night, such a vessel could be confused

for a UFO. It was a UFO.

Tigh took Nederson’s concept of applying brown paint to a vessel and decided to adorn his plane with the hue. He thought of angels, I’m sure, and in painting his vehicle in the brown of truthful telling, he hoped to fly about as an emissary of the truth. Tigh was a marvelous dreamer – he also painted many bikes and cars brown – but one night, in his brown plane, he became lost. The story goes that he did not turn up for several days. When asked where he’d been, what happened, he replied in one word: heaven. Tigh extrapolated the journey of the color brown one step further to suggest that it is also a gateway to heaven. Some accused the man to be an opportunist and a liar, a manipulator and propagandist. But don’t worry, folks, I say forget that. Art is capable of all things. If Tigh said he went to heaven, then I believe he did. He was a wonderful man – and I would like to say – incapable of lying. Ahh, but well, the controversy surrounding Tigh’s disappearance was enough to disband the collective. It was with heavy hearts – I assure you – George and Gray gave up the pursuit of the color brown. When asked why, they simply replied that the truth had been sullied.

Well, that’s it, then, for this room. The five artists we feature can give you a well rounded idea towards the goals and functions of the “Brown Collective.” We hope – truly – that you do absorb as much as you can from these pieces. I mean, really, it’s a marvelous idea – hell, sometimes I want to paint my face blue, so there you go. Ha. But anyway, look around, I implore you. Forget that there is only one hue and delve into the varied world of these marvelous artists. True – yes, I know I know, ha ha, believe me I know – the color brown might have a more disgusting connotation, but these artists beg that you look beyond that, traverse and transcend truth with them. I promise you’ll be rewarded.

a strange man...

I saw a white haired man today at work who inspired this minor poem. The picture above is not the man I saw, wish it was though. I hope this bit of word play is fun to read.

His beard is as white
As powdered drugs
His smile is as black
As midnight bugs

He wakes from a bed
Of dirty needles
And starts his day
With breakfast eels

He goes to the store
Dressed in flesh
He arrives back home
W/leeches on his chest

For dinner he licks
Frozen antique nails
For dessert he eats a
Bowl of lab rat tails

He makes no apologies
He likes being weird
We shouldn’t judge
The oddball w/the white beard

hail poetry

Hey, to celebrate Jeff's rejection, here are some omnipresent, maxi-character driven poems about the good ol' life of a lowdown poet ho-et. Dig! Also, come see us for crying out loud (as Jeff mentioned below at Domy Books, August 30th, 8PM).

untitled 4550

take care

as to be the monster

who

was

your

father on the day of the death of

your

bicycle

and in dying to be

bright

colors

across an empty house

untitled 4549

youth

I tore

off my skin

to

arrive at a place

of

brick and mortar

a churchyard

or

an old parking

lot

with three old men in an alley

singing

praise be

praise

be

we’re all going to make it

and

a car tire left kicked

and

curled in the twilight of the eve

untitled 4548

it’s not to

kill

we’re not

jazz city nights

big

women and flute

solos

across mulberry

parking lots

oh

it’s not to be the killer

of the destroyer

in

this kingdom of bugs

and fleas

and whatevers creeping in alleyway

piss

puddle

we we’re meant to

be

indigo or

violet or blue

reality bites

As the blog project takes off and more starts happening here in Austin town I sometimes forget how difficult the publishing/writing life is. I received an e-mail that both disappointed me and made me laugh.

Dear readers, I had sent out a few poems here and there for publication outside this blog/poetic group known as the Boho Coco's and have been waiting for word from these various publishers. Anyway, I read this e-mail just minutes ago:

Subject: Re: Poetry Submission

Mr Daily,
I am very sorry it took me this long to get to your collection, and sorry,
too, to say that these first-person-singular driven poems are not really our
cup of tea.

Best,

E.


--Editor
B.O.B Press

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

So, to this I say...When all else fails DO IT YOURSELF!!

Austin, get ready for issue #1 of the Boho Coco Lit Journal. It will be printed next week and become available for free at area locations. It will feature my poetry, as well as the writings of Christopher, Erin, some pics, some drawings, and more.

We will also be reading/performing at Domy Books 913 E. Cesar Chavez Aug. 30 - 8pm - DON'T BE LATE, ha...musical guest Chris Daily and poet/artist Josh Rios will also be performing with us. It will be quite a night.

Best Wishes,

J.

poems that bite

Here are some poems from my heart to yours. Happy day!

p.s. the poem at the bottom is one I wrote four years ago; whoa, things change!

this being the thing I write, now at 26, to be charming

let me tell you,

I have had profound reasoning

on my

birthday,

today:

it started out that the movie

I chose

was not stalwart nor

great

but merely slavish of my

dry dry soul;

then my

brothers, my parents,

booze in my system.

I called Jarod

back

and thanked him and then this

moment

oh yes of great

reminder:

I forgot my bus pass

but was allowed passage;

a young thing

read BRAVE NEW WORLD;

the NEW YORKER

published

a short fiction by ROBERTO BELANO.

so it is right

that my face

is round and yet have

I to look older

than a tree stump.

yes I have crashed my bike

red around town and glistened in the AUSTIN

sun.

yes I have hated

that I am so small.

but thank

you

I shook the bus driver’s

hand

although he knew not
why

.

and then I nearly got ran over

by a car –

or was that earlier? –

and I was glad that I knew of a world

where everything

lacked

,

and myself,

and that it can only be a river

of black

black water

or

bright blue sunshine upon

my

face

and it is good that my friends are lovers,

losers,

and utterly

forgotten

by dusty satellites that

crash crash

crash.

I am the earth.

I am brand new.

untitled 970

“but I don’t want to feel alone”

(could you help me)

?

golden is a sound

we’ve

fallen into

out

of habit

,

like an old song

once

played too much

on

our fashion radios

(golden is the face of love)

.

I want to climb

out

of

this life

and become a monster

or

a god

of the next

(your health isn’t as important as your soul)

the epic odes of a man possesed with breaking his neck while dancing on stairwells

Hey guys, it's a fine day and I figured I'd post these voice only recordings of me reciting "the epic odes of a man possessed with breaking his neck while dancing on stairwells." I performed these last June at Okay Mountain, but if figured I'd post them here in audio only, no visual, ooohhhh! Have a good day, fellows.

p.s. just click the link to get swept away to a world of sound