Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
end times 4
the man with
boots strapped high
and the grizzly bear woods
with the snapping of twigs
is one with the
of a tree
as it falls gently
the breach of a meadow
the rifle recoils.
terrible things in blood
the grass left
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
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:
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,
I see a
red curtain and
streams feet and
and I write
because I am seated
the music is
upward to find
an angel and
and oh oh
thus far I’ve
apes and robots
if you dare
rows of kisses
end times 3
the writer in the
it all so swell can be
day if only
can say and
lover of old years
has spilled milk upon her
and ruined the silk
dress of yesterday
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
end times 2
the sky can be pink
in the morning
the seed of humanity
from a river
cast out lines
of pure gold
it can then be said
of the folding
in the horizon
that a mother’s
a crook of a father’s arm
Monday, August 25, 2008
here's the text to follow along:
end times 1
the maiden of the morning
in the cabin
near the lake
sang a lament for
that had happened
all that will
in the cabin were paintings of fire,
old men with black scarves,
roads that led deep
she was not waiting for her husband.
to see the sunset
Sunday, August 24, 2008
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.
Friday, August 22, 2008
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 103crash 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.
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
the vagrant halted. the birdman laughed.
you can have it all.
he left the bum to his broken oranges.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
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.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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
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.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
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?
Monday, August 18, 2008
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
we're both in love
no smoke burnt from
the bark of the
ginger tree for
us to inhale.
flush open windows,
we can't fight
someone heard gunshots,
I think it
was my friend Jarod,
but that doesn't make
wage a war,
the sun shines on all the wounded.
Friday, August 15, 2008
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.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
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.
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 20th 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:
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.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
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.
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
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
prepared to be alone.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
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.
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!
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
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
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.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
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.
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
he was beside himself.
the old feeling struck once more,
to be new, to be humble, that made him correct
himself. he grabbed
and headed into the night,
the first few times, fighter of crime,
bat or owl,
fighter of injustice. as a child he dreamed of being a super hero.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
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!
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
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.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
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
Monday, August 4, 2008
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).
as to be the monster
father on the day of the death of
and in dying to be
across an empty house
off my skin
arrive at a place
brick and mortar
an old parking
with three old men in an alley
we’re all going to make it
a car tire left kicked
curled in the twilight of the eve
it’s not to
jazz city nights
women and flute
it’s not to be the killer
of the destroyer
this kingdom of bugs
and whatevers creeping in alleyway
we we’re meant to
violet or blue
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
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.
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.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
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
it started out that the movie
was not stalwart nor
but merely slavish of my
dry dry soul;
brothers, my parents,
booze in my system.
I called Jarod
and thanked him and then this
oh yes of great
I forgot my bus pass
but was allowed passage;
a young thing
read BRAVE NEW WORLD;
the NEW YORKER
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
yes I have hated
that I am so small.
I shook the bus driver’s
although he knew not
and then I nearly got ran over
by a car –
or was that earlier? –
and I was glad that I knew of a world
and that it can only be a river
bright blue sunshine upon
and it is good that my friends are lovers,
by dusty satellites that
I am the earth.
I am brand new.
“but I don’t want to feel alone”
(could you help me)
golden is a sound
like an old song
played too much
our fashion radios
(golden is the face of love)
I want to climb
and become a monster
of the next
(your health isn’t as important as your soul)
Friday, August 1, 2008
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