News: Live Reading Oct 23 @ 12th Street Books

Greetings...

I would like to announce a big October event (not Halloween):

We austinnewblog boho coco's will be hosting a live reading in celebration of issue #2 of our LIT ZINE. The reading will be held at 12th Street Books here in Austin (827 W. 12th Street, Austin, TX 78701)at 7:30 pm Oct. 23. This poetry event will be the third installment of the "Night of the Boho Coco" series. The poets reading are: Jeff Daily, Christopher Savage, Erin Vaughan, Nikki Hampson, Don Webb, and Miguel Martinez.

more museum but can you dig it?

Hey chaps, here's another entry in Jeff and my 'museum' masterwork. Zounds!

7.

Come now, folks, we are almost at the end of our tour. Have you been enjoying yourselves? I think – yes, I think – that it has been resplendent. But, as all things, my good patrons, they end, don’t they? Well, come along. We have a real treat for you next.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you: Grumblecore. Yes, look around you, step into the room, watch a film clip our two, and put the headphones on in the meditation room. It’s a movement – oh I don’t know – that’s accepting of all kinds. Even if you hate it, you love it. Oh, but I’ve said too much already. Go on. Dive in.

There is a large room composed of tiny alcoves and short benches.
On the far wall a large screen showing waves and electro pulses and
a 1-2-3-4 countdown to a film; a projector hides from view, putting
image to sound to space. Other walls contain other movies clashing
and grooving to the facets of ugly people applying makeup to genitals
and simple looking dudes smashing pies into sidewalk café windows.
The alcoves, tiny black hideaways carved into the remaining two walls,
are full of headphones, ten or so per nook, covered with silver paint and
black speckle. The headphones posses groans and trembles, wails at
times, and more often than not, temper tantrums and childish rants. The
overall mood is a grumy slump of human experience. The movie is
not overarching, but it is sly. It shows one man stood in front of a bus
stop forcefully grumbling and giving looks of anger and dread to the
passersby. This could be any street. And in the center of the room,
written upon the floor, white letters read, “Who cares? Pro bono?
Enhh…” It is a dark piece of curtain-slung-world that exists like this;
the sound of the place is hushed annoyance.

Okay folks, had time? Yeah? Well, I think this installation is marvelous. To enter an entire universe proper, to be enveloped not just by the sight nor the sound, but – I like to believe – the very feel of what it must have been to be epicenter to an art movement. Yes, Grumblecore: this is it. Created by one simple mad man named D Diderson Diderono, it is a cause celebre of malaise and discontent. Diderono was a regular Joe, once upon a time. He was – in fact – a civil engineer for some years. Somewhere in his mid-thirties – although some dispute the time frame exactly – was when Diderono started making his art. The very first piece he came up with was an apple pie with a nail file in it. Apparently he gave it to his boss as a joke. He quit that same day. And then soon enough, his general prankish taste in art gave way to an overall disenchantment about the world at large. He started smacking people with cakes and started defecating on laws and began calling it his manifesto. And he gathered some followers on the way, oh boy did he. Great, wonderful, marvelous people who would go on to participate in other seminal moments in art history found themselves lured to the mystique and grandeur of Diderono. Oh, let’s see: there’s Gretchen Greco, founder of the Nameless Painters; Simon O, founder of the rock group Ain’t Nothing Been Happening Since the Dawn of Time; Gerard Uni, the now deceased man behind the parody of the Statue of Libery, the Statue of Disparity; and then we also have Nina McKone, the sad sweet girl behind the Ivory Wall installation in New Francisco and the Black Ball in Philsey. It was wonderful, a good time to be alive and to be artistic. A grand creative spark, oh yes. But, okay, you may be asking: what the hell does Grumblecore mean? I think it’s really all about letting loose in the face of domestication, of post-modernization, globalization, gentrification, lousy love, rat bastard politicians, and the academic defeat of the infantile curious mind. Grumblecore – for me at least – is very much these things and more. It’s a dirty t-shirt, it’s a pair of torn sneakers, it’s a cat left out on a cold porch with claws and alabaster. Oh geez, I do wax poetic when near these maniacs. No, folks, really, I like to come here and just listen to the groans and watch the old maniac at the bus stop. It is primitive and ephemeral. This – yes I say – is a force that needs a reckoning. It’s no wonder after getting sick of his art, Diderono jumped off a subway platform and hid as a train sped by him, nearly ripping his nose off. It’s no wonder he just disappeared into a hermit’s life and never came back. Most importantly, however, this movement, Diderono’s art, the creative community that broke bread with him, is founded on the ideal that modern day living is just the pits. It’s refreshing that these objects are here, that these people were on the warpath, for us. That we can take a deep breath – or not – and the world will still roll and the disillusion – the fact that yes, none of us are alone – will be there to meet it. The world is beautiful in its ugliness, glorious in its trash. Oh – I didn’t coin that phrase either. That’s from our man Diderono, ever-grump-poet that he was.

Well, I encourage you, take some more time, really listen, sit and be grumpy. Maybe grumble yourself. Be free, friends, be free.

something new for you

Hey, here is the first of what I'm going to call my 'experimental poetic films.' The poem I'm reading is "untitled 4656." This whole thing's an idea I've had for some time, so I hope you guys can get into it. Bonus: I'll write a poem for anyone who can name the streets I'm walking on as I read. Dig!





text version of poem:

untitled 4656

alone alone

alone

to sit and sink

into

the night

and be inky webbed

strands

of the universe

singing oh singing

it is the day

of our lives

to become upturned car

hoods

in

the jungle

life is strange.mp4

International Boho Poetry Bonanza Week Week is over! Was it good for you, my sex love dumplings out there basking in the luminescence of our literary wormhole? Gee, I sure hope so. And, to give you a little more kiss kiss, here's an audio poem to cement the death of the poetry week. Boo hoo hoo, the king is dead, long live the king. Life is strange (click the post title to go to a world of sound and fury).

give it to me baby

Hey, in celebration of all things vernal and all things changing, here is a poem that celebrates to every day turn turn turn, to every season turn turn turn.


the adventures of braggarts

there are no women
who
wear dresses
and pledge
kisses

upon
your brow

you know this
simpleton

and the island
you
grew upon

is just a dust image on
a Polaroid
.

give us some taste
on our tongues
and

we have the night to ourselves

get in a car crash

poems and loems and bloems and hoems

If it rhymes, it's on times. If it's great, celebrate.


the last day of September saw me in my apartment looking at my shoes

I ate a cucumber
and
dreamed of
its children

coming for me
with tiny

eyes;

the last of us dogged
old
sons can

get along okay

if we remember our ceilings cave
in only when we want
them
to

and the abstract of the color red
across a female's
lips is
simply a hand across a thigh.

Again, Another 6 More Hours

Night is at backwards noon with the moon drawing first wink.
I respond with two winks, then grin twice as I step forward 
onto the cold sidewalk and feelings emerge. Mending the pain 
I stand at the concrete womb. Warmth gathers at the soles 
of my boots and I grin again. I then share the sound of the moon 
with the quiet clouds and the growling stomach of the night cricket. 

I am surrounded by yellow tile and forced into fogged glass, killing 
time by planning to scratch off face fur. Intimacy builds at the end 
of the sharp iron and a new grin is revealed. Anxiety races through 
my veins and camps north of the brain. I must now plan war with the meds 
and face my fear. White, brown, white, 2, 4, 6, yes 2, 4, 6 I say with 
relief. My unconscious desires to feast on voice sex creeps in and numbers 
add onto my uncontrollable fetish. 

3:33 A.M. now tickling the hairs on my wrist and I hang up the VISA 
fed phone hump. I am becoming aware of the day like a coyote and 
late night meat is reserving a room in my belly. Before I map out the 
nightly 2 blocks west I must defeat my efforts to shake and greet 
the goodbye door. My feet strike like a match as I glide strategically 
down the street, finally reaching the glowing stove dressed up in 
number 59. Selecting the booth facing the swinging hot door, I can 
eye the small smiles of Nelly. She understands that my mind is on 
crouches and knows the science to my departed meal. 

In 2 hours a morning glow will rise from the south and my chances 
on sinking into a black dream is thin. I am battling sheep and my radio 
is suffering from a cold. Panic begins to build behind my eyes. My 
reading lamp, my books, my blue chair that was passed down by mother 
and even my favorite Waits album is mocking me. I want to vomit. 
I feel like as if I am trapped on a rollercoaster on reverse. My skin is 
screaming and so I am now tapping into the last of my meds as I 
settle myself into a corner away from the hell. 

Time has grown into 6 A.M. and another night has left with the stars 
and the leaping cow. I find myself back outside with the now belly 
stuffed cricket ready to be brunch to the early song bird. I draw first
wink at the morning moon and grin twice once again as I step 
forward onto the cold sidewalk and a feeling emerges….

another day another poem on the roam roam

Hey, for you, a poem, for me, a post. Enjoy the rest of International Poetry Boho Big Bang Post Poem Week. Maybe write a poem on your underwear?


neon

the neon creeps
of no
guttural skills

shout
a lamppost

and lord it
up

with poisoned faces
and

glowing teeth

around the neon
beer
bottle god

and disrobe their artifacts
in
clean circles
of glass

Felix poem for a sluggish Thurs.

Felix the cat
has a boner
on my bookshelf.
I think all those poets are dead.

poem from a lady

Hey guys, here in the body of this post is a poem written by Candyrockstar that she left in the comment section of one of the previous Boho Week of Poetry Lusty Extravaganza. We read and we respond, oh yeah. So any other posters out there, don't be shy to give us a snippet or two. Thanks a lot, Candyrockstar, you are amazing amongst the wreckage of our postmodern fantasia.

Candyrockstar's poem:

i'm just like that tiny black widow

i'll crawl into your bed

take what i want

and leave with your head

without a stir, still peaceful like a prayer

i don't mind

the lack of backbone

or the fact that my love

is only as sweet

as the shapeless webs i weave

or the poison i make you drink

from dripping lips

as i collect your gifts-

your attempts

to calm me down

but i'm not here to listen to your song

of sweet release

you should have known

i'd never let you leave

no one gets away from me that free

Boho C. v. Gold County PM v. Prosody

VS.



Boho rides again
Off into the golden county
Home is nowhere near…
Only the new faces tell us we’re somewhere

Conspiring with the compass
October’s ghost mask appears
Calvary poets labor for language
On the trail toward the end of the night

BoHo CoCo vs The GCPM vs Poetry Week

and built there
i find
an expensive
anomaly
of machinery
and
villages

in all their
impossible
opaque
phases

giving purpose
to some of
the strangest
debris

slow day poetry

Hey fellows, here's a poem I wrote in the damn ACC computer lab (seeing as my beloved internet connection is on the fritz at home). Tomorrow, I'm climbing the Time Warner headquarters and I'm going to pee on top of it! Bastards! Oh, here's the poem.

yesterday

in the creekbed

with

temper tantrums

the god of iron

and the god

of

cotton

spat upon each other

and

cried.

oh mother, come now

to

deliver us the

hawk for

breakfast

and take of our cheeks your

razors and

your wit

Very dry bourbon

Giving up on this backwards clown face.

No confetti or cake from the crowd.

Going to wash out this sober happy hour.
Catch a flick that whores out free grins.
And pour out the last call.

Earth Contact

Under the sun I gossip with the grass


And its shadows show,


As I lend an ear for jazz,


Played by the black crow.


Then with my eyes, I flirt with the tree


For it may be a sin,


To stare at whats free,


And want to dive in.


Then wind brushes my lips


And they began to go dry,


For water I need to sip,


Which is water I need to cry.


But if my senses know nature,


I am only a creature.

Out on the tiles

Intimate elephants greet me at the door

And character carries me in.

Old achievements sit above the bar

And old friends sit below the smoke.

The barmaid is not French

But the British sure like this yard.

Beers rain in from far and wide,

And the booze hangs cool with rocks and the neat.

Music climbs from out of the circus box,

And above the ceiling music walks as well.

My elbows rest on the tiles

And my back slumps like a smile.

The Harp is not an instrument,

Yet I love to play it by the pint.

Food from the grill is the best around,

And from the look of this jungle,

Kipling might come.

Locust Poem

Via candyrockstar prompt I bring you Locust Poem. Keep the comments coming! Also, contribute yr poetry...We are all about community and sharing creative works. -J

I heard about
The locusts
One night
When I was young
A fire was popping
In place of television
And my grandfather spoke of a
Vile plague
For months people cried in tantrums over
An unstoppable
Thick
Moving fear cloud full of sound
Full of locusts
And when that swarm sang their
Clipped songs
Direct from the
Destroyer of man’s songbook
All people had was the power of prayer
&
Petition was thought to be the only solution for
Fighting the invasion
&
Cleansing humanity
From deeds done evil
But then the locusts disappeared
Early
After
Ravaged Mother moaned
Soil death!
Sustenance seed for naught!
Haunted children
Afraid of the locust choir
Hid their tears
And waited

My youth mind
Keeps thinking we are in for plague

the first responsive poem of the week

Hey, Candyrockstar suggested the topic 'shattered glass' in a comment to the first poem of the international boho coco poetry week contest extravaganza (the prize is that you get to read consecutive words structured in aesthetic form and deviation). So, without anymore hullabaloo, here is an entirely original poem (oh entirely!) created with the aegis of 'shattered glass.'

perspectives of a dimension composed of shattered glass

1

the sky is not

of our flesh

but is of our teeth

2

the wrinkles on old mother's

face go

round in patterns

that spell majesty oh

3

lovers young

have scars upon their

stomachs and

throats and kiss there

4

the way home

of honey sunlight stall

we go down

the river with our old bathtubs

and kitchen sinks

5

more of more people

climb atop ancient

skyscrapers and

toss themselves off

gently

6

love waits

in the forest near the

hobo scraps

and the dead

campfire

7

oh my father was his

own favorite

butcher and his back

was

cut with cow

ribs

8

at the top of the world

the telephone man

in black boots reachs

out

9

the musicians that

hide in the brush

oh hiss

come close I must will have

a touch of your

cheek

10

descrying the fire drum

leaves you spent

and you become gold

and you sink

thus begins a week full of po'tree...

As Christopher stated, this week we boho coco austinnewblogger's want to do a week of poetry. If you like what you read make a comment. Give us a topic to write about. Write yr own poem in the comment section. Do something else. Do nothing. Below is a newish poem from the next book idea I've been working on the last couple of months. It isn't close to complete, but I think a little preview is in order. So enjoy the week of poetics, and don't be shy about contributing!

Packing Up Apt. #1512

So long apt. #1512
The time has come for me to move on
I arrived here a single man 2 ½ years ago
I was twenty-three
I’m twenty-six as of this poem
In love relationship adult
And very different

This tiny one bedroom apt. used to be enough
For me and my guitars
My music
My words
And my dreams
It was even good enough to accommodate K
Her cat, Maggie
And all the furniture we picked out
In the beginning

But now it is too small
We are tired of the neighborhood
We want to live somewhere that feels like a home
I’m no longer the sad songwriter
Glad to be on my own – employed
I want more
I want to build a life for my love and I
A life we can be proud of and share

I say “so long” to the walls dirty white and marked with scuffs
I say “so long” to the carpet Maggie stained food stained life stained
I say “so long” to the living room once just chair and a few things then a place for the two of us to relax
I say “so long” to the kitchen stove crusty oven burned countertops covered in crumbs and wine spots pantry empty of canned goods refrigerator you have some mustard and milk but we’re going to clean you out too!
I say “so long” to the balcony how many evening conversations and morning coffee times have you over seen
I say “so long” to the doors the windows the ceiling how you kept life safe and kept this apt. like a fortress of solitude
I say “so long” to the bedroom where comfort was the key and love came and rest was the name of the game
I say “so long” to the bathroom you dirty smelly room how did my girl ever deal with you?
I bid this shelter farewell!
We’ve grown apart apt. but someone new will find you

II.

Get ready stuff, you’re going for a ride!
Books in boxes
CDs in boxes
Records in boxes
TV, VCR in boxes
Pictures, toiletries, kitchen ware, everything in boxes
Naked shelves are quiet in the middle of the living room
Naked walls full of holes watch K and I as we shuffle and clean house
We have cars ready to move our stuff
We have a U-Haul ready to carry the furniture to our new place
After the kind labor of good friends we’re so gone
Get ready new home!

III.

What, if anything, will I miss about apt. #1512?
Not much at first
But as I drive away the memories will flood
I’ll think about finding this apt. in the desperate week before my new job
My new city
Far away from friends and family all alone
I’ll think about my first night of Little Caesar’s pepperoni pizza tiny portable DVD player Annie Hall, and air mattress for sleep
I’ll think about how I strummed my guitar satisfied and ready to start this phase of life
I didn’t have much and I didn’t know a soul, but I wasn’t scared
I had a job and that was my only obligation
This one bedroom seemed huge to me
The neighborhood was all apt. complexes and a ton of students roamed the streets
The “east Riverside” area was dirty and, little did I know, kind of looked down on, but it was nice enough for a young man like me at the time
I didn’t want to live like a king
I’ll miss the first time I went to the bus stop completely innocent and ready for the first day of work
I’ll miss coming home tired and just flopping down on my air mattress for a nap
I’ll miss the first weekend and grocery shopping and looking for entertainment
I’ll miss the first time my family visited
I’ll miss the time Aaron came up from San Antonio to hangout
I’ll miss the time Mike moved down the street and we were neighbors and coworkers
I’ll miss the beginnings of a new group of friends and the maturing of my empty place to a place full of books & music & the odd pieces of small furniture
I’ll miss the first time I called K
I’ll miss the time she drove me home
I’ll miss the first time she came over
I’ll miss the giddy youthful flush of new romance in a tiny apt.
I’ll miss all the togetherness and the day she moved in with me
I’ll always remember apt. #1512

the beginning of poetry week

Hey guys, it's international poetry week here at the blog and to reward you all for your vigilance of the printed (or electronic!) word, we are posting an original poem every damn day! Even better, if you leave a comment to one of the poetry posts, we'll compose a brand new poem based on whatever you suggest and we'll feature it the next day. Holy cow, sounds like a barrel full of monkeys. Also also, if that didn't get you wet enough, then listen to this: just submit a poem of your own in the comment section of a poetry post and we'll feature that snippet the very next day in a post of your own. Jesus H Crikey, doesn't that sound like a peach? Alright, enough with old man Jed Clampet going on and on here. The first post of international Boho poetry week, all for you. Get some.

untitled 4669

sawdust mouth

girl

you careful tooth

around

the open field

but still

find cut glass feet

slop

in the small hours of dusk.

I love

you

oh love

you

copperhead

motor

heart

lozenge figure

raw

gray bent leaf

the museum comes for you at midnight

Hey guys, here's the next part of Jeff and my collaborative writing effort, 'Museum.' Holy cow, Jeff picked some awesome material for me to base this piece on. Let's just say, don't read this if you're about to get into a wicked game of one-on-one self-pleasure. Ohhhhhh!

6.

Okay folks, our next piece is rather graphic, and I must say at this time all those who do not wish to view explicit sexual acts need leave. Don’t fret, I will come and notify you once this part of the tour is over. Thank you.

Alright, for those remaining, follow me. I have to admit, I’m impressed by how many of you chose to stay and view the next exhibit with me. What you’re about to see has gotten our Boho Coco Museum in some trouble. But art is ever defended by the Constitution. Simply arrive with open eyes and an open mind, that’s what I always say. Ah, here we are. The exhibit is just beyond these doors. I think you should go in there a moment without for a moment. Allow yourself to be affected by the work. Remember, open minds, open minds. Okay.

In a small room without windows, four projectors shine upon the walls.
They display moving images of elderly men and women performing
fellatio upon strange penises. The sounds of old clips of C-Span echo off
the walls. And although the room is very small, its ceiling appears to
stretch on forever. And though the elderly sexed people are spry, they
have wrinkles and they have blemishes. And although the penises pictured
are long and stiff, they are discolored and are un-profound. The voices of
senators and representatives haunt the establishment.

So, folks, how was the moment alone? Do you feel offended? You know, truthfully, I suppose this piece does offend me. It’s my least favorite in the entire museum. It seems cheap and obvious to me, but, as a good curator, I am above opinions and preferences when giving a tour. I can simply say that their acts of oral pleasure leaves me could. I think it could have been beautiful, but… Ahem! Excuse me; forgive me my tangent. I believe it obvious that the artist is seeking to assault the viewer, but perhaps you’ve all seen differently than I. And if you have – bravo – I commend you. I, however, cannot stomach this piece for much longer. Please step out with me now and I will explain more.

Okay: the artist who made the work was named Reginal Vlance. He was a contradiction of sorts. Vlance was known to be a provocateur, but he was also notoriously shy of the limelight. He considered himself a failure, but to attest to his prowess, he dubbed himself the “Senator of Sex.” So years went by and art was made, but his particular piece was not conceived until the timely passing of Vlance’s maternal grandmother. He decided that it would be appropriate – no, necessary – to pay the woman tribute. First he experimented with pictures of her nude body. The inactivity inherent in her frame startled him. Next, he composed statues of her form and dropped them from heights and blew them apart with dynamite, recording the process. But this too disconcerted Vlance. He felt pressed to forge onward. Then Vlance chanced upon a soundbite from a local politician. The man claimed to be a champion of the elderly, that he would grant them a voice in the body politic. This – Vlance decided – was exactly what he needed to do. To provide the elderly with motion, with movement, to animate them – if not for his dearly departed grandmother – then as tribute for the entire society of the aged. Vlance then took his sobriquet literally and filmed those four short pieces you just witnessed. Now, of course, you might say: “How does that exemplify honor and cherishment?”; “How is that tribute?”; “His own grandmother?” Well, folks, you’ll have to search me there. I find the whole affair in poor taste, but perhaps that’s what the artist had in mind. Perhaps that is all he had in mind. Perhaps he saw something sweet and beautiful in the fellations of the elderly pictured. Perhaps he simply wanted to arouse interest in the plight of the old and the feeble, to illustrate their remaining primacy, and to explore the dynamic of political exploitation of those who desperately need a voice. The elderly are to be respected – above all. They are to be watched and admired and listened to. Travesty in the room behind us you might say, but triumph for others. If you do not agree, simply wipe the slate of your mind clean. But I warn you, such things – ever in the realm of art – yet prove to be near impossible. Difficult for certain. Dangerous perhaps. It is true: the images haunt me; they will haunt me still.

Okay! Let’s go retrieve our other tour members and proceed on to the next exhibit. Follow me

Sugar Daddy (click to download)

Last weekend I was a participant and aid to a recording session with my brother Chris that took place at my home and I was reminded of the good fun old times of home music production. My brother has quite a collection of new tunes (see posts: “welcome another new face at the bla blog,” & “Beelzebub”)and I was really impressed with the inventive instrumentation of his new recording. I’ve also been listening to an amazing set of CDs that got me back in the mindset of a music maker. Hearing Brian Wilson’s command in the studio on the Pet Sounds Sessions or the genius improvisation of Albert Ayler on the Holy Ghost box set has made me revisit some of my own music. I generally dislike my songs, but do end up listening to the ones that I have a strange fondness for repeatedly. "Sugar Daddy" is one such song. This track comes from an EP recorded a couple of summers ago. It features Chris and me playing in a crazy country punk rock weirdo groove style. The lyrics are mostly nice non-sense almost meaningful phrases I wrote back in college. It took a long time to get a listenable recording down. Dig the viola played by Chris!

One more teaser before the start of a wonderful weekend…We austinnewblogger’s/Boho Coco’s will be hosting a reading at the end of October. We will be giving more details as the date approaches, but let this be stated now, it will be a good time. We’re planning something special and different from the previous readings. So I hope all of you can attend this event. Thanks and good day -J

Sugar Daddy

Lick the face of yr sugar daddy
Remember the Alamo
Drive around in a daze
For days upon days before you know just where ya goin'...how ya gonna get home?

Fall has fallen send me a kiss
Give me all yr hieroglyphs
I don’t read, I don’t give a damn
Divorce the lawyer and live with me in my golden cardboard alley mansion

Room for two
Room for three
Room for four
Room for five

Thanks to you I’m barely alive

Lick the face of yr sugar daddy
Remember the Alamo
Drive around in a daze
For days upon days before you know just where ya goin'...how ya gonna get home?

Thursday dedication part 2

Hey hey, this video is dedicated to my good friend Jarod Mansour, hanging on that other coast in Charleston strumming his blues (this video was also shot during the Night of the Boho Coco at Domy Books (shocking!)). He's a new way winner.




text version:

untitled 4602

in dreams of Avondale

Street

I am garbed in female

flesh

gasping

and

rotund

and eerie

blue

lights

of

the siren

come through the window

and

touch

the grace of my

hands

.

then I dream

of tumble

tracks

and water

and I drown

in a sexless sea

Thursday dedication part 1

Hey, this video is posted for one Mr. Mike Hughes, cooling his jets out in California (it was shot during the Night of the Boho Coco at Domy Books).




text version:

untitled 4604

the sleep kingdom

of lepers

belongs in my

chest

I am the Warhol

king

ingrained beast of one thousand

children

feasting

from

open city sewers

we cool

we

calm

café denizens so pretty

with bedsores

under

our necks

and lovers

in

cloves

that last bird in the aerie: birdman part 8

Hey guys, after that week of video video, it's time to give you the finale to "the birdman" series. How will it end? Who will die? Does he like to watch Adult Swim? Read on, gentle audience.

p.s. cool visuals, Barnyard

I am so old, he thought, and gazed into the sky before

returning to his house.

I am not so new, but to be fresh

requires little, I have my way and my new

night, I have this fire pistol and my

old clothes and the bend of my knee, I have

freedom again and to

be away from the lack of diner windows

does not do me low, I am

a different neon light in the eve to blink more than three

times, oh oh I believe

I can.

his house yielded. the morning was upon him.

time for all

good heroes to retire. sleep,

if ever, was a thing

of

love. but I have, he told himself, and sat

in his kitchen counting

the click tic of seconds. night,

my friend, comes alive.

the birdman

merely waited.

the midpoint of September and what's new with...

It seems as if the month of September has decided to speed on by. Where has the time gone? With this post I want to welcome the new contributors to the blog and express my gratitude to those of you who have submitted work to the lit zine. We have issue #2 in pre-production. It is going to be quite a ride. Get ready Austin! To celebrate the second issue we have a little event planned, but I'll tell you more about that in the coming weeks. Until then, keep reading, posting, watching, writing, listening, and living. Below is a short lil poem I wrote last week. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

To The Guy Who Fell Off His Bike Today and Asked Me for Help


The bleeding man
Off his bike
Minutes before
Coming to me
Wants to cover
His elbow
With band aides
And his pride with gauze

the gang's all here

Hey Sunday dreamers, here is the final clip (for now!!!) of the Night of the Boho Coco at Domy Books. This one has all the performers getting some poetry going with the chant poem "like dust." Do you believe in magic?

Mr. Cardini is a scab at the local Coincidence Factory

and built there
is an expensive oasis
of the
strangest debris

Josh Rios rides again

Hey hey out there my little lovelies, here's a clip of Josh Rios exciting the masses with some poems of his at Domy Books during our last reading, the Night of the Boho Coco. By the way, how's your Saturday?

A Rare Post in Praise of I-81

The way the interstate breaks in Wytheville, Virginia is going to break my heart

What does it matter if I go
pirouetting off the highway bridge
when the air is thin
and perforated
and full of unanswered hankerings?

Then, as now,
I dislike loud noises.
And curl willfully into myself
at the slightest tensions
of hope,

answer softly
the hushed resonances of wind
by tending to prefer jars of bolts,
drawers full of useless keys;
the light passing through car windows.

I have asked God for forgiveness
in many ways.

midnight poetry corner 2

Hey fellows and fellowettes, I have brought you another offering of a late night feast of words. I am right now listening to the 2001: A Space Odyssey soundtrack and am tripping into the realms of a higher dimension. Would you like to visit? Well read this here poem my fellow headtrippers, and fear not the shadow of your own demise. We are bright drinking cosmic bunglers.

untitled 4646

I have yet begun

to collapse

into

a field of empty butterfly

cocoons

and tell

and

tell

the great women of the past

who have

died in their lipstick

and their

great

barrels of age

that I am for them

entirely

and without

the magnificence of an inverted star

vomiting itself across

the cosmos

and just cause you guys are the tops:

untitled 4645

to be a human

being

is to make love

across

an ocean

and dieing in

empty carports

while

airplanes

jet in the

sky

above

you danced

about

the way of rice paper upon

your tongue

and

a kiss

and

an inverted sword balanced upon your palm

It's a me

Hey guys, here is another video clip from our show at Domy Books. The Night of the Boho Coco just keeps on giving.

late night poetry corner...

...or if you're reading this tomorrow morning: Early morning poetry circle. Hey, I just wrote this piece, and in keeping with the literary side of this fine old blog, I figured I'd post it and show big bad video what the media of writing can do. Dig!

untitled 4641

I am the sleepy

highway

patrolman

my gun holster

is

lonely

when I drive at night

the stars open

for me

lovers I caught

and shooshed away

from back woods burnt out car

carcasses

I have little friends

and a racing stripe upon

my car

the coffee cup

and the radar gun

of

a miracle

life

I saw a killer once

take his wife

by the back of her blonde hair

and sugar her

teeth across the reeds of his

lips

I saw a thief take

his shoes and toss them into

a flaming barrel

my wife

lives miles away

across black lanes of tar and fetid lines

of mark starting and

stopping

...and hey, just because I love all you guys, here's another poem free of charge.

untitled 4642

collected raindrops

in jar

containers

will resonate after two

weeks

of a grand explosion

says a tom cat

faced

miscreant

into a tin can tied

with string

and across the way in night

and

heat

a little girl giggles

and

imagines a mushroom cloud

Erin and her hat: triumph!

Here's a lovely little clip of an untitled poem from our own Erin Vaughan. She sure is a whirligig.

Jeff and his bro

Here we see one Jeff Daily playing his song "Oh You!" with his younger brother Chris. Look out, when Jeff steps aside...who's that hiding behind the bearded Boho?

the birdman part VII

A birdman never forgets, and although it has been some time since the last post, he's back to give you a taste of the night wicked and cracked and spines and girls in oyster shops cracking up with hot sauce (inspired!). Taste the night with my feathered, superhero friend. Part VII:

he was ready to return home. the birdman

plummeted as the stones

of our fathers’ across old fields we never knew.

he crossed paths with a villain

upon his

way.

the man sneered. the birdman cracked him upon the back of the head.

window dance,

city times, believe in love

of the old order of sewer grates

and coffee shop hymnals, crush the pomegranate stand

on the corner of 8^th and 8^th,

particles of brick, hot industrial glue, a horse

shoe imprint upon cobblestone,

wicked waterways, the dust of the saloon man without

his gold watch,

dust in the tenement building,

old men and women in ivory bathtubs near telephone

wires.

the villain stumbled and faltered and fell. the birdman,

aloof for freedom,

continued his noble way.

America

By the popular demand of myself, here are the tasty lyrical tidbits of the song "America" (see previous entry):

Land of the free, home of the brave
Pray to the Constitution in order to be saved
There's nothing more American than that waving flag
than a wing-spread bald eagle wearing a stars 'n' stripes do-rag.

America, America, America
America

Well you can die hard or live free
under representative democracy
and if you offend me I am going to fight you
it's my Constitutional, fundamental right to.

America, America, America
America

Vote early, vote often
I voted at birth and I'll vote in the coffin.
There's nothing more to add to make America great
except to annex the whole world as our 51st state.

America, America, America
America

welcome another new face at the bla blog

Hey, here's Jeff Dangerous' brother, Chris Daily, folking up the Domy Bookstore with his awesome song, "America." He sure is a dapper gent, ain't he?

the museum is in us all

Hey fellows, returning once more to the house that Boho built, here is the next addition of Jeff and my monumental epic to pomp and circumstance, "Museum." Come and stay with us; donate a little if you like; browse the store; speak with a docent; steal a work of art.

5.

Hey guys, can I get you to come this way? Cool. Watch your steps. Oh no, that’s alright. That piece is actually meant to be activated by kinetic atmosphere. It’s a wind sock, really. What? Ha. No, I’m kidding. Of course. Oh yes, it’s all sacred.

Oh well, really, here we are at our next exhibit. It’s titled “Not so important people live here,” and it’s a photographic show of small homes, rutted roads, countryside, and other elements of underdeveloped places – the forgotten states if you will. The states aren’t named, of course – that would be cruel – but if you just follow along the contours of the photographs, you might be able to figure out the region.

The first photograph is a beaten house foundation and a chimney

standing erect in a prairie scene. There is a kitchen sink left lying

in the center of the torn down house. The next picture is two lovers

holding hands and standing on a snowy bridge. The third picture

focuses on a giant tire in the middle of a creek. ‘No survivors,’ is

written upon its façade. The fourth picture features a blue house

stood beside a tree. The name on the address says ‘Wilson.’ More

pictures prominently display mountains and roads, crosses and

window latches, women with dirty mouths, children kicking gutters,

and errant men in search of hats. The finale picture shows a rope

swing dangling over a lake.

Yes, it is romantic, isn’t it? The elements of the compositions – those that are not so meager, those that inherit and invest in preconceptions – are full and vibrant. It’s a little point of pride, actually, but I lived in an area featured in one of these photographs. I can’t tell which one, but – well, it’s a secret I long to keep. That’s the point, people. Secrets, of course. The great American pastime. I like to look over these photos and imagine a million maids and elementary teachers and garbage men trouncing about the pace of their lives. Would that they would have known about their ghostly presence in our midst, eh folks? Also, pay attention to the levels of light in each photo. The dimmer the picture, the more remote the location. Yes, it’s easy to discern what the artist meant – isolation, loneliness, sameness, proximity – but let’s go one further: harmony. Is it that each picture is balanced, or is it balanced in what is missing? We have lovers, an ersatz tire, a candelabra, a gazebo, a waterfall. Human achievement, the endeavor of our struggle and the epic failure of our existence, written large here. It does not spell god, but it isn’t far off, is it? What’s missing, I asked earlier: well, are any of you there in the pictures? Imagine if you were. Would you be here now? Where would you be? Think on that, I think, and explore. I’ll be waiting.

Salutations

Among us
there are whole lineages
of ill begotten
inventors
tending to
subtle aspirations

unbridled

somewhere
they are succumbing
quietly
to some
unseen
disbelief

And now
we are to
build a jube
of appendages
and trash
to support
their ilk







in1984
We were long promises
of aluminum fencing
outstretched over the backwater
as industrial artifacts
pretending to be jobs

You had no breasts

In their absence
was a candy dress
your mother refused to eat
Thinking it more like garbage
and less like
your body

At night,
Alpha Centauri
rolls dank
through long specter miles
of vinyl siding

gaining on us


2.

Noberto,
your children wish you would come in from the garage

They think the refrigerator is singing to them
and have fallen asleep
in the kitchen
dreaming of grocery lists
and those cartons
of cheap cigarettes
you get from
the Indian reservation

Outside,
Clifton is unraveling
out into the boondocks
as a bland band
of branded landscape
hot in gas and coffee

Closer still,
ELI is attending
to a family
as they abscess
in all the moldering homes
of the feeder road
of no phones
of the late shift
swollen and bent
under the pressures
of a huge expanse
of stubborn
southern
night


1.

In moving,
our children will be
tired little agents
of some deceitful
skullduggery

trained
under
the employer
of all our
tight muscles

to be
telepaths
re-imagined
as work



Where
together,
we are
a treacherous thing

of dredged scenery

exploding like steel
in the bellies of trees

And out across their
undergrowth
a rolling debt of infrastructure
inspires complete townships
of sidewalks
and
lazy betrayers

as they sink

deep

into a pink ridge
of chemicals

Where,

oh my,
Miizzzard

we are haunted bodies of
appetites

tangled in a static web
of power lines
who’s transmissions
billow
over the heads
of the ugly children
of a plastic forest

Where
they are
a lull of
joy and madness
sighed just below space
by a suburban hush of
gates
tall in
humid stupor

tired embers
asleep
through waking states
of qualitative happening
only to dream
in terms
of ash

of an ill begotten
owl headed
conjurer
of hammers
plodding out
tributaries of highway
caught cascading
into southern pools of fields

to
collapse
impossibly

into a job

back in action

Hey guys, the whole internet connection shazam has been fixed so it's post post post time at the Savage Ranch. Starting today, I will be posting video from our reading at Domy Books last Saturday. Watch out!

End Times #11(click to download)

We’ve come to the end of the “End Times” series. Christopher’s dark ecstatic poem can now be heard start to finish. I suggest, as the one who produced the music, that you listen to them from the beginning. I hope you will hear the music as a whole piece instead of separate units.

One final note: We boho coco bloggers are in the early stages of planning the next lit zine. We want to encourage those of you who have discovered this blog to contribute words or drawings to our next issue. All submissions will be considered. Send ideas to austinnewblog@gmail.com – We look forward to discovering new voices. Adios!

End Times #10(click to download)

End Times #9(click to download)

posts from beyond this dimension

Hey guys, I am writing to you now (yes now; as you read this post you will time travel to the ever-present now) at ACC Rio Grande Campus because my home internet connection is being a crummy friend. Anyway, Jeff's taking the reins of post master general for the week (and be assured once my connection is restored you will see plenty of video posts from me to make up for my week of laise faire), so I thought I'd give him a round of hearty applause and also (to use a phrase from my dear old friend Harold) "hit you cats with something." I'm making this up right now (now now now! the ever present now!) in a computer lab. And yes the lighting is neon. And yes I still haven't eaten dinner. Call it commitment (or call it desire). Boho Coco!


the residence of Charlotte R. Gregson

Charlotte
R.
Gregson
who had fallen in love
near to the middle
of her twenties
idled past the grocery store in an ancient
station wagon
and wagged her fingers at the mail man.

"I who have been loved have
known great pleasure,"
she moaned,

and drove into a red fire hydrant.
her high beams kicked
from the collison
and

her teeth sprayed out in rainbow.
the mail man
replied, "I who have been loved
have
been in ditches and trenches kissing
the wicked wings of dead sparrows."

he, jagged in jaw and
rigid in pants,
continued on his walk past Charlotte
R. Gregson's
residence and tossed her mail
into a trash can.

End Times #8(click to download)

End Times #7(click to download)

End Times #6(click to download)

After the wild weekend of poetry parties arties music and group unity I bring the sixth section of “End Times” to you followers of the blog. I know it is an ominous beginning to this short work week, but after all the darkness clears light shall be seen once again.

Thanks to Domy Books...

Sat. night was a success! To all youz kids who came for the poetry and stayed for the fun, we say thanks. We here at austinnewblog and publishers of Boho Coco want to say thanks to Domy man R.E. for use of the fantastic east side bookstore/gallery. We have new ideas bubblin' in our brains inspired by our night of words and music. We also want to say hello to new friends and future collaborators. Video from Sat. night will be posted in the coming weeks so stay tuned for new work and the new ideas.

The Electric Lute Serenade

Playing the strangled string outside
While Fry St. tumbles in beards
Lonesome nights smoke homeless kings
Kissing and hugging and choking on a tied up larynx

Sure is beautiful tonight you say
Singing the electric lute serenade
Get in close to the one you love
And bite down on the skinny grenade

Sprung blossoms torpedo the sunshine
Fleshy fresh rain on display
Boy meets girl and tips his hat
To pretty faces wondering where their bodies went astray

Sure is beautiful tonight you say
Singing the electric lute serenade
Get in close to the one you love
And bite down on the skinny grenade