Friday, October 31, 2008

happy happy

Halloween!  Here's a poem I am composing at work with a brain sugar attack!  Careful, it rhymes!  All exclamation points!

the house at the end of the street

where willow trees harken,
I saw
a lane darken
oh mother

us from the grave

and give oh give kindness,
in a us a blindness,

to all that would
falter and sway.

danger be had, oh Sir

you wear out the
vestige of prestige

take us to unknowing
towards river flowing.

we must be ghouls
take off the spools
of hallow
and arch and dismay.

for in us a wish
to be
fresh from a kiss

of the mummy, the corpse, and the day.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Halloween is full of myth

Hey guys, here is the second myth I've come up with in my series of modern day myths. It's the myth of the cell phone, and it's a bit eerie, so I figured, Halloween, here I come. Let 'er rip. Also, on a sidenote, it's awesome to see the contributors from the zine (and from the reading last week) still adding more and more to this sight. It warms a Boho's heart. But, time for the creep creep scare scare.

bad piece of candy

Where is your hide and seek cheap charlie brown,
your 4 dollar 6 inch transparent skirt witch bitch sex,
with her zombie smiles and spider dosed mind.
The devil mocks the wolf puppet parade and
blesses the neighborhood festival with horror.
Bonfire this carnival and carve up some pie,
the crow is charming the clown with candy
and where the hell is the king carny for this fair,
he needs to take the cats out for dinner.
These beast of black fur have no fear of street children
and they will always defeat the old loon in the tree.

This is Halloween!

Another guest post for our week of Halloween/Fall/the month of October related work, this poem is by Nikki Hampson.


Out of the doll house city with one headlight burnt
and the crisp smell of October in our noses
across the northeast into the sunset,
driving all night from Chicago spilling coffee
and arriving, finally, only to find the
car has a flat tire and the landlord is waiting with
a spatula of threats; late that afternoon drinking tea
cross legged with the windows pouring sunlight
and dreams of the wilderness, fields of orange leaves
in the warm autumn and we lay like two, too
tired to climb the trees so the apples fell to us instead.

Sunday sweet on our skin like honey, across
open palms like banks of the Hudson, covered
in discarded cellophane and rusty silverware,
ribbons of evening grass still aching for the sky
and the sound of lone midnight bus tires on the freeway

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

It's beginning to look a lot like Halloween

I know what you're thinking, "How many times can he use the word 'Halloween' in a post title?" Well, I guess you'll just have to come along for the ride and see. Mu-ha-ha-ha-ha (there's that laugh again!).

Monday, October 27, 2008

Halloween wants to make love to you

Here's another video from the mad Savage house. Halloween week, and everybody's feeling a freak.

More Hallow's writing

Hello, on this ghoulish week...Our guest writer Don Webb has a poem for ya:

Poe, on the Morning After

After the visits of my vampire lover
After the bites and the bruises
From my harsh cruel muses
After the 1000th time of wondering if she really is a vampire
My world becomes a shaky nauseating kaleidoscope
Now fever dream, now chilly weakness
Now summer, now winter.
Now flowers, now ash.
Ah, I remember it was in the bleak of December
And I, a dying ember, wrought my ghost upon the floor
And as I fade into that final ashy dream I tell myself
The remedy for my pain
Is the pain itself.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

beware the shadow men

Hey guys, post two of Halloween week at austin new blog. Dig my friends, and if any of you culprits got something going on, let us know; video, audio, written: post it in the comments. Halloween week! Late night!

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Halloween week begins!

Hey guys, here is the first video in a strange week of posts celebrating the magic of Halloween. Expect something different. (here's where I would laugh like a vampire, but even I am not that lame...or am I?) Mu-ha-ha-ha.

Friday, October 24, 2008

Great Reading!!

I want to say thanks to 12th Street Books for hosting us Boho's for our poetry reading last night. It was a success and a good time. Great readings from Don Webb, Nikki Hampson, Miguel Martinez, Erin Vaughan, and Christopher Savage.

We look forward to more events and more issues of Boho Coco Lit Zine (available for free at 12th Street Books, Domy Books, and other Austin locations).


Thursday, October 23, 2008

New Blog: Music!!

BOOKMARK IT!! = - new this week!!

Hello all. Tonight is the big poetry reading. We want to see all you folks out to help us celebrate the new zine.

BUT today I want to tell everyone about a new music blog that my brother Chris and I have started that is dedicated to the plethora of musical recordings we've made over the years and will make in the future. Go to the above blog address and learn and listen. We are building it up now so for the next few days we will be posting a lot of backstory before diving into music posts. The site will be mostly just music and what a variety let me tell ya!


*this is a tune from the Barnyard vaults - THE GALES HAVE COME IN - is an instrumental that my brothers and I recorded when we first got a cassette 4-track recorder and were learning how to write and perform music...
the gales have come in - Barnyard

Everybody have fun tonight

Hey guys, tonight is the night of the Strangers, Boho Coco #3.  We'll be down at 12th Street Books, at 7:30PM (that's 827 W. 12th Street for those in the no know).  Jeff, Erin, and I, as well as Don Webb, Nikki Hampson, and Miguel Martinez, are going to be reading the latest fashion in poetry and prose (and sexiness).  So come on down, grab a copy of Boho Coco 2 (the lit zine supreme) and maybe purchase a copy of my new chapbook, The Life of the Trapeze Men.  It should be a great night full of wine and proses (I know, I'm sorry for doing that to you, but it was easy).  And here's a little something right now for you to get you through the day.


I saw out of red


where old men gathered to
roast rats and
bust shoes

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Boho Coco issue#2 Out Now!!

Hey all! The second issue of Boho Coco Lit Zine is printed and available for free around Austin. Check out places like Domy Books, BookPeople, and End of an Ear for a free copy. Oh, and remember our poetry reading at 12th Street Books Thurs. night at 7:30...we expect to see YOU there.

I can't wait

Hey guys, getting excited about our next reading!!??!! The Night of the Boho Coco 3: The Strangers!?!?!?! I know Jeff is, I know I am, I know Erin is. Well, the last week of guests has been great, and reading some of what they've offered has given me the spirit. Here's a poem I'm writing just now for you, humble readers. By the way, if you come by the reading, we'll sign a copy of the second issue of Boho Coco for the small fee of $10,000. Wink!

Ella Estwall

of my love


things I took upon

a train

and dashed our

hope with



her foster parents' picture

gilded in silver

frames and folded merely


to convey displeasure;


a simple ring of
lavender she once wore upon her head

on holiday


the farthest parts of dawn;


her false eye

that had become tormentor


spy of

my heart.

I tossed them from an open



away away


smoke erupting from

the engine; I cried.

poetry...alive...and well...

This is a new poem. I might read it Thurs. night. I might not.

Weary Man Thoughts

The lines on my face are faint
But they grow deeper each day
The hair on my head can’t wait
To fall out and turn gray

Hours drift into days real easy
Bad news eclipses the good
Some lovers love quiet and breezy
Some hearts break harder then they should

Luckily I know a great woman
Who will put a blanket on my bed
At the end when I go down dyin’
But for now she keeps me satisfied and fed

Monday, October 20, 2008

days before the poetry reading!

I want to say hello, how ya doin? Thurs. is the night of the boho coco#3:the strangers. We will be showing off our new lit zine issue#2. Come out to 12th Street Books at 7:30pm to hear some great Austin poets read. Posted below is a poem from one of the guests that will read Thurs. night and take you to another place. Don Webb:

Misquoted by a Mockingbird

I was misquoted by a mockingbird

My poet’s fame among the birds

Ended by his melodious four note word

I find myself quoting Robert Frost

And aksing if it is wrong

To seek to stop a creature’s song

No one around to hear

The misquoting bird’s

Melodious four-note word

Nothing to do but write it down

Off he flew, far wide and long

His absence stopping future song

His departure stopped future song

He carried away my notes wrong.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

murder me susan lovers 5

Hey guys, it's the last poem in the series 'murder me susan lovers.' Hope you guys had a good time with it, and stay with us as Jeff unleashes more poetry from guests throughout the week. Then, after our performance (at 12th Street books at 7:30PM) on Thursday, we'll have some posts from the original Bohos in performance. Then...Halloween Week!

murder me susan lovers 5

the back of your


is covered in lint

my darling

I was once a king of a coastal


begging the poor


their shoes and tossing them


the water



I am the body

of the loving


I am alabaster


mighty and toppling

Friday, October 17, 2008

Special Guests Week (+): #5

The week of special guest writers comes to a close (check back with us next week for more guest writers and don't forget about the zine #2 celebration/poetry reading at 12th Street Books Thurs night at 7:30) today with the piece posted below submitted by Erxulie. It came with a note that states, "Oh, a small piece of this is taken from Billy Collins, the wires of the night, because I did not want to finish this poem. Because, you see, I was not ready to let go of

His Death

I thought about the moment of his death so many times. There in the overlapping beams of the sun and the shadows of the curtains. I've awoken screaming from it, I've slept sound, crying from it, but I have yet to be appeased of it. The moments after it were easily forgotten by those not affected.

His death has taken so many forms. The first was reincarnation, becoming the green can of paint I chose for my wall. The gray desolate buildings on a rainy day, and my perpetual, endless, insatiable loneliness.

His death now had a beginning but no end. Left wondering like a child with no mother. Set adrift like a vikings funeral pyre, the remnants left to the imagination.

In a freakish storm of pink green and bad judgment, I took his death to bed with me and claimed it as my lover. We lay together and bred an illegitimate child, born of sickness and despair, dying not far from my womb.

His death wore slacks and suspenders, a long button up and smoked a delicious, tempting, seductive cigar. I took it to dance with me, and dance it did. It took me by the hand and laughed and danced and played with me like a child on a merry-go-round. His death loved me and would not let me go.

I carried his death with me in my pocket for many years. He wriggled, fought and bit me with every step. But I could not let it go.

Someday, his death will be the clear glass shimmer on a lake, the clouds in a Texas sunrise, my fresh air. Some day it will be the light of day, and the next day, and all the days to follow, and he will move into the future like the sharp tip of a pen moving across a blank page of paper.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

murder me susan lovers 4

Hey people, are you enjoying the week of guest posters? I sure am! Wow! Anyhow, here's the next part to my series 'murder me susan lovers.' There's only one to go! Exclamation!

murder me susan lovers 4

the youthful


arrived later


tore across the parking lot


and gravel


all and all things


susan lovers


ways with words


are fresh as glass

Special Guests Week (+): #4

Today's guest poet is: Nikki Hampson


Metal vortex gray grind machinery
Naïve butterflies preen on the edge of the abyss,
And you,
Watching with your suitcase ready
To leap from your perch of lost shoes and broken pansies!

See the ethereal glow of stardust flowers;
Abandoned junk and trash nestled in lilies,
Garbage, screws, and tires,
“this is a cave” you whisper
The owl watches, great black eyes and
Indian feathers, tarot beak and shaman gaze,
Protector of the grass elephant jungle,

Glow bright hummingbirds dodge boot black feet,
Industrial grit of time and steel,
Fairy ghost mushrooms crushed underfoot

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Special Guests Week (+): #3

Today's guest is from someone who could only be identified as: Lt T (enjoy this light poem on this dark/rainy day)


Writing makes me feel happy and writing makes me feel free;
When I pickup a pen and paper, expressing myself is all I like to be.
Whether it be an article or a nice poem, when I focus, the words just seem to flow;
It's like a time machine, going back in time, I just relax and let the thoughts go.
Sometimes I like to write about happy times, but mostly I just like to write;
The visions & memories that I write about, simply reminds me that life is alright.
I can travel on a fantastic adventure, and I can venture through memory lane;
As I visualize about creative journeys, I see a beautiful world that is still untamed.
Escaping this crazy world, if even just for a short while;
Feelings I haven't seen in a long time, not since I was a child.
Oh what a wonderful feeling I have when I write, so many stories to share;
It reminds me how good life can be, what others think, I really don't care.
When I get lost in my words, I feel like I can conquer the world;
Even if you think you can't write, just try it and give it a whirl.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

murder me susan lovers part 3

Hey guys, just three more posts to finish out this poetry series of mine, and then I'll step back and let all posts come from our wonderful guests. And then...Halloween may bring a fun thing or two!!!

murder me susan lovers 3

not sorry


trudging the avenue





and saw shouldered

I was merely


say I never believed

and convertibles are sexy


nobody ever cared


your thoughts

Special Guests Week (+): #2

Today's featured guest poet is: Don Webb

No Reason to Be Here

So far away, the cars can be

Seen only in one windowpane.

It is night, the thick night of winter

So thick I can’t believe

the cars can even move

In their tiny frame.

They are going to places I used to love

To bars and restaurants , bookstores


But the darkness caught up with me

It is thick, and I am hiding

In my empty office

As high as the freeway overpass

No work

No reason to be here

Eventually the sounds

of the building will scare me

And I will go home

Monday, October 13, 2008

Special Guests Week (+): #1

We Boho Coco austinnewbloggers are holding a poetry reading Oct. 23rd at 12th Street Books at 7:30pm (as you already know we're celebrating issue#2 of our print zine)/(you're invited too!)...Anyway, we got more submissions to the zine than space available in about 20 pages so to show our appreciation I will be curating a week and a half worth of new writers here on the blog. All of these writers submitted good work to the zine and as a thank you I want to give their words a chance to be read. Writing (art in general) is important. The first "special guest" is Farhana Uddin. Feast!


Carrying my box
of goodies

in the hangers
of my brown arms

to my motel room
above the green

street I swear
I crossed the path

of two sumo-san

strolling down


I was all whoah-man
in my head

--they carried me
as I was less than air.

above the bun on my hair,
I held up my box

as it was a trophy
of a decapitated man.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

second poem in a new series

Hey guys, here is the second poem in the series 'murder me susan lovers.' Hope you guys had a grand ol' weekend.

murder me susan lovers 2

rings of flowers



down down

I saw in one thousand



I’d love to touch

Saturday, October 11, 2008

here is a series

Hey friends, after those scintillating lost poems, here is a poetic series from yours truly to solidify the legacy of the boho coco. Also, look for us to read on the 23rd at 12th street books at 7:30. Wow.

murder me susan lovers 1

lovers hold




and the ending of movies





after work


before supper

Thursday, October 9, 2008

The Lost Poems Vol. 4 (click here to listen)

Posted for your pleasure is vol. 4 in the "Lost Poems" series. I've heard tell of more "lost" works but we will just have to wait on discovering them. For now this is the final post of ghost jazz. I would like to point out the wild and ferocious clarinet work of Chris Daily on this track. Spooky!

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

The Lost Poems Vol. 3 (click here to listen)

Vol. 3 in the "Lost Poems" series is the exact opposite of #2. Chris Daily played inspired classical parlor piano ghost jazz. I took the piano for this section and turned it into a violent Monk/Cecil Taylor percussion tool. The contrast is obvious and intentional. Just wait 'til vol. 4.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The Lost Poems Vol. 2 (click here to listen)

Coming at yr ear holes right now we have Vol. 2 of the "Lost Poems" series. This recording features the fancy flying fingers of Chris Daily, solo piano improv. Dig!


the lost poems of John Johnson


I had visions as a child,

you see,

that’s why I need

to write about rollercoasters

and candy shops.

girls who’ve lost

their sense.

girls who have no sense at all.

that is about it.

right now I’m sitting in a boring motel room and dreaming.

I dream of the great



in clothing shops who eat tree bark and collect





when I have begun to reach out


beyond the white bricks


my home

I know I have

brass bells in the attic

of my

grandparents’ old home

and they ring


for us.

someone I met a while


with tall boots

gave me some advice:



toss away your old clothes when you’re feeling bad


go get some new ones.


nobody I ever loved



maybe empty bottles,

but not a free bunch of sand clumped together

in an envelope

mailed to themselves.

maybe I never grew up on the sea,

maybe that’s


I never had wind around a gull’s

beak for

a best friend.

I did grow up near windmills and near


I grew up with

reeds and bunches of dead leaves.

my childhood

best of all books

is flat and superior.


a piano piece

I once


for free for a song for a woman

went something like

la dee da

dee dum

du du dun

and the cloying hands of the angels


the drip of the waterfall

and pretty spectacles.

but it didn’t get me very far;


dust and some

flat tires in the


of old brick buildings

long dead


long forgotten.


my mother told


the last thing I could do


be large and black and



terrible like the first word I ever uttered.

forget me nots.

nobody I ever loved had

white shoes and

a green


and cinnamon.

but that’s okay.

it’s a great life to be the bedspread,

the burgundy


the old lifeless stalk of bamboo in the neighbor’s


oh guns of the old town,


me a million miles into space

I can’t believe.


I feel

as if I don’t


a thing.



my bones.

the dreams and the drift


good times

in the light of lean days

of no


on time.

all alone in the desert the



god’s children will scream


the time they were loved



will be more beautiful than



if I die in white stripes

I will be better


the night

of loose vagabond cars


over empty yards.

my neighbor once shot a dove


a tiny rifle.

it was a beautiful plummet


the hard earth.

white white


cast out everywhere.


at the party


the gentleman gazing


a woman


once knew

is not laughter.

laughter is the reticence


her eye as

she sips white champagne


unravels her laced shoes


runs into the coat closet

with kisses.

Monday, October 6, 2008

a quick note

Hey, regarding the lost poems: John Johnson is the mythical founder for the blog's alter ego, Boho Coco. Check out the motel 56 video recording of the myth of the motel ( to get more of the legend behind the man. These lost poems are the fabled poems he left hidden somewhere in that motel room. Jeff and I have found them and recorded them (with help from Chris Daily) to bring his ghost voice back to life. Is it time to believe in legends?

ps. happy birthday Erin, 25 big ones all for you

The Lost Poems Vol. 1 (click here to listen)

Today's post is the first in a series of recordings by Christopher, myself, and my brother Chris. "The Lost Poems of John Johnson Vol. 1" features Christopher reading in his strong voice, Chris wailing on some Ayler (via Gershwin) clarinet, and I'm adding colorful piano tones. The music was all improvised in one take. There are 6 volumes in this series and the first 4 will be posted this week. These volumes are what I call the "jazz" volumes. Tell us what you think!

the lost poems of John Johnson

ivy rose petals in the gutter


in disposable shrink rap

give me

a jive


oh wicked

I saw you turned inside out in the warehouse



a car engine

and a lucky lover

I saw

you wearing your flesh


soirees pink

ardent and spoiled


I saw

the moon roll over

and bend

in my pocket

I am the god king

sent to

earth from grass and meadow


plastic glass


nobody make believe


be be

a go go


in shades on the veranda

down Thermopylae



cracked cocoons in the forest



soup bowls left





in the city




a hunt is on


the best woman

her lips



her hips

oh Beatriz

a cicada


a twirl of a tree limb


in the breeze

leafless and



he read the radio dial


the group of strangers

and they

slap slap



grand poetic


in my mind

splash against a red

fire truck

as it hides in the alleyway

the fire


the country I’m living in


this is my life as of right now:

a girl I used to know

beating coconuts


my window


an old suitcase gilded


ink ribbons


a friend I once was clapping

loudly in

bars and pits with

bottles never




my parents on the radar

flying high

and piercing the clouds


a boarded bell beaten

discothèque motel


with roaches and faces


a chance to read words

in strings of

light on the boulevard


one happy moment

of tryst


tremble and the treble of

a guitar and

a violin


red wine poured over

my face

a warrior older

and still


the month of July bursting


across my chest


my teeth

and your teeth and his

teeth and hers

and the teeth of the elders

mixed with dirt and

dust on the

ground before an empty






of frond limbs bending

in the rain

and the sunshine


my human friends


the gold in their fingers and

they touch


and dazzle

make a maker

be a believer

I thought I saw her again

in the

dustbins of the cheaters


she sang songs of

forgotten beauty

that’s a world



we used to belong to


let the music stores

and the coffee



the boulevard lights


a temptress with

a sundress

in the evening



I felt a breeze touch

and the fall of mankind


the revolution of love


easy to be

the glimmer


lamppost light


the river

at night


to drown in the other side




it’s over

for the gold girls in

the disco

smash a bottle of champagne

I say smash

a bottle of wine

my lover

a girl at a bus stop

my lover

my only and only

forever forgotten



just this

piece of guitar string

snapped and fraying

the light is fantastic


my mind is a boarded bunch of rubber bands


an empty alabaster



you have a name

Friday, October 3, 2008

another film

Hey, why not end the (work!)week with another experimental poetic film (honestly, do you guys like that name? maybe toss some suggestions; I'm open to them, but not that open...!). Okay, enough shenanigans. Here's some art/literature.

text version:

untitled 4660

oh lover

of the forest


it is not so simple

to be

one syllable

but two


a delight of flower


pistiling and


off the sun




angle like lampposts

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

what cha talkin bout

Hey, here is some philosophical-art idea I had today. It's in its roughest form, so please, read delicately, but also, read upside down and in a terrarium.

the object: found and modified
to find an object (and this idea of object, this entity, need not be actual object, but can be words or thoughts/feelings, images, etc.) and to possess it, then to modify it, is, above everything else, creation; furthermore, there is a feeling of destiny and purpose to such acts, but they are great and unknowable: the universe: god; there is a part of us (call it creation spark/art) that feels this need; to then see an object, to not realize the what or why of it, especially the more obtuse (or seemingly esoteric) objects, and to take them, move them, alter them, do something/anything to them and because of them, is to suddenly participate in a puzzle; as if we can feel that life is a puzzle, a labyrinth, with many locks and pathways; it is the presentation of these objects in our lives that can act as the keys or guides; again, it is vastly unknowable , but that part of us that is also unknowable, the subconscious, the soul, the what-have-you, is our connection to the puzzle; in 'playing' with these objects, we involve ourselves in a paradox: we can't understand the primacy of the objects we come across, what they mean for us, but we also intrinsically understand their value; this irrationality is key to becoming complete; the balance, the sense of trust, of peace, freedom of interaction and the overall delivery of humankind to utopia through art, love, compassion, understanding, and acceptance, the marriage of logic and illogic, is all key; such things are shown to us through the game of finding and touching objects and leaving them for others to find; I once found a key in a stop sign; it had no meaning, but in any way I actually wanted, it was and is a message, to unlock the stop and to go forward; the puzzle is the universe, we are the travelers, and the objects lead the way