ode to boogie nights

Hey guys, Erin and I were watching that grand ol' porno drama over the weekend, so here's a poem inspired by Boogie Nights.


untitled 4818


of pornographic
dreams

I saw a woman
in chartreuse

climb atop
a wall of ivy
and

scream until

she disappeared

into the ether
of
red scent

smoke

and
lace

here's some prose for your weekend

Hey guys, how's your weekend? Guess what? I'm doing freaking great. Here's a prose poem.


travel logos 116


kill the police officer under the lamppost with your silver pistol when you are an animal I saw you wear the faces of the poor for fun and to let loose in river streams the mercury blood you have in your teeth. nobody trusts you. in love with sunglasses and a stress of old blue shirts. again you reach for your girlfriend’s hand and she is a movie poster. and nobody in red scarf. we break down in front of a church and we begin to watch the stiff movement of tombstones. the wind is not so silent.

2001 vol 1 part 4

Hey sneaky sneaks and freak freaks, here is the fourth part of the first volume of poems inspired by pictures from the light show from the film '2001' and the song that plays in that scene. Oohhh, trippy and all that stuff. And how are you lonely hearts doing out there?


2001 4


I saw a man who named
himself
brightly and he took off
his clothes and
showed me his nipples
and bit his own
elbows and red streams of ink
piled in pools at his belly
button

and a thousand ships
from different
worlds
filled my mind

I want I want
red
walls in my bedroom
to fold over
and take me across the universe
to a blue desert
and to make love

LAB

Hey guys, here is the first part of a new collaborative writing effort from Jeff Daily and myself (plus the drawing at the top of the post is from me too). It's called LAB (which is short for Laboratory (or is it Collaboration)) and is about a mad scientist and his soldier friend who poison people with chemicals to transform them into monsters. But why? What do they get out of it? And who are they anyhow? Oh my friends, stay with us on this one. A mystery might unfold, some brand new lessons may be learned, and, oh yeah, you get to read about fucking monsters! Everybody wins. Alright, friends, hope you had a good Thanksgiving, and read on, I dare you. Ooohhh...


chapter 1 - friends
Two friends lost in the jungle stumbled upon an abandoned laboratory. Fred stepped into a broken glass doorway. The song of the angels, he shouted, finding a batch of untouched water left lying about an errant shelf. William discerned that there had been a civil war here. Must have been guns. Must have been many people not pleased at all. The two snatched to bottles from a prepackaged cellophane crate. They smiled.
The day previous, they had heard and seen many strange happenings. A tree fell over in the distance without reason. The cries of men sounded. Stray light sifted through canopy and struck them upon their brow. The jungle heat beat their backs. They were looking for a rare plant. Fred was a professor. William was his friend. Adventure, they both cried. But they had fallen from the true trail.
In the abandoned lab, the men sat upon comfortable chairs and began to drink their waters. William grunted. No day like today, he remarked, chugging the cool clear. Fred relaxed, laid his head back, thought of his wife, and began to sigh. The water they drank started to turn in their stomachs. They fell ill. The bland lights of the compound began to seep into their minds. More voices. Sounds of stranger beings came into existence. Entire reality writhed upon the floor, snake-like, jiving and uncoiling. Fred stood up. He roared. William slopped in his seat and fell on the floor. We’ve been poisoned, he made to say, but his mouth no longer moved. Both men fell silent. Night came. The roiling tremors of the chemicals hidden in the water began to take effect. A transformation.


Wire bristle hairs came shooting out of William's cheeks
and chin. His skin turned gray. His eyes oozed blood.
William looked as if had been dead for 60 years. He stood
up and looked at Fred. Fred had not changed his physical
appearance so much as grown about 5 feet. He was taller
than tall. His tongue was a snake's tongue and his teeth now
had venom waiting to find a victim. The two friends couldn't
speak. They couldn't even look at each other without gasping
in horror. They seemed to retain their humanity while at the
same time lost all communication. It was as if they were
prisoners inside their new bodies.


What was once Fred glanced upon the new wonder of the average world. He spit hot venom in William’s direction then raced out of the compound. William, in his aged stupor, moved his body quickly to follow. The instincts of these new beasts were fixed upon a grand discovery. They had to find what once was lost.
As the two beasts lunged about the fresh night, a figure stepped from the shadows. A man dressed in soldiering garb emerged. He grunted, plucked a knife from his side, and followed the trail of the monsters into the jungle.
Fred reached to touch tree limbs. Spiders screamed in his presence. He was a new god. He snatched a small creature and devoured it. In his glory, he did not notice that William was loose behind. And neither of the beasts realized the boots of the soldier advancing as well. And further still, waiting in the lab, another figure sat watching remote cameras.
Fred roared. William caught him and jumped upon his frame. The anger in their mutated bodies unraveled and swaths of red blood drained from William’s eyes. The bristling wires of his chin snapped into Fred’s lean neck. Their eyes traded ominous passion. Fred plucked his friend and tossed him a fourth of a mile into a tree. The growl of piss and steam. Wild night! Fred tore through the brush in hot pursuit. William gathered rocks in his hands and leapt into the air, hungry. Fred snapped in a twirl. Blood shot from his shoulders as William struck him with stone. The beasts moaned. Their minds were lost. They tussled in the jungle, and wrapping arm over arm, legs for loops, they spun and fell down the side of a hill. Landing thud, each monster gripped the other by the neck and began to squeeze. They coughed chaos in symphony and rolled in foliage. But they stopped suddenly. Something beautiful had caught their gaze. They were now in the presence of the rare plant they had once sought. The flower of the great desire, ripe with white lotus, stood proud in their faces. Fred felt himself a moment; William was stunned. The two beasts who were made of angry fiber began to weep. The flower lilted upon a breeze.
The moment snapped. From nowhere, the soldier pounced and stuck the creatures with tranquilizers. They moaned, but having seen their plant, the two merely folded and collapsed upon another. The soldier tossed a net over their bodies and dragged them away. A trail of unique blood remained in the fuzz of the night, spiraling in cursive towards the abandoned laboratory. Strange cries were heard echoing out the youth of the night.
Away in the bowels of the laboratory, the seated figure began to giggle. He stepped away from his camera screens and into the light. He had a white frock and mangled hair and wild fingernails. The scientist began to imagine the possibilities of new creatures of fashion. He placed his hands together and started to hum.

Pincelada Flotante y Habitad (Inhabited and Floating Paint Stroke)

Here's a little something that was inspired by a painting in the Blanton Museum, which is definitely a place you should all visit to see some excellent exhibits and some of Boho Coco's own poets!

abandoned footprints

so carefully placed

side by side like lovers--

erased by watery tongues

and recovered downriver under

the sooty depressions of child-feet,

estuaries salt rocky outcroppings

covered in fungus and chinese lanterns

and miniature whirlpools of salt

trapped between bare ankles

until the stones become smooth like skin

a different smoothness,

the icy sheen of steel that stifles

velvet worm-tunnels and severs

muddy streams like capillaries;

it demolishes

upward, outward

America, when was your Dream burnished metal

and Twenty-Story Hotels with walls

covered in frame-trapped pictures?

How can art be contained? mounted?

defiantly, enamel drips free

down the faux wood panelling

settling through pores in decrepit linoleum

until it melds with the sediment pulse of the earth

all civilization decays with the moss of time

movie magic

Hey guys, here is the second movie poem coming at you from austin new blog. I wrote the words, but the music belongs to Thee Headcoatees (the song is titled "Pedophile"). Enjoy! Just in time for Thanksgiving!






for an added bonus, here's a scan of the written text:

anti.wav

Hey guys, here is a precursor fun fun post for all. And do come back on Wednesday (I promise not to disappoint!). Yeah. Anti! One brand new chant poem from my head and heart to your ears. (by the way, watch The Doors and try not to trip balls)
Just click the link! Fireeee!

a poem from a couple years ago

Hey guys, don't worry, the big fun post is coming tomorrow (not today; sorry!), so in the meantime, here is a poem my brother Ryan stumbled upon yesterday while he was screwing around on my computer. Enjoy!

dad’s on the loose

my dad uses my keys

to enter my

empty apartment,

raids the fridge,

finds the whisky

and pets my cat.

he does eight shots

and

drowns himself in a bottle of

brown.

then he yells at the cat,

runs out of my

humble

home

and leaves the door wide

open.

rides his car like lightning

and doesn’t think twice about mom.

goes cruising in a bar and

gets frightened by the police officers.

‘go to church!

and that right now!’

he grabs Jesus by his hand

and makes him take the wheel.

then dad calls me up,

drunk at four AM

,

saying

“probably,

…uhm…probably

your cat’s lost.

she…she

wasn’t there when I came by.”

and I ask,

“

what!?

are you drunk, man?”

and it’s okay to call dad’s ‘man’

when their drunk.

he laughs, giggles, and

hangs up.

then my dad returns to my house

and

shatters the bottle of bourbon

on the kitchen floor.

the cat’s still inside.

my dad tells her good cat

and finally

rolls home.

my mom’s mad,

but it’s only a dream

she says

,

and drinks more

coffee to

stay up.

radio nowhere 8.wav

Hey guys, here's another installment from that phantom zone, Radio Nowhere, where the dead voice of John Johnson is still broadcasting from the beyond! Also, look out for tomorrow, something big (a cool ol' post) is coming your way...

drawing!

Hey guys, the above is a drawing I made; it's titled (in case you couldn't tell!) "Serpent ver 2." I've been feeling a visual stripe race down my writerly back lately, so look for more drawings to be posted every now and then. Have a good weekend.

2001 vol 1 part 3

Hello dudes and ladies, here is the next part of the first volume of poems inspired by pictures from the film: 2001.


2001 3


the spiders of space
do not
know what love is

they are red
and they are
blue
and when it is old an
universe we
want
it is a new universe we
get

and
to the spiders

there is none
but black traces
of web
cast across the firmament

and space
and time
squeal

sneak peek

Hey guys, here is the second interior page of my chapbook "The Life of the Trapeze Men." Go check it out at Domy Books (for only $3)!

Oh The Noise of It

It's not like it's been said
or
even thought of.

The quite, the noise of it....

The prayers unsaid, the pictures never painted... The life not lived.

When does the top turn when the batteries wear out?

The glass laid out, spilled past it's brim... Laying to be taken up again.

something new...very new...too new?

Dead Catfish Cold Canyon Lake, TX Poem

Picked clean
Skeleton
Stomach to ass
Face only now decaying
Buzzards in the distance
Morning after
Camping trip night
November 15, 2008
The dead catfish
The dead grass
The smoldering ashes
A satisfying game of catch
Successful memories
…the evening was
First freeze of the year
Twenty-nine degrees
Nose and cheek skin frozen
After sundown
Six friends gathered
‘round a fire
The fire was tall
The fire was strong
The fire was TV
And the fire was life
Holding love girl tight
For warmth
Dinner hungry
Sizzling burgers
Flame broiled
Hot dogs
Smores
Gooey
Red wine
And
Beer
And
Rum
Laughter
The gypsy RV grounds
Little orange flicker flames
Cover the hills
We glare at the beach
The cold waters
Look up to the stars
There goes a shooting star!
More wood for the fire NOW
Bundled in layers
Difficult to sleep
Morning headache
Need of shower
Need of nap
I want a burrito afternoon
Weekend over already
Ah, the fun…

here's another for you

All I can say at this point is watch "Michael Clayton" and listen to the final speech between George Clooney and Tilda Swinton. Here's a poem.


untitled 4776


the reason for the world
is
so men
and women in all kinds
can

remember what it is to
be
composed of light

and to shine;

of
all the sad memories
employed in
the manufacture

of a staircase

remember your
father
and his
hands as
they burned the wood

poetry corner

Hey guys, somebody somewhere sometime mentioned that there needs to be yet more, plain as day, dried in the mud, poetry posted on this new-fangled blog bla, so here's a poem I just wrote. Hotcha!


untitled 4775


San Antonio
was
made

by bored and sober gods

clearing
their

bookshelves of
texts they’d
accumulated as undergrads


and how they bit their
tongues
and
rained down the river
that

twirled and twirls;

smoke and ash
Mercado
shake

gringos and
delicate lapels

and
radio inlays
tattoo wrists

travel logos 108

Hey freaks and franks, here is a new experimental poetic film from my world to yours. This one is titled travel logos 108 and its a little prose ditty. Enjoy.





text:
David goes do do da. a guitar of sonic craft. some old tune from the sixties. crazy girl gets in the bedroom and slams the door. a wooden group of slats blocks the window. the cat of the night in fang and claw. I am not Woody in the old pictures counting his strings. no grin chin believe me. David sings da do do. the swell of a night of sleepless happiness blooms. an empty camera on the coffee table. a computer now to be told. speakers, blue lights, make momma lovers emptying bank accounts, old roundtables tossed in dumpsters, streamlined trailers in the ravine, old cuts of boulder and stone in the mountains. crazy girl runs into the room and exclaims that she is in love with the entire world. go go lights dancing wild; strings of purple confetti; ugly people smashing noses into wine glasses. David sighs do da do.

two new poems

Hey friends, here are two new poems I wrote while I was drunk (oh what a boho hero, eh?). Long live poetry!

untitled 4769

to die as a child

of god

would be fire

in

my

mouth

oh rage

the lamp

in

the pub

and the parlor

tells us

we

need love

to become

undone

in the purses of the neighborhood

whores

untitled 4770

I worship the ghost

of

the never wall

climbing up

its

perch and beating

the small and the thin

until

they wretch blood

onto

lavender sheets

of

housing;

no no

take

away from me the flint in my

pocket

and shoot across my empty

field

poem of cinema

Hey my best of friends, here is a poem I wrote while watching the film "Synecdoche New York" at Dobie mall tonight. And I can say, go see the flick. I guarantee, you'll love it or you'll hate it, but you will talk about it to all your film friends afterward, and that is something worth saying.

kicking

the door

felt

good

he knew

he was

alive

then

his

hair fell

out

in clumps

on the darkside

Here is part volume one part two of the epic poetic series "2001." Let yourself dissolve in color.

2001 2

the wandering eye of Venus

4 the lover

goddess in ravines

talking old

language babble

men

in the gypsy two

tone stripe

suits and

land crashers

I saw his face pressed firm

upon the pane

of glass

it was time for a murder

some said

and rang out crack

pistol a purple

bullet between

the ribs

but this is not death

he was to

remind me in shard

it is rebirth

an odyssey of the mind

Hey freaks, here's something new from the Savage house of ideas. I took 35 pictures from the light show scene in the film 2001. For each picture, I wrote a poem (while listening to the song "Beyond Jupiter" that was playing during the scene). There are five volumes in all, each consisting of seven poems (except volume 5!). So, the first of many, friends, in our month of media. Have a funky good time!

2001 1

the first star known to man was named

AD 4x 22 1B8

and it was

radiant

there was life there

of men

in masks beating forks upon

rimmed turtle

shells

and sea creatures devouring the firmament

of space-time

it was then that mankind found

itself

to be alone

to truly drift in dark ink

is akin to the earth of our

days

our days and our might

we saw the first star and dreaded its portent

to be alone is majestic

though sad

the mean men in galactic black coats

have me

they have me by the throat

they are throwing me

over

the ravine I see

it is old children novels and curdled

milk cartons

oh god

you see that it is my

nimble fingers that have

contained oh

have contained oh have contained

the first star was named AD 4x 18B

the first page of The Life of the Trapeze Men chapbook

Hey guys, here's a sneak peak of austinnewblog's first ever chapbook, "The Life of the Trapeze Men," written and drawn by me. Go by Domy Books on East Cesar Chavez to pick up your very own copy. It's only $3!!!

thanks for visiting

Hey guys, here's the final segment of Jeff and my 'museum.' Jeff designed the concepts and I executed them in soppy satirical prose. So, I hope you guys enjoyed the whole trip through the virtual museum. Up next...LAB!

8.

Alright, my wonderful guests of this wonderful tour, we are arriving at the end! And endings are such fine, sweet things, aren’t they? Yes. Well, just this way. Yes, right around the corner. Ah, yes, here we are: the final display.

Well, it’s a video, but before we actually go in to view it, I’d like to break protocol and say a few things.

First off: the artist responsible for this – how should I say: evidence? – we’re about to witness is Jeffrey James Wilde. He is what some would call a provocateur, but not in any traditional sense of the word. He does not discover grand statements between the periods of a woman’s menstrual period or write words in bat shit. No, his modus operandi – if you will – is more the lack of any activity to bring provocation. Last summer – even – he removed the heads from celebrities in movies and showed them in a marathon in Chicago. And two years before that, he raced around in a car and recorded himself singing loudly over popular road songs. He called that piece “White Fuzz.” And my particular favorite, I think: JJ Wilde once hung a blank, four hundred foot long banner down the side of the Empire State Building for three months. People often said it was like seeing into the bones of the building, but – oh Jeffrey – he just waved away the notion. “It’s all about nothing,” – yes – that’s what he can always be counted on to say.

Second, I suppose then: the piece we are about to view. As I said before, it is a video, but a rather peculiar one at that. It does not depict an actual execution of a work, but instead shows the total meltdown of an idea Jeffrey tried to share – and forcibly so. You see, his idea was to remove all art from the museum for a month and have the vacancy be his exhibit. But – as you’ll soon witness – the Board Members of the Boho Coco Museum were none to pleased with this venture. There were the usual problems of storage, cost, movement, handling – all the boring parts of museum life, really. But JJ Wilde just didn’t want to take no for an answer. And before I give too much away, let me wave you onward. Go. Go and be brave; take a look. See the wild life of art on the brink.

The room is empty except for a large flat screen television across the way.

The video is in mid-duration. A man – JJ Wilde perhaps – is seen in black

blazer and beard and sun glasses, and is punching the curator Grace Madero

in the mouth. She buckles and collapses onto the marble floor of the Boho

Coco atrium. Other men in black pants rush the scene and tackle the violent

aggressor. Although there is no sound, he can be scene screaming and flailing.

In the distance, nicely dressed persons watch in disbelief and keep their distance.

Patrons of the museum calmly pass the disturbance, almost as if they had

expected it, and pay it little heed. Grace Madero rises from the marble, gathers

her bearings, then in a childish fit of revenge, pounces on the violent man and

begins to jab him in the face. The black panted men who had tackled the

aggressive man now turn their attention to Grace and pull her away. She

screams too. Her legs flail too. This is not behavior fitting a museum curator.

The video cuts and loops back to the beginning. The violent man is composed

now, stood opposite Grace. They shake hands and giggle. The nicely dressed

persons are near the too. They shake hands. Then something is said. The

bearded man pauses and stares away. He throws his arms in the air and shoves

an older, fine dressed gentleman. Black panted men come from nowhere and

stand on the outskirts of the scene. Grace says something to the violent man

and then he punches her in the mouth.

I know: quite wild, isn’t it? I swear, there was never any inclination that things would scale to such violence. I can say: I for one am not a very violent person. So what happened, I don’t know; it all seems very ridiculous. But there that goes a lamb goes a lion – or something; I think that’s an expression. Anyhow – I must say – I just think that video is a darling. It’s pure JJ Wilde: he wants one thing, but gets another. The funny part of the story is, for the rights and agreement to play the video, we told Mr. Wilde that we would not press charges. He loved the idea. Actually, once a year – just for fun – Wilde returns to the museum to reenact the scene with people dressed in gaudy costumes. He likes to consider himself the string-puller, I assure you. Ahh…maybe there is violence in us all. I think – yes – I do believe such is true.

Well, fine guests, I quite thank you for joining me on the special VIP tour of the Boho Coco Art Museum’s fine collection. I hope you did enjoy yourselves. And if there is anything to take away, I hope it is such that you realize the preciousness of all art, of all moments even. I wish the whole world was a museum, sometimes. I think it not fair that we only have these many walls to hang the mighty efforts of troubadours and forlorn dreamers. I think, however, that you too may have walls, wherever they may be. If I might be so bold – and I do try to stay away from being tacky – let me tell you: hang that which you deem to be true and dear to your heart on those walls. If this be metaphor, then so be it. I prefer to call it reality, however. It’s a simple view – I know – of reality, but with all this war and catastrophe and what-not, let us be simple. Let us be grand and indulgent. Let us – as some famous artist must have said somewhere – “be whatever.” Ahh…that is my tour. Fin. Done. Finito. It – really, I just can’t seem to stop myself – was a pleasure, I assure you. But now I must bid you all adieu. Fare thee well, live well, be well. I’m Grace Madero. Thanks. Ta.

window picture poem

Hey guys, bloopers are back in check, my internet is working again! So, as promised, here is the first of new media poetic excursions. Not seen for several months, let's all bow before the return of the picture poem! Yes! This one focuses on windows. The actual text poem is pasted at the bottom of the pictures. Yeah! Sequential poetic pictures! Enjoy, you Boho Cocos you.



text poem:

revolving doors

concrete

tooth white

high beams

a

taxi cab

girl

dreams

radio waves

tar

lane

speed

glass

.

bloopers!

Hey people, my internet at home is on the fritz again!!! So, until it is running at tip top capacity (tomorrow I think), I can't zazz you with the wonderful world of zany posts I had planned. But don't worry, here is a poem to sate your thirst.


ebony sky

gray dresses hang
in shop

windows and
passersby

ask of the autumn
that was
and will be;

with fingers across a fence
I imitate the rattle
of
a snake
and

watch little children burn firecrackers in their
hands
and shoot across yards
like
pink zepplins

month of fun

Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed the Radio Nowhere posts, and don't worry, more are coming. But other forms of poetry are coming to you from the blog this month as well. Just wait until tomorrow... For now, here is the drawing I did for the cover of the second issue of Boho Coco. Hope you guys enjoy. And...just wait until Jeff and I drop the LAB on you... ha ha ha

radio nowhere 7.wav

Hey guys, third post in a row! Just call it my lazy Sunday I suppose. Anyway, more of John Johnson (are all the recordings done now? Who can say. He's still out there on that phantom frequency, Radio Nowhere). Listen up!
And hey, come back tomorrow for something beautiful and interesting.

a poem from life

Hey guys, I was at Fun Fun Fun Fest last night (and I'll be there today), so I wrote this poem about the people and their happenings. I was there. I had fun. I was covered in dust. Enjoy!

untitled 4759

lip-glossed

hipsters

jumping on stage

shrieking like

titans

and dancing

with

nothing;

I saw clouds of dust

cover

us

on Saturday

evening

while we had

towels wrapped

around

our

throats;

magical people on bicycles

shoot

shoot

past police cars

oh we

own the evening

radio nowhere 6.wav

The voice of John Johnson is ubiquitous, and it will come for you, and it will sing, and it will be brave and tell you of old days where people had smooth combs in their back pockets and girlfriends and ugly fathers and distorted mirrors, and it will be good. Click the post title and hear.

radio nowhere 5.wav

Hey creeps and dips, here's another blast from nowhere featuring John Johnson and his dead voice. Dig!

an ode...

...to follow up...

ODE TO ZINE AND PRINT AND PROSODY

The sound of the words
The look
&
Feel of the words
Just
Heathen abstractions
From reprobate minds that
Conspire in print
&
The web

return of the poem

Hey guys, hot on the heels of that bumping track from Radio Nowhere, comes this poem from yours truly. I just wanted to make sure all those lovely ones out there know that this blog is still about poesy and the written word. Dig!

untitled 4744

a million rainbows

beaming

from

my flesh

I want

to shoot down birds

and

love

them back to life

back

to the winds

and name my daughters for their

wings

radio nowhere 4.wav

Hey fellows, how are you doing? Here's the fourth installment of Radio Nowhere, that good ol' hard to track down radio wavelength that still emits John Johnson's readings even though he's long dead. OOOhhhh! Click the link to get taken to the afterlife.

this just in

Hot off the presses, I present to you a seven poem chapbook - with drawings - I produced myself. If you're in the Austin area, you can pick up this darling little collection for the low, low price of only three American dollars (sorry Canada) at Domy Books (913 E Cesar Chavez). So stop by the store, for the love of Pete, and make sure to pick up a copy. But be careful, they're hotter than the sun and they're going fast.

And as a perk to all you blog watchers out there, I'm going to be posting a page of the chapbook per week so you can see what you're missing out on. Today's post sees the cover of the collection.

the times they are a changing - radio nowhere 3.wav

Holy cow, friends, holy cow. Here's another lost recording from Radio Nowhere on this amazing day of change and hope. It feels good to be alive. And how are you?

sounds of chaos/the possibilities of a new tomorrow

hello...election day provides some of us the chance to say goodbye to the previous president's mistakes and hope for something better (even if that is a very very small hope)...so I dug into the Barnyard vaults for this free noise jazz jam...this was recorded without politics in mind, but it can also be heard as a farewell to the past...

AGITATIO PARKBENCH

just a poem

Hey guys, it's been a while since I've posted a poem by little ol' me, so here goes.

untitled 4741

smacking knuckles

upon

the prow

becomes us

we linger in lives

of

dust

oh

girls

of white shadow

that

play across

my ceiling

I am

the cold weather and I am

the distant sun

and

I am an elm

tree

split

in two

by a lonely hunter

radio nowhere 2.wav

Hey guys, click the link and listen to the next installment in the lost recordings of John Johnson, humble leader of the Boho Coco. Also, it came to my attention that the downloads might not play on all media players. Might I recommend the ultra-versatile VLC Player? It's free for download (and quick too), and can play just about any type of file. Alright; hope that helps. Have a good day!

Louisvilleen