two for the money...happy new year, baby '09

Hey guys, it's been a while (you know, Holidays and all), so here are two posts featuring my 2001 series (poems based on the 'Lightshow' scene in the film 2001, images and music). Hope you all have a safe, happy, slappy, sappy, do-dad dappy New Year. And do be sure to check in with us in the coming weeks, we've something special brewing for each and everyone of you special stars. Auld lang syne!





2001 7


it speaks

I am gold

you who are

small are a sliver of the great
ruby band
of god

he wore it once
and left it hanging upon the rim of Jupiter

oh galaxy
of lovemaking harmony
space drift

it is it is
the end

you can hear them speaking to you

it is the end
you can
hear a man wallow across a small
place of habitat
for all the gold in the universe a
lover came and was
had and was beset by the oh
oh wonderful
wonderful



...and here is the start of the second set of seven poems





2001 part 2 1


blink and you will
be another
particle

born of blackholes

my god
says

it is imperative now
for us
to water
dance
across the face of the planet

and hiss
hiss

the light of grace fallen into our
hands makes us
complete
and
chaos

chaos is the truth of my name

merry day after christmas

Sorry about not posting yesterday; the families of extended relatives swirled around me in a smorgasbord and was unable to sneak away. So...here is that Christmas miracle a day late, and a dollar short: a poem from my heart to yours.


the birth of christ



listen to me


we lived in the nighttime
and
ate bread stolen from
cafes


we wanted to witness
a miracle


the dumpster behind
a four star
hotel held
the cries of a friend
of
ours and we asked him what
he was sad
for


everyday we
find
forgotten shoes and suits
waiting in
windowless
car carcasses


the winter is coming and we don't
try very hard to find work


someone out in the evening
tonight
on a bus is
making love and someone
is
fighting with their
child


someone is watching us push
shopping carts
into alleyways


and some are even singing
a song
about our
awful faces


I believe that in the morning
the
sun will come and
sit in my pocket


I believe that I am blessed
and
every iron lamppost
is
really lit for
my pleasure


we
waited until the stroke of midnight
and
then we raided the nearest
taxi cab and turned it over


the fire that came was like
a birth
and we warmed our hands


we watched the refleciton of the city
from the river
later
and some of us even jumped in


nobody would come to save
the poor
wretched cat caught in a fence,
but I wept
and I paused


we are the birch in the smashed parking lot
and
we are the stained
glass in the bottom
of the tin fire drum


a child was born
yesterday
without eyes,
screaming


we watched it try
to feed
but the mother
was indifferent


I am certain
of my
death in a twilight
boxcar
traveling very far
to a place
I've never
been


when I arrive,
friends will set my
body to flame
and hardly
anyone will have stories of me


we want for the world
to be a better place,
but
we have no idea
how
to achieve such things


we bang pipes, and
when we
don't have those,
we bang
store windows

merry poetry

Hey guys, I managed to sneak away another moment here at the Vaughan Family Compound, so here's a poem I wrote a few nights ago amidst a dirge of retarded satellite television marathons. Oh, and come back tomorrow for a Christmas treat.


the sharp
crook of the mountains
loped low
beside
your wandering
mouth

into
the awful
hell of
forever sleeping.

it is forbidden
to cast
off your skin in
pursuit
of old men shaking
buffalo skulls
with magic.

you will lose
your mind
in black crop circles
but you will become
immortal
rings of youthful clapping hands.

secret poetry

Hey guys, I managed to slip away from the fun festivities of my vacation to write this poem and post it for all you wonderful wonderfuls. Dig!


choose your
death
and be careful,
it may be
my
death as well.
we are one road,
you
and I,
and all humanity
has
conspired to step
and roll over
our bones.

you don't want
this
but it's the reason
I
was
made.

Merry X-mas

Hey guys, me and Erin are going to Virginia for the holidays and I'll be away from a computer for some time (I'll try to sneak away and find some time for all you guys). Also, I won't have my computer, so I'll be creating poems off the top of my head, for you, Santa's real helpers. Anyway, here's a bunch of drawings from me to you to tide you over this holiday season. I'll be back on the 29th! Check it out!

music news

Daily Brothers have news:

*a tune from my SONG AFTER SONG album is on KUT's mixtape, http://texasmusicmatters.kut.org/mixtape/

*barnyardmusic.blogspot.com now has 2 full length Chris Daily LP's available to listen to for ear hole pleasuring

*music blog, http://homemade-lofi-psychedelic.blogspot.com/ - will feature a Plastic Uno (band) [an early Daily bros. duo] song titled, "One Nation Under a Poncho" on an upcoming compilation due sometime this xmas season

*both Chris and I have new CDs in the finishing stages of production that will be available in Jan. - so here's to 2009!!!

radio nowhere 10.wav

Hey guys, is this the last of John Johnson's recording from nowhere? Only you can answer that question. Listen and be well, all grand wonder kids. Click the post title to whisk away to a land of your wildest dreams.

2001 vol 1 part 6

2001 6


have you been
down the vestibule with
your hands
carved in tattoo

oh

wonder of an ice
planet drifting
across the cosmos

it touches to be touched
and once
touching
melts across a body
for eternity

I am there

I have seen love

I have touched the firmament


Taadaa! The 2001 series is back and larger than ever. And if you think you've seen it all, well, you're just a silly goof. Have you touched the firmament today?
ps. I'm going to place my post ravings at the bottom of the 2001 series from now on so as not to separate the picture from the poem! Dig that, little ponies!

reading at the Cathedral of Junk on Jan 24th

Hey guys, on January 24th at 8PM, us Bohos are going to host a reading/performance at the awesome Austin folk art miracle, the Cathedral of Junk. The Cathedral is a cool structure built by Vince Hannemann and sits in his backyard. He's an extremely cool guy who is doing us such an honor by letting us have a reading there. So, I know the news is a little early, but don't worry, as we get closer to the day, the details of who's reading and whatnot will be specified. This is just an early yawp celebrating the coming of another reading. And don't wait for us to be there, go see the Cathedral for yourself at 4422 Lareina Street (just south of Ben White Blvd). Just call Vince (512-299-7413) before you go (Tuesday through Sunday 9-6) and make sure it's cool to stop by. Alright! Reading coming your way! And, to get a taste of the Cathedral, here's a video (the guy in it is Vince) featuring a tiny robot dancer.

cold weather abstractions

stay warm kiddies...

one more untitled(s) for the road

And hey guys, a week of poems is nice, but come back tomorrow for a fun announcement. Hope you all had an awesome week of poetic whimsy! And and and, the poems I've selected for you on this fine evening span the range of my last eight hundred untitleds. Whoah! Dig!


untitled 4042


for an epic song of none
willing

suspend the motion
of time
inside
a copper bowl

and tin
fork and lead
spoon

my

mother sang

she sang
the song that composed the whole
world

as I rattled and batted
fly paper
in a highchair



untitled 4123


black feathers fall
onto the lane

just

ditches of endless turkey
bones tossed
from caravans

into the crevasse

over when
where
you were little

a thing like nimble
so

slender you
had to tack your
clothes with
tacs

and jump the gulf
just to get
away



untitled 4232


forget the white cords
around her fingers

in the hall of the Aztec gods.
let her
listen to the piano instead.
bake

your hand in a gold oven.

die slowly,
but be well,
and kiss
the crisp lid of the sunrise.



untitled 4342


oh so it is chaos
green in the leaves
of the summer

cheering you

business-like-
sweet

and the concrete sidewalk
once
white

now stamped in secret
phone
numbers belonging
to liaise
faire

kinds and
all

the wind

and might
behind

such statements
to frame
a
concubine



untitled 4459


only a warm up,
mere formality

my good swan,

listen

look to the eves

of the moon
when on a horse comes
riding

some men armed to the hilt
and

I will eat their teeth
and devour
,

oh gladly,

their simple reverie for the bold
and the damned.

simple oh
it
is simple,

give me my good bread
and I will
leave

this town tonight and on the twilight
I will
strike the church bell
with my
copper
hammer as I go



untitled 4585


rain is of a body
in the
lake

dead for three years
a
girl

bobbi jo jo

she
is blonde once
lovely

again to age
and drip

rain is of the body
in
the lake



untitled 4689


Cane had a life
in
flower boxes

and ate
his children
for
dinner

one evening;

Martha
told him to color
the sky
new

but she couldn’t tell lavender
from

burgundy and
drove
over a bed of flowers;

they made love
madly.



untitled 4773


I deserve the buffalo
gun
and
the top
hat

dance
me
magic oh
invalids

stuck out on street corners
and
eating
from

dirty bowls of ragweed

are
are

the beginning

get out of the car
and

show me your palms



untitled 4820


cleanse your
soul

it is commanded

that as a child
you

will be brave
and

wear torn shirt
sleeves

around your shins

and
grin in the grain;

cleanse your
mind

this is
the ice age

the untitled poem that launched a thousand metaphors

Hey girlie girls and boylie boys, get ready for a fun, drunken, Friday night fuck fest featuring poetry and your girl Friday. OH no, did I use Friday twice in the same sentence?! Well, just write in and tell us that you don't enjoy life, or some iteration, or some exacerbation, or some altercation. We love you. We love all of you.


untitled 4213


to take a chance of rope
swings
in the guttural visage of the backroads
of the south
land

is to die for the pleasure of cutting
a sheet of glass
and stamping
upon it in perfection

slide away
down the schoolyard playpen

or else



untitled 4214


when you hear the sonic radio at four in the morning,
oh girl,

a groan for me please
and once
lie down with the light on your face
and green lipstick,

oh I’ve seen too much.

I want to be wound yarn
utilized in composition
strange

to knit a blanket for a wounded cat
on the prowl
in the shades of midnight
like

I once was.



untitled 4215


smashed cameras
of hijacks

I saw the gutter color rust
swabbed across her forehead
at two
am

in dreams
of corruption the slip
cut city slid
down the hillside
to make
love

with the ocean waves

you are certain
you know
if you wear black pants on a Monday
morning
and it is doom at bus stops
at
city mall parking
lots



untitled 4216


it was hard for the detective
I know
to give over his pistol
at the end of his
career
merely to think
of blue ribbon dancers’
flesh covering
crime scene evidence
and
exalt the wayward working man
out of his hard
earned
honest day’s
pay

so perfection
it is silence
and it is stillness
and the sing song siren
of all endeavors come
back
upon the fold of whence
they were blessed
and given away



untitled 4217


hard rain can be gentle
like
your hair
in the wind
auburn
I saw the stars across
your face

when you sat in the eddy in
the river
fair

the love

oh the love

it is a miracle
that such as us have
become complete sets of bones
with skulls and sockets
and pelvises
and ankles

ask not for whom the poem tolls

For surely it has no title. More poems from the house of (un)ideas, coming at you live, 24/7, large and in charge, direct and in effect, until the end of the world, or until lunch, which ever comes next! Zing!


untitled 4778


the waters of the dead
river
god
flow into
the veins
of
the young
and
make them mighty


I saw them sail
away
in
white vests and
clamor
letters
to their chests

lost
loves and
dear mothers
fathers in the basement
and
brothers or sisters
growing their hair

and the waters
are
bitter and have
mineral loose soot
tipping
head to heel
in
the bales and brush

and the
alligator
girls and skinny
bush
boys



untitled 4777


someone is awake
now

looking
at
a red lampshade
and
calling the minions
of
Avalon
to
their side

and
believe
in
magic
baby
I
have
lips

she was a siren
in
the buzz distance
black
night

a raven or a crow
in
the rafters underneath the moon
cawing



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



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
and
tattoo wrists



untitled 4774


writing an epistolary
reaction
to
her adverse means
of
climbing into
a bedroom window
while

wearing spoon tops on her sleeves

oh

my

goodness

all you can eat untitleds

Hey guys, more poems from my untitled mouth to your untitled ears. Dig!


untitled 4151


you feel black crows
across your eyelids

mother

I want to fall down
the pillow
case
and land
in

bales of split
hay



untitled 4152


cellophane veins

blue and

beautiful

she chokes in the coat
room

and believes

so toss

the car keys into the brush and
go mad
stark
raving naked

into the suburbs



untitled 4153


we wore the new flesh
as we emerged
from
the department store

at two am

and watched the long cords of
red and
green

dance neon across the
Mexican plaza


the wind
caused a shiver
and
we huddled



untitled 4154


a woman
pronounced her name

Lola into
the tv set
and

kissed it red
so

fall over feathers

I saw a wayward tire go
boom

down the ravine after

some girl kicked it
loose

with boots



untitled 4155


social
ice cream faced fourteen year
old girls
in braces
and skirts
climb up the moontower

and return

to float around the neighborhood
and

marry into the
clouds

and storm
oh

storm

I need you most

more poems from the underground

To continue our week of non-titled poetry, might I present to you exhibit B, wherein that chipper wunderkind, the rumpled Boho Coco Chris S, posts five more poems sans titles.


untitled 4627


she is queen

oh
I
know

of the lavender
jungle

and eats gravel
with a young
throat
and rides the highway bare
in essence of a soul
a wallet
and boots that shingle
shake

a snake once lived
happy with a shard
of glass in a plastic carton
of empty milk



untitled 4628


the speed of gods
in bike
circles

goes the girl
Jackie
in her
turn fist revolution

queen of love
on the ambient
sea
of drifters
and glasses
and the spoken softly

oh soflty

realm of kiss



untitled 4629


a door is a door
is a door
Isadora climbs
the stairwell
to find makeup in an old
coffee can
in her
mother's bathroom
and
puts on her face



untitled 4630


broken toys
colored yellow
humble a
writer
in his pajamas
crawling
on red coals

I saw
the dance of dream
burn in
America’s skies
and
never come around

stars
shine the independence
of never sleeping



untitled 4631


the desert contains
a wall

where written
is
the entire history of the world

and it is better
to have
been there and to have touched it

and to have cried

week without titles!!!

Hey guys, its the inaugural untitled poetry week at the ol' blog, and to start it off with a bang, here's three untitled poems from my heart to yours. And all week, expect a nonstop parade of untitled poetry to grace your computer screen. I know, I know; they said it couldn't be done. But we're going to show them! We're going to show them all! And don't let me have all the fun: everybody reading, create your own untitled poem (or...horror amongst horrors, create a titled poem) and slap it up here on these pages. We'd all love to see them. So without further ado, here's a bunch of poems without titles (but they do have numbers!)!


untitled 4448


she reaches out against the window pane
and
says that
this
oh this of this I think
when
winding and inside
to shrink

my life to live has ever done
and was
and win and when
we

shun



untitled 4449


different women
with

small
hands
assemble around
me

to pierce my flesh with
golden
daggers

and it is right

to be an animal
and

to shriek with the holly trees and
the clipped
grass

and to laugh at the sound
of a truck

tumbling a highway



untitled 4450


a boot
crunches
the glass

shards

at the city
train tracks

and your
mother once
lived

not far from
here

crying some nights under the moon


...
oh and hey, here's two more poems! Zounds!


untitled 4451


E has had love
in her belly
for

some time

drinking fire
and

the moon saws

her jawbone
in half

with my t-
shirts
wrapped
upon
the balcony
.
she
drinks rainwater
and sleeps outside on the rooftop



untitled 4452


white paper
oh
gold

necked lepers

white
gold

and paperless
bandits

go crash

this is the old world
we
all live
we
all die

radio nowhere 9.wav

Here's another lost recording from nowhere featuring John Johnson, the mythical founder of the Boho Coco. Click the link and listen in stereo to a voice from beyond!

here's something extra

Hey guys, late night tomorrow, so I'll be giving you a dose of poetry with the already posted dose of 2001. Here's a poem I just wrote. Also...look out for next week: a vast expanse of poetry will be known. Ha ha ha!


untitled 4824


the cheap tin-
suit
pastor
sat beside a red-headed
soon-to-be
ex-wife

and asked about
her husband’s

luminous bulbs of vegetation
spread across the living
room;

she replied that
she believed

only
in beasts and their
form and
distance

and glowing eyes

2001 vol 1 part 5

Hey friends, how is your week going? Well, I'm posting another poem in my 2001 series, so I'm not sweating it either. Dig!


2001 5


the butterfly of the galaxy
is eternal

any child knows this

when it is magenta
that stripes its
wings
and red that folds its embrace

the butterfly had come to dwell
in the folds of Jupiter
fluttering in the red
eye
and quelling the riots
of thousand year storms
it was beautiful
to know it and that it would
one day bite
a girl upon her neck
she would freckle and giggle
and her eyes would glow
hot with the nova
scent of unbecoming and in her womb would
come a frost of children
screaming in iridescent pink
that it is unfair to cast about our lot
into the infinite without first knowing
what to call it and how
it tastes
how to touch it
we die alone drifting in space
we melt the sun
we are together in life across many many
many

the butterfly now gone
has left behind only a name

beware I am he and
he
in the infinite is
god

prose from anonymous

Hey guys, a friend sent this to me but asked to remain anonymous! Have some prose.


Ink beard

Roaming the streets of downtown austin, mid afternoon, "too proud to prostitute" the young man (no more than 28) holds up a folded cardboard sign. mostly out of embarrassment for actually stopping to read the sign (ehh I've seen better) I give him a crumpled picture of george washington. Thanks brother, I make eye contact to express some sign of empathy, he has tattooed a goatee onto his chin. The young lady at his side is continuing an ongoing conversation as if i wasn't there. I nearly comment as I thought I was being addressed. He lowers his net as I walk away, how at ease they seemed. What commitment to exile his defacement. I wander off just as neurotic as ever, trying to validate my own daily masks. I assure myself I am an equal recluse, the irony is not lost on me that I feebly attempt acceptance, too indecisive to go under the ink. What does it matter, whores the lot of us.

dialogues with god near a dumpster

Hey guys, here is a monologue I wrote and performed. The character in it is a recurring character who is in several other monologues I've written; this, then, is his first appearance. He's a bit of an everyman (and he's me too!). Hope you guys enjoy (especially Samuel Beckett).

happy December, here's a picture

Hey my best and most wonderful people, enjoy a lo-fi drawing. It has no title.