Hey fellows, here is a post for all of you on this wild weekend!
postcards from a dead ex lover 3
Cindy. How are you? Sorry it’s been a while, but man, I have seen some shit. First off, traveling through this particular area, I was accosted by a gang of youths. They only wanted my money and shoes, but after I gave it to them, they still roughed me up a bit. Then I found myself at an embassy, haggling whatever I could, then I found a bank, and then I was pretty okay. You know, sometimes I very much think that it isn’t a kind world. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the last kind man, singing a song nobody wants to hear. You heard it; that keeps my head up, I suppose. And, oh geez, listen to me: wallowing in a pity parade! God damn, I can be hard on myself, but I guess you remember all that. And anyway, where I’m at now is a really cool, chill place. It’s a place that lends itself to hope, I think. And anyway, what’s up with you? Hopefully at the next place, I’ll be staying a while, so I can send a forwarding address and you can write me back, if you want. Well, I hope all is well. All my best, Cind.
Hey guys, here's another epistolary piece from the cannon.
postcards from a dead ex lover 2
Hey Cindy, writing to you from the most exciting place on earth, land or water. God, the nights here burst and explode, and all I can do is run through them. It reminds me of the time we went on vacation that one summer. Remember? We’d stay up drinking at the bars all night, then crash our way back to the hotel, picking up whatever junk we could find, amassing it in a huge pile in the room, then making love as sleepy as can be. God, what did we ever do with all that trash? I think we tried to make a boat out of it and send it afloat on the ocean. But it sank, didn’t it? And fast, too! Just like us, eh? Sorry, sorry. You know me and my humor. Well, take care of yourself. I’m not sure when the next postcard will come, but hey, let’s let it be a surprise.
Hey, finally, some live footage from our Cathedral of Junk performance (for all who missed it). First up: Miguel Martinez reading his poem, "again, another six more hours." Apologies for the grainy video, but it was dark that night (and cold!). I say let it enhance the performance. Dig!
Hey guys, did you like the show at the Cathedral of Junk? Were you there? Are you experienced? Anyway, it was a great time for all. I want to say a quick congratulations to Gabriel Matt Nicholson, Miguel Martinez, Erin Vaughan, Jeff Daily, and Chris Daily, for putting on one hell of a performance. Despite the cold, we soldiered on. And a very very special thanks to Vince Hanneman, the owner and creator of the Cathedral. Vince, you are truly a great guy. And if any of you out there have not seen the Cathedral, by all means, get there soon. It's spectacular. Well, as things gear back down here at the blog, look for more fun stuff from yours truly and all the rest of the Bohos. Starting today, I'll be posting a new series of epistolary prose pieces, titled, 'Postcards from a dead ex lover.' OOOhhh, sounds ominous. Hey, and also, be on the lookout for live video from the Cathedral performance. Keep on keeping on, you Bohos you.
postcards from a dead ex lover 1
Hey Cindy, guess where I’m writing from? Well, if you already saw the cover of this card, I guess you know. I gotta’ say, it’s a wonderful place, here. Lot’s to see, lot’s to do. I kind of wish you were here with me, but, c’est la vie, right? God, you always were so cute when you’d say that little phrase after a plate broke or something. Anyway, I’m getting along okay here; can’t complain too much. I think I’ll be moving on soon enough, though. Gotta’ see the entire world! At least, that’s my goal. Look: I’m sorry you couldn’t be here with me, but…well, I guess I already said c’est la vie. Just know I’m thinking of you, okay? Well, gotta’ go for now. Look for another card from me soon. Who knows, maybe I’ll be just around the corner. Crazy world we’re all living in! Just do me one favor: after you read this, go onto the balcony where we used to dance and howl at the horizon once for me. I mean, only if you really want to. Gotta’ go.
Hey guys, run out and pick up a fancy new copy of the third issue of our lit zine Boho Coco, featuring new card stock cover (aaahhh). You can find a copy at Book People, the Hideout, Little City, Domy Books, or Bouldin Creek. And if they're all gone there (you better hurry, supplies won't last long), then come out to our performance on Saturday at the Cathedral of Junk (4422 Lareina Drive) at 8PM, and we'll have plenty just for you! Aww, ain't we swell?
Here's the next part to a tale of mayhem and...murder!
chapter 3 – the army gang
So they were probably a bunch of commandos, but at this point, their guns were useless. It had been days since they escaped into the jungle. Their great General of moonbeam cheekbones had failed them, and as such, they were the detritus and the scraps. A war monger or other would come along and dance over their bodies, soon enough. This did not sit well with the troops. They wandered and wandered, to escape, and hopefully, to find salvation.
The band of thirteen or so gunmen came upon the abandoned laboratory a little late in the morning. They were thirsty and barreled through the broken doors of the lab. The soldiers tore apart cabinets, overturned beds, raided cupboards, and generally shot around the place like bullets. Some were tempted to lay down for the night and cook something over a fire. Some were tempted to remove their flesh and dangle in the rafters. Some were tempted to burn the walls from the windows. The leader of the group rallied his men and grunted. They should only stay the day; death is always behind.
The garrulous ones could hardly contain themselves. There was a secret life flowing behind the once white walls. There was mystery. The curious coaxed the others into following as they wandered the long, smashed-up halls and stumbled upon a small room that looked like a shower. There was purple residue on the tile floor near the drain, and above, the ceiling was painted red with shower heads dangling. Some began to giggle, others paced around and gazed blankly down the hall they had come from. And then a clicking sound came and the door slammed shut. A stream of gas emptied from above and swelled the soldier’s heads. Some grew blue in the face, others began slapping the walls, and some stood on their heads, kicking their legs in the air. When it was all over, the gas was sucked away by a giant vacuum in the corner of the room. The soldiers lied upon the tile and grumbled. Something, oh yes, was mysterious.
The gang of thirteen men, proud and disciplined, were reduced to boys, with imaginations working the speed of infancy. One man-child, Robert, proclaimed, "The sun is a yolk with beating eye lids." Jose, drool pooling 'round his mouth, laughed at Robert and said, "Gimme my tinker toys!" Thirteen beings splayed out on the floor. No one was in charge. No one was angry. The calm peace of dying men washed over them. All thirteen inhaled and exhaled as smoothly as any living soul could. Gregory, the oldest of the boys at 29, smiled at Tim and said, "Bless the blue in you." One by one the gunmen closed their eyes and died.
Those that did not die, the young and the meek, were left slumped against walls and peed themselves. They imagined grand hippos in their head, tap-dancing and giggling. None of the mutated men were aware when the soldier emerged from a doorway and tossed a grenade into their laps. As the explosion came, only one realized what was happening. He thought that the past had caught up with them; he grimaced in the blast.
Outside of the room, the Soldier paused to draw his breath. His face was cut and bleeding. He and the Scientist had an altercation, a disagreement, and now he was about to blow the rest of the laboratory. He ran down the halls, tracing his fingers across the flesh of the place. Somewhere the Scientist was roiling in rage, clutching test tubes and dreaming of a better world. He escaped too, in a tunnel, barking and slamming his fists into his head. The Soldier was not aware of any of this. His soul burned too, but with a different rage, with pity.
The explosion of the laboratory was simple; it merely required a few moments of intensity and blindness. The Soldier ran through the guts of the jungle, attempting to outrace something. It was a torrid dream, or it was just a storm in the evening; the jungle was open. Something had been loosened, and it remained to be seen whether the rest of the world was now better or worse for it. The soldier sighed and made for the river.
Hey freaks, here's some more interplay between objects out there and the influence they can have on creative endeavors (that's the topic of the third zine, so so so). And you know we're getting geared for the performance at the Cathedral of Junk this Saturday at 8PM. Come out and devour the scrap with us.
object poem 3
there were no walls where you stood; it was the mirrors, instead, that
had you around and round in a black leotard. no one suspected; you were the artifice in the flag, the gender type dance card.
and in you we experienced entropy; and in you a red light; and in you the scattering of day for night.
Hey guys, been tripping fantastically and found this around the way. Hope you like.
messages from above the lampposts 1
here me out because the answers are there, and they are this: we don’t know who we’ve become these last bits of years, but, my oh my, the almighty of the almighty, I can tell you for certain that we will find ourselves anew, basked in the grit and grime of an evil halo circling the moon, or perhaps the distant gong of a morning to come, or even in the embrace of a smoking woman. we can eclipse ourselves, certainly, but if we take away all of our teeth and rattle like radios, we become something entirely new. there is no hope but there is no dread but there is no fright but there is no life but there is no wooden seahorse child child happy room but there is no balloon in the belfry of blood but there is no nonsense woman chattering the sidewalk with an empty baby stroller full of old sardine cans but there is no no no no no nononnon.
listen, because the answer is this: those who are to power what light is to an empty broom closet, can overtly string an avenue of piano wire and hope for the right people to come along and vibrate in sync with the never ending dada so we can become undone in spite of all our exact measurements. I am nothing if not nothing, and you are the large unknown area that is just behind the sun. we are as the titans of yesterday come anew to trip fantastic in the disco; or something.
Hey people, here's a post about everything. A story that I'm writing for you right now (time doesn't exist!) and as you read it, well, just wonder whether I'm still writing it.
The man from Parma had sideburns that sauntered up the crags of his face. He ordered a tall lemonade and made away with it into the vanity shop next door. Margarita asked everyone where her man went. He's guzzling the black ribs of the bird, girl, you know; you're so good looking but you waste it in a flower pot. Then Margie cries. Then the crow flies. Then the man from Parma returns. Then the place closes and it becomes nighttime. Inside the man from Parma's coat pocket is a small poem he wrote:
the way of the world is kind; I have been lurid and mighty, as is my want; leave me the only girl with pennies for eyes; snake slither sizzle
Hey guys, here's the final installment in the lost poems of John Johnson series I discovered a long time ago in a seedy motel. They say John Johnson killed himself because love drove him mad. What do you think?
Hey guys, to celebrate the upcoming occasion of our performance at the Cathedral of Junk, I'm going to be posting pictures of random objects I've taken from around town with a piece of writing inspired by it. Here's the first one. Also, if any of you out there are inspired by the objects presented, and want to write a little ditty of your own, post it in the comments. Hurray for the wild world buzzing around us with images and sounds!
object poem 1 (iron woman)
you must be made of iron, otherwise how could you hang there so massively;
but I digress:
glass, steel, shine,
pale light, office building blues, and a pinch of solitude.
if you marry me, toss me in the river, then drag me across middle America and
Hey guys, just a reminder: us Boho Cocos have a reading at the Cathedral of Junk (4422 Lareina Drive) on Saturday, Jan. 24th, at 8PM. There will be music, there will be poetry, there will be performance. Come on down, folks, and watch the grand epic of the randomness of objects and what they lead to. Creation!
And if you see one of these fliers hanging around town, give it a kiss for me, will you?
Hey fellows, here are two poems I wrote recently. Hope you dig. Also, Grant Morrison is a frigging genius. To witness his amazing powers, go out and get a hold of "Doom Patrol" issues 26-29 of the second incarnation of the comic. Brilliant! The Brotherhood of Dada! Boho Coco!
give me the accordion , lovely, I’ve
a song that must be sung
and some noise to clutter; you have such lovely ivory teeth; if I could use
them I would place them as buttons on my coat and parade around the city;
hum along with me if you know the words;
and be a dear: get me a glass of water; my oh my
you have a lovely pair of feet
when you wrap the chord around my neck and let me loose in the water, pray for me,
that I might drift free and loose and graze the navel of the stream.
Time exists, right? Here's some poetry from me about cities I've known or fancied or heard about.
I knew of Detroit from movies and magazines;
Chicago was lived in, snowed on, drifted through, as in a dream;
New York City was always the prize of my fantasies and my dreary teeth;
Austin was also lived in, still is I suppose,
and it has pretty hills and girls without hats;
San Francisco is expensive, or so I hear;
Seattle has a tower, a peak, the perfect center of the universe, if one were so inclined, and from there, well;
Vegas was a cheap stuttering bitch on the prowl;
Cleveland sang to me in youth, a baseball park, a dingy old peanut shop;
Charleston was less extravagant, but just as sturdy;
Savannah, oh Savannah, was angelic but lost;
Asheville was the dirty feet of a man singing hum dim ding;
D.C. was a wicked stretch of Ethiopian restaurants and chain theaters, eating the eyes;
L.A. must be a waterdance, but I’ve never been;
Dallas and Houston are wicked sisters, shaving each other’s armpits with abandon;
Oklahoma City belongs to a friend of mine, and she thinks it’s made of chocolate and spiced rum;
darling San Diego, I suppose, has nice weather, but forget Oakland, it’s full of steel;
Boston is a runny egg dripping down the spine of a notebook;
Philadelphia is beloved by every dead man, patriots too, and little girls with ribbons in their hair;
New Jersey sinks into the monolith of fiction with every drawing breath of its citizens;
Charlotte has the straight hair of a Viking, or an idiot, or a rambling son of a bitch;
Mobile was a squeak;
and New Orleans, queen of the mighty breeze, has that thing inside of it that rattles, but it ain’t a beer bottle and it’s not a lantern and it sure ain’t some loose kids getting their teeth kicked out on Bourbon Street.
Henrietta and Naiobi entered into the abandoned laboratory in search of supplies. Henrietta, the mother, watched her sixteen year old daughter, Naiobi, as the girl tip-toed into the silent halls of the tatter building. The shattered windows alarmed Henrietta; she imagined grave civil disobedience and other alarming happenings. Naiobi had little care in her; she merely tip-toed to patronize her mother. The women had traveled through the forest all day in hopes of coming across something in the way of help. Their boat had run ashore in the night and now they were stuck in the middle of nowhere with dwindling supplies. The two were not very fond of each other, but made it an annual habit of coming together for a trip. Naiobi blamed her mother for everything. Henrietta became restless waiting outside for her daughter to return. The mind of the jungle was harmful and convinced many of murder, beauty too. Henrietta called out her daughter’s name. The stillness of the place was oddly comforting. Its unnatural presence amidst the chaotic luster of the jungle was all that kept Henrietta from popping out of her skin. It wasn’t easy for her, feeling responsible and guilty about the ship, and of things long gone before this vacation went awry. She called her daughter’s name again, growing nervous. Naiobi emerged from behind her mother and giggled. She was holding bottles of water and some old food rations. Henrietta glanced upon her daughter’s frail skin and let loose an exasperated smile. The two made way fast through jungle clutter and returned to their ship. The thing had come loose in the regular events of a day’s river stream, and was ready once more to embark down the exotic. The two women threw a cheer, each immediately hushing it, and boarded their ship. After cooking a bit of rice and eating a tin of peaches, Naiobi quickly swigged from a bottle of water. Henrietta, more doubting, glanced over the plastic bottle, then drank some herself. She fell ill almost immediately. Her skin tightened. Naiobi grunted and moaned. The dark night overtook them. Before blacking out, Henrietta noticed that her daughter had passed out onto her empty plate of food. Then the good mother’s legs gave out and she collapsed as well.
Mother and daughter woke as the sun was rising. Henrietta's vision was blurry and the shadows of the dawn weren't making things any easier. She looked up and stretched her neck. She glanced at Naiobi. Naiobi was stirring and groaning. Both women had horrendous headaches. Naiobi was the first to gather her thoughts. She felt cold. Henrietta had come to, the wind burned her cheeks. Naiobi starred at Henrietta. "What are you looking at?" Henrietta said. "Um, mom..." "You little brat. What the hell is it?" Naiboi screamed. Henrietta's face was covered in tumors. She had puss all over her lips. Her hair was gone. Naiobi felt sick and wrapped her arms around her torso. Her waist was goo. Her ribs were visible. Naiobi looked down and noticed her entire midriff gone. Flesh dangled from what was left of her middle. Henrietta now understood that her body was covered in disease and could feel death oozing from every pour on her body. Her clothes had become so soaked in fluids that they clung to her. She looked like a slaughtered cow. Mother and daughter writhed in grotesque agony.
The pair of women had nothing left to do. They saw in each other stretched visions of past and future. The present – as anything in the jungle – was nowhere to be found. They made to embrace, but hesitated. The anger from previous days seemed to heighten their degradation. The ship jostled. It became caught upon mild, jagged rocks. The stream became their song, pushing and pushing forth. In the distance of tree canopies and dead husks of leopard hides, the soldier was waiting, peering through binoculars. His stomach turned. He imagined the bottles of water bubbling with indigo hue, snapping and frothing. Even from such distance, he could make out the tumors visible on the bodies of the women. It was time, he decided, and he came down from the trees and branches. The boat began to whirl and spin in place. One of the women uttered mother and the other uttered nothing. They began to hiss and spit. Slowly they edged their way to the ship’s railing. They dreamed then, a moment each, of a sunny field and a picnic. They were hugging and holding hands and joking with each other. Then the ship took another jolt from the rocks below and Henrietta and Naiobi were gone. The soldier jumped aboard the ship. Sweat ran down his back. He began to call out for the women. He had no guns, just a knife and some syringes. He ran from the prow to the mast and saw slick stains upon the rail. He examined the maroon colored mess, then glanced over the side. He saw the two women below, poised on the rocks, the water slowly pulling at them, dragging them apart. The soldier wanted to jump down there and put them out of their misery. But it was too late. He turned and headed back to the laboratory. He knew nothing of the scientist, then, and hardly wanted to.
Hey guys. First off: great job on the album Jeff! It sounds coherent and well-made. A sheer remarkable album of superb craft. And...to celebrate our upcoming show at The Cathedral of Junk (4422 Lareina Drive; call ahead to visit) and the over-all Boho Coco philosophy of the randomness of objects and the inspiration therein, here is something new for all of you. These four poems are from tiny notebooks I carry around at work and write down from various points throughout the years. They are randomly selected and randomly assorted. So hey, be inspired by the strangeness in your life, the irrational, and the (at least for now) non-understandable. Boho Coco!
I finally completed work (with production assistance from my brother Chris) on a new CD. It's called "Waiting Game Blues." Complete artwork and outtakes can be heard on the Barnyard Music blog...Below is the album in full:
The state of things as of right now, January 4, 2009, new millennium, brave world, old banging clang of the nothing nothing: we are stood now at a crossroads, involved only with the discovery of new snapping colors of flag blowing in the wind; we are ugly and arched foes of the mashed sun; we are the great only onlies grasping at the strands of our hair, worried over the fall of the giants and what this means for all of us. Here it is folks: the new year and austinnewblog, and what the hell else, let's try for a new feel, a new form. This month will feature a build-up towards our wonderful performance at the world famous, awesome awesome Cathedral of Junk on January 24th. Look forward to continuing posts in our LAB series, more recordings (if such exist...ask John Johnson about that), more drawings, more scatterings of photos, more philosophy, and something special staring tomorrow (nothing huge, of course, but still something fun for all of us kids lusting after the purity of moments). Also, I'd like to say that the performance on the 24th and the third issue of the zine (coming to a shop near you soon soon soon) will be dedicated to the philosophy of the object. More on that tomorrow, so do come back, if you are intrigued. Okay: parting thoughts: we arch ourselves correctly to defend against the cold; we live in ocher huts on the coasts, beating children with wet rags and crying in the evening; we are brave hunters in the fields, chewing bark and eating the flesh of bandits. Happy new year, folks; stick around and see what happens. Boho Coco!