Austin New Blog

misfits part 3!

2009-11-17T14:33:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, see you out at Co-Lab tonight! Need all the misfits I can get...

the misfits: Che

Che really has no name.
he wears
black shirts.
he listens to the thump of trash can lids.

oh trash can lids! he wails
and he is the hubcap
in the debris

or
the moth sweater
starlight
loosened.

misfits part 2!

2009-11-12T20:40:00.000-08:00

Here is the next part of...Misfits! Enjoy, miscreants.

the misfits: the buzzard

the buzzard saw
the luster of the city mouse
going

around old wrinkles of
discarded hamburger
wrapping.

it scooped
and soared
but flew past
the industrial spire
and

inhaled the flume of smoke.

then it spiraled down.
then
it landed on the taxi cab.
then it
moaned and slid and found its way under the bus.

E.A.S.T. in one week!

2009-11-10T21:37:00.000-08:00

Hey kids and kids and kids, I'll be performing at Co-Lab this following Tuesday the 17th at 7:30! Hey, I'll be portraying Atticus the Four-Faced Man. What is that? Who can say? Got to come out and find out! To celebrate, here is a new poetry series...and a picture...of a hand!

the misfits: terrible day

Che
counts one to three
to four
to nine

and breaks the glass in the
alley
with
his small baseball bat.

the buzzard flies into the city and chokes.

some small vagrants wandering
do their
worst,
ravage a business
man,
wear his coat around their waste,
and flush his briefcase into
the gutter.

Che smiles, grabs an old
pizza box, causes it
to flap,
and jumps off a fire escape
into
a dumpster.

a poem from a few days ago...boo!

2009-11-04T20:21:00.000-08:00

Careful criminals, it rhymes!

halloween 2009

in the tree
across the plaza
make
believe and all
go
gaga

we sleep slip
slope
a slapping hap
to go
and retrieve our tired
pap

he lived
alone on exile lane
and
to this day he can’t
remain

candy me
candy you
live with me

with masks

adieu

more poems from the odyysey

2009-11-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, it's been some time in between my posts, and all I can say is, life is hard, busy, fun, disappointing, pragmatic, not pragmatic at all, and endearing. Okay, to make up for the long wait, here's a new poetic series I wrote recently in its entirety. And check out: bohococo.blogspot.com, too, because November means it's time to start posting again. And there's going to be a Boho Coco reading at Co-Lab this November 17th (at 7:30) as part of the E.A.S.T. 2009 studio tour. Cool!

killer: yeah

yeah
killer
come
get me,

I want my toes bitten
off
and sacrificed.

there is no
love
that is not love.
no taste
that is not
taste.

come to me,
wear your red candles,

I’ll wear my
opals and my
trousers and
I’ll
scream.

killer: third day

on the third
day
you’ll
take
me
to the riviera
and
we’ll light tiny
paper ships
aflame
and
set them in the stream.

take me back
into
the wooden cottage,
slay
me,

drink a bottle of port
and
go to
sleep.

killer: cologne

a French
named
sing songy
type

came around
the corner
wearing
a cummerbund

and waded deep
into
the crowd of strangers.

if my hand is raised

obligatory

take away the night
in
my
fingers

and down down the alley
go

like a messenger
doused
in
cologne.

killer: babe

I’ll
be sunshine

on
the beach blanket.

go go

dance in the sand

a
beach
a dune

too much glare

the killer
sets to work
and

orchestrates a volley ball match

killer: scissors

fall
down
the landing.

wear a blazer.

take time
to

be a bandit.

cut with scissors.

killer: Halloween

he wore the monkey
suit,
she a barbarian,

and they collected candy
from strangers.

later,
in the midst of a spree,

the two fornicated on a veranda
floating in
space.

they tossed peanut butter trinkets
into the night
and
touched mask to mask.

killer: blabbermouth

talk
the storm of storms
into

existence,
but
the killer
sneaks around,

slip slash,

down you go.

sleep a good sleep.
live
in
the terrarium.

everyone's got something to hide

2009-09-21T01:21:00.000-07:00

except for me and my poetry. More reminiscent poems from yesteryear. Enjoy. Also, writing groups sure are swell. If you're not in one now, get in one tomorrow, hate one the day after tomorrow, reconcile with the group the day after the day after tomorrow, then go on a steady alimony check with said group years from now. Then fall in love with the group again. Then travel to Mars and find a new group, cheat, establish a new family, and die a happy sad bastard. Whoa! ! Anyway, poems from my years of growth: go.

2006

Okay, here is something from a few years ago. I work in an art gallery, so hence the title. The form, if I can truly recall, reflects back on my earliest stuff (ee Cummings spacing and all), and I believe this series of poems was my attempt to reconcile the difference between what I had adopted at that time and what I did back when I first started righting. I'm not sure if I even like this, but c'est la vie.

gallery girls 3 (kinetic gallery, two girls)

the yin -
yang
girls
looked
a t all
the spin
ning
object
s
of
the world.

they matched in
dark
and light.

checker
board
s
k
i
r
t
s

and

maligned dirty tops.
haircuts
thatwerepuzzlepiece
s.

they
both drank
that night
,
fi
ll
ed
themselves
with
pseudo
intellectual
w i n e
and

dashed
dashed
dashed dashed
dasheddashed
da
sheddas
heddas
h
edda
shed

off
in high
heeled shoes
.
they
were
loose
,
they were
clum
s
y
.
they
wanted
tofallover
,
des per ate ly,
one
atop
the
other
,

so
thatthey
might laughloudly
and
CalL
the attention of
every
o n e
else

around
.
sex
sexsex
sex

kittens
.
.
. .
.

2007

Hey, this next piece finds me in the throws of my narrative discovery period. I can say, most of my writing is influenced by my strong reliance on narrative, but during this period of my writing, I was heavily into exploring the possibility of narrative and mere narration. Also, this scene is influence by Jesus' Son, where he goes to the laundromat and sees a guy he thinks is divine, but in my mind, represents the devil. Go!

lucifer

he had red pants and a buttoned shirt ripped open;
a tattoo of a heart pierced that flesh.
his mustache, a thing of miracle,
hung loose above his thin lips.
I wanted to see him charge a taxi in midday and stomp it into the ground.
he leaned in to me and whispered
that he was merely a myth.
do you want it that bad,
he asked,
and lit the last cigarette in a pack.
I watched the smoke lift gently to the ceiling of the Laundromat.
how evil, how cool,
he had a leather jacket sat in the corner upon a fading polyester
upholstered chair.
go fuck yourself, he hissed with a snake tongue, then turned
to stare down a young
pretty woman just entering view.
run run, I needed to command,
but I coughed from the smoke and sunk into my seat.

2008

Okay, shit just got real. Here is a piece I performed at Domy Books back when AustinNewBlog was really starting to gain traction. It was a fun night, and reading this again brings me back. Also, the character of John Johnson was some fabrication given rise by my and Jeff (Daily's) exploration around the beginning of this blog. We rented a shitty hotel room and I made the character and his life up on the spot. I'm done with the character now, but it was an interesting poetic persona to put on for a while. He really fit my concrete period of poetry.

John Johnson’s prayer

let us go

now,
poets full of night,
lust adventurers,

great seers
of future teeth,

good architects
of
semen and pink
corvettes.

let us remove
our
flesh
and sing in praise:
yes I will
be a red
wheelbarrow
cob-webbed
and upturned.

I am beautiful,
o
we too,
blue lights
strung
on
evening
banisters,

we too are beautiful.
let
us be dreams
let us
be
hunters,
let us
return
return return
to
dust bowl
cities
slumbering.
let
us be firecrackers,
dizzy
Roman candles
and
the smoke.

let us be children
touched
by ocean
waves.

let us be small,

and
brave and
listless.

bramble tree,
broken glass
steel rod.
amen.

2009

Well, it is tempting to post some poem from a new series I've been working on, but I figured instead to post the latest non-series titled work I've done. After I stopped with my untitled poems, I really became interested in series poems. Still, every once in a while, a specific stand alone poem will come out of me. Here's the latest. Thanks for reading.

dream day

I had a dream
where

the whole world was

open
doors

and smiling
faces.

later,
I woke
up,
went to work, chatted with
some co-workers,
ate my
lunch,

went to night school,
learned about some stars,
came home,

ate dinner, hugged my girlfriend,
read
some comic books,
looked at pornography,
watched my cat sleep,
listened to music,
and fought sleep.

I can dream tonight of a giant
waterslide

with heaven waiting at the bottom.

we now take a break from our regularly scheduled poetic program...part one

2009-09-06T16:09:00.000-07:00

Hey fellows, I was reorganizing my writing files and decided I'd post one poem from every year that I have on my computer. Enjoy (and boy, sometimes looking at old stuff can be really embarrassing; hopefully we're all good enough writers now that we can smile at it instead of cry).

2002
First we have a poem I wrote for a poetry class. The assignment was to write in the style of a famous poet. This one is based on William Carlos William's style (one of my favorite poets!).

purple

It was in winter – probably –
she came walking by
in a purple coat.

Can you imagine?

Her arm stretched out too much -
she must have had a lot
of purpose in her mind.

But she marched past me,
no reason for us to speak.

Why should strangers converse
about purple anyway?
What would I have said?

2003

Next we have a bio I wrote for a zine that never happened. The zine was going to be done by myself and some friends in Charleston, SC, and it was called 'The New City Set.' Unfortunately, we kind of all lost interest in it (and to our inexperienced selves, it seemed very daunting).

Christopher Savage dreams of tall steel buildings with bright lights and waits for someone happy to shout out loud. His favorite thing is hope and his strengths and weaknesses are still optimism and impatience. When he gets old, he’ll be invisible to all the negatives of a dried up world.

2004
Here is a poem from one of my very first serialized sets of poems. The first set was called 'City Times,' the next set was 'Wonder Times,' and this one is called 'Personal Times.' Way back in these days I would try to empathize a style I wasn't using in other poems with each series. 'Personal Times,' features the use of quotation marks and speaking through the characters.

Personal Times 1

Vincent Obtuse is the father
of
time
and he says
,

“in the beginning
,
things weren’t all that different
.

I remember
…I remember

Molly would play with
Rebecca
,
in the noonday sun

,

and they’d act like they were
dandelions blowing around
,
twirling their arms freely
.

Yeah I remember that
,

like it was yesterday
.

But now it’s the end
,

funny, hunh?

I’m still here
and everything else is fading away
;
but it was all so
beautiful.”

2005

Next is a poem I don't really remember much of, I just chose it at random.

meltdown

the age of restlessness
has
bitten upon me and
I am here for
as
nothing can
ever be.
the last time I rode a bicycle
was
in eleventh grade; the sky
was
wonderful in that
silvery age.
but
far gone. away.
all girls
have come to eat up
my
good soul.
and
now,

meltdown.
in
sixty seconds, all is lost. I will
climb out of my bedroom window and
escape.
It
is all that is left
for
an adventurer
and
his lonely will.

I write tonight with eyes closed and
trust close behind, stalking me. it
is not you and I, perfection,
it isn’t
in anything we’ll ever know.
grow up
already.

we roll across plains of humanity
unknown and
forever
unbound.
all my life I’ve just been
trying to shine. to smile.
and
to escape.

part two coming soon...

destroy the things you love, destroy the things you hate

2009-09-04T22:43:00.000-07:00

More poems about being a prematurely old grump! Hooray! Dig!

celebrate destruction: of a taxi cab

destroy the cab
while

you are around the block;
cave the lamppost,
let it’s gravity
do the trick,

lick your thumbs, speed the air
yourself,

assail a subway car and toss a bottle atop
the yellow scarabs and
beetles and

grow old knowing
you’ve killed
the consort of the drunk

and delightful.

a taxi cab made rich
only once

while spinning madly into the mouth of the
river
,

oh joy, splash
and
wonder where.

celebrate destruction: of a jaw

the jaw tugs
away

jagged and as it unclenches
and loosens
and grins,

one moment is spent spying the

tower in the distance;
this city

will have that jaw kicked in the cupboards,
down in the sewers,
drenched in rain,

because it is right to find use
where
once a destroyer
now

is left
as
refuse.

some animal will play a game with it;
the blue light of a liquor store
shines evenly,

destroy that jaw and shove
a bottle
in

your mouth.

oh my goodness...destruction!

2009-08-31T22:23:00.000-07:00

Hey fellows, here is a new series of poems (that I read for some lucky so-and-sos at an awesome writing group). The first poem is about a pretty little dress. Enjoy!! !

celebrate destruction: of a dress

destruction of your lilac
and your lavender,
your
curt ankle show-er

and your redundant sun dress daisy frock.

war war
to the last of the maidens’

garbs.

we should see all pretty starlets stroll in the daylight
with

sacks and pants and bags and barrels.

destruction of your dress, especially,
my love,
in the alleyway with the newspapers
blowing

and beauty too,
you alone,

just flesh, and the cinder of a raspberry
garment.

some poetry without a series

2009-08-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, lately I've been writing a bunch of poetic series, but never fear, I do occasionally get around to writing the stand-alone poem every now and again. Here's one just for you. Enjoy.

never lasting nighttime games

she raced into the kitchen to light
the candles
and she held her breath – that’s
what
lonely girls do of course –
and she counted the tiny flames and
she took a bath and drank some water;

he raced
home on a bike and counted
the pine trees passing –
because when boys are lonely
they try to escape –
and he watched for speeding
cars
and trains.

the land later turned over and
night refused to invert;
the games

that last so sweetly
go

wash away in creek beds, and morning
is inevitable.

the girl dreams of pancakes and
the boy
of
bimbos.

some one sings down the way
on their balcony
and

half the neighborhood despises the melody;
the other half
is
elegant and refused to form
an opinion.

and somewhere else far away too,
a man takes off his glasses
and
sobs in his favorite chair;
and

some woman talks to herself
while lying
awake in
bed.

spies in the field - green life

2009-08-19T16:33:00.000-07:00

The last poem about spies! In your neighborhood! In your bathroom! Under your rug right this instant! Also, do you listen to Coldplay? Write a comment if you get the joke! Zing!

spies in the field: green life

it’s been decided:
the future is the despot’s
toy;

and we watch through windows
as large men
shimmy unhappy
as their gals take turns on
telephones
giving over the news of the grand
old
broke.

we are such
fragile things,
beautiful,
lingering on the bylines
and

watching silly barbarians dress in lipstick
and kiss lampposts under neon
nights in the drift of taxi
cab

oblivion.

oblivion, we don’t care.
oblivion, we
are spectacle.

fireworks too, we guess,
at the end of everything,

because who doesn’t like a festival?
a
parade?

spies in the field - future

2009-08-13T22:26:00.000-07:00

Hey folks, the penultimate poem to one of my latest series. Enjoy!

spies in the field: future

our purpose has been
to mystify,
to betray, to take cuts
of glass and stick them
around

wicked ways,
to grab hobos’ hands, to toss
strangers’ suitcases into
purple dumpsters,

to chase rabid dogs with pipes,
to eat old food, to wrap
our hands in gloves, to take
many pictures, to
cheer for losers and to

wait around empty bus stops.

peer away now, you’ll
give the whole thing
away.

where will we be then?

spies in the filed - lillies in the field

2009-08-10T20:46:00.001-07:00

Here's the next poem in one of my latest series adorned by a photo from illustrious Marfa, Texas! Woo!

spies in the field: lilies in the field

we sincerely hope for heaven
someday, as all
do,

in a field of holly or
lily or
berry, of clover or leaf or
twig.

we also dream of the great heaven
of steam, of engine
and smokestack,
of truck and cantilever.

the lilies of the field are
not angry at
us for wanting other things;
lilies have
no

feeling save benevolence.

our violence is what will undo
us;

hell is the same thing as a bar
fight and a blank wall
lit by a neon sign.

spies of the field: numbers racket

2009-08-05T15:32:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I was away in Marfa for my birthday, so it's been a while, but continuing my new series 'spies of the field,' here is the next poem. Also, the pictures I'll be posting for the remainder of the series are taken from Marfa and west Texas (and maybe a secret cave?!).

spies in the field: numbers racket

the girl with the blue skirt,
a ruffled imitation of cloud,
sings
a symphony as she drunkenly
gazes at the other guys in
shrewd business suits;
tell us, then,

exactly what we are, what
our make is, our
best day, our worst day,
a tragedy, and a
triumph.

the girl removes the glasses from
her face and now becomes more beautiful.
beautiful women dance around
the night, but sometimes
they hide in apartments, under
blankets, near cat tails,
in refrigerator light,
and
always bound by an old sweater,
a new dress, some
pagan shoes, or a guffy old
typewriter.

the numbers are click clacking
around the lick
slick signs of this town;
get out now, they are trying to tell us,
but spies and deception are
brothers.

we remain undone.

And check out bohococo.blogspot.com, and dumbsville.blogspot.com, too for other Marfa/west Texas related postings.

you just never know

2009-07-27T10:34:00.001-07:00

...when a spy will show. How about some poetry?

spies in the field: telescope.

we leave tomorrow for another town
but it is
the same
as the last.
the telescope we use
to pierce a portal to
both
is cheap and rudimentary.

this is exactly as saying I can
approach a little woman
in the shade and ask
her for her glasses
and take her around
the bend and go
into a tiny house and make love.
or it
is
exactly as saying I have
no couth.

the courageous youth in our midst would
say something different;
that is their task,

gargling in the aviaries and
the discos, humping things,

growling, grabbing their faces and their hair.

I have now with me a brand new telescope;
we are hoping for something new,
the eternal hope,

and we will be rewarded, we believe,

when I point my view upward and close my eyes.

spies are here!

2009-07-19T21:39:00.000-07:00

...lurking around every corner.

spies in the field: give it over my son

sure we have children growing
in stalks of
corn,

chewing their navels and spitting
on their sweaters and
swearing at us;

there are train tracks to tide us over,
there are bullet cars and
timid trolleys.
secret lives dream of
escape
but
escape is for frauds.

frauds have children too,
but they are imbecilic and
juvenile,
ripping off cop cars and
singing about coffee shops.

the girls of these type have fawning brows,
the boys
irregular hands.

frauds would have it that this country is all about
stealing, but we’d
tell you otherwise:
the whole scheme of the place is
to play hide and seek.

more spies

2009-07-15T19:32:00.000-07:00

Here is the second part in a new series of poems. Thanks for reading.

spies in the field: lolly gaggers go nowhere

we watched her from the forty-
fourth
floor

as she cut her hair.
a cool
metal soft to touch,
the scissors must have been
kind in her hand.

we felt the pulse of the night,
always the night,
always in us, our veins,

good evil doers, spies in the midst,
traipsing the skyscrapers
and

make-believe,
giving it good and gracious
until

spilling off a roof someday

we’ll land atop a car and scream.

the woman does not notice us;
we can willow and melt,
oh yes.

new poetry series - spies of the field

2009-07-13T17:38:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I've been going through ups and downs lately in what exactly I want out of my poetry. Call it a long overdue period of artistic growth/wandering/whatever. Here's a poem from a new series, then. Enjoy!

spies in the field: gilded

it is we who don masks
and take
away the cigarettes from
a parlor

and suggest a sip of coffee with
a dark glance.
the half-moon
circles under a waitress’
eyes

is not enough to riot.

we think of overturning our
secret disguise and go around bragging.

a car upturns down the boulevard
and the city reminds us
that

the holy grail is hidden in its
guts,

and pulsating even,
and screaming even.

one poem of two

2009-07-09T22:50:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, finally, some poetry from ol' Christopher Rufflebottom. This is one of two poems I wrote on the fourth of July. Happy birthday, America, you fuck! Long live rock and roll! To read the other companion poem to this, check out: bohococo.blogspot.com. Baklava!

birthday: America

it’s my country’s
birthday today.

bless you in five ways, oh
America:

bake those apples in clove and
dump cinnamon on
their hides;

catch a horse and attach
beer bottles to its
black mane;

tumble a firework stand in
dust and run it
raw with red meat;

heckle a spectacle and kick it
over
a car tire;

be bold and shoot your gun into the
supple sky.

there-in now we all
feel awkward
and just,
we have baseball and we
have sex and
we have
our

violence and our architecture.

happy birthday, America!

final typed page from co-lab!

2009-07-07T19:49:00.000-07:00

Here is the final page from the Boho Coco performance at Co-Lab! Thanks for staying with and lookout, cause finally there'll be posts of different content! Hooray! Bastille Day! Also, Co-Lab is the fucking place to be, so don't forget. Cool.

and listen to some bozo try to read it:

typed page from Co-Lab show 5

2009-07-05T19:24:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, hey girls, things have been a little slow, but worry not, here is another typed page of random love from the Boho Cocos and Co-Lab and a night in limbo. Enjoy!

and here is myself reading:

typed page from Co-Lab show 4

2009-06-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

Hey hey hello hi hey there hello, it's been some time because my freaking a/c decided to break right when we were hitting the lovely temperatures of above 100 degrees here in Austin, but blah blah blah, nobody wants to hear my troubles. They want to hear me reading randomly typed poetry. Yeah! Dig! More from the Boho Coco performance at Co-Lab. Say, will you be there on the 4th to buy some art?

typed page from Co-Lab show 3

2009-06-24T18:12:00.000-07:00

Here some more of that type you guys go crazy for. Random poetry typed from a performance at Co-Lab. Gee, guys, how swell. Check out: bohococo.blogspot.com, for more.

We Can Still Be Who We Wish We Is

2009-06-23T15:36:00.000-07:00

typed page reading 2

2009-06-21T21:35:00.001-07:00

Here is another page of type from the Boho Coco show last Saturday at Co-Lab. For more, go to: bohococo.blogspot.com. Wheee!

written messages from limbo 1

2009-06-18T19:11:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I'm going to be posting some pages of random typing taken from various guests at our performance last week at Co-Lab. It sure was fun. Check out: bohococo.blogspot.com, too, for additional material on these pages. And for austin new blog: I give you my recorded reading of the typed page! Enjoy!

thanks a mil

2009-06-17T20:07:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, to all that came to Co-Lab last Saturday for our show 'in limbo.' Here's a new poem (and the picture is from the show too).

robert antoni: zero three two zero

sleep is a weak coil
we rattle
to defile our dreams
and begin hocus
pocus;

hey, girl,
it’s a glass of brandy
so toss it down
a flight of midnight
stairs.

the old man hacks it down in
the alley

oh we so wise
giggle

and the other night still
the universe rolled over itself
and we all passed
a moment
in one another’s life.

grand,
the bakery catches fire.

zero
three
two zero.

2001 vol 3 part 5

2009-06-09T23:19:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, business as usual, more poems posted from my series dedicated to Kubrick's
'2001' light show scene. Check out: boho coco, for more space adventures. See you at Co-Lab on Saturday.

2001 part 3 5

call me by my given
name

I am Zedarius

of the others

and I have come with my
blue
space ships

to take you away
into

strange dimensions.

it is of you to fall
about
and ring out your
wrists upon the firmament.

stars have no luck
as we.

we are the born sons of the nova

and we have had all our
flesh consecrated
by
the endless loops
of spacetime

come and be my lover

I am Zedarius and
I have

lived alone some time in the expanse of the nothing

2001 vol 3 part 4

2009-06-08T22:00:00.001-07:00

Hey guys, do you like to watch movies about space travel? I sure do. Boy oh boy, here's the next part in my series of poems dedicated to Stanley Kubric's lightshow scene from '2001.' Oh joy. Hey, check this out too for more space adventure: boho coco.

2001 part 3 4

I have lived upon a purple
planet

while in the middle
of combing
my flesh with
the bones of dead giants

I saw old meteors clunking around the heavens

kicking space dust
and ice trails into the ever
deadening ether.

it is not the sage advice of all
time
to cross the stars and
find love there.

it is the old wisdom of men
in
tiny arcs of spin
and gravity

that we should live here
and be simple

and beware.

2001 vol 3 part 3

2009-06-07T21:45:00.000-07:00

Da da! Here's the next poem! Check out: boho coco for more space adventures. Hey, come to Co-Lab Saturday night!

2001 part 3 3

the last transmission
from galaxy

XXYZ

was of beautiful poetry,
children in meadows,

the churlish interest of space pilots crashing
lunar landers,

the olfactory centers of small
towns blown vanilla
loose into turgid landfills,

the images of old men
bathing themselves in salt oceans,
the sound
of a discotheque gone
awry in flame,

the thoughts of two lovers sat alone in a cave
tossing matches at each other.

XXYZ is the name
for god

some have claimed and
then
scrawled across their
skin
strange tattoos containing the shapes
of ancient
skulls

and the names of old television satellites.

2001 vol 3 part 2

2009-06-04T21:07:00.000-07:00

Another of my wonderful poems about the film "2001." Kubrick must be sending me some shining right now. Check out: bohococo, for more. Muhahaha!

2001 part 3 2

I have seen the dawn
of the red

bomb

skull man

living out in the hollow world
of
just beyond.

to think of him now
incites my flesh
to circles
and to flame.

I would like to have lived one thousand years
ago
and to have met
this man as a child
and to have taken away his fingernails
and
to have given him
a headset of reeds and honey.

his red flesh is of the cosmos;
I have
seen
him eating entire small
towns within the gasp of one breath

2001 vol 3 part 1

2009-06-03T22:39:00.000-07:00

Holy shlomoley, here's another installment of my series based on Kubrick's film "2001," the 'Light show' scene in particular. Check out: bohococo - space cognition;
for the other part of the space poetry collaboration celebrating the upcoming Boho Coco show at...Co-Lab. Isn't synergy swell?

2001 part 3 1

the damage of god had sunken
into
our

flesh.

we were material yet
to be molded

and as fresh
men

we sought to achieve
our

hearts upon the mount.

we hooked our
hands into
the rock

and we took black marble
from
where we stood and
we
cast
it out with all our might into the mighty
abyss of night

waiting beyond

upcoming show!

2009-06-01T12:39:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone, join myself, Erin Vaughan, Miguel Martinez, and Richard Guerra, for a night full of fun, performance, poetry, booze, masks, typewriters, monologues, and pratfalls, on June 13 (Saturday!) at Co-Lab (613 Allen Street). It's going to be oh so much fun, and I'll even give you a hug (depending on how intoxicated I am...intoxicated by the night!) Also, this coming week will be colab crazy among my three blogs, so let's get crazy togther. A night in limbo! Boho Coco!

p.s. some people say the next issue of the zine is coming out soon (and some may be right)

and...here's a poem:
extinction

same old people
in drag
coming up the sedan
alley

eating old baba ganoush

chiming in circles

wicked wicked

we are the saviors of mankind;
a great die
off

and then we savory sweet
can dance
can

in the alley too chomping
our teeth

brachiating and

jerking about

iron poles and shop
windows

and feminine last gasps.

oh twist
twist

we are desired of the folly
and the failure;

cataclysm, extinction,
sobriety,
girlfriend, eagle, praetorian,
slip, stomp,

tromp.

so it get's slow, but here you go

2009-05-26T21:57:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I've been busy working on my other blogs (dun dun dun) bohococo and dumbsville , but here oh here is some more poetry for you. And just wait for it: an announcement of an upcoming show to be posted soon to this blog! Holy crapnuggets! (that's not part of the poem)

claude

he lived life in the empty margins of the shopping market parking
lot
eating grasshoppers and dreaming
of morphine and a glass girl who slipped
beyond him on morning jogs into the tool
shack of a neighbor’s yard.
the ramshackled red tin veneer bled beauty into the
morning sky

and he assailed on into the mystic with legs beating
the concrete with a blue band tight
upon
his head.

another poem, another series

2009-05-08T21:59:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I wrote a series of six poems called "Dreams of the magi." Here's the final poem. Let me know if you want more.

dreams of the magi: empty glass

when their
dreams
had exhausted, their journey near
finished, the wise
men stopped at a tiny village
and held ceremony together
with a bottle of wine.
the three drank and remembered
they had vowed not to
learn another’s names.

when the glass emptied, the third
magi stood and spoke.

“I am tired of this.
only, no, I am tired
of having to be this; I want
to have dreams unburdened,
my friends. I would
like
to be a small child myself,
to be that savior that
only must live, and if living,
dream, and if dreaming,
simply imagine a world that
could be and to not care
if it
comes, if it goes. brothers,
I do not know your names. if you
were to leave, to pass, wander again
in different ways, it would be
all the same.
no one is born to fulfill a responsibility,
yet we have devoured the desert,
tramped the dunes, come to this establishment,
drank the wine. what of
that? who will sing now, and happily?

I had a dream last night where I saw myself
in this very moment breaking a glass.”

his empty wine glass was a lover; daunting yet
sophisticated.
he clutched it close to his face and
began to sob.

did you think I'd forget about my pretty ones?

2009-05-05T21:39:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, here's a new poem. And followers, please follow me along to the two new blogs I'm doing as well (bohococo.blogspot.com and dumbsville.blogspot.com). Thanks, groovy people. Boho!

catalogue: D

D is for the grand failures,
the sore economies,
the bungled adventures, and all
robbed and beaten whores
in alleyways collecting
the remnants of beautiful wigs
dashed
about by scoundrels and varmints;

other things occupy the same
space as love on rainy days:
grey gargoyle bits:
punks:
pistol fools:
sour milk:
mashed teeth:
mittens and kitten hearts:
painful soliloquies:
architects’ sobriety:
tardy students;

oloph and erggo
and arriivvii
and the sim sim;

go in the gusto, kid, grab
your rain coat
and slip it down the drain
into the wonderworld
of the forgotten beasts;

I saw a mother pick up the
little kids with two hands
and push them about, slinking
with bravado the grand
structure of do-this and
do-that;

in the season, we as such want our
best friends to make us
pretty, to construct a myth of our
liking, and to push us down
a ravine

new new new

2009-05-04T23:49:00.000-07:00

Hey freaks, how's it going? Well, guess what? Christopher's got himself two new blogs (and so can you!). First off, all the regular arty/writerly posts that have been featured here for over a year are now mostly going to be posted on:

bohococo.blogspot.com

so definitely stay with me and check out the later adventures of the Savage there. The other blog is going to be a comedy blog that will sate my desires towards what-the-hell ever:

dumbsville.blogspot.com

and I have to say, the first post already has me feeling the good ol' blog fever. Finally, not to worry: I'll still post from time to time here. The main reason for the two new blogs, however, are such that I'm kind of tired of the name 'austinnewblog' and after dada month, I felt the tinge of electric creativity bite me hard, and wanted two new outlets to really explore what was happening already. So we got new forms, the future is change. Stay with me folks. Make the transition. Okay. Boho Coco!

DaDa : Turnbuckles : Month

2009-04-30T21:02:00.000-07:00

oh dada month, will you ever call back

2009-04-30T18:39:00.000-07:00

Hey gang, thanks for hanging out with us throughout DADA month. I know, it's over, so sad, but trust me, Marcel and all those other fun funsters wouldn't want you to ever stop, so I know I won't. Keep sticking around, and you'll see. Ol' Chris here has some twists and turns in store for you. Say boho, and say it loud. Coco!

michelangelo bids you a fond farewell

2009-04-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

Insert Call (Mine Is You).mp3

2009-04-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, here's some music from a cool guy, Matthew Treon. He's created something ambient and atmospheric and he's been kind enough to let me share it with you. Thanks Matt. Dig that sound! Click the link to hear the song!

puddles

2009-04-29T17:54:00.000-07:00

rain fell
in shifts upon poor
Ungertown as
the march of the dada
tore apart
the
adjoining coffee shops
lining the boulevard

we shout yes
yes
as
a scoundrel tramples
the flower shop down the way

and then the ancient three
toed god
of the ending hour stands and clamors
for
the ears and wounds of the
sad sad
as they climb into the puddle

we now and ever
are
kept and when the puddle is dried
again the gods
rejoice the dada
are free!

who's the man with all the sexy ladies

2009-04-28T23:49:00.001-07:00

Rich Tuttle!

monkey around a little while longer

2009-04-27T22:27:00.001-07:00

Hey guys, the final week of Dada Month! Hooray! What a wild ride that's seen (and heard) the strange universe radiating from the Boho Coco. But do we let this final week cause endless despair, or do we trample the horizon like true fiends? Here's a picture of an ape to help you decide.

the world's longest and shortest ovation

2009-04-27T22:22:00.000-07:00

From a magazine:

some opera guy got up at the end
of his performance
and began
to beat a small child in the front
row with
the heel end of his
expensive loafer

and suddenly and I rope-swinged upon
the stage to arrive
fashionable
and
bested the voluminous fiend
with my suspenders for
whips.

scuff! caw!
I berated the fat libretto and
undid an entire evening of his
mystical enchantment;
a bucket of yellow paint
was tossed at my head,
but I being quick and desperate,
instead allowed said bucket to ricochet
off the wall and trounce
the very child I had sworn to protect.

the crowd decided to devour me, and with
little warning, began to stampede
towards the stage with
all evil intent. just
then,

the singing man decided he might
instead be an ally, and with
all force, he plucked me up
and sang his way through the
crowd of maniacs.

we were free. outside of the
auditorium I clapped and
clapped for my beaten
savior
some eighty minutes.

woo yeah.mp3

2009-04-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

Click the post title! Woo! Yeah!

devour yourself

2009-04-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

beware!

2009-04-24T21:52:00.000-07:00

Even now there are luminescent objects circulating the aerie!

the edge of darkness

2009-04-23T21:13:00.000-07:00

Hey, hokey post title? I can never tell (thanks Riddler). Here's some more trippy live poetry hoetry from the Grand Canyon Motel. Midnight never felt so good. Dada month and national landmarks coming together to create shabang wow wow.

lost highway.mp3

2009-04-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

I found this in the desert. Boho. Dada.

artist poem: cezanne

2009-04-22T19:58:00.000-07:00

bitter-strange fruit 3.mp3

2009-04-21T20:44:00.000-07:00

If and then when you eat from oblivion, it is not so careful that you should away a fire escape with ugly knives. Click the post title, dada month, boho coco.

from the middle of nowhere

2009-04-21T20:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a video of me outside the Grand Canyon reciting mad poetry from the middle of nowhere. Dada month in Arizona!

greetings from Arizona

2009-04-20T22:25:00.000-07:00

Hey, I'm reading my new poetry series 'the killers' from the wide world of Arizona. It's going to be a wild west kind of month, pardners. Oh, and what's this: this video is only part 1? Hmmm...dada!

text:
the killers: loam

he turns around and is shot in the gut
and
Mr. Ring takes the man’s wallet.
the cards are emptied into the gutter
and
Mr. Ring begins to laugh.
he places the heat of the pistol near his own temple
and
chants three times,

“I’m a good man.
I’m a good man.
I’m a good man.”

Sister Marguerite laughs too and she folds the blinds
closed.
the man bleeds to death scratching his nails
upon the sidewalk.

slightly above, a neon sign that promises
‘adventure in the new’
blinks out

and regains its foothold in argon and lead red.

Mr. Ring waits and gazes at the stripped mine of gold
taxis blustering by.
the night is his distant cousin and he knows
coffee and
jumpers. he walks away singing.

the killers: race

Lester cuts the noses off his victims and he puts
them in glass jars
and waits in his cellar for his wife to leave
until he brings them all out and
rolls them on the concrete.

Joe eats popcorn and has a knife.

Liam is an ugly beast; he is not evil but he has
too many warts. he cuts little
kids on the elbow and giggles.

Julianne doesn’t remember drinking and running
over the Stewards’ only son,
but she did.

Dexie is intoxicated when it happens, and hip
shove the blip,
he gets it up just thinking about piano wire.

Mary watches from a window and drinks up
a brick or two just to stop herself
from heaving irons.

I am even now waiting near an open balcony doorway
and it is hot out
and I am so tired.

the killers: hopscotch

Mr. Ring eats the pie slice on the corner in the summer heat
with his jaundiced overalls kept clean and
pert.
the gaggle of school babes traipses by and he just
shivs a few.
screams and they run and Mr. Ring runs too,
leaving his pie.

he hasn’t felt himself, the city is screaming, and
the summer doesn’t want to end.
Mr. Ring

tries to sing to himself about the low glut of alleys
that convince others of mirror or
rainbow.

a bum even now is hacking his lungs out
behind a dumpster.
Mr. Ring sticks him too.

the killers: wheels

in the factory,
near
the black door, under the rail,
a knife,

grab a thing,
take and do unto, a fair
face,
a festival, a Friday,
a bunch of lost kids drinking in the night,
oh,

an empty car port, an apartment
window, an
old record player, a
jump,
some justice, a stab, the man
with one eye,

a black evening, the glory of night
unending, another jump,

some expenditure, a rolling laugh,
a never,
and a never.

the killers: loop

Mr. Ring is alone in an apartment waking up to a blue
coffee mug that
he must smash if he is going to smile.

the open window tells him,
“Oh you’re good.
Oh you’re good.
Oh you’re good.”

he tosses the cup away and a cat
hisses.

Mr. Rind glances at himself in the mirror
and places his index fingers to trace
under the sockets of his eyes.

have a nice day, get a new love, go into
the library, and yeah, give
it a try.

he doesn’t have time, opens his doorway,
tosses some knives on the hallways floor,

then slams his door shut.

the killers: grin eater

never again at work do we occupy a small
cubicle where Walter
took off his head

last week.

I want to go home even now, sipping
coffee, staining my shirt,
doing dry cleaning,
sleeping in, and caring about my daughter.

Walter told me that his festival
is a bright one,
that it lasts forever, and that
there is no music.

I can cry to think of it;
I god
damn
love music, everyday, shit,
everyday.

never again, though, I guess,
poor Walt,

a man in the leper column, crowing down
from the empty parking garage,

chirping, face swollen hot and red,
begging not to tip or or.
caution, old boy,
caution.

the killers: last laugh

Mr. Ring will have the last laugh in the car
near the glade
spying on the tiny old man with his
dog walking
about rapid in the rotund fashion of parks and ardor.
the radio hisses static that is comforting.
Mr. Ring pops out of the car and charges mad
the changelings out in the brush.
first a mother, then a tiny man, then
some joggers, another mother, some
guitarists, and a bunch of otherwise
business men.

Mr. Ring chokes and giggles, shoving
his fingers in the mush,
and finally
he jumps into a pond and refuses to hold his breath.

his car license plate does not chuckle;
it spins and read
XXV-1248.

Mr. Ring dies and lets his wallet emerge to the surface
of his drowning pool.
pictures there, sure,
and some other elements, empty plastic
promises, rough cards,
and a quote from some author.

“Lay in the meadow, you kind sons,
have a laugh,
take off your heads, get the go
in the going go.”

the killers: luna

wanting to feel dangerous does
not compose
you into a black shirt,
and to wear

your fragrance of stomach
rot,

oh me,

let us go to the candy store, get some ice cream,
rub it on the sidewalk,

and gut the next pig that comes across
us.

they all deserve it,

bitter-strange fruit 2.mp3

2009-04-20T17:49:00.000-07:00

Some more audio from Jeff Buckley's song "Bitter Fruit," influencing my dada brain. Click the post title and eat up.

what I think of Phoenix 2

2009-04-20T17:44:00.000-07:00

Here is another poem I wrote at the beginning of my trip to Phoenix and the Grand Canyon. What can I say about the trip now that I'm back in Austin: the Grand Canyon is profound. Phoenix is sprawly. Mike and Rell have an awesome house. Okay. Here's a poem (look to the end of the week to see what I wrote after the trip was over...).

Phoenix Arizona 2

I have found god
in
the sun; he is a red pueblo,
a house
sans roof,

a thatcher sitting legs apart
on
a purple bus.
in Scarborough we find
our
lost loves and ask them
who

we once were.
they reply

that you were a mountain; an elm with a crook;
an unfinished oak table.

we are the empty houses sat on concrete lots
in
solitude and
wood polish. come,
taste
our bread,

live on our lawns.

what I think of Phoenix

2009-04-18T01:11:00.000-07:00

Two poems for you to understand what I have felt and seen in Phoenix (by the way, Mike and Rell are super duper cool):

Phoenix Arizona

hot rods and babes
crying
in the Phoenix sun,
we
have seen so many tons of concrete
billowing into the sky
beyond the red mountains

and we are in love.
the Mexican counter girl
watching the elderly,

we have begun to transform into the sliver
of light beneath
the dark roomed door,
we have
lifted our flesh and seen the mirage
that exists beneath.

the skateboard kids and the loser
with the bleeding face,
fragrance of disassembly,

and wasted times.
the light rail will save us; the hotel
waffles in the breeze.

Arizona

Phoenix Arizona 2

I have found god
in
the sun; he is a red pueblo,
a house
sans roof,

a thatcher sitting legs apart
on
a purple bus.
in Scarborough we find
our
lost loves and ask them
who

we once were.
they reply

that you were a mountain; an elm with a crook;
an unfinished oak table.

we are the empty houses sat on concrete lots
in
solitude and
wood polish. come,
taste
our bread,

live on our lawns.

artist poem: cezanne

2009-04-17T13:53:00.001-07:00

another drawing from matt savage

2009-04-17T13:49:00.001-07:00

untitled 13

My little brother is a cool dude.

bitter-strange fruit 1.mp3

2009-04-17T13:36:00.000-07:00

Hey, Phoenix so far has been expensive aspirin, a guy bleeding from his face, a girl asking if she was being filmed, a headache, a late night jacuzzi trip, and a reunion with a good friend. So, for you, here is a recording I did while listening to Jeff Buckley performing "Strange Fruit." Oh yeah! Click the post title!

variations on a theme 1: typewriter and violin 1 and typewriter and violin 2

2009-04-16T11:30:00.001-07:00

A quick one before a flight: here's some more mixed sounds for you folks out there. The recordings are various interplays between Erin and myself each playing on a typewriter and a violin, and interchanging said positions. Enjoy. Look out Phoenix, here I come! Dada!

variations on a theme 2: violin 1 and violin 2

2009-04-16T11:28:00.001-07:00

variations on a theme 3: typewriter 1 and violin 1.mp3

2009-04-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

dada movie poem

2009-04-15T20:58:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, here is a movie poem I made with random verse in the spirit of dada. Also, I'm heading out of town (!!!) for Phoenix and the Grand Canyon, so the posts may lack slightly in the coming days (but I'll try not to let that happen; trust me, the desert is a giver). See you in the ever after, boho coco, dada, and all that shebang. Look out Mike, here I come!

text for the psychedelic impaired:
dada movie poem

doddering
tots
speck
sprock
oh
oh
levy
a
cook
jump
lay
the
periscope
and
a
porcupine
brigadier
catch
catch
languish
sanguine
socket
plug
festival

lament for tortured writers

2009-04-15T20:56:00.001-07:00

How is your week going little la las? Here is an angry poem (but playful).

tortured writer

he has dreams
of branding his lines
into flesh
and
the dissenters, the
what’s-it-meaners,
the that’s-nonsensers,
and their tongues
to stew in a cauldron composed
of
cantos. blister
in mouth, of eyes to engulf
flaming skyscrapers of
simile.
he desires to construct airplanes
of
his stanzas and send them
crashing
picnics.
the hemisphere engulfed in
pentameter and
the world
construed in free
free
verse.

for the man who has everything

2009-04-15T20:55:00.000-07:00

500th post!

2009-04-14T18:27:00.001-07:00

Hey neon freaks, here is the 500th post for austin new blog. Holy crap, I never thought we'd make it. As per Erin's request, I'm singing hallelujah right now. To celebrate, here's a new series of poems from my heart to yours.

air stream: slip

advantage on the bus goes he
fat
kid eating a chocolate
bar
with a gold wrapper;

he lets it to the wind
and

one thousand cities eat each other alive.

on the bus, we
sink
into the tepid

oh oh

give me a break sings a child
but
the car beside
has the dim cat girl reading a magazine
about
galoshes and she smacks gum

air stream: hip kids

I see the hip kids
wishing they were hobos

an alley fight

some other vagrant happiness
and
a drum fire

we bus through the city
and

an explosion in place
of
glass growing

I imagine my flesh
instead

all through the land
go
faster
go
faster!

air stream: bofo

leave me wheels
kid
no the road

we don’t exist.

gone
daddy
gone
in the blip
towns

we watch little children
parade in pink
and blue down the strip into a government
history museum

air stream: lights

so go down to the creek
I don’t
believe in candy clouds
kids
give it in the back seat we
smoke
a derby
and
horses loose in the pasture
I

want to see the whole world
pass

under glass.

cats and flies
and
milk cartons that dance,
oh

we should slip the ocean when we arrive

air stream: bottles of

give me a drink
I go eighty

marshmallow face
on the old man
in
the diner in the middle of nowhere
I
hit the trailer hitch and the
chicken cages exploded
in

white feather.

someone has to set it right
drive on into
the nether

father you
are
the barrel of gasoline

we all
drink

air stream: balderdash

we crazy types
flinch the quick stream
air foil
on the camper
and

ask a question
of
the doves
spiraling in the desert.

we want women in the small
closets of the old
Amish house,
the burned gas station.

a trail to nowhere is heaven
I am

simple and I
fall in the highway

and...
here's a picture of an orangutan, because I know the real reason you all come to the sight.

BOHO COCO!

co lab part II

2009-04-14T18:03:00.000-07:00

Hey folkie folks, here's the second part of Matt Winter's Co-Lab installation (featuring work by Shanon Crider, Nicole Neely, Megan Stroech, Laura Green, and moi, and others!). These pictures and videos were taken on the night of the opening (last Easter). It is here finished, and today, gone! If you missed it, weep in a dark room and smash an egg on your face. If you saw it in its glory, drink a glass of champagne and toss that fucker into a parking lot. Dada month continues...

dada sounds: gimmie.mp3

2009-04-14T18:00:00.001-07:00

But what can we give? Ask yourself, everyday, what oh what can we give?

Answering Machine

2009-04-13T19:18:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last
week
re-reading
the lyrics
to that jim croce song

in the street,
uncomfortable prattles
of hewn mechanisms
fumble through the
neighborhood

like tarps,
covering every bed
every house covered in
aluminum siding pamphlets
detailing poems
uncovered
by pulleys
pulling tarps
off of them and over
beds

My girlfriend taking off an itchy dress

her bare feet tripping over
Bertrand Russell
as a book

an amalgam of potassium and magazines

and im convinced
the operator
is his girlfriend.

artist poem: robert rauschenberg

2009-04-12T07:46:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter!

a little poesy for you day:
a
a
an aphid lingers
asphalt oh a number
benumbered raw
and listless

co lab

2009-04-10T23:57:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I was over at Co-Lab the other day (613 Allen Street; colabspace.org) to help out Matt Winters, a great artist, with an installation. He drew all over the walls in patterns and I wrote some stuff. Also, check out Miguel in one of the videos. Here's some pictures and videos of the whole thing. Also, go check out the space on Sunday to see it finished in all its glory. Thanks a lot to Matt Winters and to Sean (who runs Co-Lab). Boho coco! Dada!

a video of Miguel, Slyvie, and Matt all drawing

a picture of my completed portion of the drawing, featuring my 'unhappy generation' poems

here's a video of me writing on the wall

here's a video of the final part I did

european command

2009-04-10T23:17:00.000-07:00

All aboard, welcome, bon voyage, and yes, let us away to the storied halls of European Command.

what to get for the man who has everything?
we live inside of concrete bunkers,
bombs away,
the happy winter, we all
remove our clothes and lie in the grass.
EU tells us to move, but
we're American, and we salute the grand
nothing.

ground control to savage:
we have inbound, riot
control, ground troops, guns,
machines, cogs, elephantine
air raids, and simple
silence.
savage to ground control:
smoke and rockets,
send out the infantry.

onward good lads, victory is painted
in gold sounds and
silly;
boom goes it all. EU
sush the silence factory. bright lights,
hush
the siren even now does not still.

sounds: singing.mp4

2009-04-10T00:36:00.000-07:00

Hey, listen up. Click the link.

little brother drawing day!

2009-04-08T20:58:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, here are some drawings from my little brother, a very gifted artist.

"hippy"

"spacetime"

"untitled 9"

portrait of the artist as a young drunk

2009-04-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

Here I am reading from my series 'the broken jaw gang: dagger.' Camera work by Matt Savage; drunkeness by me.

Also: hey, again with Matt Winters. He is a local artist and he is doing a large installation piece at Co-Lab. He' drawing all over the walls and wants some poems there too. If anyone is so inclined, I'll be there Thursday (and Matt Will be there all week), so stop by and say high and trace your hand on a wall or something. Ahh, sweet dada.

Here's the words to the video:
the broken jaw gang: dagger

they down at the church yard
used
to chase me through the winding
cemetery
just
behind,

but I didn’t care. I was a rebel,
you know?

I used to get little kids to tie ropes
through bike wheels
and

lock them to chrome bars.
I used to go
out to the piers and drop old computer
monitors into the drink.

I was that guy – yeah – that used
to
play with laser pens in
old alleyways and trace
words on brick walls.
Yeah – that was me.

oh, also:

the broken jaw gang was not something
easily
come upon. I used to
beat myself up nightly
trying to come up with some name
that described
the old rolly polly feeling
of
the non-jump life.

of course, that doesn’t make all that much sense, but,
c’mon, what type of criminal
do you take me for?

so, like I was saying: it’s
not the chasing that matters
anyway,

it’s the thrill and the thrush of the fall –
if you do fall –
and the snap of the ankle when
falling occurs.

simple, really. well,
okay.

go get yourself a good old dagger and place it in your mouth,
sweetheart.

dada sounds: dada poems

2009-04-07T20:58:00.000-07:00

Hey, here is five different instant poems played on top of each other. Enjoy dada...click the post title.

bike and staircase, a photo series

2009-04-06T15:18:00.001-07:00

Up the railing
we
must find the blue ornament
resting
on
the lazy couch,
smash it,

rearrange the damned thing,
and give it to the next
passerby.

if he be emasculated, if he
be
tiny and dry around the mouth, if she be
ported and derived, if
she be a bubblegum chew
harp ditch,

then so be it.

as we rearrange the fragments
of
the smashing, such thoughts need
not enter.

light movie: oracione

2009-04-06T15:14:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, the drawing in this movie is titled 'oracione,' hence the title of the movie. Okay. How's your week? Also, thanks to Shannon Crider for throwing such fabulous art crits, and hey now to Matt Winters who will be drawing on the walls of Co-Lab all week. Boho coco!

damien hirst

2009-04-05T17:18:00.000-07:00

A video of a shadow. Is it Damien Hirst? Boho coco...

...vs. shadow

2009-04-05T17:15:00.000-07:00

Can you dig it?

shoes vs. socks...

2009-04-04T22:32:00.000-07:00

Which will win?

vs.

dada sounds: wind chimes

2009-04-03T18:29:00.000-07:00

Hey fellows, during this month of dada, I will be posting various sounds I recorded for thirty seconds. For this one, I recorded wind chimes in five different sessions, then played them all together. It's a chimey world, baby; windy too. Just click the post title and hear the random beauty (is that too hokey? I'll say yes, but, c'est la vie).

here's a poem inspired by the chimes

windy balcony

a bland rocking chair
to creak along with the
hum
of the bicycle kids ganging
in the street below

and green cars slipping beyond
into
the night;

my metal chimes are a disaster

construction of dada

2009-04-02T22:40:00.000-07:00

Hello all, here's a little something new from me to you to celebrate this glorious month. Basically, I constructed a cube from weighted paper and draw letters and colors on it. Here's a little more in-depth display for the visually inclined. Boho coco!

phase 1

phase 2 (watch that man)

phase 4 (skipping phase 3)

phase 5

phase 6

phase 7

phase 8

...and, because we all like movie pictures strung together at high speeds, here is a film featuring my dada word construct.

Have a nice day

artist poem: monet

2009-04-02T00:23:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, here is a video of a shadow reading in the guise of Monet. I call it my artist poem series (creative, yes), and I hope you get your freak on.

text:
artist poem 1:Monet

Monet complained daily
to his wife,
"oh, I just don't
like asparagus,"
and he would nap in an
old Buick
"give me a cigarette,
love" he'd
hiss waltzing
the tips of Niagra.
"oh to jump!"
he would sound.
orange paint stained
the sides of his pants'
pockets.
"it's a modern affair,
this...this...
this...sad chase to the
bottom
of everything."
he read newspapers
and snapped pictures of
celebrities depicted there-in.
next he'd cut slices from
the photos, toss
'em in a bowl, and
eat 'em
like cereal or salad.

another post of poems

2009-04-02T00:14:00.001-07:00

Because we all have love in our hearts when we see concrete falling down into an alley and smashing a dumpster.

the happy bird blues 1

I fly and fly and fly –

say, hey, guy –

and smack-a-daisy right
on the window

and down down my tumble
bumble

a stumble I have a great
olfactory
loss in my miserly twenties –

baby

the happy bird blues 2

she had those greystroke feathers
just

lusted in the dust bowl

and as I fell
I shouted –

hey, baby, come to my wing, I have knowledge and I ripple across ponds –

and it was easy to clank
thud the muddy banks
of
some sleeping home in the arch
neighborhood
of

the big reveal

the happy bird blues 3

get me a new town
I don’t
disco like the crazy
babes
in the winsome burbs

I have a sensation towards
cracking
in the spice factory
in
the district at the edge of town

oh say
I am that other thing lying
in tall grass
with

sharp features
and some glass

and –

hey, watch it

the happy bird blues 4

I have one note to sing
and I’ve been singing it over and over
in the market square

lush feathers
and queens
bleating out the ring
spring

pouncing from bookstores and
eating the sidewalk
like garbage
compactors

oh
no wisdom
there up
in the blue
blue

monkey fight!

2009-04-01T23:57:00.000-07:00

Here is a gradation in pictures of golden lion tamarins. Did I mention that dada is nonsense? Is it? Did I?

By the way: I was walking along a parking lot with my brother Ryan tonight, and we came across a DWI warded off testing zone. Traffic cones, large buses, some cars, the works. And as my brother and I were walking into the test sight (keep in mind: nobody around, 11:30 at night, two non-drunks looking to get drunk), some cop whistles at us and tells us not to enter the zone. "This is a barricaded area, can't you tell?" he asked us, pointing to eight strikingly small traffic cones that formed a rectangle. We grumbled. Oh, here's another variation on the tamarins.

So we just gave the cop some lip (all my brother, I promise) and went about our way. Is it a power trip? How useless are we, sometimes? Oh, but he should have been shooting up a crime alley, right? Ah, sweet dada...give me some time to be a clown, or a criminal, or something. This all really happened. And here's another version of our cute little guys.

dada month

2009-04-01T23:48:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, it's finally here. All dreams come true! We here at the blog (namely moi) are celebrating the best of irreverence as best as we can. Dada! Say it all at once! We're all out of our minds! Hey, expect movie poems, chants, audio poems, picture poems, pictures of my elbow, video, drawings, other various whatevers, songs, and the random smack crack of creativity. If you've got something, send it to me; if you have a comment, slap it here; if you have a face, kiss a mirror. Okay! Celebrate! Here's a picture Erin took of me.

p.s. just wait until the end of the month!

lab chapter 5

2009-03-31T22:53:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, it's been a while, so here's an update on what's happening between the mad scientist and the weary soldier. Remember: scientist = bad guy with crazy potion that transforms people into monsters; soldier = ex-partner now trying to stop him. Oh no, what's going to happen next?!

...and, starting tomorrow, get ready to crap your pants!

But first, the next chapter of lab...

chapter 5 – man in sky
As the air fell around his face, Jacob attempted to stare at the flaming halo of his plane. The terse touch of the sky was devouring him. He watched as an unknown chunk of debris – what had cause the death of his ship – plummeted just beyond, screaming through the atmosphere. Jacob could not help but imagine a wonderful world, where falling is akin to success, and that to die was to be promoted. Tears rounded up his face against the will of gravity, caught in the gale wind. He told himself it was right and proper to flail and to scream.
The following moments stretched into hours. Lifetime flashes and deformed clouds, the tattle of no-god hissing sweet nothings. The pulse of the wind came to be his own as his bones bounced and his teeth chattered. He wondered how long until the verdant underneath caught him. He thought of abstract hands composed of vegetation, of god in the endless no no sighing, of a little woman in an apartment burning his cloths. Jacob fashioned a prayer, but it had little sense and its function was dislocated. Pray instead, he sobbed, of endless blue, of gravel and locust, of arbor and moss and highway blacktop. Jacob closed his eyes and prepared for the great kalamazam.
He felt a twitch upon his arm. He swatted and was shocked to feel there another man’s hand. Jacob instantly opened his eyes open and gasped. A man, bespectacled and shocked in white hair, flowing along, falling too, strapped to some form of jetpack apparatus, was holding on. He was laughing. Jacob shouted questions but they were lost to the rush of the fall. The man in white frock and flame handed a blue bottle to Jacob. He motioned for him to drink it, then leaned in and mouthed, “Take this and it’ll save your life.” Jacob was completely astonished and nonplussed. He grabbed the bottle, understanding nothing, and drank deeply. Jacob understood angels to be querulous creatures with bulbous faces and nerd-beam eyes. He knew miracles to flow like water and drag not in doubt nor fear. He drank the damned thing and tossed the bottle into the grip of the fall. He felt a tug in his corporeal form. The mad flyer smiled, hissed, “I am the scientist,” and fluttered away with his magic backpack.

Jacob watched the glitter chrome lift away. The strange, starry sensation continued. His stomach became hard to place. There were bricks – no; horseshoes? – kicking about. Farewell, thought Jacob, and he caught a final glimpse of his bamboozled plane tumbling. His final plea was a call for an airplane savior to hoist his creature back into the sky and let it dwell there for the rest of time. Jacob begged for his life too. His lips became diaphanous, his hands useless parachutes, and his legs roman candles. Jacob finally let out a wail and felt his body transform just before the thud.

--
Jacob felt time stop. At least he thought he felt time stop. He smashed into the
earth and died. His body was gnarled, gashed, smashed, twisted, and bloody. But he was not dead. Jacob lived. He had become a mosquito. He flew off. He buzzed away into thick distant foliage. The sounds of life sounded heavy. The breeze was a deep muffle drone. The sunlight was a razor blade window pane. Jacob rested in the shade. The sun began to set and he took to the air anew. A thirst for blood came. He became mad with searching. He landed on the head of a young child playing in dirt outside a hut. The mosquito feasted and felt the evil of a previous life run through him.
A mating urge tapped him. He had become a female. A swarm of male mosquito's buzzed in the air. Jacob yearned to feel the orgy of the swarm. Jacob raced about the currents, intent, of course. Tis a sad death to be repeatedly born.

--

Before the greedy mosquito succeeded its ability to lay eggs in the rainforest, the soldier came along and collected the monster in a glass jar. He looked upon the former Jacob with pity. The soldier had black bars painted on his face. A hunting knife sat at his side. The soldier had watched the wreckage of the plane dip into the canopy previously. He had seen the scientist truffling about in the atmosphere, flying mad with white frock and hapless hair-do. The soldier saw the poor body of the man Jacob transmogrify in the glory/chaos of impact into his mosquito form. The soldier again glanced into the jar and made a quiet promise. This will not be your last life, he thought, and tracked into the interior of the undergrowth, searching the other mysteries awkward abundance might provide. The scientist was not alone; the soldier was unfastened.

2001 2 6 and 2001 2 7

2009-03-30T21:24:00.000-07:00

Hey, here's two more of my poems that pay homage to the amazing film 2001: A Space Odyssey. The screen captures are from 'the light show' scene. And...two days left...until...

2001 part 2 6

the great ocean of time
rests in
the midst of my
being

and I drift through the absence
of space

upon returning to my future
and my children
I chanted
the best of us will
be stardust

creeping into cosmic
wells
of time
and space

and you will know that it is
blue blue

when I raise my hand upon your spine
and hiss the one
word
of god that you shall
know as
law and name
and
truth

my dove
my

space metal
wife

2001 part 2 7

heavens I saw
a nuclear
explosion
end our lifetime

and in the wrappings of dust
billowing about
the face
of the planet

I heard the cry of starburst novas
in the past

reaching us too late
and knowing

oh knowing

it is ever a frost on the tip
of a window
that descends into
the valley
of the infinite

for time is ever present and
we
as such beings that eat radiation
and destroy the
spin of atoms
are ever
present

one more for the road

2009-03-29T12:41:00.001-07:00

Hey, here's the last batch of untitled poems celebrating 5000 of them. Thanks for reading, and, what could this mean?
Dada is the groundwork to abstract art and sound poetry, a starting point for performance art, a prelude to postmodernism, an influence on pop art, a celebration of antiart to be later embraced for anarcho-political uses in the 1960s and the movement that lay the foundation for Surrealism.
—Marc Lowenthal
Beware the ides of April...
but for now, untitleds!

untitled 1417

the steps so large
and
frightening

were ready for witnesses

and bouncing balls
.

the cobblestone streets
beyond
.
we’re not ready for either;
cars
drove precariously upon
their
surface

like ships sailing into
the
mystic waters
of
dreams and deaths.

we stood there
and
confused everything
as
human;

others
passed us by with
their reckless
abandon
,
but
we’re reckless too.
we go where we want
,

wakening.

untitled 2664 (new generation bottle rockets)

a curved smile spine
waits on
the lonely cowboy girl.
she has a green hat and works at the counter drug store.
she drinks the cough syrup for fun.
her boyfriend drives that old beat black truck.
it has rust in the tire drums.
it has ice under the dash.

a sweet precipitation
comes down the hills.
we
are kids yet again.

sweet summer time,
chase fireflies and bottle rockets.

she doesn’t know that she’s
pregnant,
he doesn’t drive so fast.

entertainers,
innovators
alike,
play your brass band music loudly.
last
chance.

untitled 4606

new still night
of
no old
men

chanting the rhythm of the
taxi
cab

in their corners
street

lamp indigo

we are cool
saxophone

entities
digging
dig

the sidewalk the
lady passes
the

crescent moon
crooked as an
eye sore
and shut

half wondering when oh when
will love be had

untitled 4390

believe in the rain windows

storm drain
faced

girl in the spider web

I shot down the airplane
and
it landed in your backyard

and it killed your
garden

and spit flame cool across the dash
of your

station wagon

go off the wheels
we fell
in the ditch.

point away
point

away the name of your old
boyfriend who
drank
himself to death

untitled 4201

words
ooze
forth bugs

and excrement

she runs across the parlor
and gropes the door
of her
lover
licking and kissing

away
the heart

hey, dave, is that untitled too?

2009-03-28T00:11:00.000-07:00

Oh, why yes, it does happen to be untitled. I hope you enjoyed the spontaneous post featuring a titled poem yesterday as well. Hey, okay!

untitled 836

“Mommas
mommas
mommas
,

take care
of
those

before

they grow
to
distant”

untitled 1592

I shooed her away
with
the
empty cards
.

and then this:
you
can’t
quit
when
you
feel
so
guilty
.

she made the bed,
again
,
and I sat alone on
an
orange couch.

but I’m the whole
universe
.
I’m the fool
.

she’s the lovely young thing
and

I’m the one who
runs
away
.

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 2795

I’m the murderer and I am
draped in a white
coat of
the finest cloth.

I can eat at your table.
you are pruned
and full
of desire.

but I will not sit in the chair
beside the glass coffee
table.

I am a fool,

you are a peasant.

untitled 3188

you could have this whole world,
I’ve seen it, Erin,
waiting on curbsides, dangling from one bedroom apartment
window like
seasonal Christmas lights.
the streets are broken. hobblers cripple the sidewalk,
defeating their legs against the wind,
shining and shrieking at the city buses, at the make believe
goodwill lenders, bankers and shrift suited business men,
opportunists striking their fiddles.
but Erin,
in your small timely frame, your lust for feeling, your absolute trust in the sadness
of man and dimension,
you can be the conqueror.
ugly vixens don’t believe, they rub red velvet between their crotches
and stalk prettier someones.
but you live in denser fog.
yours is not reality to devour;
it is far sweeter, dynamic, scary, amazing, bright and luscious.
fantasia, the girl in the blue sweater, drifting in and out of dream
with all reason and sincerity.
I’ve seen you;
laugh and cry, strike out with your elbows,
dance in your rhythm, the sky is green, the grass below may
be brown, whistle your song for the birds, roll in the dirt.
great destroyer of the modern world, girl with a face covered in revolving
locks of hair;
harmony
sinks deep down
into
your
heart;
that is poetry, shifting grains of light
wafting across your
hands.

not untitled

2009-03-26T23:48:00.000-07:00

space

to indicate is to inform and to do so is to point out and bleh!

indicate here something new for a blog

soda pop is the name of a titled poem from Christopher Savage

(soda pop

haunted houses in the springdale
burb

go awk and scant
the

girl with her reed ring looks in the direction
of
a red fire hydrant

you
know

in an old factory rests all
broken
glass

we are awash with joy you
are
new

and to silence silence
is
a grand misery girl

shrinking away from me sat on the other side
of
the shoppe
window

soda pop)

soda pop is the name of a titled poem from Christopher Savage

indicate here something new for a blog

to indicate is to inform and to do so is to point out and bleh!

space

the name of the untitled

2009-03-26T12:01:00.000-07:00

More from the vault for all of you lucky lovers. Yeah! 5000 untitled poems!

untitled 1082

no the robot
reaches
up into the rain

and looses his
circuits
.

yes the magician
climbs
through his roof

and slips off the
tiles
.

maybe the man
eats
away his dreams

and chases his
vanity
.
)

waste time in
the past

and
stand
under

a blue waterfall
;

both wash up
and
wash away

untitled 1420

just pure honesty in the morning
.
if that colors
your
eyes

the same as mine
,

give me a fancy hello.

everything else
only

wants to be something
different
;

you and I were meant for
fusion
,
not fission
.

)
the world was made for us

untitled 1738

many people
,
laughing in rows of the movie theater
,

know little of
movie
projection
,
but they’re happy,
they
taste the fullness of being.
I
me proud to steal
from
them.
watching all the faces, different
and
tangled,
mingle. one sound
and
soul
.

it exists here.
peace
.

I’m certain of that.

untitled 3080

my girl and I played catch with the baseball today.
I had to instruct her
seventy two
times on how to pitch.
she stared away in the sky and pointed to a cloud.
I threw the ball up and caught it
too.
she stepped with every throw; I said no
no.
I can take care of you but only if you close
your
eyes
.

my glove absorbed the sweat of my hand.
my girl’s ribbon hair flittered with the wind.
I couldn’t know she was blue;
she
kicked her shoes from her feet and stood in the dirt.
no one wins this kind of game;
for fun, silly,
she called out,
and I heaved the seamed orb away away
into
the
street.

untitled 4374

to come home again
amidst
fur coats

and women who
have
given me golden wristwatches;

oh it’s
no such thing

he says as such it was
once his domain

and goes on to
believe that as long as gunsmoke
is subtle

well
and dry it is
fair

to believe that heaven exists just
beyond a concrete
dam

untitled so so so

2009-03-25T23:12:00.000-07:00

Here are some more of my untitled poems to celebrate the arrival of my 5000th one!

untitled 4404

ocean breeze
of
coolness
across my chest

I am twenty
two

again and
in

love and

the sand

and the mist and lost
debris

drifting under starlight

untitled 4133

I remember fondue in your
hair
the apartment girl Candace
removing her
teeth
for the night
sinking
in red cushions on the couch
shouting
about good god damn
the neighbor’s
lights

so bright and pretty
I am the boardwalk
but the beach
and the lost kid
with one shoe
tacked

down above your bed
you have
a map of the world with
Zimbabwe circled in red
like

dust from the lotus

I should have watched you walk
out and
get on the bus and
tear away at the grey sky

untitled 3770

don’t wait til
morning,
the buses run slower,

girls in suede skirts

look taller,

ugly dogs prowl meaner,
and I will
be steadfast asleep
under the
lunar quilt.

--

she is reeds and ponds,
hair
of one thousand angels,

a crick in a neck of a tall
gentleman.

I asked her to please tell me her favorite movie,
but she
just smiled.

untitled 2330 short 2-2

the song of the highway on the edge of
the Blue City
still sings of war and wasteland,

but we can only make it out to be
epic and tragic
and

lost

untitled 524

there was
a street fight
blossoming
in a City garage
,
trucks and cars
buried all
around
,
waiting to be revived
.

“I’ll kill you”
said a man
to
another

and fists became
like
raindrops
.

weapons were brandished
like car keys
and
little people were screaming
in
large voices
;
the skyscraper in the distance would have laughed if it could
.

the City Destroyer
stood near
the
man with the matches
and
together they watched
,
one laughing
while the other
shook his head and
his hands.

the mill is untitled

2009-03-24T20:51:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, here are some more untitled poems celebrating my 5000th one! A week of untitled poetry for you to eat. And go by Ruta Maya on Tuesday for the open mic why don't you?

untitled 4642

collected raindrops
in jar
containers

will resonate after two
weeks
of a grand explosion

says a tom cat
faced
miscreant

into a tin can tied
with string

and across the way in night
and
heat

a little girl giggles
and
imagines a mushroom cloud

untitled 4166

you would know who is young
and womanly
in the evergreen fields
of
the winter

when she brushes oh
so tender
aside your hair
and

takes you in
the flesh
for

all the sins you have
committed
behind the backs
of

old matrons and disgusting
gentlemen

untitled 3827

oh jesus I must have never
loved
the days of my longing

but

but

she asks for one more chance
or I ask
to begin again

or she tells me it’s never over
for
such as us

--

and we live in a nice kingdom,
elegant,
proud and true,
and she sleeps softly
and
I do not speak so loud,
and all blood,
all memory,
flows towards the center of
our bed
as we undress in
candlelight

untitled 3126

if he knew hunger, he hid it well.
the boy in black hair sat in the art gallery.
he did not moan.

when we die, our dignity flies away in ringlets of light.

the boy ruminated about his job.
a hollow existence,
he chirped,
then scolded himself.

a bulldozer awaited outside, wrecking walls, pulverizing concrete.

I am something akin,
he hisses,
and thinks about the life before this one.
I was a child.

the daylight creeps beyond the window pane to touch his shoulder.
he jumps and startles;
he is not aware of the tawdry woman in a black dress stood beside him.

untitled 2816
Christopher Savage

down the slopes.
my
rented flip flim
flop skis

were red for love, darling.
I didn’t care

how crashed and white
I’d become.

velvet earrings waited inside the mountain.
as was a god.

search them out,
have them,

keep them
.

I do not fall in love with meteors that
shatter the Earth.

we can dwindle like candles,
baby;

we eat our
inferno
.

the whole world's untitled, baby

2009-03-23T11:58:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, it's been a while, but I wanted to leave the picture poem up for a while for SXSW. Now, however, it's an untitled world, baby. That means I've written my 5000th untitled poem, and all week I'll be posting a ton of them for you guys. Call it a celebration of the written life. And just wait for April, oh me oh my. Have a funky good time!

untitled 5000

it is not our place to save
the world even if there are monsters in the midst.
we
have
love

and is that not enough?

carry me under a pink horizon
and I will
sing to you of old iron factories.

there is nothing sweeter –

Sunday morning or other,
a prick of violin and some biscuits,
an indigo bedsheet,
the last thrust of lovemaking,
the phone ringing,
a computer on a coffee table,
and sheets sheets
sheets of paper.

we can be a forest ourselves with strange
fruit,
and we can consume ourselves,
and
we can collapse.

sigh, and clap, together, once, now, my love.

untitled 4999

I who am not so wicked
yes
as my chest is a furnace
and glows I chase
around

old beaches attempting to reunite
with ghosts and memories

but
not to worry

I have the ordinance language carved into my feet

so imagine
sand
and imagine poetry and

there
I go

untitled 4998

tell me again I am leper but god lying in gutters and know him beautiful ask and answer he replied but empty newspapers and lime colored dumpsters and to speak instead of the world blue downtown center commerce bank and puppets’ pink pajamas and the old factory biting dust distant and a miracle of course eating ourselves in mirrors and removing in the evening to drink brown liquor and sing song angels that exist pin pricks and telephone calls and god me to buffoon of course is easy and the secret cities across the pages of happy magazines and an entire float stream of piss underneath my feet the moment midnight in the scrounge life

untitled 4997

oh we wretched few

have no names
and are
listless

shadows

emerging
from
bars at the end of the night

chanting
god oh god
is dead
he
is
we have beer soak and whiskey
prattling
and
god oh god
is
kind benevolent timid
insipid and blue
beetles oh
ha

and we lie upon broad mattresses
below frayed blinds with
hope for the sun’s bright
touch;

the morning tells us we are
children
but

we don’t listen.

we have hearts of the magi pricking
the fabric of the ever
want
want

untitled 4996

hey funny valentine,
be
a dead pharaoh,
be a book unread
and be the door that does not slam;

hey,

take your time listening to your father’s
music;

he had a lisp and a lithe gun in his
pocket;

oh wow oh

go boom
go bang

untitled 4995

shoot a ruby slipper and tame
nothing

and open a doorway;

hey,
it is spring;

hey it is summer, hey;

hey, it’s fall again and we have
flesh colors on the balcony;

I think of jumping to reach something
but
the radio tells me

hey, hold
on,
it’s winter

streets of austin (again)

2009-03-18T21:15:00.000-07:00

Hey funsters, how's the ol' town? Enjoying your week of shenanigans? Well, I know it's only started, but here is a brand new picture poem from me to you to kick off this musical, film(ical?), interactive(ick-le?) festival. Also, hey, wow, what a world, what a guy: out now is a little quickie version of our lit zine, Boho Coco (this one's called 'Boho Coco guide to being'), and it's coming out on Thursday at Little City, the Hideout, Domy Books, Spiderhouse, and several other undisclosed places (call them 'secret' locations). Feature in this handy little zine are myself (Christopher Savage), Richard Guerra (the amazing auteur of TalkHard), Ryan Criswell (photo-gal extraordinaire), and Jak Cardini (of the fancy Gold Count Paper Mill). Okay, enough with the mouthful. Time for some pretty pictures.

thanks for reading

2001 2 5

2009-03-16T18:32:00.001-07:00

Whet your whistles on this, and then come back in the next few days for some exciting news (and posts)!

2001 part 2 5

spectacles
of radiant
white cosmos haunted
stars
dance
the blue
distance

I flew so fast
that upon stopping I had
come to the past
and
saw that the earth
was
much more than a froth
of muck
and
mountain
face

I saw aliens dancing
the midnight
swan

and I saw them take away their faces
and lay upon
meadow grass
and dream us into creation

we shake, we rattle

2009-03-15T21:06:00.000-07:00

we shake, we rattle
and
it doesn't matter

in the void
of
oh oh

the world is solid
and it
is
good.

3 things
then
in the sky:

one open moon left hinged in the cliff
of
sunlight;
an old baseball seam scattered
in orbit;
liquor bottles strung together
with Christmas lights all
a twinkle.