performance at Co-Lab on November 17th starting at 7:30PM
art is defined in postmodern culture by the saturation and lack of saturation of present situations. an event is an event but it is also a touchstone. eat yourself .
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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,
