misfits part 3!

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!

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!

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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

...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!

...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

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

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

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!

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: