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:

typed page from Co-Lab show 5

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

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

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.

typed page reading 2

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

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!

devour yourself

More from Arizona.

the edge of darkness

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.

artist poem: cezanne

from the middle of nowhere

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

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,

holy moley look at the monlogue kid

Hey guys, here's a video of me (Christopher Savage!) performing my monlogue "Dialogues with god near a trash heap" at the Cathedral of Junk. Below the video is the original text version of the monologue (check out how it's changed and adapted for a live performance! oooohh, like a virus or something!).



dialogues with god near a trash heap (part VI)
- man enters a scene beside a heap of trash
- man: “Look, just stop. Okay. Stop a moment.”
- man protests with hand and leans upon the trash
- man: “You have to listen to me. It’s going to rain tonight, there’s going to be wild animals out, stupid kids will be driving their cars, night rangers are drunk and horny, and all types of devils are sulking around any corner.”
- man pauses, then smiles
- man: “Well, it could be something like that. I might be one of those devils, even.”
- man nods head, forgetting the invisible audience
- man: “I don’t think I am, but… I do get up late and skip work some times. I don’t always tip well. Sometimes I don’t call people back or return emails…”
- man waves the nonsense away and returns to the audience
- man: “But I digress. It’s not important anyway if I’m the devil – a devil at least. It matters if you are a devil. If you are, then all the trouble that’s waiting out there is already on your side. But where’s the fun in that?”
- man begins to laugh; he becomes frivolous with audience
- man: “Okay, seriously guys, I’m not jerking your chain. I just wanted you to stop. Just stop a moment. Please. Just stop.”
- man sits in silence, still leaned upon the structure, gazing at it
- man: “It can be so damned beautiful, the stillness. I think sometimes I’m afraid of anything else. This is home, though, didn’t you know?”
- man kicks off heap of trash and turns from audience; he waves his hands in the air
- man: “Okay, you can go now. Go on. Go. Leave me. Go on. You’ve stopped, you’ve taken in the moment. Go on, get out of here. Leave me.”
- man exits scene, muttering unintelligibles under his breath

end part VI

live from the Cathedral

Hey, finally, some live footage from our Cathedral of Junk performance (for all who missed it). First up: Miguel Martinez reading his poem, "again, another six more hours." Apologies for the grainy video, but it was dark that night (and cold!). I say let it enhance the performance. Dig!

Thursday dedication part 2

Hey hey, this video is dedicated to my good friend Jarod Mansour, hanging on that other coast in Charleston strumming his blues (this video was also shot during the Night of the Boho Coco at Domy Books (shocking!)). He's a new way winner.




text version:

untitled 4602

in dreams of Avondale

Street

I am garbed in female

flesh

gasping

and

rotund

and eerie

blue

lights

of

the siren

come through the window

and

touch

the grace of my

hands

.

then I dream

of tumble

tracks

and water

and I drown

in a sexless sea

Thursday dedication part 1

Hey, this video is posted for one Mr. Mike Hughes, cooling his jets out in California (it was shot during the Night of the Boho Coco at Domy Books).




text version:

untitled 4604

the sleep kingdom

of lepers

belongs in my

chest

I am the Warhol

king

ingrained beast of one thousand

children

feasting

from

open city sewers

we cool

we

calm

café denizens so pretty

with bedsores

under

our necks

and lovers

in

cloves

the gang's all here

Hey Sunday dreamers, here is the final clip (for now!!!) of the Night of the Boho Coco at Domy Books. This one has all the performers getting some poetry going with the chant poem "like dust." Do you believe in magic?

Josh Rios rides again

Hey hey out there my little lovelies, here's a clip of Josh Rios exciting the masses with some poems of his at Domy Books during our last reading, the Night of the Boho Coco. By the way, how's your Saturday?

It's a me

Hey guys, here is another video clip from our show at Domy Books. The Night of the Boho Coco just keeps on giving.

Erin and her hat: triumph!

Here's a lovely little clip of an untitled poem from our own Erin Vaughan. She sure is a whirligig.

Jeff and his bro

Here we see one Jeff Daily playing his song "Oh You!" with his younger brother Chris. Look out, when Jeff steps aside...who's that hiding behind the bearded Boho?