All the Activities...

The world of austinnewblog is busy these days. Several new projects have taken shape over the last week and I'm happy to see participation from new voices. I've been busy behind the scenes it seems and haven't posted for awhile so I thought I would post some work. What have I been doing you ask? I've been editing book length manuscripts of poetry for possible publication, I've been trying to line up some more BLOGTASTIC live gigs for the fall, I've been mixing new audio recordings for the blog, and I've been enjoying (ha!) this Austin summer. What have YOU been doing? The following poems are drafts from a book of lyrics written between 2004-2008 with the working title of something like Songs I Used to Sing.

My Songbook Be Daily-a-Growing

When I wrote Suavamente
I let my heart get away from me
But now we’re mortal again
I guess you could call us friends

My songbook is-a-growing
I can’t remember all these songs
My songbook is overflowing
Won’t you help me by singing along!

When I wrote about the frown police
I thought they were on my side
Ups & downs will never cease
I have too many songs to hide

My songbook is-a-growing
I can’t remember all these songs
My songbook is overflowing
Won’t you help me by singing along!

I wrote a collection called Miss Cretin Prosody
Outta all these tunes I remember maybe three
I got twenty albums on my back
Maybe I’m starting to crack

My songbook is-a-growing
I can’t remember all these songs
My songbook is overflowing
Won’t you help me by singing along!

******************************************

Finally Another Dwarf Appeared

Got my head wrapped in daydreams
I rarely see them through
Got my life locked up in music
There’s not enough time to do what I need to do

I’m walking in circles
Burning holes in the floor
Please don’t ask me anything
I don’t want to see or feel or hear anymore

Then again I think
Nihilism aint that chic
Then again I could be wrong…

********************************************

Cartoon Heart

He sits on his boyhood bed, comic book in his hand
He is reading about a detective named Batman
He would love to take off his mask
He would love to reveal his secret identity
He believes in love

I get up in the morning and go to work
As a security guard I stare at life’s funny face
I often dream of meeting the special one
I often dream of meeting anyone
I believe in love

Cartoon heart
Big and perfect red
Cartoon heart
Love is the only concept to keep in yr head

Austin World Poem Turns 7!

Thanks to our last poster, sue, who generously donated seven lines, the Austin World Poem is in its seventh revision--out of infancy and into full-blown childhood. Still looking for any one who wants to post our way, so if you haven't yet, please do!

Here it is now:

The equation of water
is always coaxed out of a stone;
a blank bell ringing
in the middle of the day.

The river
she sings
the song of the
red scent of
crying
the daylight descends on the
dying
never to drink from the fountain
again.

Thirst wants what the stone needs
But the face lies in pools of greed.
A King upon the throne of the new liberal media
Seeks to set a new standard
of violence.
Pools of bullets smile at the snug rain.
America comes at last,
To the big table.

Running water rings
resonates
it is time

Running water
The running water we run to
We seek our thirsts at last

And our thirsts subtract the rain
And our marbles are equal to or
lesser than the ocean

And our music
disintegrates
into sand

from the fire and the vapors
rising through and over the
revelry, the echoes resonate
a distant chanting, thumping along the veins, thumping along the bones
left there
charred and sunken
rooted into the darkened earth

a quick poem from a quick shot

Hey, I was reading over some older poems of mine (not old now; settle down), and thought I'd like to share this one with you guys. Hurray for saving writing in electronic form!

untitled 4054

think of thick lips slapped against the

board

and you have wood

and

you have a face

and the girl thinks of subterraneans

cavorting with

orange eyes

sticking

in fence posts their

beloved childhood

dollheads

and

oh

and

I think of barbarians of the coast

rummaging

my flesh and taking

tally

with my tailbone

all

redheaded lovers that live

in blue button homes

Anonymous poster number 1 for the Austin Universe Prose Project, holy schlamoley

Thanks to the anonymous poster who gives us the next phase of the Austin Universe Prose Project. Also, it's really great to see Erin's Austin World Poem Project taking off. Congrat's Erin, and I can only hope my tiny baby can grow to the size of yours. Alright, here goes, original prose piece followed by Erin Vaughan's followed by anonymous number 1. Cool, daddios.

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

Cuba Gooding Sr. wrang his hands until he discovered the method of hula hoops. Crack open the plastic, and sand pours out.

--
and here are some suggestions and topics for all you other eager beavers out there:

museums
hearing America singing
heat
Hieronymus Bosch
coffee shops
points of origin
vinyl records
cowboy boots
Spain
math equations
seagulls
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops

Thank You, Thank You, Anonymous Poster #2!!

It's so exciting to see how this poem changes. Thanks very much to the five of you who have contributed, your additions are wonderful. Poetry can often be a solitary and competitive pursuit, so it's really amazing to see something collaborative come out of it. Here is the poem, in it's sixth round:

The equation of water
is always coaxed out of a stone;
a blank bell ringing
in the middle of the day.

The river
she sings
the song of the
red scent of
crying
the daylight descends on the
dying
never to drink from the fountain
again.

Thirst wants what the stone needs
But the face lies in pools of greed.
A King upon the throne of the new liberal media
Seeks to set a new standard
of violence.
Pools of bullets smile at the snug rain.
America comes at last,
To the big table.

Running water rings
resonates
it is time

Running water
The running water we run to
We seek our thirsts at last

And our thirsts subtract the rain
And our marbles are equal to or
lesser than the ocean

And our music
disintegrates
into sand

To All the Vaughan-Savages of the World

Octobers

I do not remember the scent of magnolias
Nor the specific grit of sand beneath my fingernails.

But I remember when they started to tear the bridge down
with Dynamite and sentimental iron beams.

I remember the ghosts of Civil War soldiers
clashing by night before a sinking lighthouse.

The nights, so bright, and hallucinatory blackbirds
croaked as the palms' fronds groaned to be torn apart.

But he was the parking garage I could never find my way out of
And you were Vanity Fair while I wept at the House of Blues.

Fires burned in buildings above us
and the sky was purple with pollution and lamplight.

Drunk men swam naked through fountains
while the cotton stuck to our skins.

Every night was filled with peeling peaches
and the crossword clues were ones we could always solve.

Austin Univers Prose Project update

Hey there fellow starbrights, Erin Vaughan's already replied (and so has someone else; who can it be? I'm not telling yet) to the AUPP request. Hers is an inspired piece of grand prose. Me like. Also, her suggestions for you future posters are at the bottom of the post. Also also, any anonymous posters out there need only post a comment and you too can be included in this most historic of endeavors, plus I'll blow kisses to you across the interweb. Great!

here's the genesis paragraph:

In the museum of love, Katherine heard an old man singing. Oh so long and forgotten, I am America, he chanted, over and over, and she believed him. She wanted to grab his hands and clap, to make him bend on his knees and rejoice. It was the heat of the day, summer being as blasphemous as ever. She wanted him to be wrinkled and deathly and beloved. Hieronymus Bosch and the great landscapes, she thought, and skipped on her heels. But he begged her to leave him. I am no girl in a museum chanting the songs of my fathers, she thought, and slapped the man across the face. In a window, a coffee shop beckoned; she left. Oh gosh, she was hot and cold and caffeine. I believe believe, she chanted herself, and forgot about the tinny man begging for his old time glory hanging from the rafters. My point of origin, thought Katherine, is the old sea, the old country, and a camera. She grabbed a lamppost in the midst of the street. It is wonderful to twirl, to spin, and I hope, she whispered, that it is all make-believe and forgotten.

--

Through the long hallway of heat, a woman is bending at the waist. The true waist, which is the point of origin for the world.

In the crushed corner by the couch, that girl is thinking that there had better be an end to this. She holds her drink up to examine it, and just for a moment, her eyes are like a gleaming key hitting the light in a hall.

I have often thought of this moment later. Her slim eyes. How I have longed to be like them, their cosmic metal slipping into gear on remote; on opening.

Or how the simple working of light bent to her like a moth before a flame.

--

suggestions:
Cuba
salt
method
hand-wringing
hula hoops