Gotta Be More! Gotta Do More!

2009-11-23T14:38:00.000-08:00

do you think your forces will win
when it's safer now

I met you in the middle
when I couldn't tell who was who
and which was which

I saw you laughing
and I couldn't help but smile

it's safe for now
we can meet in the middle

and when you could only smile
I found I could only smile

my savior has left for now
and I am waiting for his return

2009-09-05T15:13:00.000-07:00

no longer a seeker
but one who is found
eyes dismiss the horizon
two feet firmly on the ground

strangers are once again kind
smiles all around
no more fear of the other mind
yes is a holy sound

waiting patiently
speaking with trees
laugh if you will
you can hear giggles in the leaves

all this time, i always knew
but now that i've heard you say it, too
i know it's true

2009-09-05T15:10:00.000-07:00

with no mind i am able to connect
an open ear is a bucket
that collects

fallen drops
unnoticed thoughts

often not the sorts of things encountered

but in gnosis
there is a message
that we are vessels

mind is an ocean
and thoughts are trestles
collective bridge
universally traversed

there are maps with buried treasure
and songs in code with secret measures
hidden words and unknown pleasures
secrets waiting to be discovered
by those who seek, like desperate lovers

2009-09-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

vernacular of the cause
meant to speak with
car alarms
mint to see what
dairy farms

but all along

lemon drops, i was wrong
you were there
i was gone
i'm around
has it been long?

can't complain to the dusty rain
falls on your musty mane
must be the same
speaking of the shrine you became

2009-09-05T15:06:00.000-07:00

i saw a face
encased anyway
and tried to speak
for lack of sight
but caught in a lie
hardly disguised
eyes were trembling
but tender to the touch
saved grace when sighing

did not ask forgiveness
left with less
only kindness would come
over abundant, trembling eyes

2009-09-05T15:04:00.000-07:00

all this time seeing all
the other boys
live out all my dreams

everything's fine
life is but a dream

living vision
sight unseen

can never escape a mirror
always stopping to preen

and these words are forever definite
feelings not fleeting feel permanent

but how would you know unless you were told

2009-09-05T15:02:00.002-07:00

before your essence
a wish
so prescient
standing in the presence of god
confessing your heart's true desire
do you think you mumbled?
in that moment of revelation
was there a word fumbled?

before you were here
i saw you near a telephone
you picked up the receiver
and placed a finger on the number

2009-09-05T15:02:00.001-07:00

TO

OUR

DREAMS

OF
GNOSIS

2009-09-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

measured in candles
we slowed down
beheld vandals
we let them go

2009-09-05T15:00:00.000-07:00

wear dove shoes
on this cakewalk
in culmination of clouds
fall through the roof
on the case, superstitious
on a search for delicious
be not the product
(whom do you love?)

and would you ever stop?
this prison home
sands never could
without a shout
only the focus that caused you
incentive to bear fruit
ceased to be natural
dropped out

2009-09-05T14:59:00.001-07:00

YOU
CAN
WASTE
MY TIME

2009-09-05T14:56:00.000-07:00

nothing here seems to last
joy in an instant
sorrow in a flash
next moment, nothing's wrong
so quick you coulda missed it

because time flows, there it goes
no sense in wonderin'
where it came from
no way to see where it goes
time flows, dip your toes
and do not beware the currents
who couldn't mind you
having not a mind to mind you
only places to go to
anything to show you
who knows where you'll go to
(this same spot, by the river)

2009-09-05T14:55:00.001-07:00

darkest tangle
holy angle
geometry to liberate the sun
seen shining on
and spinning round
and giving up
or letting go
but
real
slow

words fit to mangle
any sentiment
or attempt to fable

2009-09-05T14:54:00.001-07:00

last i saw of the bay
it was foggy
a grey day
and all the different colored boxes
covering up the hills
all looked the same

2009-09-05T14:51:00.002-07:00

back in a hurry
i saw a flurry
wrestled to the ground
submit without a sound
and found hope in no resistance
exclusion that abounds
in search of right persistence
deserted, lost my crown
king of all that could be
sired prince of what was
born nostalgic
cries out for lost love
sips sweet milk of longing

hope for the throne is gone
and the king lives on

2009-09-05T14:51:00.001-07:00

no and yes
and neither
but nor
also but no
within and without
has and will become
now and forever
for thine
is the kingdom

2009-09-05T14:49:00.001-07:00

was this terminal
one more final...

but understood for all that was lacking
in articulation of sound

big waves
but the shore's never around

all this time

i fell out of the rough crowd
sleeping like dew on lighter boughs
but still, bowed out
before the curtain closed

2009-09-05T14:47:00.003-07:00

always been time
now's fine
no need for reason
or reason to rhyme
just flying, saturday
out to san francisco
for the first time
flying, not just
but to that city
maybe this time's the third

now's fine
always been time
and separate, or whatever
it's fine
we're together, this time

2009-09-05T14:47:00.001-07:00

BLACK

HALO

2009-09-05T14:46:00.000-07:00

we are the actors

2009-09-05T14:45:00.002-07:00

collapsed hierarchies

2009-09-05T14:45:00.001-07:00

ABUNDANCE

2009-09-05T14:43:00.001-07:00

always stayed the same
under moonlight
washed in lamplight
the lunar radiance
the orange glow
ghostly wan womb of ocean cast
and all softly burning incandescence
always stay the same

2009-09-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

and what if it were never revealed
but remained hidden
and what if we never spoke its name
but kept it alive

presence given by absence

would it wither
in deepest recesses
despite its inherent light

would it fill
the empty corridors
with its abundance

and can it be named
without loss

can it be contained

2009-08-31T14:19:00.000-07:00

seen through blinds
behind darkened leaves
the sky, several clouds
somewhere
the sun shines

2009-08-11T12:49:00.001-07:00

operative jitters,
the kind that keep a struggle down
nausea, nauseated
compounding fears, contracting
committed,
you're beautiful, I know
bereft of lessons, and lessened at that
but unseen, taken
obscene, jittered
caffeine, littered
sidewalks, walked out
to lessen

2009-07-10T18:33:00.000-07:00

Look, the ascendant crest

This time, it's really the best

I guess you do your thinking in the morning
Coffee drinking

Look, there's minutes left
I think it's great -
rather quit than be late

But wait a minute
When do you do your thinking?

I see you in the morning,
coffee drinking

I think it's great
really great
my dead cells die
I said, "The dead sea cries"

I think it's great

2009-07-10T18:30:00.000-07:00

where the weeping willows grow,
brick houses lined up
row upon row
and the picket fences are weary
and wear does show

in the cove,
the windows are boards
and elsewhere occupants
sit on porches
looking out
through weeping willow trees
past weeping willow leaves

2009-07-10T18:28:00.001-07:00

after all,
it's only ocean
as we kick up sand
running, hopeful
it hits harder
the waves and the water
I had you by the wrist
a handful
Mandibles and jaws
underwater, scurry claws
In the dark,
that's when you fall

but towards me now
stumble towards me now

the tide crashes
into surf

stumble towards me now

2009-07-10T18:26:00.000-07:00

But just think about this
You could stay
And reminisce
Or stumble lightly
And holler "This!"

Under Spanish moss
see, it's firefly time
Guilt from jars
but this time you're free

Looking out from the highest branch
I always wondered
Looking up at the fading twilight
I always knew
But in the darkness we whisper
because our secrets won't stay overnight

2009-07-10T18:24:00.000-07:00

great sensation
oh god can't stop feeling elation
but unmoved, i sat stationed
waiting to be waiting
for consummation
of a first forgotten kiss
all this time just
aching for bliss
all this time thinking
"I could live like this"

didn't stumble
rumble rolled down the grass
and then
did it again
and then I did it again
and I'd do it again

weight's song

2009-07-10T18:22:00.000-07:00

wade out, weight's gone

surprised now,
to find me gone

don't fade out,
there's nothing wrong

I'll say it now
but all along

I'll say it now,
the same old song
weight's gone

I'll say it now
but all along

spark never missing
miss always kissing
blessed, never guessing

I'll say it now
but all along

2009-07-10T18:20:00.001-07:00

finally tested
and struck out of bounds
undressed, yes
but stuck around
"let's just forget this"
unless invested
awake
tomorrow, out of town

written in the sunrise
hidden behind closed eyes
and then squinting, trying to memorize
for the long ride

began at sunrise
spilled out into the afternoon
spelled out in clouds, nighttime
mountainside

2009-07-10T18:18:00.000-07:00

never lost never found
underwater
ear to the ground
swam right through you
didn't make a sound
never lost you
never around
still I'm lost
never found
underwater
swam right through you

still, it's after
you're still around

underwater
ear to the ground

be still, breathe faster
don't make a sound

2009-07-10T18:17:00.000-07:00

found unarchived
unsigned
screaming "go away"
life's white elephant
magnificent
creatures
drifting in sanctuary
only audio
dissected
asked, "who are you?"
found a ribcage
and a wristwatch
queen of the sanctuary
absolved by purpose
willing prisoner of the maze
entered, to never return

2009-07-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

If they call to you
(come and break through)
Tell them something true
(Your desire is transparent,
I can see right through)

2009-07-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

No need to see
What is felt
No gone beyond
When I am here

I sent the ladder away
bid the gods good day
I decided to stay

2009-07-10T18:14:00.000-07:00

mothless myrmidons of melodrama
recite memoranda
of time spent under boardwalks
under verandas
under bleachers
walking in the sand

side by side
hand in hand

2009-07-10T18:12:00.000-07:00

who would never say
the difference is clear
making up excuses not to be near
was it fear
can this wait
I don't want to be
too late

let's get this straight

I know you never said
I could never imagine
wait a couple years
and we'll see what happens
but I can't wait
not while I'm still here
if it wasn't meant to be
let's just make that clear

I'll never know
you'll never say
I can't wait
it's not the same

I'll never know
it's not the same

2009-07-10T18:11:00.001-07:00

took for granted
ever supplanted
by transplanted foes
who knows, could be friends
but it all depends on thoughts
of, "who wins?"
or maybe just the wind
on one particular day
might be enough to sway
slay jealousies
and reverse prophecies
sit over coffee
and suss out a cease fire
get us out of this quagmire
rekindle some
friendly fire

2009-07-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

did not contain sulfites

2009-07-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

inherent in your speech is disbelief
weight like anchors under syllables
dropped like hints
but still, disputable

only out of sincerity
to remain flush
ruddiness compels you

I'll never know
could haunt you
the specter of missing words
ghost of the unspoken
hung like motes
(hidden clover)
came ever closer

2009-07-10T18:05:00.000-07:00

To those who diatribe on the rise of spies behind our eyes, I say:
Be not the product of fortunate gusts
Or of calamitous clouds
Drink not of running water
But sup thy thirst
on the blood of the divine -
thine own life

Feast not on the carrion
of bygone selves
But on the multiplying loaves
of possibility

2009-07-10T18:04:00.000-07:00

Beyond belief
Understood to be the chief
Drying off his cheeks
Before he goes to sleep

Loud or soft
The bombast perpetuates
And in our coded tongue
We celebrate

Intent to hallucinate
finds pleasure
In the degenerate
Would not hesitate
But arrives early all the same

2009-07-10T18:03:00.001-07:00

mantenga siempra

2009-07-10T18:01:00.000-07:00

It was therefore decided
On the eve of my departure
To depart from indignant aimlessness
And plot my own life's direction
(Is he serious?)
(?)

The sound of a flight I might be on
I might be wrong

Poet's uncertainty
of childish things
To seek security
or wander and sing

2009-07-10T17:59:00.001-07:00

and besides,
I left you uncertain, bedside
I tried not to wake you
Morning eyes closed, not closed

Might pretend I was a dilettante
Cast a spell all wrong
Might pretend
Ignore this elephant

Anne, you are an elephant

my summer vacation

2009-07-10T17:56:00.000-07:00

believe me when I tell you photographs never lie

it's hard to forget
hot marshmallows stuck on a stick
stuck to your lips
fingers smacked on and sucked
lapped up and licked

beset by bumblebees
gave up
got sick

2009-07-10T17:54:00.000-07:00

is essentially a choice between a non-living existence and an unflattering utterly supercilious disguise furthermore it must be stated that no entity capable of such delimiting gestures unless acted upon by wholly listless causation and more to the point:

2009-07-10T17:52:00.000-07:00

slender visitor
slip through tender
rip through
sans protest
fell on sighs,
on high
on heavy breast

coddled appendage
given moist kiss
not to idle
not to contest
only dusty feet
only calloused hands
without memory

slanted twilight
breath of early may
hung barely visible
in untraceable motes

2009-07-10T17:48:00.000-07:00

stay cool, stay hidden
through shadowed alleys that we've ridden
on bikes, at night
past signs that read "forbidden"
past houses that we lived in
beyond hope of what we could've been

stay cool, stay hidden
build a secret place
without a face to make

2009-07-10T17:46:00.000-07:00

until the nuance has been noted
do not refrain
from the emotive
do not color your tears all blue
discern between shade and hue

2009-07-10T17:44:00.001-07:00

drink up juicy berry drips
sip down mint tulips
and honey golden brown
summer's slender finger poke you on the nose
burn you bright
make it glow
behind your eyes
ladybug spots, inside your eyes

tonight not allowed not to sing too loud

2009-07-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON GOES ON

Woo hoo! There it goes!
All along this breezy road it blows between my toes
And all along this breezy road I'll sing but no one knows
I'll sing but no one knows
What no one knows
I'll sing what no one knows

2009-07-10T17:39:00.002-07:00

recalled the purpose of our automatic wandering
received a glimpse in the midst of a foggy dream
lost my path and ended up following

but all forgotten trails
reveal an endless destiny
manifested by choice
and all forgotten vision
collects in pools
that gather into streams
that gush into rivers
that swell into ocean
and sometimes rise into the sky
to flood

2009-07-10T17:39:00.001-07:00

LET IT OUT

AND

LET IT IN

2009-07-10T17:36:00.000-07:00

solvent inspection
first director's prime suspicion
early decisions of father's incentive
to deliver proper timetables
in conjunction with principled
aggravation
built monumental
singular structure
puncture, push, press, pull

pedigree, but of humble
banal

2009-07-10T17:34:00.000-07:00

the vernacular of blessing compels you forward
through saucered cups and ritual brunch
smacking politely on triangles of jam
and spotting, with squinted eyes,
a hushed murmur
and darted glance
poised to strike
with languid vigor the gaze's mocking descent
unusurped
left unfinished
a lineage
of saucered cups

2009-07-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

disturbed urban warrior
vision minus ulterior
your interior blush
and rush to rust
decaying trusses
crackling concrete
crumbling high rise
finish unhidden
deeds unbidden
release into stream
amorphous dream
made without mettle
untouched, unspoken

2009-07-10T17:28:00.000-07:00

I was a butterfly in your exegesis
I was as numerous as Genesis: 15
the stars are my descendants
I am the third temple
crumbling under Salome's veils
all illusion fell victim to redemption
in lilting sunsets,
in some sorrowful rose

on saturday,
under lunatic sun
flirting with wan womb of moon's ghostly glow
settling numb and proud
in drunken salt water

2009-07-10T17:26:00.000-07:00

take it all in
all past regrets
all sin
deny you were dying
describe without trying
the room where you were born
drift over hilltops
descend into hollows
and not the darkness which follows
the sunset below horizon's edge
the appearance of orion's legs
give hope to dawning giants
sparkle sweetly on sleeping lions
dim, in the morning, in their den

2009-07-10T17:25:00.000-07:00

that's not what I meant

2009-07-10T17:23:00.000-07:00

manifest the sails of progress
drifting,
an endless belief in sexual conflict
romantic derelict,
you erotic heretic
who believes in the body
who howls, "absolve me!"
lift, uplift the curtains
disperse all blessings

get dressed, it's time

A sentimental heart

2009-07-10T17:20:00.000-07:00

swallowing swarms of heavier storms
a friendly penchant to warn
lonesome lovers, forlorn
the cry of the torn
unheard in the morn
silent inside minds
and written between lines
secrets fit for spies
too cryptic to describe
but seen in subtle motions
of the hands and of the eyes
they duck and hide
while I
I swallow swarms of heavier storms

2009-07-10T17:19:00.001-07:00

but

i saw four eyes this time
and forgot
i looked away and felt embarrassed
because of distance

because you're always here

sparkling foxes of constellations bright

2009-07-10T17:15:00.000-07:00

fixing all the foxes
work it out inside
to jump to jupiter's height
my heaven
remind time in separation
freak out this space
saturn's rings
slender finger
surrender
surrender
unmasked you pretenders

moondust of the galaxies
eddies in the void
all gone beyond
gravity alludes to your flight
all gone

2009-07-10T17:14:00.000-07:00

i saw four eyes this time
i saw your possibility expand
i felt you in front of me

you were there

2009-07-10T17:12:00.002-07:00

ALL GUTS
EYES OPEN
SUPER BRAVE
ULTRA COOL
NEVER FLINCH
EASY BREATHS
LOUD SHOUTS
POWERFUL STUFF
SEA WORTHY LEGS
SPIDERY EYES
SPRAWLED OUT
SCRAWLED DOWN
CRAWLING ALL OVER

ALL THE OTHERS WILL BE THE CLOUDS THAT PART EACH MORNING WHEN WE WAKE UP THE WORLD

2009-07-10T17:12:00.001-07:00

and anyway it's true

so

2009-07-10T17:10:00.000-07:00

ok so another poem
you know who wrote em
just another tipsy scribbler
making marks to remember
loose structure
thoughts to puncture
sleepy minds, never mind
cushy couch on the corner
dirty sheets to adorn her
writhing on and on
some have come
some have gone
but, hey, it was fun
and never over, just begun

when then was now

2009-07-10T17:07:00.001-07:00

now it's time
always been fine
yeah, our reasons
yeah, our rhymes
without apology
a speechless fascination
just eyes meeting
no expectations
just time, fleeting
our moments of reverberation
heavenly sensations
pushing forward
mad howling winds
down the madison
under the magnolias
it's quiet
and under the I-55
we're silent
and the river is a changing constant
always never the same
we'll never be the same

i made it, i got it

2009-03-23T22:26:00.001-07:00

i made pizza
i made plans
i made beds in cities
i never slept
i made time
i made drawings
to pass the time
i made tracks
i made noise
i made shapes
staring out the window

i got lost
i got left
i got taken
i got rest
i got coffee
i got to sleep
i got up early
i got dropped off
i got to see you
i got drunk
i got attached
i got nervous
i got away
i got nothing
but the clothes in my bag

the hardest part is yet to come

2009-02-21T12:49:00.001-08:00

Now leaving Pictorialism, now entering, approaching/appropriating Pop Art, apparently. An aesthetic arrived at sideways, and from behind, approaching from an historical vector, the foundational approach, I suppose: starting at the beginning and progressing, in upward steps, towards the pinnacle, which is always one step ahead, so that someday, hopefully, I will always be in the present. The strategy now appears to be clear, which may require subversion, or perhaps a strategy of undermining, in order to find some new direction, upwards maybe but diagonal, or even parallel, the direction or shape not really important but just the surprise at what is produced with each generative step, each action also a possibility, so that stepping is of itself the purpose for stepping, an action is an action, perfect equal relationship, self-reflexive, self-affirming motion: yes, I am stepping. I stepped from Pictorialism into Modernism and am currently stepping through Modernism into Pop Art, and the beginnings of an 80's Postmodernism have already emerged, as well as an interest in work dealing with questions of medium and media, so that I have become of multiple eras, and am seeking to connect them all, to give depth to each project by drawing them from a basic proposition outside of themselves, an idea in abstract, an axiom which gives form to the steps: Life is energy. Life is the ability to move, in any small increment, however passively, as well, so that a child in a coma at least breathes, has a heart that beats, however softly, and that is energy, and that is life, and a leaf, too, falling to the ground, blown across concrete by wind, has energy, too, and is life, and surely the sparks of a fire, and surely the restless ocean, surely the stars that shine, and even the bedrock of the earth shifts, life, which is energy.

Development, Inevitably

2009-02-03T11:10:00.000-08:00

TITLE:
Untitled [No possession, no expectations]

GENRE:
Experimental Youth Romance

LOGLINE:
Forget the influence, I was under you.

SYNOPSIS:
Is certainty desirable? Is permanence ideal? I'm a rolling stone, I'm gathering moss. I wander the country, I won't leave the house. Let's get out of here, just stay with me. But contradictions aren't surprising; I'm not impressed by those commas. I'm faking a stance of disappointment, because it's expected. You got semi-colons, you 're connected. Each fully fleshed idea connecting one to the next, by punctuated phrases, by alliterative consonants, continually concerned with the crushes of others, collected. Cute. Ace in the pocket, high above your head, the miasma of denial and inaction, hiding under a hoodie, in the corner with your criticism. Did you catch all that? Did it fall through your fingers, weightless, lacking content? Each rain drop holds a secret - drink it in, toxic as honesty.

SUPPORTING VISUAL MATERIALS:
(to be updated)

Old Enough to Care

2009-02-01T12:50:00.000-08:00

Teen Drama

She said I wouldn't be caught dead
She said let's go to my place instead
I looked at the books she read
I didn't hear a word she said

Try standing still
Try being real

She didn't say a word
As I turned out the light
She didn't say a word
And it didn't feel right

Try standing still
Try being real

just a second more

2008-12-31T08:54:00.000-08:00

Mouth won't make the sounds right, nothing sounds right, lips only sure of themselves in silent speech, and the translations of touch, which may circumvent subtext, cut down on the confusion, speak directly to desires, and while the festival committee discussed deities, I thought "We just need to talk" >>

The circles are silly, the cycles perpetuated under spherical moon, circular sun, with hands held tight, holding absurdly to each other as if gravity might give up and we be released towards the circles we worship - the son, the sun, the chosen ones, the prophets, the martyrs, the saints, the gods, the goddesses, the demi-gods, the krishnas and the shivas, the buddhas and the brahmin, anubis and toph, old jesus and adam and even moses and abraham, good allah and mohammad, thor in valhalla, god in his heaven, all is right with the world. But what did Jesus say - what did he tell you in that dusty old book? He said, "For indeed, the kingdom of God is within you." Oh-oh yeah? You m-mean God ain't a jolly old robe sittin' on a throne of clouds way up where we don't know, judging and observing, determining right and wrong? No sir, and there ain't no Neptune in the sea, ain't no dragons in those caves, ain't no fairies in that forest, ain't no aliens in your brain, ain't no dimensions unfolding from your fingertips. (psst: The kingdom of God is within you.) Hey, hey! God is in me! I am God!

I don't mean to spoil the fun. I don't mean to bust up your magic, halt your rituals, snuff out your candles, fan out your incense, keep you from kneeling, but quit lookin' up at that cross. I don't know how many times Huey Newton has got to tell y'all folks, but "Heroes ain't nothin' but sandwiches." That includes all that dead ancient dust you chase after, includes all those fairy tale figures conjured beneath the stars, before we knew one of those was Mars, another Venus, planetary gods in the heavens, passive masses subject to gravity.

You've got to
Open up your, open up your, open up your
Throat

And let time go
Let them go

kids will be skeletons

2008-12-26T21:23:00.000-08:00

kids will be skeletons someday so it's a sin to lie still, right? but you must, at least once, under a satellite or a star, drifting through the sky, on shaky steel, riveted and solid, above an incomprehensible fluidity, the mighty mississippi's endless tide, black sky dissolving in light pollution, behind an endless stream of cars, below, the river less roars, more pours, from the north, southward, to new orleans and beyond, to become a gulf, becoming an ocean, felt ourselves becoming as we lie still on rickety steel, rusty beams pristinely vintage, acid worn, dissolving like the sky, so that every footfall is a victory, every step a challenge to the structure, and when the bridge does not collapse you feel relieved, and you save up all your breaths because you never know which one might be your last, so that when you lie still under the stars on a rickety bridge above a river, against a backdrop of cars, you'll be alive, and not know why, and each time you remember, you'll sigh, sending your breaths downriver, away from the pain of knowing, the breath inward which rejoices, the breath outward which cries out, the breath inward which receives, the breath outward which projects, your breath, a whisper floating downriver, amongst the eddies and whirlpools, turning the river over backwards in rivulets, seen from above like strands of hair washed white in the sink, and the foam is thousands of celebratory bubbles cheering on the river's progress, intoxicated by the chemical contents of the water, detritus of our consumptive desires, and the shore is my hands caressing your liquid skin endlessly, all at once. lie still and feel the brick platform beneath rumble, watch upside down the lights shine upward on the steel above you, passing in their own time, set to the rhythm of the train, hopelessly pulled forward over the tracks by locomotion, a daze in the headlights of the train, a crazed look in the eye of every lamp lit down the caboose, and there's no one watching but you, as your lover hides her head in your chest. she's not scared, she's just unimpressed. or it's irrelevant to what's going on in that chest, the lungs expanding and collapsing with each breath, rejoice, reject, as the heart pumps, thumps, stumps the logical mind with each beat, steady, increasing rhythm, therefore hypnotism, therefore movement, and the stillness is broken, and you move with the stars, falling endlessly, clutched tight to each other through space; you flow with the river, float swiftly just along the surface and succumb to the intoxication of contrasting borders, above and below, when a loss of breath is, of course, death, and your arms flail and you scream, or pout, but bite your lips to keep from crying out, clutch tighter in the fall through space, hold tighter hurdled along straight, like the train, illuminating the night, bright as you bounce along, crazed and dumb, to have finally left all doubt behind, to be leaving in every moment, fleeing as you move forward, the vision always new, the perspective always changing, you look above, to the stars, you look below to the river, behind you the cars, and before you know it, the train, and you bury your head in your lover's chest, to hear their heart defy the roar, dare it to beat still more, beg it to be bold, implore the one you hold, as you sigh, sigh, sigh rivulets in the sky, galaxies riveted to night by stars, which shine, from this distance both steely and divine, at least sure of their place, a part of a structure, too large to comprehend, and you lie still on the steel structure of which you are not sure, holding tightly onto a person, people being of stuff which is anything but sure, but still you clutch, and trust, with pure naive trust, childlike logic which keeps you clutching onto this chest stuffed full of uncertainty, nothing but probability all around you, keeping you from the improbable river, bubbling with a consumptive lust, which you sigh against, breath inward, breath out, quicker as you clutch, breath inward, breath out, because kids will be skeletons some day, but that day for damn ain't sure today.

sounds, furthermore

2008-12-21T09:52:00.000-08:00

The noise I've made the most often recently sounds like a groan and a sigh at the same time, and is meant to communicate a weight I can't possibly describe in the space of normal conversation. I make the noise because the question which prompts the noise is usually "How have you been?", which I don't take as an invitation to attempt to fully describe my weight, because I imagine describing the weight to be a lengthy process, one that might not have an end, so I make a noise that sounds like a groan and a sigh at the same time, by which I mean to communicate an inability to describe concisely "how I have been doing". Visually, it might look like this: "..." My eyes look toward a distant corner, away from the person I'm talking to, and then I return with a smile, as if to say "don't worry about it" or "what are you gonna do?" Everyone has problems.

kitsch, personal and otherwise

2008-12-20T17:13:00.000-08:00

I'm not wanting for words, but my open mouth suggests otherwise as I try to produce a sound that represents my thoughts, or my will, a sound that will project my desire and make it real, or at least known, and, naively I hope, make it true. But the electric storm of cranial activity never coalesces into a lighting bolt, so no there is no thunder to announce its creation, the connection made between heaven and earth, briefly, borne of passive forces, the illusion of a divine will, just static on a grander scale, and when the storm which is the mind is called upon to strike (like we imagine the heavenly father choosing his lightning bolts from a sheath and setting his mark with jagged golden arrow clutched between thumb and forefinger, eyes set upon his target, sure) it falters, and dissipates. Because first, our words are trapped in semantic towers, on the top floor, peering out over the landscape which steadily grows more miniature as the tower is built taller, further away from the earth, each stone between our words and the earth we walk upon (searching for words within our reach, finding all of them now in towers too tall to scale), each brick that sends our words further skyward is kitsch, which represent the multitude of meanings and connotations each word stands upon. As our words grow steadily upward, away from us, they also become more impossibly separated from our other words, which once mingled freely with each other, but now squint at each other from long distances, forgetting every day more details of the other words, what they were once like, and every day discovering more of the kitsch of the other words, finding similar bricks placed on their own tower, and the kitsch becomes more connected than the words, and now you can see how the trap is tripled, because our words are not only too far above us, but also beyond each other, and at the same time, connected by the very thing that keeps them separate from us, and from each other. Second, there is nothing, really, we have to do, but we cannot accept this, like other animals, so we playact our whole lives, each of us creating not only our own script, but also simultaneously contributing to the scripts of each other, and we are, of course, each the star of our own script. When we try to say something true, we can't, because the only truth is that there is nothing to do, which sounds like this: ______.

fresh phoenix

2008-12-19T21:30:00.000-08:00

let's be honest, i never knew what i was doing to begin with. and now that i know sometimes, i'm suspicious, and i wonder if i really know, or if i just invent these fables and act out my own dramas. but how cynical, how completely jaded is that? no, i'm feeling, definitely, have to be, all this feeling, all these feelings, or why would I be holding a crisp piece of burnt pita bread, half-heartedly dipped in hummus, mouth agape and eyes exhausted, sagging with defeat, with acceptance of a great loss, an intense disconnection, red, swollen pouches of flesh surrounding my eyes, red, splintering veins pulsating monotonously, continuously and pupils very still, iris always ready to engulf the black, for the color to overtake the void, the light too intense, the truth too blinding, and the eyes squint, the mouth sags, the bottom lip quivers, terrified child, at the horrible sight of the eyes, the terrible, depraved weakness of their shock, the emptiness of the eyeballs' gaze, while the upper lip is anchored above, unable to fall completely under gravity's spell, to give in as eyelids do, and the bottom lip rises to cower below the upper, while the corners flee towards the feet, and the too toasted piece of pita bread has been in my hand and the hummus is still there and the commercials on the television never end. I left the pita bread in the oven too long because I was distracted. I was distracted by a call. I've just been distracted. I've just been distracting myself. I'm just creating these distractions.

Interview by Taylor Martin

2008-12-16T19:00:00.001-08:00

So Taylor Martin asked some people some questions and I was one of those people. I thought it might be illuminating to anyone who is curious as to how I might feel about art and image making.

1. how do you think the process by which an image is made factors into how it is interpreted? do you think an image is just an image, or is the process by which it is made integral to how you perceive it?

of course an image is not just an image! art is communication, and everything that goes into creating that communication is a part of the communication as well. when you speak, your knowledge, perspective, preconceptions, experiences, prejudices, preferences, world-view, and ideals are all a part of how, why, and what you speak. art is no different! everything that goes into the creation of art is a material, including yourself, so any part of the work materially should be considered a part of the communication, and the materials or processes used to create that work should inform the communication.

but, ahhhh, also, thinking about 'the print' - it's sort of, for me, an abstraction, and i'm able to look at the image without thinking about 'the print' or, rather, the paper that the image is printed on. also, painting, you know, the paint in all the older stuff is all sort of irrelevant, but then, you know, pollock and them came along and started making stuff about painting, so... i mean, they got it, but then where do you go from there? soo i still think it depends on what you're trying to communicate, but maybe materials aren't always so important? if you're making work about a material, the material directly informs the work, but if you're making say, a documentary about homeless kids, or something, you're not necessarily going to use, like, body parts of homeless kids. you could use maybe their clothes? i don't know, but in that case, i think the point -is- the image, because the point of documentary work is to --show--, to present a 'document' of a reality. but, -how- you took those photographs could be important: did you live with them and run around with them and immerse yourself, or did you just pop up out of nowhere trying to be objective? i think that's important, and i think it's something you can tell in the images, or maybe should be able to.

2. do you think there is such a thing as a universal visual language? meaning, do you think there are certain visual languages that have been established by culture that have the potential to communicate to a wide audience? think about languages that could have potentially been established by painting, the invention of photography, or by film.

yes, definitely. there's all sorts of ways of communicating! every sort of interaction involves some level of communication, including the interaction between a viewer and a work of art. the art, created by an artist, is meant to communicate an idea, so without using words, the artist uses visual language to communicate. the birth of art was communication, cave paintings meant to convey meaning. since then, the language has been built on and expanded upon, and like our written and spoken language, there are cliches along with overused phrases, catchphrases, fad sorts of phrases, phrases that come in phases, slang, counterculture language, feminist language, gendered language, etc. etc. the same sorts of patterns that we find in spoken language can easily be found in visual language, as well as musical language. there's all sorts of languages we've invented, and they all inform each other, since they are all just methods of communication.

3. do you think a single image or a group of still images has the potential to carry narrative?

absolutely. there's no doubt as to the ability of people to create narrative out of absolutely anything, because there's something about us that craves a good story. history is a great big old story and we're livin' it, and since we've been raised on stories, we expect our lives to be stories, and we expect everything in life to sort of fall into these narratives that we've been told for years and years, right on back through dickens, to shakespeare, way on back to old man homer and those greeks, we've been telling ourselves stories since the dawn of man, and makin' stuff up like gods that are creating us! most of us believe some sort of story that involves someone else sort of making a story out of us! it's crazy! so, yes, an image or a group of images can certainly carry a narrative - as can a crumpled cigarette stub lying on the pavement, or a sickly neon light glowing ghastly orange on into the ashy night, or a car left for sale on the side of the road, forlorn like a highway hitchhiker.

4. how do you think that a society saturated by images has affected the way we perceive images?

the language just gets more and more complex, and we come to a point where it's really, really hard to actually 'see' because we're so overwhelmed with all the looking, and when you open your eyes it's hard not to see images, just picture postcards of places and moments, like a sunset in florida, or the birth of your first child, or a grandmother lying peacefully in a hospital bed, exhausted, scared, confused, perplexed, hurt, wronged sorts of tears trailing down your cheeks...

and life isn't able to be lived without documentation! the digital camera has become another intermediary, with folks photographing absolutely everything in the same sort of way, the same poses, the same smiles, the same happiness for posterity, because we don't photograph misery, we want to communicate eternal happiness from the walls of our living rooms, and from the profiles of our online identities, so that we're forever frozen in a moment in which we're happy to be around others, and they are happy to be near us, when the next moment outside of the frame is perhaps an awkward scattering, but at the very least a separation, while in photo albums we can live from one happy moment to the next, jumping past all the slower seconds spent lying in bed, watching the sun go down behind dusty blinds, past the alarm going off and the shower too cold, the waiting for a telephone call and driving on endless highways, and, looking at the stop-motion glee of the framed life, we feel nostalgic, and on some level jealous of this fabrication, so that the nostalgia is twinged with a prick of sadness, because loneliness can never really be banished.

5. do you have any general theories you abide by when making or looking at images? perhaps your own art theory?

well, i believe that art is communication, plain and simple, so i think about the basic stuff - how, why, what is this person communicating? to whom? and i try to answer those questions in varying degrees of specificity and value. for example, the 'to whom' may not be important to me, or it may be very general (i.e. anyone/everyone), but usually the why and what are pretty important, and the how.

Everytime I Think Of You

2008-12-16T18:41:00.000-08:00

Curling up my heartstrings, twangy and lush, a hushed tone that reverberates up my neck, up my frets, causing me to, ring in and out of you, ring in all the wrangling feelings, the rooftop shingling, shining, jingling in the moonlight, musical dancing sparkles like a slanted starscape, black mirror of the night we ride on, legs astride, hanging on either side, and our hands in front of us, held and staring straight into each others eyes, held in gaze or gazes, seconds or minutes, a window reflected through clear skies of blue and bright white, into some interior region, a silence, a darkness we see and shy away from, hide our faces from, because it is familiar, but too private, too personal, the weight of pride and ego and self all shrouded in a dark black cloud or a small, hard marble, falling through the open skies, through the free air, through the contentment of white clouds, the nothingness of wooooooooosh, out of control, forever, until it decides to disappear entirely, of its own volition, no longer slave to gravity and time, the endless fall, but return to the nothing which always was, always will be, not a space, subject to no physical laws, but a state, or less, consisting of a choice, 1 or 0, nothing more, but the zero shrinks itself into inversion, pouring out of a point behind or under, beside or reflected, bisected and interconnected to all other points, rings and rings and rings around the sun, all at the same time, so that's out, too, all candles, as well, flames of any sort, will not do, their constant change is subject to all manner of disturbances too vague to mention, gust of wind smokes out and calls your attention, to open window, a cold night, a chill and a shiver, your legs surely quiver and you recall you left the window open, how could you forget, on a night like this, how could you forget, and in your heart you know you forgot because a moment ago your mind flew out the window and left you behind, just let itself out, because you had nothing for it to do, no purpose for its pondering, and it decided it was probably better off elsewhere, and off it went. And so you shiver.

I'll Come Around

2008-12-15T22:06:00.000-08:00

Anxiety today like the coffee shop days, sipping aloud, for warmth in the cold surround, sounds of streetlamps sighing compressed by the glass, drowned out by James brown on the jukebox, good god, teasing quarters out of pockets for TLC and R. Kelley, Al Green and Elvis, and the air smells honey brown. We walk briskly in from the car, and I hold the first door open while you wait holding the second, and we both walk in together, sit side by side in the booth together, I smile I shake your shivers off your shoulders.

We grew up in diners, publicly private, between orders of coffee and fried apple pie. I sussed out myself over hashbrowns and scrambled eggs, white toast golden glowing yellow with butter, dripping, and I associate wondering with maple syrup in small glass pitcher, etched with a woodland pattern, perhaps dutch.

And some months later we sat across from each other and you stopped using cream.

I don't really go to diners much anymore. For a while it was too smoky, and now I can't stand the grease. It never was the food that brought me there, but now it seems to be the reason I stay away. But, you've also been gone, and I'm not so encumbered with searching these days; I stroll with curious interest through the forest, but I no longer feel so lost, so terrified of the shadier parts - I sit for hours in the wilder patches some afternoons and notice sun broken into soft circles by small yellow leaves, their branches dissecting the sky, pulling apart clouds into tufts of white cotton candy stretched out in strands across the atmosphere, and I know below is a world I will never know, under the leaves, inside the dirt, across the what must seem endless horizon encompassing the shadow under my feet there are centuries of history, and I will only know it for an afternoon, a few hours before class, and I'll trample off to unknown worlds several feet at a time, beyond the imagination of the shadow organisms, spoken of in hushed awe, for millenia.

covered

2008-10-25T23:27:00.000-07:00

wild wild wild through the parking lot, serenading the movie goers with chants and out of tune pluckings, mouths open wide under paper-mache masks, a yellow dot of watercolor my only disguise as i sat on the curb and sang into the fluorescence, as we bounded phosphorescent across the pavement, the incandescent glow burning with positive ions, several stares and smiling faces, a boy picked up my guitar and swiveled elvis hips for cheers and cell phone photographs. the smiles were pure or impugning, but i couldn't stop to notice as i locked eyes with a masked man and sang about our situation, proclaimed the beauty of loitering citation, we dreamed of days without laws and probation, dancing sober around the security guard, catching passer-byes off theirs, brake lights and turning heads, turning ever away from the path, distracted because they lack purpose, and my eyes shut tight because it's just too much this time, all my energy given at once, for everyone, unselfishly, unselfconscious, yes, yes, yeses all around, you, too, please!

i sat drinking taro bubble tea, sitting with a feeling like giving a gift gladly received, except i couldn't be sure how my gift was received, but i wasn't too concerned; i only felt glad to have given.

I Know A Place

2008-06-23T12:33:00.000-07:00

Bound over the belly of a slowly breathing beast, a warm smile which refuses to be seen, but is felt, the subtlest shades of monochromatic night unpunctured by orange stars or hazy searchlights, only trembling white pinpricks placed with delicate precision on the night's great backdrop, black and blue, the snap of grass and dry twigs (or a thrown rock), shaken branches and shaking bones, rattling for the uninvited ones. A bit of fox-red-orange burst into the grass, uncaught by the camera's flash, unseen by the other eyes, but I knew the fella must belong to those ghostly loiterers, leaned against the ashen trunks of secret keeping trees. The dirt ahead displaying elongated limbs, contorted torsoes and tiny heads, suggesting spotlights behind and, yes, in the corner of my eyes comes a glow which must be all light, but a turned head recieves no blindness, only solemn hill, quiet fields and stoic ocean; where there could be heaven - all trumpeting angels and holy choir - there is only a stillness, a quiet grace of infinite acceptance which recieves God's envy, for its mystery lays beyond mystery, love beyond begotten, a nothing capable of everything only humming, only tearing in half a few leaves of grass, only popping knuckles, chewing the interior cheek or biting a lip, scratching scalp, pulling chin, yawning now and then, only - breathing. Such humble potential, content to contain and be contained, to have all strings tied and be idle.

- Los Angeles

Did You Stay Up All Night

2008-06-20T12:24:00.000-07:00

Discussing sanddollars, ocean's true currency dropped in a well by divinity everlasting or rehappening ----> re: happenings, social events or great wellspring of creativity Kaprows and Kleins and maybe this time they'll know, no secret, oh no, just acceptance bereft of repentance the return of heavy boots re: a missing miss but right now, this, right now contains stop and start - jellyfish, falling apart, Hawaiian islands contained on a beach towel, hundreds of buckets filled and unfilled, submitting to the pull, under, all the sunglasses, plastic buckets, blankets of every color, umbrellas and shovels, all the baskets and towels, sunscreen and magazines, styrofoam coolers and lunch meat, straw hats and elastic waist band of swimsuit, the detritus of division from sand, sky, water is under, swallowed whole under the surface to clear the shore - tabla rasa. So footprints receded and shouts all conceded, and the sunburns sulked, defeated. Seagulls rejoice, oceanic groan, a bluesy plodding that must mean "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!". Little bursts of wind scatterdly swirling a school of sand cyclonic through the air, purple swollen with sunset, a fiery orange melting blue into milky fuscia, the lighter hues a bit of "farewell", the soon to be night rubs its eyes to yawn a feeble "hello". Finally, open eyed crescent.

- Los Angeles

Wake Up And You Forget

2008-06-19T12:18:00.000-07:00

Eyes open to hills. Sun cascading down the steep grade transformed by trees into shadows along the way. Sun staring straight down at me, back burned being pushed ever forward. Sun, falling behind as the miles pass away, dying always abandoned and forgotten, unburied - every mile must often die, their passing marked with numerical epitaph, recording no birth, only infinite death. Sun taming clouds, wrangling sky, taking time, tiredly awaiting sleep this side of the horizon as a twin sun rises above the other. Soon these hills will become Los Angeles and time will seem an impossible thing as geography gives up and all barriers concede, a crumbling under a whim, a wind that blew letters westward. In the corner of my eye, the east reaches out a cool hand, waits for me to turn around. "Just a moment", I say as the sun finally rests its emptied self onto blanket of water. Empties orange thoughts yellow sparkling onto sumblime surface so that finally, without hope for another, this day may end, given wholly without malice or regret to a night which may never end. If the moon, in her mercy, allows, we will awaken someday with the sun, and there will be hills again.

- Los Angeles

This Is The Right Time

2008-06-18T12:06:00.000-07:00

Screaming joy of Lake Azula, blue white burst of towel, beach ball umbrella burden of the sun, absurd delineation of children splashing, laughing, but only here - the rest unknowable depths. And so the tiny hands go on plumbing the same sandy shore, once again told by megaphone voice that here is where you be and there is where you aren't, risk is diminished as excitement eviscerated - all is well: God's in his heaven, children within the ropes. And not a bit of unbridled rock jumping. But the wind knows, and the sand knows, and the toes know, dragging now along the invisible algae, light broken into beams which reach in all places to a watery center, a point which is all places. The plastic goes on floating, water goes on flowing, the wind, again, will be blowing - mother's loving touch to the father sun's scorched concern. They all say "of course"; few breathe "thank you". Lotion, more separation, nature area: this way, and the concrete meets the sand meets the grass and feels a distant kinship, as the bottoms of feet bounce along the coal-hot beach, begging for cool relief of stream fed bath, the confusion of apart and within, absorption and exception. Held breath, closed eyes, open arms, spread legs, sweat no longer sweat, and, finally, womb drone quieting, all in all and all and all, one drop.

- Berkley

We Start Again

2008-06-16T22:58:00.000-07:00

Passed Haight, sidewalk heights, past light, caffeine to write, right, but just a chair to sit, legs in a fit, fit to walk, slow, and feel, slow, the ache of several miles, inches on a map I imagined us missing, all these walks (you were there, sometimes), the penny made heart, incomplete for empty pockets. In a Southern way, I wander, like magnolias stretching branches out in open arm welcome, vacantly shredding leaves to scatter in the breeze, confetti everywhere. Shivering Spring sticks around incensing Summer, which will cry out in July, somewhen a sunshower. Deliriously missed friends and bliss of Overton in the sun, smaller maybe but snug - home, a scarf plucked from a closet of junk, spots on the mattress from Aster's disasters, unsipped coffee in the stolen mugs, the dust, everywhere, and the leaning chair, feet lazy upon the ledge, an apple in hand and the sky specifically Memphis - I didn't know I could miss it, hung with asthma, miasma of memory and, miss - oh you above all of this.

- San Fransisco

Now That's All I Can Do

2008-06-16T22:51:00.000-07:00

Boogaloos in the Mission district - great value 99 cents birds, pigeons flying through busted marquee, New Mission, murals, why is he smiling (?): chiropractic it really works imported Italian lesbian owl jackets all she could see get over it bites, bites, bites last night basement every night feet movin' hermits in New York, eye contact, contact, dry contacts waking up Sunday bright - Saturday who? who? what? morning after questions over first cup in Berkley the paint on grass, painted grass, last night's diner, she was there, on your cheek, everywhere god was a spectacle, wait, wait, wait, more raspberry vodka and he knew, giggling as I shouted louder, shouted out loud names forgotten from electronic beat - Bonnie, Kathleen, boy in the v-neck, the cheese slices, do you want some? fajita and coffee something like whiskey confusion on Ocean - Valencia too early: artist or CIA? Conclusions on the train inconclusive, situation or circumstance, varying ethic, vague compass, laughing, alright "alright?" this time, right I'm right, stealing pillows, stealing looks, I'll never know but pretend or ask questions while the cellular signals keep us connected, I mean: close, but, no, I never left, not yet, coming back to sit still, still... Mason Jennings knows.

- San Fransisco

A Sound That We

2008-06-16T00:44:00.000-07:00

Time came for then golden kids to cry, boohoo, end of sunset cracked doors and warm mother light poured over mac and cheese tables, small swollen wooden fences humid mumblings the play-doh floors kitchen flour and mosquitoes the baseballs rest for a moment, concerned with hot dog or popcorn, jolly rancher stuck to the side of your mouth and then, quietly the organ begins. In the smallish stands we sucked on cokes pulling at candy straws and knowing we'd go on forever, on running from junk yard dogs and the bigger boys, plopped on a carpet and the air conditioner crankin' snowflakes, eternal drip of damp towels over the baked sidewalks, indian feet all canyons and caves as the gravel goes on, make way for the bumblebees caught in plastic bags, pulled apart and pursued, wet mist of spray bottles and flashlights, always, always. Stuffed socks full of the glow and went on harassing doorsteps when the air cooled, spinning purple bat filled sky silhouette trees dizzy over the front lawn, cardboard stained green and in the snow, garbage pail tops or just mittens thrown to the wind. Sandy tie-dye in the photograph with glasses, a peace sign, yes, and we sat by the cannons. All hearts full of fear but she flirted all the same, and the crescent moon glittered on hidden in a drawer, except when held up to the real thing by window, window view of your window, wondering about the real thing. Dreaming, mumbling, I would ask you - "... could you just - roll over? Roll over my way."

- San Fransisco

After The Swimming Pool

2008-06-14T19:48:00.000-07:00

Dirty dirt on the wrestled leaves of spring bobbing flowers plucked and propped on springs all the joy of wrinkled jeans cut holes on rusty fence tops, popsicle places eyes are tongues to taste with, arise, minds running in place with horizons bristling to chase cops policing the east wings of birds bustling with bee stings a spider swimming in ice cream brimming with cider the finer hours of liars such cut knees and briers stuck to feet and blown tires no defeat for the calloused all bombast and ballast, bastioned arms cast and crowded in monkey bar jails and the containment of mail, of post-cards that fail to teach dandelions to sail, Orion's last tale of a flood without hail, the lion's frail tail, taped on and sutured to ensure a bright future - the light, tonight, coniferous, unplanned, a swim out to sea, lunar crescent, I ran, a spot on the grass between freckles and shade, a spot on the steps, concrete could stay, harmonica twang and the solitude of barbecues, your lemonade hair, sun drying underwear - bits of lake in the sand a sparkling touch of the hands, can you remember falls through musty halls, grandmother's past winter, you called, you saw, I thought, when the willow waited and all cries abated - the sky indicated not rain but something similar: a shower or some Eskimo variation, a chance for elation a blanket vacation.

Possessed, possession - protection.

Until June

2008-06-14T19:18:00.000-07:00

Something left as I sat on the 15 to Thurman. While crossing the river, it squirmed out the seat and spilled out the doors, dropped several stories into the Willamette. The departure began as a slow leak, invisible, vague bits drifting into the magic hour. Against a chain link fence, before the ivy bricks, after the buzzing stairs, a yellow wall waned against a weakening blue sky. In the violet gradations passed an nonviolent sensation, an unfelt gust, indiscernible wave. When the street lamps yawned on, gradually became all at once. Walls went up while the ground fell out. And now this void is impenetrable. Except this brisk walk past the black coat, the "stay safe" from the rough one - or was it "keep peace"? Rattling doors, back on the glass. I tried to hear the pain joy of Millennium park in the Portland shade. These days are a midnight and tomorrow could be today - while waiting we talked of stopping time with shutter speeds, neutral density filters cutting down the daylight. Dawn will come someday soon, gradually a glow kissing the sunward leaves and all at once a thrown curtain blanketing the horizon. In the early hours, shadows become sharp to divide the waking from the sleeping. Eyes blink in time to the flapping wings of morning birds, becoming accustomed to the coming day after a night which passed gradually, and then all at once.

- Portland

Show Some Mercy Today

2008-06-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

Yellowing swath, rusting grass punctuated by parched palms, antiqued bovines accustomed to the Cascade haze, rough branches blooming wispy antennae, sunflower fields, the colors of a distant past passed over by suicidal pilots spreading death to give life, neat rows bearing - ? Electric wires and fencing, stained beams of bruised wood, the sterile scent of air conditioning. Blown bits of tire rubber on the highway. Cramped legs, yawning endlessly past Yolo county line, this morning my first mountain - head held white-faced above clouds. The night was undulating exchange of sky and hill, rolling black wave, positive and negative equal so the road flipped and we rode upside down to San Fransisco, refusing gravity to observe the scattered lite-brite bulbs of sleepy mountain towns - or were those stars? Rain starved creek bed, blackbird insomniac wandering, afraid to rest ahead where there's walls enough for all. Scorched and sun-weary, skyscrapers on the horizon. Drops enough for each blade of grass, thirst enough to see miles past. Indicating a soft shoulder, sensitive roadways bid caution to the heavy lids - red balloon announcement overhead. Slow and prepare to stop - in every city, skeletons reaching toward the sky, exposed steel shivering. Spiderweb of railways and dusted tire tracks leading anywhere, beginning

- Sacramento

More Be Done

2008-06-12T14:45:00.000-07:00

The nickel clowns stared down from the arcade windows, beckoning. For several miles and several rolls of film my double socked feet tramped the littered streets, looking for patterns of color and something to eat. The Pearl district was a fragile white orb, kept polished hourly, tryin' to keep it shining while the rest just rested, unashamed of the grit and grime, not wanting to waste time with appearance. The phone kept on ringing and I kept on singing to all my friends across the country, all those faces I left in cities too far for buses at the moment, wishing I could finally say all the stuff graffiti'd to the top of my skull, sleeves tugged to two coasts, collar pulled straight north and all the while socks sagging toward the south. Staring into a fire, hoping this energy don't consume the way a fire must, watching the grass catch a bit and smolder to ash, dulling, dulling the senses till the whiskey wakes the stomach up, sends us to the Florida Room for fried avacado and a bracelet a bit too small. I told her I was joking. I told her, "I just feel sort of nauseated." And all I can hear is the rattle of the train rolling stories above my head, the light coming down a tunnel and a howl. Neil Diamond sings, she sings hallelujah. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shoes tied and staring at a crayon map of Yellowstone, looking for a place to be.

- Portland

My Roots

2008-06-10T12:39:00.000-07:00

Great grey clouds allow a single, slender white finger to carress the river which reflects the blank expanse with unyielding acceptance, recieves the gentle touch with open eyed grace; the valley forest pauses a moment, shyly turns eyes to corners and gives unbroken gaze and inward sigh as the cloud kisses the water. In their sleepy hours the river and forest are sister and brother, firefly night lights casting glow over the valley as they lay awake, huddled close to one another, listening to the transistor radio static of cicadas, sometimes picking up the song of owls or frogs, presently tuned to the howling of wolves, ears pricked for the cry of bats. Snuggled close, brother forest feels an emptiness fade into the sky, a longing resolved into purpose - where the grass and lillies touch is the warm center of all things. Each waning light, each inevitable morning, forest forgets to kiss her and spends the day stoic, full of regret. On the day cloud and river kissed, the earth quaked as forest cried and he crumbled into his sister's loving arms. And then there was no river. And then there was no forest. And the clouds departed to let the light in.

- Outside of Portland

Pulled Me Under

2008-06-09T21:14:00.000-07:00

Anxiety rushes in as rain calmly falls a bass drum pounding, snare rattling insistence - wind passing coarsely, strained through delicately carved holes, a frightening blockage distorting notes as increasing panic swells among the symphony. Cacophony prevails, but the audience is unmoved; absently they whisper about the weather. The woodwinds ran out of breath; the violins wheeze a strained wail. Strained, stricken the conductor sweats and his armpits itch, confused movements causing only subtle shifts in the now familiar quarrel of noise. Teeth split and veins burst from ecstatic mouths, from god-struck eyes, mess of viscera filling the orchestra pit as stomachs split from unutterable moan. Collapsing, crashing the instruments fail and the players fall, desperate for peace, wanting for life as the din dies out, pitch by pitch and note by note abruptly slain, suddenly, all at once, no crescendo or moment of triumph, only inevitable, amoral end - a silence which must come. The conductor, hunchbacked and limp, eyes half closed, spent of tears, mouth agape, deluge of drool, urine soaked pant legs, realizes clenched hand and releases control, drops the baton and sags into darkness, waiting wings of anonymous void, out of the spotlight, where the whole show started.

-Seattle

Too Late To Play

2008-06-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

Ah, lasers in the darkness, sounds like atoms dancing, repose, repose, the gallant markings making mystery all over the ceiling, I was thinking "This can only get better", but bewitched wavering, tested: unsure; only blessed be the statuary, holy is the arboretum and sleepy go the cardboard boxes, wobbling soggy down the rain-slick streets, looking for post-cards, pitching in for jars of cherries, dropping cigarettes rhythmically.

A mist I missed, inside with music, seeking Discovery Park in cluttered maps, finding the spots I lost, got lost, got photographed on a sunny stairway and the shutter's stuck now.

And We Are Dreaming

2008-06-08T15:33:00.000-07:00

Pictures painted in the tops of coffee cups and skies that got used to grey
Postcards pocketed from picture book shelves and I wonder what it means to stay

Ah, she was adorable kid, just like you, and I know I couldn't tell her because she gets it all the time, just like you, and she wouldn't know how I really love her, just like you, because she gets carded all the time and gets frustrated all the time but really, just like you, she knows it ain't her, that she don't wanna change, she only wants to be and be accepted without questions, like you, she wears her fuzzy hat, still, on her head and she draws the big eyes and smiling faces, still, on the dry-erase boards and she doesn't change a bit - she's only waiting, really, without thinking about it; it'd be nice one day, but she's not banking on it. So I wanted to tell her, "You're adorable, you know?" but there's not enough space in line for lines like that so I just smile real big when I ask for some coffee and I hope she knows. I just smile, real big, when I ask for my caramel latte (you know) and I hope she knows.

- Seattle

It Goes Fast

2008-06-07T17:05:00.000-07:00

Love songs crackle car speakers, distribute sound and sentiment out the open window, connected sediment of wind blown feelings formed by earthly pressures into stone sinking slowly, silently through the cave cold water of my stomach, a husky seed busrsting in the depths, wild for growth, hungry for light, to create the energy animals long for.

Be here now.

Below the ground swirls like Gutai impasto, elevations impossible to discern, ribboned strata of compressed earth, palimpsest crust of continent containing a layered history of gradient stability, topmost most malleable, but even the bedrock may be moved by monstrous tumult, all this seemingly unshifting mass containing a core of infinite impermanence whose unfamishable hunger for change mocks maps over millenia.

Be here now.

Nothing survives. Even absence dies. Ever transient cloud, ever mobile ocean, ever falling leaf, ever blinking star, whose light still travels but whose source burst before the earth was born - when do you rest? Straining through weaking twilight to reach in humid air for flirtatious blinks, sentenced to death in mason jars despite air holes and all good intentions. In darker hours, memories flicker, poorly edited, on white sheets hung from the willow, and we miss the house burning.

Be here now.

- In the sky