Friday, July 2, 2010

Tryin' This Again.

Tryin' the blog again, yeh yeh, tryin' to poast some writings on here yeh yeh, no editing woop! and here I go, I suppose, it's gonna be messy, disorganized, its gonna be me. I'm important, right?

First and foremost:
Brian Wilson is one of the greatest American songwriters of all time, hands down-I could listen to him croon "Little wah-uuuuuuuunn" all day, and probably will.

Second and foremost: I really respect Rowling and Harry Potter-sometimes I talk some shit, true, but I really do respect what she did for our generation because there is no other book series like that for my age group. I certainly am not a Potter-tard/fanatic whatever you want to call it, but I loved the experience at the time of following them all (yes, I got the last three at the midnight they came out and finished them promptly), and it has this absurd bonding ability between people our age, even, kudos, Rowling, kudos.

Thursday, December 3, 2009



Crash and smash and dash-up
Slash and Rash and Mash-up
Speeds of sounds floating flotsam and jetsam around the room
darting like poltergeists from some other time
some other place
some other room, what are they doing HERE the people ask?
I'm just trying to get some honest to god sleep, I just want to get some work done in the morning and I really need my sleep!
The singer's voice was never meant to sing on that drumbeat
But the properties of beauty and the properties of man make it so
he can sing as angelically anywhere he wishes
upon the mountaintop
within your computer
and on the drumbeat that was written years ago, thought forgotten
Something falls in the corner of the room, it must be those poltergeists again! Oh so now there's two? Thats what I said to begin with! Why are we fighting with each other there's these things that we don't understand, why aren't we attempting to destroy THOSE?
Because we can't understand

crash slash dash-up
mash gash cheer-up

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Excerpt from Truth or Dare

"Aborted Jazz"

Jazz was out of style in 2009. Jack knew it but he went to listen to it anyway. Jazz was beautiful. It still is beautiful. Jack knew this. He climbed the stairs to the rooftop of American Apparel and listened to the sweet sax blowin away to the accompaniment of two drummers, one alternate percussion as well but really he was one of the original two drummers aforementioned. Jack looked overheard and was surprised to see a gray sky forewarning of a thunderstorm, but everybody knew an overcast was the perfect accompaniment for depressed jazz.

And so on top of the roof he went, sitting with his rounded sunglasses pulled right in front of his eyes and his hat pulled down low smoking a cigarette and putting one leg for his chin to rest on with short cropped blondish hair covering just above his eyes like an angel’s kiss. Note after note Jack sat and just listened, free from the Hyrda of language guarded by Rich’s bet and the standards of human sociability. He thought about human communication and how the notes were almost like whalesong in their purity and constantly changing spontaneity. Their tonalities pumping with the spark of life given to them by their creator which flowed like blood from a wound with too much to say, too much to bleed, and yet through this holy union Jack found beauty in the verbal silence, preferring to let the outdated yet welcomed shouts by the drummers of “Go!” and “HAHA YEAH!” do the talking while he simply let his body move to the beat, to the spasms of notes that followed in between the samba, almost Latin beats. “Granted talking is useful sometimes, but must I always use it in lieu of just feeling life?” A perennial thinker, Jack found himself now like he did often, stuck in thoughts and bogged down by the multitude of ideas he had to ponder about, yet with this thought about “feeling life” he did not feel dragged down by the syllabic metering Richard had fed him with, he’d hardly ever THOUGHT about syllabic content before this day but he knew he’d never forget. He also knew that he could stay where we was forever, eternally smoking a Natural Sherman stick with his right hand while his left hand darted and bobbed around on the cold, metal table he laid his arms upon, his alien hand to the left indulging in crazy, tribal swoops to the melody’s solo on the alto sax, wondering why this kind of thing never failed to cheer him up. “Well, it doesn’t cheer me up,” he thought, quickly adding out-loud with the careful planning of a precocious child wanting to seem smart in front of his parents or at least himself, “But it does make me think about if there’s something past all the slick bullshit.” Jack knew that the music wouldn’t cure his troubled head, and he knew that he’d go on worrying about the thoughts of leaving and the thoughts of dying that were ever-present in his speech and writing these days, but the primal motion exhibited by the soaring jazz took him higher than he’d ever been on weed or coke, sailing him straight into the sky towards the sun where he dreamed of Icarus Wings to take him towards the sun, just so he could feel its warm touch once before he died. Was it cold? Was the sun too hot to be anything but a freezing burn? It didn’t matter now, because Jack had things to do, people to talk to, and syllabic phrases to count.

Listening to the brass, cool and regal to his ears as if played by some royal band for the coming of their King, Jack began to listen to what the sax was saying, “Hey beat notes oh! I’m feeling good love happiness its all major key’s got” carefully counting out 19 notes almost intuitively in his head, preparing to partake in the dialogue that had been initiated to him. He let the words form at the tip of his tongue salivating them out, allowing for his verbalized chains to spill out slowly at first, but steadily listened to himself speak quicker and more sporadic as if improvisation from a horn. “Yeah yeah I get what you mean, sax, you really get me, its so beautiful.” Jack began to wonder if he was crazy. His absolute refusal to relent to the bet was more a matter of principle, as an exploration of the English language he’d learned to take for granted with no care for what emitted from his mouth, de la boca...He wished right now he could just conjure up a fury of sounds, fiercely piercing the night sky like a saxophone. Yet he loved the English language. Maybe he could go without speaking it, but he certainly could not go without writing it, creating it, manipulating it in order to believe in it. “This was all a test” he thought to himself, “ a labor of Herakles, a temptation of Jesus” realizing he could never give up his faith in the language he grew up on, he would not believe that writing failed as an art form, a form of communication. To spin words on a page was to turn notes in a sax, precise but wildly independent as well. Jack slapped a five dollar bill on the table the percussionist had been keeping his ashtray and slipped into the night, still reluctant to speak out loud but with a reaffirmation of faith for his craft, a reaffirmation that he knew would translucently escape everyone he told, his test of faith a mere ghost to the times he lived in. It was something he casually accepted as he walked towards the bus headed home.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

The Entertainer

The Entertainer

The Entertainer is the ever-present host, controlling every situation with his boorish laugh that shakes his guests to their soul in fear, giving them the indication that he's in charge and nothing they might do will change that. The Entertainer has an Entertainer Wife, content to gather the women of the party and rule the kitchen along with the 1950s sexism that so many fought to destroy, yet the Entertainer Wife feels like its only right what with a husband like the Entertainer. The Entertainer and his Wife have an Entertainer Son, running around the party collecting dollar tips for fetching people drinks, at the age of 12 not realizing that a buck a drink isn't really much at all but nonetheless touting himself to all the guests he knows, exclaiming "I've been making drinks all night! I think i'm high off Cigar smoke!" both of which are lies he learned from his dear father The Entertainer to make people laugh and want to be merry with him. The Entertainer does not have friends, only guests, but through his Entertaining Ways fails to see such a fact, soaking himself in the cold, wet party guests already drunk with The Entertainer's contribution of free wine and vodka. Only when one abstains from The Entertainer's alcohol does he see where he is, an unremarkable house that has a remarkable television, a remarkable swimming pool, and a vast supply of alcohol, from which the guest turns away from and becomes a Human Being again, leaving The Entertainer's for a world of feeling and impulsive, uncalculated reality.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Dentist's Office

Brrrrrr the soft lull of the Dentist Machinery in the back
Playing Kirby Dreamland
just another level, mom! I've made it to level 3!
The excitement on my mind, in my heart, sleeping on my soul
taking a nap on my senses
as the machines in the back kept on their drone
like an industrial raga made up of piercing sitar notes and a
hum of bees rattling in the sitar gourd
waiting to sing
The Dentist Machinery is ready for you
Kirby will still be flying into mischief when you get back
Come quick! He's burning to see you.
It's burning you now!

Sunday, October 11, 2009



Oh how I do not feel like writing when I am told to
when I told to use punctuation and to make sure my sentences don't spill over with the wine of words that I drink like the blood of Christ
Oh how I do not feel like being told that I run on
and on and on! Ah how I feel captive in my own art!
Should I perform a lobotomy on your class
and teach it myself?
I do not wish to! That is your muse, that is what speaks to you!
So leave me mine, leave my own
for to lose the fruitful grapes of my words-my multitude of words-
means I will surely starve at your hands
and I do not think either of us truly wishes that

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Stone Envy

Stone Envy

The coyote looked around at the stupidity
and cried to the moon
because of your self-obsession
because of your cheeky fascist attitude
because of your flaunted and mistakable beauty
because of your glory story and battling the abusing tyranny in your head
and the flowery duel to the death with your decaying soul
because of the love you throw away in your limitations you exert on me and yerself
because of the death of your grandpa you still haven't gotten over
because of the smiling face behind your own cloudy mug I wish would explode with the
rapture though don't take offense, I'm probably going to hell too
because of the poems I love reading that reassure me in my howling
because of your unwillingness to look in the mirror
because a coyote's cry is something to be scared of
when he laughs in your direction and makes vivid, gut wrenching eye contact
with your morality and I realise
I'm not alone in summertime.