Monday, February 2, 2015
Saturday, January 31, 2015
OBEY SPELL
Gay Gravy Pork Spray/ Shipley traded later on for food/ In the belly of a cloud gently hacking off my feet
http://youtu.be/Em3TjC_QWc4
Saturday, January 24, 2015
CHRIS CARNEVALE
This is a recording of Chris Carnevale reading his poems on December, 13, 2002 at a now defunct club called La Choza, then located in Pittsfield, MA. He did so in support of a local band named Saint Panic. We were close at the time, comrades in pills, Captain Beefheart, travel, and isolation. In 2006, Carnevale informed me that he quit writing, choosing instead to concentrate on being a tree surgeon. I respected his decision immensely. We've since lost touch. This video is a tribute of sorts. The images are jittery specs of paintings/collages I made during the early 2000's.
http://youtu.be/jPF-aVa4GTM
Monday, January 12, 2015
Sunday, December 7, 2014
COMPLIANCE IN THE BALONEY SHIELD
APPLIANCE IN THE BALONEY SHIELD
SEANCE IN THE BALONEY SHIELD
APPLIANCE IN THE PHONY SHIELD
The camouflage is moving
All the people not there.
Tomb store.
I need money because of the cattle.
I need money because I don't feel
The tree I walk around.
It is a tree my body cannot believe.
Sick heaven of brown now.
To last is so cold plate.
MEASURE
I am past riding in my car.
A slow bubble out of a telephone pole.
I call nothing all.
Decapitation then Cheerios.
And one by one a picked be
Makes me talk as if with some heart.
Private deathbeds full of pleasure
Are what I see when I hear my thoughts.
I am more along than ever.
RETURN TO THE STARTING DAY
It is a windy grass
The moon has used.
It is the hour I remember old grass.
Clouds working and laughing and sticking it to me.
And halls of sea.
And explosions of backs.
And friends exchange ass cracks.
Friends change houses.
I think a sea of death is the greatest fun.
I am diving into death with new leaves.
And halls of my back blacken.
I hate my family.
WAKING WHERE WAKING DOESN'T STINK, WAKING
Where wheels don't stink.
Where I feel tiny insides of the dawn.
There she is starting up the stairs.
Material, I love you.
And then there's the whole country.
And then there's breakfast.
Heavy books for a kitchen floor.
The knock of the sunlight insists it's right.
I am a good man and a bad man.
An orchid covered with didn't skins.
My hands covered with veiny batteries.
I hate the white man.
20 years or so go past.
She is sneezing books of salty tracings.
I love being left to decay.
I rise from bed for days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)