i am SO THERE:
25 August 2007
i am SO THERE:
25 August 2007
Patton Oswalt kills me:
22 August 2007
it’s heritage, you wouldn’t understand…
21 August 2007
as usual, the comments put a bow on it.
20 August 2007
they’re dancing heroes
in a beautiful coordinated dance
at the temple
a thick cloud
the 100% pure white
unfurling their linen
at the new dodson day market
bringing the fight
shoring up competition
to its much less dynamic
au roaring glaze du demi-
beside the blue box
makes sense to keep it going this way, don’t it?
don’t kill ‘em, just keep ‘em desperate
they’ll thank you for it.
now imagine: a shuttered-down starbucks
sales sales sales
buy now before shit gets any cheaper!
sails sails sails
homeless hoodoo guru tarps adding
ew! ew! ew!
adding them to the blown masts
of the cranes
like a titanic
to the breathless breathalyzer circus side-show paradise
that itself leaks green tarp
closer to the centre-ville
the white sheet
covering up a shopping cart
sleeping it off in the place that will keep ‘em safest during the earth’s rapture
in a doorway
click-click-click… FUCK this moneyshot canon!
please change batteries AGAIN?
the russian-roulette roll spins in its tight-grip housing grave
robson & granville
in front of the 7-11
the street smells like pinball
a pinch of head-to-toe
gosurori finally swirled into the tilt-a-whirl harajuku kimchi fruit-jambalaya
no wide-eyed-hero hook, no extended visa
catch of the day
keep going west, life is peaceful there…
is that breast cancer thing over yet?
spelling out pervasive vishnu wishful thinking like
“i like and wholeheartedly support ribbons”
“bring back moustaches”
“somewhere over a rainbow”
junkies nervously lining up at
the shoppers drug mart checkout
to get their sharp quills
to blot their page with ink
to dot their Is with pig offal
on their pasty white cellulose skin
before the epiphany fleets
flitting to/fro sketch artists gorging
capturing the zen that never rests
jacking their bodies
the beaver is dead, jim.
(while i wrote this, everything that wasn’t screwed and bolted on my bike behind me
got gold-teeth t’ieved
at least they’ll dine on the finest hommus and poppy seed squares this city has to offer
in front of the long skewer
in front of stephos)
et maintenant, au retour au grande ville
dans la boîte de nuit
de Don Diego de la Bodega
the pious incense billows out in nebulous circles
like a billiard ball cigarillo loco (jamais/ka/rabbinical)
out of the debased, raw, sly dancehall
there’s an operetta on every street corner
a concert in every car
you have to send out search parties
just to find the signal in the scratchy noise
you might have to get a vanity licence plate
all roads lead to budget
under the collosseum
you must live
in the balmy climbs
of españa–it’s not just for fascists anymore
up up up up the tinseltown twister of all four caterpillar pillars
don’t get me wrong
i love the beautiful birds–white & yellow & red & brown
hopping to reach the scotch sky on one leg,
then on the other
craning their slender necks in the wind
perfectly balanced on the edge of collapse
at the terminal end of common good
past the white down pillow
the half-erased chessboard
on the north side of the disco ball
with a lone bmx BK knight
and two empresses-in-waiting in yellow
taking turns on the phallic playground slide
(you wouldn’t understand)
the disposable heroes
the disposable joints
under the viaduct…sometime
(just) can’t get enough
the pirouettes of the sandpaper snowboarder
follow the path of his own disease
tapping the syrup from the maple
have you seen him?
a shell of a graffitoed veeped gurney
man, i have to piss!
will i ever get home?
i don’t want to keep adding to this ambient smell of garbage.
all right, i’m getting used to it…
onwards onwards onwards
around the corner
the overpass suites
the S.O.L. rooms
show must go on
weathered asian skin doing
on a tarp
beside a tent
wait, something’s backwards here
something’s really wrong…
forced-occupancy real-estate nowhere to be found
except in the walkable jjacobsean neighbourhoods of hades
past the cerberus
of downtown, of east side
one year, i moved to the butt-bra canton of kits
(whoa, dude, this is not the res anymore)
and apart from the staple of safeway
i was like, where did the misery go?
meanwhile, here lies
the deserted trail of breadcrumbs and lucky marbled starch beef sashimi
it’s like the brown sugar oregon trail
except you don’t die of dysentery
well, ok, some might
i need to wash the breakbeat shivers
off my spinal column
turn off the tap
the blood red alley welcomes you
with arms wide open
fold into it at 440 rpm
the supply here is measured in units of
miles per hour
just another few warehouses
just a few more intersection joins
a few pretty pretty street unions
180 more degrees of freedom
a few more creamy A-line cones
hold that pitchfork perfect
while dancing on the reggae rooftop edge
of art and tech
one night it’s leo leo leo leo leo, the victorious and the nevada-bound
another night it’s too many M&M&M&M&Ms
listless and fish-flavoured, of course
just keep going
just put your head down
just hold tight
just tie it in a knot
one day it’ll happen
it’ll all come true
i unfurl the linen gate open
plunge headspun-headlong into a brand new flooded basement.
with a dog named Roxy.
i’m home again.
17 August 2007
17 August 2007
so i’m posting it, one of my favourite love poems ever, for the world to read.
by Nora, God of Thunder.
When I first met you,
in the hot dark by the blue river,
I felt I could read my future in the spaces of your speech.
I felt I could speak you poems built of math
because that is the only language I know
that can encompass the kind of perfection
I need to describe you.
I could write anthologies to you
across my naked breasts
walk across this country topless
knowing that of all the elicited stares
maybe someone would read and know
the history of your beauty.
I could steal my neighbor’s manicured car
camouflage it with the dust of my life
when I leave this city behind to find myself in yours.
-and I know I‘m poor, I have just enough
for a three quarter tank if I‘m lucky-
but I will drive until the car chokes and dies
on that dust.
I will walk ’til I fall
I will crawl if I must
and still sing songs of heat-wave meetings.
I could stretch my hide over a framework of logs,
let the sun harden it to leather,
and then chew it soft
and on it paint your face from memory.
I could give up entirely.
Lay my frame down
and while forests grow between my bones
the curling white fingers of my ribcage
will point to the space left by my heart and say,
This is where love was.
And the trees fed by the body that was me
will grow murmuring leaves
each one whispering,
I love you.
I could be satisfied to be buried beside you,
Or spread on the same wind
So our ashes to ashes
Can have chance collisions
Among these galaxies of bodies.
I might never see you again
But I‘d still devote my words to you
My every day filled
With the soft sad tracings
Of dust and ash on the breath
Of someone saying,
“I love you,
I love you,
I love you.”
16 August 2007
i took this pic at night…
…just a couple days before running into this poster for the 18 August 2007 “Civil City” Sleepout at Grandview Park:
(and not to go off on an apophenic tangent or nuthin’, but looks like APC’s logo was designed by an AFX fan.)
16 August 2007
11 August 2007
just order yourself a set of these fine plates from the OK government, then go for a road-trip visit. you’ll be welcomed with open arms like the liberator that you are. NYC even has valet parking service, just hand your keys over to the first person who notices your “American” plates.