and little sleep lead to odd poems, i guess.
here's something new that i've been working on the past week or two.
The Day the Earth Stood
The world didn’t stop today.
In this city, where buildings grow tall
and cast shadows across the river like
they belong there, nobody took an awkward
half-step as filing cabinets and fax machines
strained to slow their momentum,
swaying like some underwater ballet.
No secrets were whispered to lawnmowers,
silencing the snores of their larcenous mouths.
There was no lack of fires reported today.
Accidents.
Murders.
None.
The radios and televisions didn’t cover
their eyes, their ears, their mouths.
The computers didn’t blink their sleepy
faces and turn in for the night.
No hush swept across the bridges,
shushing impatient cars, busy with the gossip
of their angry indifference.
There were no signs of a man whose smile
would probably remind you of a compound fracture,
and he wasn’t sitting on a concrete bench
in a cemetery, facing west.
Most certainly, he didn’t have a fishing pole.
Lacking, as he was, in fishing paraphernalia,
he didn’t wait, facing the sun as it slid down
the stair-rail of the sky, casting his line over
one headstone after another before reeling it back
with a slow shake of his head.
The hook didn’t clink off marble angel wings,
or clank on the smooth, bald pate of any stone
friars. It didn’t swing in a lazy Sunday afternoon
arc at the end of the line until it wrapped itself so tightly
around a cross he had to wade through the verdant
lake of stone to get it back.
He wasn’t thinking about a girl whose smile
would make you think of scars, or how she liked
to make shadow puppets with a pair of scissors
and any conveniently placed wrists.
At no point did he not imagine a tug at the line,
didn’t feel it go taut, thrumming like a guitar string
just out of tune, an awkward note spilling across the skyline
like a stone creasing the sleepy surface of a pond.
He didn’t imagine happiness as a fish swimming upstream
in this sad little river of a world, where desire was bait dangled
on the fish-hook of love, where life was a house on a hot summer evening,
where memory was a fan softly caressing your face with brush strokes
of the past, where time was a record player sitting in another room,
stuck at the end of an album whose name you can’t quite remember,
where you are a song that finished playing an hour ago,
but I can almost hear it again in the rumble of the needle’s kiss.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Sunday, September 17, 2006
horror and sci-fi and poets oh my!
been holed up all weekend with a pile of books. started with the mammoth book of horror (2005), some eric nylund (signal to noise) and a stack of poetry books, including jennifer michael hecht's new book funny. not to mention opening my head up and listening to the quiet roar as i dive back into jorie graham's overlord.
A couple of samples:
Blind Love
Lady says, Doc, I think I need glasses.
Teller says, You sure do, Lady, this is a bank.
Lady wanders out, it's winter, wonders whether
other things have got mistaken, too.
At home she ambles through the house
with the sudden feeling that it all has been
rewritten. Notices a shadow as ivy peels from brick,
clatter of silverware drawer, a quarter
on her bathroom floor. As on a vase the piper
plays not to the ear but to the more endeared
inner listener, so, quiet in an April afternoon,
late sun erupts a riot into her room.
Coin and cutlery grow red; wood glows golden in the hall.
Outside, ivy tendrils find new purchase on the wall.
--Jennifer Michael Hecht
Little Exercise
The screen is full of voices, all of them holding their tongues.
Certain things have to be "undergone," yes.
To come to a greater state of consciousness, yes.
Let the face show itself through the screen.
Let the organizing eyes show themselves.
Let them float to the surface of this shine and glow there.
The world now being killed by its children. Also its guests.
An oracle? --a sniper, a child beater, a dying parent in the house,
a soil so overfedd it cannot hold a root system in place?
Look--the slightest wind undoes the young crop.
Are we "beyond salvation"? Wil you not speak?
Such a large absence--shall it not compel the largest presence?
Can we not break the wall?
And can it please not be a mirror lord?
--Jorie Graham
A couple of samples:
Blind Love
Lady says, Doc, I think I need glasses.
Teller says, You sure do, Lady, this is a bank.
Lady wanders out, it's winter, wonders whether
other things have got mistaken, too.
At home she ambles through the house
with the sudden feeling that it all has been
rewritten. Notices a shadow as ivy peels from brick,
clatter of silverware drawer, a quarter
on her bathroom floor. As on a vase the piper
plays not to the ear but to the more endeared
inner listener, so, quiet in an April afternoon,
late sun erupts a riot into her room.
Coin and cutlery grow red; wood glows golden in the hall.
Outside, ivy tendrils find new purchase on the wall.
--Jennifer Michael Hecht
Little Exercise
The screen is full of voices, all of them holding their tongues.
Certain things have to be "undergone," yes.
To come to a greater state of consciousness, yes.
Let the face show itself through the screen.
Let the organizing eyes show themselves.
Let them float to the surface of this shine and glow there.
The world now being killed by its children. Also its guests.
An oracle? --a sniper, a child beater, a dying parent in the house,
a soil so overfedd it cannot hold a root system in place?
Look--the slightest wind undoes the young crop.
Are we "beyond salvation"? Wil you not speak?
Such a large absence--shall it not compel the largest presence?
Can we not break the wall?
And can it please not be a mirror lord?
--Jorie Graham
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
penile festival?
yeah. so, my friend sent me a link to a festival for um... penises.
you read that correctly.
penisfest2006.
evidently, it's the festival of kanamara in kawasaki, in japan. fertility.
check it out. giant phalluses on the streets. and candy.
yep. you guessed it.
http://arunosan.free.fr/Arunosan_v2/diapo/affiche.php?c=133
you read that correctly.
penisfest2006.
evidently, it's the festival of kanamara in kawasaki, in japan. fertility.
check it out. giant phalluses on the streets. and candy.
yep. you guessed it.
http://arunosan.free.fr/Arunosan_v2/diapo/affiche.php?c=133
Sunday, August 20, 2006
CD, Baby
so, one of the new and fun things that i've learned about just this week, from cdbaby is that part of their distribution deal includes making you available through a variety of digital distribution services.
including itunes.
yeah...
so, sometime probably next week, i'll be able to download myself. or... you can.
woot.
more news soonish-ish.
including itunes.
yeah...
so, sometime probably next week, i'll be able to download myself. or... you can.
woot.
more news soonish-ish.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
the simple answer
being the best, how come it takes us so long to arrive there sometimes?
is fate some kind of train system, or demonic public transportation? i know, i know... journey.
journey can kiss my ass. there are some days when i'd prefer to wake up and say, "oh that's what's going to happen, and i understand why."
yeah?
is fate some kind of train system, or demonic public transportation? i know, i know... journey.
journey can kiss my ass. there are some days when i'd prefer to wake up and say, "oh that's what's going to happen, and i understand why."
yeah?
Friday, August 04, 2006
follow up
to said experiment... i dreamed in blues riffs last night.
this morning and then this afternoon... put together the track for the cd that has been driving me apeshit for the past few months.
okay, so it didn't make me an accomplished musician overnight,but hey i got enough inspiration to figure out which direction to head.
now, music lessons?
this morning and then this afternoon... put together the track for the cd that has been driving me apeshit for the past few months.
okay, so it didn't make me an accomplished musician overnight,but hey i got enough inspiration to figure out which direction to head.
now, music lessons?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
an experiment
before you go to sleep tonight... whisper to yourself 33 1/3 times, "anything is possible."
see what happens.
see what happens.
Monday, July 31, 2006
one week (and some change)
ok, so back from the wilds of idyllwild. if a place that has a pretty darn nice chinese restaraunt can be referred to as wild, of course.
first things first... what a great time up there hanging out with friends and talking poetry.
and the hiking was great. i have the bruises to prove it.
second, what a great time at the oc fair last night. watched x (great band, great show), rollins band (henry is still angry after all these years, bless his angry heart) and a new band from austin, who were worth the price of admission alone just for watching the lead singer climb around the first few rows of the pacific amphitheatre and scream punk lyrics at an oc grandma. all this while having an incredibly tasty cinammon roll. cinnapunk. nummy.
not to mention one of the longest, best, tastiest and happiest gorging fests in recent... hell, in any memory. still burping.
'scuse me.
finally, or almost finally, still hard at work on the cd. which reminds me... joe henry. alt-country? i dunno, but tasty good work. check it out, you won't regret it. (for example, from like she was a hammer: Like she was the Roosevelt's funeral in the street. Like she was the wireless voice out of the jungle Like she was the only thing calling out to me.)
and finally, finally, really finally, something new, and something revised. sorry about the long post, but i was actually busy not writing here for a few days instead of just slackin' off. nice, huh?
A Poem Still in Search of a Title
A thunderstorm passes overhead
and I think, this is how it should have been:
a slow gathering of tension, electricity,
earthquakes in the air.
But like so many things in my life,
it began as a half-hearted joke.
In this case, it was a question about a goodnight kiss.
There was a pause that stretched
from the open door of your car
to the end of my street.
You said, “Get in.”
So we drove, the way we had after so many late-shifts,
carrying an unasked question like a phantom passenger;
except now he was a hitchhiker we should never have picked up.
We parked, and there we were, half-draped across each other’s seats,
our tongues exploring the landscapes of new mouths,
our hands trying to appear calm while they deciphered
the secret language of button hooks and button flies.
I remember thinking,
What a marvelous machine, this mouth, these hands,
this knee slowly convincing your legs to part.
How incredible their design and ability to learn,
while I stand outside the passenger door
of a car on a street I nearly grew up on,
once-familiar trees reflected in windows dense with steam,
where you are about to half-moan “We have to be safe.”
Then suddenly I’m here again, and you’re there,
only somehow, I have a finger inside you.
All I can think of to say is a nod.
So we drive to the 7-11,
nearly get lost beneath the fluorescent lights,
try to become translucent as we slip down the aisle
with cough medicine, combs and Visine;
allow strangers’ gazes to pass through us
as we browse thickness and thinness, shapes, sizes and flavors;
promise ourselves a trip somewhere tropical
if we manage to escape.
We never took that trip.
We didn’t put any thunderstorms to shame.
If we were anything that night, we were the shadows of clouds,
rain clinging to leaves before it finds the ground,
and perhaps for a moment, just a moment,
we were lightning coaxing fire from trees.
dictionary entries about ex-girlfriends
nan·cy
: the sound of squeaking as a car door closes
chris·tine
1 : lack of belief in true north 2 : a study of molecules in the electron shell, and their tendency toward non-static behavior
ma·ggie
: to simulate the appearance of rapid movement, while remaining completely still
he·len
: the faculty or phenomena of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this
gi·na
: bridesmaid
ell·a
1 a: handmaiden in a fictional medieval village, blessed at birth with the gift of information b : the act of being caught between traditional romanian beliefs and a twisted re-telling of cinderella
dar·cy
: an alternate title for one of Houdini’s early escapes involving handcuffs and submersion
ra·chel
1 : a scattering of mobile homes 2 : from the old English: halig; akin to hal--whole, complete
kim and tra·ci
: marked by or containing elements of the apocalypse
da·na
1 : an exaggerated feeling of culpability for offenses 2 : impurities found in the deepest strata, invisible to the naked eye
jenn
: first and last hour of sunlight, when lighting is softer and warmer but shadows may shift rapidly
first things first... what a great time up there hanging out with friends and talking poetry.
and the hiking was great. i have the bruises to prove it.
second, what a great time at the oc fair last night. watched x (great band, great show), rollins band (henry is still angry after all these years, bless his angry heart) and a new band from austin, who were worth the price of admission alone just for watching the lead singer climb around the first few rows of the pacific amphitheatre and scream punk lyrics at an oc grandma. all this while having an incredibly tasty cinammon roll. cinnapunk. nummy.
not to mention one of the longest, best, tastiest and happiest gorging fests in recent... hell, in any memory. still burping.
'scuse me.
finally, or almost finally, still hard at work on the cd. which reminds me... joe henry. alt-country? i dunno, but tasty good work. check it out, you won't regret it. (for example, from like she was a hammer: Like she was the Roosevelt's funeral in the street. Like she was the wireless voice out of the jungle Like she was the only thing calling out to me.)
and finally, finally, really finally, something new, and something revised. sorry about the long post, but i was actually busy not writing here for a few days instead of just slackin' off. nice, huh?
A Poem Still in Search of a Title
A thunderstorm passes overhead
and I think, this is how it should have been:
a slow gathering of tension, electricity,
earthquakes in the air.
But like so many things in my life,
it began as a half-hearted joke.
In this case, it was a question about a goodnight kiss.
There was a pause that stretched
from the open door of your car
to the end of my street.
You said, “Get in.”
So we drove, the way we had after so many late-shifts,
carrying an unasked question like a phantom passenger;
except now he was a hitchhiker we should never have picked up.
We parked, and there we were, half-draped across each other’s seats,
our tongues exploring the landscapes of new mouths,
our hands trying to appear calm while they deciphered
the secret language of button hooks and button flies.
I remember thinking,
What a marvelous machine, this mouth, these hands,
this knee slowly convincing your legs to part.
How incredible their design and ability to learn,
while I stand outside the passenger door
of a car on a street I nearly grew up on,
once-familiar trees reflected in windows dense with steam,
where you are about to half-moan “We have to be safe.”
Then suddenly I’m here again, and you’re there,
only somehow, I have a finger inside you.
All I can think of to say is a nod.
So we drive to the 7-11,
nearly get lost beneath the fluorescent lights,
try to become translucent as we slip down the aisle
with cough medicine, combs and Visine;
allow strangers’ gazes to pass through us
as we browse thickness and thinness, shapes, sizes and flavors;
promise ourselves a trip somewhere tropical
if we manage to escape.
We never took that trip.
We didn’t put any thunderstorms to shame.
If we were anything that night, we were the shadows of clouds,
rain clinging to leaves before it finds the ground,
and perhaps for a moment, just a moment,
we were lightning coaxing fire from trees.
dictionary entries about ex-girlfriends
nan·cy
: the sound of squeaking as a car door closes
chris·tine
1 : lack of belief in true north 2 : a study of molecules in the electron shell, and their tendency toward non-static behavior
ma·ggie
: to simulate the appearance of rapid movement, while remaining completely still
he·len
: the faculty or phenomena of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this
gi·na
: bridesmaid
ell·a
1 a: handmaiden in a fictional medieval village, blessed at birth with the gift of information b : the act of being caught between traditional romanian beliefs and a twisted re-telling of cinderella
dar·cy
: an alternate title for one of Houdini’s early escapes involving handcuffs and submersion
ra·chel
1 : a scattering of mobile homes 2 : from the old English: halig; akin to hal--whole, complete
kim and tra·ci
: marked by or containing elements of the apocalypse
da·na
1 : an exaggerated feeling of culpability for offenses 2 : impurities found in the deepest strata, invisible to the naked eye
jenn
: first and last hour of sunlight, when lighting is softer and warmer but shadows may shift rapidly
Sunday, July 09, 2006
definition
so, with the summer swelter comes a new idea.
take one part dictionary, two parts googleism and three parts unresolved history, and voila!
def·i·ni·tion
nan·cy
1 : the stripped essence of a person 2 a : an ex- b to fail to keep, sustain, or maintain <le matin froid de décembre, elle était nancy > 3 : the wild thistle
chris·tine
1 : lack of belief in true north 2 : unfaithfulness to a moral obligation 3 : a study of molecules in the electron shell, and their tendency toward non-static behavior
he·len
1 : the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this 2 : "extraterrestrial highway" located 40 miles west of the junction of sr 318 and us 93 in western lincoln county
jenn
1: daughter of the mayor of the spring sun 2: a condition leading to the loss of all function of the vocal chords 3 : possessing polarity towards nerds : something that strongly attracts, see also lifeguard
gi·na
: bridesmaid
da·na
1 : a feeling of culpability for offenses 2: environmentally friendly, see also seminar titled “sexy part ii” 3: daughter of max and miriya sterling 4: impurities found in the deepest strata, invisible to the naked eye
ell·a
1 : winner of the contest 2 a: handmaiden in a fictional medieval village, blessed at birth by a fairy with the gift of information b : the act of being caught between traditional romanian beliefs and a twisted re-telling of the fairy tale classic cinderella
ra·chel
1 : recommended 2 : a scattering of mobile homes, originally from illinois, now nestled in the foothills of the san gabriel mountains <celui qui allait a la premiere> 3: temporarily assigned 4 : wife of jacob and the mother of joseph and benjamin
take one part dictionary, two parts googleism and three parts unresolved history, and voila!
def·i·ni·tion
nan·cy
1 : the stripped essence of a person 2 a : an ex- b to fail to keep, sustain, or maintain <le matin froid de décembre, elle était nancy > 3 : the wild thistle
chris·tine
1 : lack of belief in true north 2 : unfaithfulness to a moral obligation 3 : a study of molecules in the electron shell, and their tendency toward non-static behavior
he·len
1 : the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for; also : an instance of this 2 : "extraterrestrial highway" located 40 miles west of the junction of sr 318 and us 93 in western lincoln county
jenn
1: daughter of the mayor of the spring sun 2: a condition leading to the loss of all function of the vocal chords 3 : possessing polarity towards nerds : something that strongly attracts, see also lifeguard
gi·na
: bridesmaid
da·na
1 : a feeling of culpability for offenses 2: environmentally friendly, see also seminar titled “sexy part ii” 3: daughter of max and miriya sterling 4: impurities found in the deepest strata, invisible to the naked eye
ell·a
1 : winner of the contest 2 a: handmaiden in a fictional medieval village, blessed at birth by a fairy with the gift of information b : the act of being caught between traditional romanian beliefs and a twisted re-telling of the fairy tale classic cinderella
ra·chel
1 : recommended 2 : a scattering of mobile homes, originally from illinois, now nestled in the foothills of the san gabriel mountains <celui qui allait a la premiere> 3: temporarily assigned 4 : wife of jacob and the mother of joseph and benjamin
getting warmish
ok, so i'm here in rancho cucamonga today (go ahead, say it... rrrrancho cucamooooonga... fun, huh?), and it's hot. brain meltingly hot. hot enough the portable generator we're using to power our fans and my sound system keeps kicking off because even the machine wants a break.
but hey, we're starting to have bursts of activity at work. after a few weeks of moseying, it's felt good to get back in the saddle and gallop a bit. and unlike before, i know that the galloping isn't going to be a way of life every day in every way, getting faster and faster and longer and longer.
still, it feels good to be busy and stretching out to solve problems again.
weird much?
but hey, we're starting to have bursts of activity at work. after a few weeks of moseying, it's felt good to get back in the saddle and gallop a bit. and unlike before, i know that the galloping isn't going to be a way of life every day in every way, getting faster and faster and longer and longer.
still, it feels good to be busy and stretching out to solve problems again.
weird much?
Sunday, June 25, 2006
a year (nearly) in review
so, it came to mind recently, that i've had this blog nearly a year now.
i also realized that i haven't really posted all that much.
that doesn't mean that i haven't been busy, right? i've lost and then gained a job. dated. slept. read. ate. did all the things that go into a life. filled time with games and books and music and friends.
but what it makes me think about more and more is the fact that a lot of that life is not merely undocumented in a a very sollipsistic way... but that i haven't really been attempting to lead a life worth talking about.
not to get deeply psychoanalytical, but um... there's life out there. and there's life in here. and i don't really avoid mirrors so much as don't pay attention to what they're saying to me.
there's this person that we all imagine ourselves to be... who's better looking, better dressed, richer and incredibly more successful and well-loved than any of us could hope to be.
then there's us.
and there's something in between that we should be aiming for, isn't there? some place where the two dots connect occassionally?
well, here's a toast to that third person and the fond hopes that we meet in the mirror someday.
more later. (really? yeah, really)
i also realized that i haven't really posted all that much.
that doesn't mean that i haven't been busy, right? i've lost and then gained a job. dated. slept. read. ate. did all the things that go into a life. filled time with games and books and music and friends.
but what it makes me think about more and more is the fact that a lot of that life is not merely undocumented in a a very sollipsistic way... but that i haven't really been attempting to lead a life worth talking about.
not to get deeply psychoanalytical, but um... there's life out there. and there's life in here. and i don't really avoid mirrors so much as don't pay attention to what they're saying to me.
there's this person that we all imagine ourselves to be... who's better looking, better dressed, richer and incredibly more successful and well-loved than any of us could hope to be.
then there's us.
and there's something in between that we should be aiming for, isn't there? some place where the two dots connect occassionally?
well, here's a toast to that third person and the fond hopes that we meet in the mirror someday.
more later. (really? yeah, really)
Sunday, May 14, 2006
progress?
don't know... but here's another revision of a section. still writing stuff, so that's um.. something.
bobby's best friend stares at an image of a girl so hard
a village in the Congo, like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flames.
he can tell from the way her lips crumble when she smiles,
they're made of ash.
from the way she disappears,
he knows that loving her would be
like holding a lungful of smoke,
but he wants to say none of it matters:
the sniper in her glance, the graveyard in her chest,
even the wrists she treats like an abortion,
because fire doesn't die, it sleeps deep inside,
waiting for a cup of monday morning coffee and a whisper
to tickle her awake, saying, "it's time. let's get to work."
bobby's best friend stares at an image of a girl so hard
a village in the Congo, like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flames.
he can tell from the way her lips crumble when she smiles,
they're made of ash.
from the way she disappears,
he knows that loving her would be
like holding a lungful of smoke,
but he wants to say none of it matters:
the sniper in her glance, the graveyard in her chest,
even the wrists she treats like an abortion,
because fire doesn't die, it sleeps deep inside,
waiting for a cup of monday morning coffee and a whisper
to tickle her awake, saying, "it's time. let's get to work."
pop quiz
have you ever found yourself digging yourself in a hole?
a really deep, dark hole?
imagine for a moment that instead of a shovel, you've been using a rusty teaspoon, and that instead of say, 20 minutes, it's been a few years.
now imagine that the light is getting dim because you've gotten that deep and walls of your hole aren't letting any light in and your spoon just snapped in two.
what do you do?
a really deep, dark hole?
imagine for a moment that instead of a shovel, you've been using a rusty teaspoon, and that instead of say, 20 minutes, it's been a few years.
now imagine that the light is getting dim because you've gotten that deep and walls of your hole aren't letting any light in and your spoon just snapped in two.
what do you do?
Saturday, May 13, 2006
in progress, still
ok, so still working on that same damn piece, all these months later.
here's another section, in case you're keeping score.
bobby's little brother washes his hands.
he doesn't know how to spell aqueduct,
once guessed rasputin was a mixed drink,
dreams his home is a tinderbox and the rest
of the world is playing with matches.
he’s never known a time when people
gathered in barns, laughter like a roll of thunder
following the lightning of their songs,
spilled from lips dry as the fields, the ashes of their lives
mixed in a bowl of cereal, soaking through the soil of their skin.
his hands are dirty, so he washes them.
he knows what pressure sounds like, but not how it feels,
simply reaches out, and the thirsty mouths
of the rivers of the world open before him.
here's another section, in case you're keeping score.
bobby's little brother washes his hands.
he doesn't know how to spell aqueduct,
once guessed rasputin was a mixed drink,
dreams his home is a tinderbox and the rest
of the world is playing with matches.
he’s never known a time when people
gathered in barns, laughter like a roll of thunder
following the lightning of their songs,
spilled from lips dry as the fields, the ashes of their lives
mixed in a bowl of cereal, soaking through the soil of their skin.
his hands are dirty, so he washes them.
he knows what pressure sounds like, but not how it feels,
simply reaches out, and the thirsty mouths
of the rivers of the world open before him.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
missing link
okay, so in case you haven't discovered kelly link, well, you should. combines intriguing and fun storytelling with offkilter mysticism that should keep you coming back. all of this on top of some downright poetry in prose.
really.
two examples that are from magic for beginners... available on amazon, if nowhere else. check it out.
short sample from the the cannon (and yeah, um.. it's about a cannon.. kinda):
after my brother is fired from the cannon, his two youngest wives will take his place in the cannon. they are wearing his luggage on their backs, filled with his belongings, his books, his golf clubs, his correspondences, his record collection, his toiletries, his identification. his wives will climb into the cannon and leave the cannon in much the same way that my brother will leave it, but they won't go to the same place he is going. men and women don't travel to the same place.
and a longer sample from the cannon:
q: why must the cannon be fired?
a: the cannon must be fired because that is the reason for cannons. ordinance must be placed in the cannon. ordinance must be fired out of the cannon. the cannon serves no other purpose. a man may accidentally fall asleep in a cannon, or take shelter in a cannon from a rainstorm, or hide from his enemies in a cannon, but in the end, the cannon must be fired.
i once fornicated with a married woman inside the sweet mouth. she was agoraphobic. i waid i was agnostic.
i said "yes, like that, don't wriggle so much," and she said, "how do you like this?" and "watch your head," and while we were fucking, her husband came up and lit a match, and then we were flying. we sailed out like grappling shot. my lover yelled back at her husband, "cock her up a bit, master gunner!" and we watched him get smaller and smaller.
i held onto her hips and the tails of her hair and fucked her as we passed over the countryside, and she wrapped her legs around my waist and fucked me back. when we were finished, we flew along side by side, and she remarked that she was grateful to me andthe cannon and her husband. the affair had cured her of her agoraphobia. we fucked some more, to celebrate, and then we came to a town and i grabbed on to the steeple of an episcopal church. she kept on going along. she wasn't ready to go back down again. i had a long walk home. i haven't seen her since.
really.
two examples that are from magic for beginners... available on amazon, if nowhere else. check it out.
short sample from the the cannon (and yeah, um.. it's about a cannon.. kinda):
after my brother is fired from the cannon, his two youngest wives will take his place in the cannon. they are wearing his luggage on their backs, filled with his belongings, his books, his golf clubs, his correspondences, his record collection, his toiletries, his identification. his wives will climb into the cannon and leave the cannon in much the same way that my brother will leave it, but they won't go to the same place he is going. men and women don't travel to the same place.
and a longer sample from the cannon:
q: why must the cannon be fired?
a: the cannon must be fired because that is the reason for cannons. ordinance must be placed in the cannon. ordinance must be fired out of the cannon. the cannon serves no other purpose. a man may accidentally fall asleep in a cannon, or take shelter in a cannon from a rainstorm, or hide from his enemies in a cannon, but in the end, the cannon must be fired.
i once fornicated with a married woman inside the sweet mouth. she was agoraphobic. i waid i was agnostic.
i said "yes, like that, don't wriggle so much," and she said, "how do you like this?" and "watch your head," and while we were fucking, her husband came up and lit a match, and then we were flying. we sailed out like grappling shot. my lover yelled back at her husband, "cock her up a bit, master gunner!" and we watched him get smaller and smaller.
i held onto her hips and the tails of her hair and fucked her as we passed over the countryside, and she wrapped her legs around my waist and fucked me back. when we were finished, we flew along side by side, and she remarked that she was grateful to me andthe cannon and her husband. the affair had cured her of her agoraphobia. we fucked some more, to celebrate, and then we came to a town and i grabbed on to the steeple of an episcopal church. she kept on going along. she wasn't ready to go back down again. i had a long walk home. i haven't seen her since.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
flu and research?
don't seem like they'd go together, but when you're researching a book about um... vampires and the old west... well, mix well with a strong dose of tom waits and a splash of yann tiersen, and things almost start to make sense. in a scary way.
plus, i've been reading up on the lore surrounding st. george.
particularly fascinating is the difference in tales that i've read about whether st. george slew the dragon (by far the more popular version) and the version where he enslaves the dragon, wrapping it's tail around it's neck and allowing the princess to lead it around. plus, the fact that on a symbol worn by the order of the dragon, the dragon is pictured with said tail wrapped around said neck, and with a cross attached to its back.
more later.
plus, i've been reading up on the lore surrounding st. george.
particularly fascinating is the difference in tales that i've read about whether st. george slew the dragon (by far the more popular version) and the version where he enslaves the dragon, wrapping it's tail around it's neck and allowing the princess to lead it around. plus, the fact that on a symbol worn by the order of the dragon, the dragon is pictured with said tail wrapped around said neck, and with a cross attached to its back.
more later.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
revised already?
yeah, because that's how we roll around here.
anywho... did some cutting/pasting/rewriting and here's a new version of the just completed section that i posted yesterday or the day before... whenever it was.
bobby’s best friend switches channels like blinking,
looks for himself in crowds, wishes he could find
the remote control for his life so he could skip to a scene
with some action, or sex, or maybe stop the damn thing
and trade it in for another movie about fire.
he stares at an image of a girl on television so hard
a village in the Congo, like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flame.
he sees his reflection on the screen
settling like an unseen visitor across her lips,
practices the perfect smile: one part hope,
two parts desire and a pocketful of indifference,
then washes the taste of ash from his mouth
and decides this vague longing can’t be love
because it doesn’t hurt enough.
anywho... did some cutting/pasting/rewriting and here's a new version of the just completed section that i posted yesterday or the day before... whenever it was.
bobby’s best friend switches channels like blinking,
looks for himself in crowds, wishes he could find
the remote control for his life so he could skip to a scene
with some action, or sex, or maybe stop the damn thing
and trade it in for another movie about fire.
he stares at an image of a girl on television so hard
a village in the Congo, like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flame.
he sees his reflection on the screen
settling like an unseen visitor across her lips,
practices the perfect smile: one part hope,
two parts desire and a pocketful of indifference,
then washes the taste of ash from his mouth
and decides this vague longing can’t be love
because it doesn’t hurt enough.
Monday, March 13, 2006
in progress, muchly (part 2)
er, actually, i think it'll be part three if the piece ever decides it wants to be finished... but here's another section from the poem i've been slaving over the past month or so... still working on it, so suggestions are always welcome. hint, hint (read: fix this poem for me, please).
bobby’s best friend stares at an image
of a girl on a billboard so hard
a village in the Congo,
like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flame.
picking at the remains of last night’s sushi,
he practices the perfect stare: one part hope,
two parts need and a pocketful of indifference,
then washes the taste of ash from his mouth
and decides this vague longing can’t be love
because it doesn’t hurt enough.
he switches channels like blinking,
looks for himself in crowds, wishes
he could find the fast forward for his life
so he could skip to a scene with some action,
or a little sex or maybe just end the damn thing
so he can trade it in for another movie about fire.
bobby’s best friend stares at an image
of a girl on a billboard so hard
a village in the Congo,
like this one minus the jeans,
bursts into flame.
picking at the remains of last night’s sushi,
he practices the perfect stare: one part hope,
two parts need and a pocketful of indifference,
then washes the taste of ash from his mouth
and decides this vague longing can’t be love
because it doesn’t hurt enough.
he switches channels like blinking,
looks for himself in crowds, wishes
he could find the fast forward for his life
so he could skip to a scene with some action,
or a little sex or maybe just end the damn thing
so he can trade it in for another movie about fire.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
research
just an fyi for anybody who's been really bored and kept up with the goings on in this part of the universe. still planning on that book type thing. just been busy doing research on the time period and other related subjects. the more research i've done, the more i've discovered that i needed to do, but i have seen a light at the end of the tunnel.
i'm hoping it's not a train.
meanstwhile, back to reading. there are some really interesting threads i've been able to pull together, but i still have a few questions that i haven't been able to answer yet (like villains... how many are too many? how dark should they be? how light should the 'heroes' of a piece be.... shouldn't we spend more time in the gray areas in between?).
so, yeah. just a heads up in case you were holding your breath.
go ahead and exhale for now.
i'm hoping it's not a train.
meanstwhile, back to reading. there are some really interesting threads i've been able to pull together, but i still have a few questions that i haven't been able to answer yet (like villains... how many are too many? how dark should they be? how light should the 'heroes' of a piece be.... shouldn't we spend more time in the gray areas in between?).
so, yeah. just a heads up in case you were holding your breath.
go ahead and exhale for now.
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