Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Brandon Bird's "I Am the Night"

I raise an Old Style high in hopes that his genius never stops.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Periled Pastures

I’m a despondent man left swimming
in the grazing land

like shepardless goats feeding on toxic gardens,
a complete spoilage.

Like “Shotgun” Willie said,
“Turn out the lights, the party’s over.”

Another good thing came to an end.
No new start tomorrow.

No naked witches to bathe my troubles away.

Friends say there’s been a bodiless grave
dug up sometime ago. Just beyond where the

Western winds blow.
On the other side of nowhere.

Perhaps even out of god’s watchful eyes.

Saturday, August 16, 2008


Creeping heartache slithers up to my ankles.

It makes its way up my back,
rests on top of my head,
hides under my hat.

Like a tattoo,
it will eventually fade.

A temporary, uncomfortable pain.

Microsoft Paint #2

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Where Are the Saints?


I watched as the people kept on arriving.

Baggage wedged in-between serenity and insecurities like
fat babies suckling from maternity.

Fiends and whores stride in Velcro against the flow
of arriving angels like capillaries pumping

oxygen through weekend toxins,
confidence playing chess against
skeletons and ghosts.


The devil danced in front of me.
I drank a beer and read the FBI’s Most Wanted List.

The moonlight at midnight liberated
the Prince of Darkness and his dance of deception.
His shadow pulled up a chair to the left of me.

“Why don’t you pay attention to the dance?” the shadow said.

“I don’t have time for you right now,” I said.

Demonic disco moves continued
in front of the shadow and I.

“Come on, you know you want to get up and shake your ass,” the shadow said.


One of men on the Most Wanted List had killed
eleven people. He kept the right hand of his victims as
he traveled the Midwest,
going from job to job.

Another was a woman who had poisoned her plastic surgeons.
Apparently, some things you just can’t get used to.


I heard numerous voices cheering.
The devil had started a hoe down.
Folks were all around,
slapping their knees,
embarrassing themselves.

There was an absence of banjos, fiddles,
people blowing in jugs.

“Looks so fun. Doesn’t it just want to make you join in?” the shadow said.

“This is boring,” I said.

Two elderly women grinded on Lucifer’s crotch.
Others in the group were waving me over
to join in the dance of pathetic pulses.

“What if I got them to play some James Brown?” the shadow said. “Would that get you evolving?”

“What if I got them to do shots of Holy Water with salt and lime?” I said.

“You’d do that. Wouldn’t you? You heartless fuck!” the shadow said.

I kept my eyes on the dance moves of the devil and his posse.
All the while, facing the shadow like a jealous lover
pretending not to notice
the possibilities of darkness and broken promises.


I stayed fixed to the Most Wanted List.

The shadow started to fidget. Agitated reluctance to reality.
An almost defeated sadness of unanswered prayer.

“Damn it, man! Get out there!” the shadow said.

Those who danced slowly dissipated from themselves.
Good, Norman Rockwell types
being inked into Ralph Steadman caricatures
right in front of me.

A weaker man than me might have wished for
Robert Crumb legs to rush from the moment.
Overgrown appendages for trucking,
a fast get-away from the reality that other perceive.


“I can tell you’re not getting out as much as you used to,” the shadow said.

The wind badgered the windows and door.
More people arrived to the beats of false clarity.
Phonies looking for a quick fix.

I might have found myself there once, maybe in the future, but tonight
I’ve got on my windbreaker. A strong polyester thing;

Made in USA is what it is.
A safety net of protective mockery and
dissidence lines skin and bones,

mutes the soul.

“No sympathy for the devil, or myself, for that matter,” I said. “Grab the waiter
when you can, so I can order another beer.”

Monday, August 11, 2008


Sunday, August 10, 2008

Sign Here

Does the feeling ever go away?

The mind travel of night and day,
no rest until every moment passes through the sky.

A smile of death resides in a flat very near.
The sounds of close enemies turn up the heat everyday.

Never in the place known as home.
Talking to hidden friends out in the cold.

Sounds of angelic guitar feedback reverb off
the backs of dying millionaire shysters.

This scene decaying in the test tubes
leave an aroma trail of sleaze.

Who’s the whore that will give it up for a price?

In the corner like coat rack,
the black and white road hits a dead-end.

Reservoirs on each side of a synopsis
protect the whole picture from

total destruction.

Remembering the Time

A sound bellowed out which reminded him of the fall of 1989.

Eighteen, loud heavy metal, pizza delivery job
Lungs full of marijuana and a head full of acid.

He had once gone to a kegger, vomited in a pool.
He met a girl named Michelle and she showed him
the darkness of a nearby apple orchard lined with gargoyles.

A haunted arboreal uterus. It’s growth
rotting under the moon after
the sun’s ripeness.

Michelle peed next to an electric fence.
Gary watched the gargoyles,
their concrete eyes kept vigilant watch over
the dead orchard.
Dying apples slumping to the moist,
tar-like ground.

When the two returned to the party,
black plastic bags, full of dead leaves,
lined the street.
Nature, gasoline, melting plastic
rushed Gary’s nose. They ran towards

the house’s sliding glass doors,
ended up in front of a pool table. A girl with

curly red hair yelled into a microphone,
“Michelle, find the fish.”

Michelle found the fish, asleep, in a side pocket.
It didn’t need water to survive. Just the blue chalk
dusting the billiards room.

Gary wondered if it was the little things in the mind that was caged
in the outer layers of tiresome feelings,

the pressure of a new way of
living life that kept people from smiling.


Frank Black (aka Black Francis) is one of my all-time favorite singer/song writers. First he brought the world The Pixies and then he went on to an unbelievable solo career. His first three albums were under Frank Black including, in my opinion, one of the best records of all time Teenager of the Year. His next six were under Frank Black and the Catholics. He then put out two more under Frank Black. His last two have been under Black Francis and they fucking rock. Also, in my opinion, he is one of the most underrated musical talent EVER! If you don't like, I don't care.

Black Francis - Threshold Apprehension

Frank Black - Headache

Frank Black - Goodbye Lorraine (live)

Frank Black & Dave Philips - Whiskey In Your Shoes

Pixies - Wave Of Mutilation (acoustic)

Pixies - Where is my Mind

Frank Black and the Catholics doing The Pixies Gouge Away

Frank Black and the Catholics - New House of The Pope

*BONUS FOOTAGE* David Bowie & Frank Black - Scary Monsters & Super Creeps

Chuck Connelly and The Art of Failure

I just watched the Chuck Connelly documentary The Art of Failure today. I really didn't know much of the artist as a man before this sitting down, with a tall glass of Captain Morgan & Pepsi, and watching this entertaining film. The guy is obviously one of those weird genius types. Great paintings, but comes off as a total douche bag even though you can't help to really dig the guy. Watch the movie and here's some work to get your interest peaked.


Frank Black and Moris Tepper - I Burn Today

Dinosaur Jr - Forget the Swan

Thom Yorke & Johnny Greenwood - Cymbal Rush

Microsoft Paint

Here's some weirdness that happens when you just don't seem to be able to write. Enjoy!

Friday, August 01, 2008

On My Soapbox

I listened to the frightful music in the October killing fields.
Eyes open and mind closed, I left no boulder unturned.

The stories might be unbelievable, but the truth is factual.
Many were reborn.

Not much time for thinking or feeling.
Just doing what needs to be done.

The winds above let nothing known of
the mines buried below.

Explosion orchestras, stealth symphonies,
music in the key of mankind on the run from itself.

Maybe it’s natural, this thing that haunts us.
Battles and suffering like heartbeats,

thumping adrenalin, as hope is lost as
limbs and identity fade fast from aerial blasts.

Slowly, I know most will never come home.
Either alive or the same, they stay.

The second generation dictator is almost out.
Let’s not have another marionette take his place.