Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Baby Sonic Boomers
"City Scapes."
Family fathers keeping the wake.
Southern Belle, I'll make you. 
You're all thieves, here, forever.
Put me in the movies.
To be a voyeur.
Keep me posted on her arrival.
How do you feel about a long-term vacation?
Play date at the ruin park.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Here in Austin, Texas summer 2009
Its going on three weeks in my state capital. Brand new college graduate, afraid of whats ahead. Ive seen a bunch of great acts ie Matt and Kim, Deer Tick, The Glitch Mob. Ive been a bedfellow with my many Austin friends: Val/Sarah, Chris, and Eric. Ive learned the value of the dollar after checking my bank statement, (never charge plastic on 6Th. street). I finished Absurdistan and am now engaged in Trainspotting. Heroin has never been a more full-time drug in my view. I started writing a new short story that has promise. And I have rekindled my love for Christina Ricci.
Buffalo 66 first got me into this angel.
Eric and I just saw her on Speed Racer, another romance of mine. Japanese cartoons when I was little with Spanish dubbing. Speed and Racer X getting buck on the racetrack.
And I wrote this poem the other night, early morning, about a bunch of things in my life that now I couldn't discern in the subtext:
“City Scapes”
This city loves to get us lost. Take us away skyline, away to something new, something lethal, make it renaissance; breathe in our mouths the nectar that the kids can’t escape.
What do you say, lover? These hands can’t keep fidelity with the soap of our fathers and must get dirty. Let’s crawl into the bark and make ourselves a new providence, forever free from the overhead lights that tire us with electric labor. Bleed out the shit. We’ll look terrible in the morning but how we feel when the moon sings us to sleep as the last bite of ecstasy dissipates and how you tongue your lips just to make me feel young again.
Walking home, we can walk in circles, we can walk spelling each other’s names ‘cause that direction is the ether. And how we’ll love to administer that fact to ourselves till again returns our friend, the speakeasy owl.
It’s the same clothes from morning fucks days ago; we keep our receipts of all-night diners and rolling papers from Indian bodegas. We all have to take notes sometimes. An address, a time, a word that absolves us from the beast clawing at our denim backs. Hallelujah, you pig. Away now, I’ve got a date with my lady. Breakfast and a long toke.
Drive fast, baby
Drive fast baby
We can’t rest now, baby
Drive fast baby
Take us from these borders
I want to see nothing but the
Snakes that protect the cacti castle
I’ll make you a desert bride.
Eject everything on the plain and you’ll
Be the queen of forever now.
So sweet it would be to sharpen all three heads and
Cut some of the sky for our dinner lighting.
Come back shirtless. Octagon prince memory.
Dad, you raised a serpent in the grass.
P.S. Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley boys, I love you all.
More blogs to come.
Buffalo 66 first got me into this angel.
Eric and I just saw her on Speed Racer, another romance of mine. Japanese cartoons when I was little with Spanish dubbing. Speed and Racer X getting buck on the racetrack.
And I wrote this poem the other night, early morning, about a bunch of things in my life that now I couldn't discern in the subtext:
“City Scapes”
This city loves to get us lost. Take us away skyline, away to something new, something lethal, make it renaissance; breathe in our mouths the nectar that the kids can’t escape.
What do you say, lover? These hands can’t keep fidelity with the soap of our fathers and must get dirty. Let’s crawl into the bark and make ourselves a new providence, forever free from the overhead lights that tire us with electric labor. Bleed out the shit. We’ll look terrible in the morning but how we feel when the moon sings us to sleep as the last bite of ecstasy dissipates and how you tongue your lips just to make me feel young again.
Walking home, we can walk in circles, we can walk spelling each other’s names ‘cause that direction is the ether. And how we’ll love to administer that fact to ourselves till again returns our friend, the speakeasy owl.
It’s the same clothes from morning fucks days ago; we keep our receipts of all-night diners and rolling papers from Indian bodegas. We all have to take notes sometimes. An address, a time, a word that absolves us from the beast clawing at our denim backs. Hallelujah, you pig. Away now, I’ve got a date with my lady. Breakfast and a long toke.
Drive fast, baby
Drive fast baby
We can’t rest now, baby
Drive fast baby
Take us from these borders
I want to see nothing but the
Snakes that protect the cacti castle
I’ll make you a desert bride.
Eject everything on the plain and you’ll
Be the queen of forever now.
So sweet it would be to sharpen all three heads and
Cut some of the sky for our dinner lighting.
Come back shirtless. Octagon prince memory.
Dad, you raised a serpent in the grass.
P.S. Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley boys, I love you all.
More blogs to come.
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