Music for mice. Acid for giants. Urban fairy tales for feather brains.

Friday, August 12, 2011

UNLOVED UNLOVING nothing has changed in years

the good ones are taken

the wise ones are not

the wise ones will not be taken

the wise ones do not look good

i no longer care for wisdom

her little brother walks behind me everywhere I go

I prefer the chopping block

swiftly, boldly terminate me with one decisive thrust

but promise me i will feel one moment's bliss

steal me, sweet thief

Monday, August 8, 2011

I've spent my whole life waiting for the noise to stop. I guess It never will.

At some point you're forced to clean up your own mess. Twenty some odd years of repressed objections, apologies never made, spilt milk.

You always pay. Always.

There isn't any sort of "starting over."

You and I, we occupy the same same space. I cannot move without striking you, we cannot find a balance.

I am not in my right mind. They told me this would happen. The honeymoon is over.

I am afraid that there isn't a single square foot of earth that hasn't already been tread upon. Discovered. There isn't anywhere to run to. There has to be a different plain of some kind. A different dimension. We have to make a transition, you and I.

I have to use the same body and the same mind for everything that I do. I can't switch whenever I feel there might be a better tool for whatever the task might be.

You have to kill swiftly and mercilessly, otherwise they always come back to get you.

I'll be apologizing for one thing or another until the day I leave you with a corpse to look after. I am sorry that my time is finite.

Please be. Only be.

Monday, June 6, 2011

[big black bird]

Do you have any idea what you’re dealing with, baby? I have lumps in my throat bigger than you. Your less than a quarter century’s worth of double-dutch, magazine cut-outs, rides in an old car from your brother, stolen jewelry, and hard chewed-up bubble gum are no match for me. I have lived for a thousand years. There ain’t nothin’new you can show me. I have lived a hundred lives with your pearls in the palm of my hand but they haven’t done a thing to ease my mind. I got your senior photo in a rusty old frame. I got your notes in a shoebox. I’ve lived longer than the stones that hold your father underground. I have spit up too much blood to be moved by your crocodile tears.
Did you know that from a distance, vodka looks just like water? They don’t taste the same, tho’.
You deserve a diamond for your skinned knee.  
Please don’t cross me.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

I never heard the man say "duck!"

A wrinkled, oversized navy blue suit. A big coffee made for me by a kid at least five years my junior. Finished but not enjoyed. In a suburban corporate coffee shop. Identical to the thousands just like it. Keep me alive so that I can continue to produce.

The first step is acceptance but I'll only accept so much. I won't be defeated by a series of circumstances. I won't be swallowed by time or by reason or by a sense of responsibility. I've gotten in the ring with even stronger opponents. I've yet to win, but I always go for it. The pain in my gut never lasts as long as the restlessness. If I don't stomp on the floor with bloody feet, I float away.

It is time for you to begin that descent down the steel mountain. The one we've been waiting for. Into my arms. I have waited for you all my life, and even longer. Oh but womanhood can be so dull sometimes.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Me + Me + Me = You (Me)

The space between the signifant objects.
The memorable events.
The minutes between those noises and flashes of light.
The statements that give you pause.
That paste, that sauce, that weard haze is where the day was spent.
I drove someone else's car.
I worked at someone else's job.
I combed my hair this morning in such a way that.. I didn't really recognize myself ...
My jacket was too big.
My pants fit too tight.
I slept for three hours while you ate dinner.
I'm living in a puddle of water.
The planet is getting older and so am I.
When I close my eyes I hear all of the words that everyone has said to me in the last few days.
They are all kind words. Positive. Reassuring.
The edges have all been sanded down.
There is a storm coming, but from which direction?

An introduction. Written in April. When I first went to sleep.

   I'm going to try writing a little bit everyday. I'm not exactly sure why. It's not like those around me need to bare witness to any more of my self scrutiny. Most everyone has heard my drunken rants, my afternoon musings, or one of my songs. You've probably read a late night text. Punctuation. Parentheses. Hyphen. Seventeen thoughts in one. Lord knows I probably don't need to do any more introspection. Between ____, ____ , and the tons of support I get from everyone around me, one should think that my inner child sits on a cloud eating ice cream with Cliff Huxtable. I should levitate. I should be able to bend objects with my mind. I should have given up normal speech long ago in exchange for some sort of Cunfucian-riddle-speak. I'm still an ape. Heaven knows what I would be like if I were actually repressed.
   Factually, I should be dead and I'm grateful that I'm not.
   I've heard that you should be careful about what ya say or post on the interweb.
   I guess I won't share anything more personal than that.
   I want to tell the truth. But Not yet.
   For now, April gives us damp and gloomy mornings, beautiful sunny afternoons, brisk evenings, and pitch black nights.
   They do very noisy construction on the freeway in the wee hours of the morning.
   People die in Lybia and Iraq.
   I drink reheated coffee at 12:43.
   Instincts ignored. Partly.
   Fed the beast, but only a bit.
   Goodnight Hunter, Mike, and Annabelle.

I really don't even know what an MP4 is.

It's better than an MP3 right?

Below is another song/video from a someone I know and whose music I really admire. David Shane Smith also seems to be really prolific. Which is nice. Go to .

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Of pigs and paradise

What I'm most afraid of is that when I emerge from this bunker, the world will no longer be there.

Will you still be there waiting for me? With a sandwich in one hand and a beer in the other? An unlit cigarette in your mouth as your arms flail about as a gesture of welcome. Will the sidewalk still have dried gum on it and broken bottles strewn about? Will the bar tender remember me? Will the music still be frightfully loud and just one selection shy of the perfect song? Will dreamy eyes look away? Will my spirits jump? Will the moon be a spotlight? Will your car look like shit and will you still be too fucked up to drive it? Will you find just the right words to say at 4AM and will I be awake enough to realize that we were both created for these moments?

What I'm most afraid of is that when I emerge from this bunker, the world will no longer be there. You will not be around to appreciate the person I've become in my time away.

I remember now the songs i sang at 5, at 6, at 7 years of age, when all that I wanted was to be large enough to hold you in my arms more completely. I remember now what it was like to question reality at every moment and to feel simultaneously out of place and comfortable, tucked snuggly into a space suit that seems to fit me like a glove. I nod at strangers but they do not nod back. They do not realize that I appreciate that they are strangers. They only wonder whether they've met me before. They have not. 

What I'm most afraid of is that when I emerge from this bunker, the world will no longer be there. My body is becoming older with each passing second but I don't feel tied to the "prison of time".

If you are an addict, a journeyman, you have to create the cancer in yourself so that you can then remove it. The unlucky ones build that big white wall too strong and too high around themselves and are never able to climb out. The world MUST become a series of small tasks and ephemeral pleasures in order to be bearable. Otherwise drown in your own tears child. Roll the stone up that hill only to be flattened by it as it rolls back over you. The air is dense. The water is cold. The distance to the sink is a journey of a thousand miles. 

What I'm most afraid of is that when I emerge from this bunker, the world will no longer be there. Stay with me, even if only for a few more minutes. Stay. Until I fall asleep. I Remember now that my life is a fairy tale. The world is a poorly told joke. When I wake up I will eat you for breakfast. 

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

This moment is just as it should be.

Words. Music. Performance. Looks. Warmth. By Sadie.

I think the moon might fall

More than anything it's an unwillingness to be part of any sort of group or partnership. I have to retain that part of me that nobody knows about.

I might smile and nod. I might say something to reaffirm the point you were making. We will have shared goals and common interests, but damned if I'll let you aaaaaaaaaall the way in theeeeere. Weird. Weird, because it's loneliness that I complain about more than anything. It's the "endless succession of people saying goodbye" (as the bard would say) that gives me the most grief.

But really, it was me, wasn't it? All along? You, you, and you, and even you, never really had much of anything to say "goodbye" to. I was never really there.

Too bad.

Maybe I'll getcha next time. Maybe I'll convince myself that it's worth it.

For now it's medicine, gratitude, and the good earth. Ghosts and goblins through a filter please. I'll settle for a steady pace but I will not stand for soft prints. Restore me to sanity without killing me. I'll give the universe the benefit of the doubt for the time being.

I switched topics. Tomorrow is "hump" day.

One last thing: ....Oh I can't remember it exactly. Something I wanted to quote. It was really beautifully written. If I try it from memory I'll ruin it.

G'nite anyway.

Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperae Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperae Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperae Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperae Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Desperate Lovers.

Sunday, May 29, 2011


Well, back to the drawing boards. I turned my back on the warmth of my cocoon for only a few days. The big, bad, crooked-toothed, shifty-eyed earth is back once again. Quick sand. A dead bird on my front porch. The Los Angeles TImes is an accordion-cut-mass grave of paper soldiers lying head-to-foot and vice-versa. I'm speaking to fewer and fewer people every day. Characters in books are closer, feel warmer. More real. I guess I got away from myself. When the church is empty even the faintest noise reverberates for hours.

Why did your empty gaze and anonymous mouth hypnotize me so? I turned you into a heavenly ghost and then followed you around the city like a red balloon. The truth is more likely that you are only a mammal, but it's nature's cruel indifference that excites me. Hair. Lips. Skin. Fingers. Fuck, it's the eyes. It's like they hold a secret that is unrevealed even to their possessor. My mind can protect me, but probably not for long.

Friday, May 27, 2011

"She ain't the one I want..."

"... so she may as well be nobody at all... I'm already somebody's forgotten boy."

When was the exact moment that his image changed in your mind forever. When did he cross that thin red line? You once looked 'round for him. Now he is to be avoided. You feel some pity but you can't be bothered. Your life is far too short. Your minutes are too few to be occupied by a boy who shoots just below the mark. You have mountains to consider climbing and windows to look out of. You have girlfriends to be bothered by and day trips to plan. You have outfits to coordinate, recipes to botch, movies to see only half of, job interviews to stutter through, twentieth century authors to misquote, pregnancies to avoid (until your too old of course), and a useless degree to finish, finally. You have to order a drink and sip it slowly. You have to plan your next breakthrough. You have to scratch the ears of a puppy who never did anything bad enough to deserve the name you will give him. You have a little girl's soul to preserve and elderly woman's wisdom to aspire to gain. Your father never returned from Saigon. Your mother never graduated highschool. You ran a Coney Island race when you were six and a half. You fell. You never got up.

Your breath smells like whiskey and he can hear the ocean when he presses his ear against your chest. You run your fingers through his thick black hair. It feels good. It's just after two thirty in the morning and his car is parked a block away from that bar where you dodged every question with a ghost's reply and you finished every sentence with a phantom's cadence. He is good enough for today. He has two arms with which to hold you.

But ya don't remember quite what to do now. When you close your eyes you hear old voices don't you? A deep voice invites you to stay a while and a high pitched one tells you to run. This is where you are and this is where you are supposed to be. [Sigh] But [sigh again] you don't hear the music, do ya? The static stopped for a few minutes, but now it's back. The guns pivot on their axis and aim once more..and it's "I'm not supposed to lay here, I'm not supposed to lay anywhere."'re right. You have to keep moving or you'll die where you breathe. If he remembers the way you smell, he's luckier than most.

He's a killer but ya bit him good. You softened his course skin. It's "kill or be killed" and you took him for every ounce of humanity he's good for. His brain is upside down and his voice trembles with each word. He's a cotton-candy cloud hovering over himself struggling to regain conciousness. He swore he'd not be taken but he's took.

He leaves a bad taste. His cute became creepy. He's a mundane. He resides just below your horizontal ring of yellow fire. You took a boy, you made him old, and now he's in the union. On the assembly line.

Now back to the big white world for you. Folks around here were whispering. There was going to be a riot. A murder. A coup -but you needn't worry, sugar. This isn't your back yard. You're just passing through.

When he cries, it is of loneliness. There is a gram of salt in each gallon of water.

A year later he is kissed by a plain girl underneath a flourescent marquee. Her eyes are large and bright. She is only as old as the sum of her mortal years. She is made of elastic bands and hand lotion. She is lovely.

But when he lays down next to her he reluctantly thinks to himself:

"She ain't the one I want... so she may as well be nobody at all... i'm already somebody's forgotten boy."

It doesn't look good or feel good - so arm the young.

I'm surprised by the statements, irretrievable in the ether, that are made by small adults. Miniatures, not fully formed, who want only to become impressions of what they feel are functioning beings. I thought this was a progressive generation.

It's not that I claim to have any wisdom. The opposite is true. Fear under certain lights looks like fearlessness. Knowledge of the rifts that make up the surface of the earth results in an uninterrupted line  around the sphere. I'm very comfortable in a state of puzzlement. I am a water baby. Nobody asks any questions. No one has a taste for the mystery. The vulnerability of choice is too frightening, nauseating. The young are fossilized.

Does this sound like boring old nihilism? A rejection of the institutions of society, the institutions of mine and prior generations, of culture? I hope not. I used to go on the same rants in high school -when children are at their dullest.

Our childhoods have been taken away from us, Marlene. Live it now. What do you have to lose?

I'm not in any hurry to be old or accepted. Especially if getting there means that the days turn into spokes and we are forced to cut the orange in half.

If you lead me, into sun soaked fields of tall grass, onto the cool concrete of an empty freeway, into the silk layers of blue that are the stuff of slow dreams, I will follow you, wherever you go.

"Youth is wasted on the young" and your big, beautiful eyes were wasted on you, child. Now lay down and don't believe anything any human being tells you.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Sasha on a bike. In the airport. And just being dope in general.

Mr. Greenjeans

es una artista rebelde.

Five Star Bar. May 19th in the year 2011.

Special thanks to Sarah "Bellum" and The House Of Breath.

9:35 PM

1.Your love makes me stoned.
3.Take, oh take my heart
4.Did you notice
5.It won't be long
6.Down to the river
7.Lets go down to the mall.

With sweat in my face. Thanks.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Gage and Seville.

"... and it occurred to me - not by way of protest, not as a symbol, or anything like that, but merely as a novel experience - that since I had disregarded all laws of humanity, I might as well disregard the rules of traffic. So I crossed to the left side of the highway and checked the feeling, and the feeling was good. It was a pleasant diaphragmal melting, with elements of diffused tactility, all this enhanced by the thought that nothing could be nearer to the elimination of basic physical laws than deliberately driving on the wrong side of the road. In a way, it was a very spiritual itch."


Jeremiah, I'm hanging from a tree. If you can cut me down from where you are please do. Be strong. Don't let the birds pick at you. When you hear me cry, cover your ears, it will only be for a moment.

Pick up two rocks from the floor and bang them together. You will see that the sound travels only so far.

I'm afraid that the world is much too small for us.

You are beautiful the way that you are. If you can carry my body to a flat field, then i give you permission to leave me there. Continue onward without looking back. Run if you have to. Go on and do the things that I never had courage to do. Do not fear the devil. Do not fear any other man. Fear only your reflection in the water and leave a fire burning.

There is another child out there waiting for you.... the same way you waited for me.

I'm dizzy. Get me to my bed. When i speak blood spills from my mouth. My heart beat is slowing. I hear children singing in the other room. I smell crushed flowers. I fear I am becoming lighter. There is an owl outside my window.

Queen Jane. A black dog with an extra pair of eyes painted on his forehead. A fetus in a basket, floating down the river. Grace, do not travel far.

I am looking forwarding to sleeping finally.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Avenue

The dim sum restaurant was closed.

Hungry, I walked through the neighborhood that I grew up in... back
when the water was still running and our blood was still comin' out
red. Our Crusade was one of picked hybiscus, ant trails, windex,
tennis rackets, grape fruits, training wheels, lemonade, screwdrivers,
a hundred-year-old atlas, broken telephones, a beat up beige Datsun,
and nail polish.

I can't hear music now. There isn't any. I've sat in silence for too
many consecutive days now. It's gone. Strange choice for a musician? I
hear cars and the hummmmmmmmm of computers.

If blood sustains the beast and the beast cranks the motor, who
cranks the motor when I don't spill blood?

Stay lit you fires.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

What's the world?

Thank you Andy Sell.

Happy Birthday David Shane Smith.

A bronze rocking horse. The New York Times. Your check in the mail.

If it is my blood that you want, you can have it. It comes in a series of waves. At the moment this feels like a spiritual exercise. Mind over matter. Grace and resilience in the face of tribulation. Can our protagonist make it through the mine field in one piece? I play tricks on the earth so as to make her forget that I owe her much for allowing me continued breath. The comforts of a civilized and moderately happy life. I'm like a clown or some entertainer of an acient time. I'm singing and telling my patron stories in the hopes that he'll eventually be drunk enough and pass out. It is only then that I can have a moments rest. That's when i can think about the dimensions of my yet-to-be-built palace. I can sleep in a spare room. I can dream of the ripple effects caused by my finger tips. Christian in a BMW. Mr. Honeysucklerose on a vespa with a star of stage and screen clinging lovingly to his torso. I can endure much. But little and few can endure me for very long.

I'm thinking of coming up with a stage name for myself, for when I do non-classical performances. Been thinking of it for a while, but then I convince myself it's a silly idea. I don't want an audience to be confused. Is this the guy singing mozart? Or the one playing a song he wrote about whiskey and holy water?
Should I continue trying to ignore my instincts? So far the effects have been mostly positive.

The Lexingtons are one part wolverine and one part chrysanthemum. My mother didn't see fit to give me any brothers, frankly I've always been grateful for that. But I guess that sooner or later, if you're lucky, you can find one, two, or three, that will do just fine. When we put our diamond rings together you can hear the beating of wings.You can hear the screech of the friction caused by the Earth's tenacious path against the stubborn old solar system. You can hear the high frequency murmur of the spirits. The tick-tock-tick-tock of microscopic hearts working diligently in utero.

For the time being we have a monthly show that all should come to. We're also playing pretty often 'round the city these days. I won't talk about them in mere conversation because it doesn't feel fair, like it doesn't do them justice somehow. It's not just a job or a convenient circumstance. Ugh. Human beings rarely say anything to eachother do they? Don't ask me what i'm up to, or how i've been. I won't tell you the truth unless you have 3 hours to spare. Just sit in silence with me. We can share an avocado. Drive to the beach.

The nature of addiction. I guess the trick it plays on you is that it allows you to believe that there's more in that bag. More to be drained. More to be discovered. What if I was one episode away from the ultimate adventure? In order to walk away from the beast you have to have faith that you squeezed as much out of that lemon as you could or that you care to. You have to be proactive and make decisions. This is a terrible time to lose faith, son. Don't wander away in silence.