It’s a helluva life that we get,
A skin riff sustained by meager elements.
Owned or rented or fading even as it’s brightening.
Winched up by holy holy holy, but there are no cookies at the end of this line.
I entreat sweet video clerk, repeat the best parts please, they whipped past too fast to learn any secret to ease my unreasonable disease of the Be.
I just remembered an alley full of cops, a window full of old tvs, snowy street, an evil kiss, a wrenched knee.
There was something beautiful in this room before I turnpiked up unknown avenues,
the table is now an abandoned supper.
Someone left the cap off the ketchup, the miracle has dried.
Band urns spurn the agency we seek, guitars and harps, blues singer hyperbole, spur jazz lingo, cloud up the airwaves.
We are adrift in the dark of space, making ghosts where moments ago we floated through.
Every goddam moment is somewhere still.
My radio no longer receives, I cancer everything I knew before.
And there are no cookies, no apple cider, no brandy wine, no rest at the end of this line.
After some amount of time working a way to get these videos up for viewing I settled on Instagram. Facebook felt too….immature? to keep using. Here is a link to the newly updated Video Abstractions page.
music ending on an AM station,
a bookcase, a jagged nail,
two thirds of the beatles dead,
the only way home barred by
circumstance, lost chance.
i woke in a room where there were no windows.
i broke the silence with a sneeze.
the best way to catch cold is to wait,
the weight will creep in, too late i
tried to lift it, herniated my ego.
let go, let go and be denied by judas,
after all a kiss is but a kiss.
music ending on an AM station just as we walk in
on a beating long time coming.
there are bags for your bits in the end.
maybe it was static in the key of me,
maybe the music waited, coldened the sea
of air between me and somewhere else to be.
a book case, a hang nail,
one third of nirvana dead,
on an AM station too far away to receive.
broke, broomed, never fighted one such as i,
pitiful attempt at small world domination,
foreign legion funny men in desert khaki cargo pants have et up all the sphinxen riddle salad.
almost nothing left to believe in.
peacock on a piano, middle c, vitamin free, flea motherfucker, flee.
i adorned the life you gave me in thick woolen socks, i will never get cold feet again.
horse tranqs will subdue the fearful if the fearful become too fueled by fading father figures.
tripod is my favorite boner joke.
a yellow tape, black numbers, coiled on a blue desk.
this is the way we measure success in the art biz.
how big is your etching image area?
too much margin, not enough picture planes.
weakened by the news of oblivion, i decide on a forest stroll.
and in the forest a nicely done suit, a sandwich of comings and goings, a cold stout, a treed ceiling, a clear view into space, closing remarks,
frothy stout, i drink it down.