Two more pieces from the EXCHANGE series mentioned earlier on this page. Figured they’ve been at the gallery long enough to pass out of exclusivity. More of these are on the way.
Clair de Lune
in a red pickup truck
with oversized wheels
and chrome colored flame stickers
could have driven me off of the road
and into shattered pieces across the cement
before I heard that song again.
The song I heard when I was slacking away my time
at my old retail job
where they called me Houdini
because I was always disappearing
for a cigarette
but this time I was pushing the demo button on a music sales booth
where they were selling compilations
according to theme
and Celtic Chants
to Piano Ballads
When I pushed that button down
something came out of those awful speakers
and it was the only thing that’s ever been beautiful.
At least, at that moment.
It was OK
being out there in the open like it was.
I didn’t care because no one else could hear it.
It was a novelty.
A hook at the opening that would sound great
at the first thirty seconds of a wedding.
A novelty on a compilation
to be bought and then neglected
for classic hits
with the COW-DONG
on one-hundred point five
It cracked my head open to a tunnel in time.
They can put it in all of the bad vampire movies
and romantic comedies they want to.
And they can put all of the dead Frenchmen
along with all of the dead Germans in the cartoons
to be mocked by
They can turn it into the music of
They can go ahead and make it a special case music
for special times
instead of the full score
of fleeting unsure hours.
It doesn’t matter.
At that moment
I stood quiet and still,
which is a freakish thing to do,
wearing a garish red polo shirt,
pale skin glowing sickly under fluorescent lights
skinny, red and white beacon
absorbing the sweat of a dead man
who in France during times of horses and syphilis
had dove into mad women
when the ladies were
He had made one shoot herself
right in the chest
with a revolver
and was the very flesh of everything or nothing
spoken in soft feminine curses
Beyond the sentimentality of diamond commercials
I showered the grease of retail off of my spirits
with the sounds
of a pistol driver
who had felt winter
and saw right night skies
the songs could be more than village
but less than golden statues.
And I even said
Because that was it
and no more beautiful a piece of music
could ever be devised
for that romantic tone
that feels like the bending of wood
underneath two lovers as they sit
looking at a new constellation of bizarre phenomena
bursting into the night
over the water
but pretty –
I could have been driven
into safety glass
and bloody mangle
before I got a chance to know the name of that song again
because they told me to get back to work
like that mattered
and when I came back
the machine no longer functioned –
and when I hear it now
sitting the most alone I’ve ever been
I am swollen with gratitude
for this at least
I won’t often post other people’s work on this website but I love this song and it cracks me up. It makes me feel like some guy is sitting in my room making fun of me with an acoustic guitar. I’m OK with that.
Pon De Floor with me.
This is where the new work will be. Look at these culturally appropriating shitlords, dear tumblr.
New work from my three pieces series called EXCHANGE. As in Columbian. A commentary on the affect of technological proliferation on what we now, unconsciously, view as the indigenous cultures of previous generations. What tribes, values, and assets have a strong enough immune system to participate but not diminish themselves? What goes on the reservations as a quaint curiosity, mocked by the mainstream with foul costuming?
Will be on display, updates coming soon.
P.S. I wasn’t just going to do elephant dicks forever.
Forgot to add this bizarre screen shot from 2013.
say hello to your family,
Snippet from “A Greasy Wind”
Is it weird
that I want New York City
without so many of the people?
That I want Tokyo
the glittering, pulsating, heart-beat of Humanity Now
with all of its contrivances
made to deal with the surges of grease
and high velocity grease winds?
I want those complexes of sleeping-tubes
for the overworked, dying businessmen
to pause for fifteen or thirty minutes.
I want it all
without express purpose.
I want to find it all like a pretty shell on the beach
and I want to marvel at it.
I want to press my ear against it and hear it swoosh.
I need to sleep in a tube
for the sake of sleeping in a tube
for no cost
and no consequence.
[from the forthcoming A Beetle’s Song, due summer of 2014]