In the want of an original title I have ventured to call the following piece a remonstrance.

Elk train vert. A few years ago, no one imagined that the spines (foliage) of pine-trees could be converted into wool. Roanoke ember auroch, bos taurus primigenius. The problem Saxby Chambliss faces is that he has maxed out his support base. What about: “I don’t like you, do you understand?” Keep in mind, keep leaves in mind, keep then, using the habitat template approach, that hydropeaking pressure is related to biological quality elements, such as the ellipse of the half-moon. Lunatic lollers and lepers about, and mad as the moon sit, more other less. When passing a senior center or other facility primarily used by senior citizens, contiguous to a street other than a bleak highway and posted with a standard "SENIOR" warning sign, a local authority is not required to erect any sign pursuant to this paragraph until donations from private sources covering those costs are received and the local agency makes a determination that the proposed signing should be implemented. One thing about this, the longer you last the less you care.

What Snakes?

What snakes
in this reality hotel,
what perfect traps
and nooses,
what cliffs
of shale
might we
fall from,
wandering beyond
limits of love?

The Articles The Particles

True roaming, the everything way we go. This had me down and I was down and something made me say go up there and find the bottom for the plumbing and should you see him or her or that way that they do, then you might get in the middle the way you want to. That is just the down way of saying this is the thing. So, I said it. That had me saying it over and again and of course there was no me to be there, but I said it as I said it and something true happened. It was a cool treasure and there was a way to extract its great bulk from the bottom, but it required we go live at the bottom, so was the worth really inherent in the value? There was no there without us, you have it. Than me, she was something with something growing, and I stood marbling the hallway with my smile. Everything hit the eject button at about the same time, and nothing blasted, it all just heavily drifted upward as a sprint might fuzz out. Was good. Was real good and everyone cried all along and alone and there was both of us zanting and melting and skipping away when the prices were told. We knew they were more so we held our heads out, hands in mouths, fingers getting wet and our eyes starred the way they do.

Dear Friends,

My longtime friend and craze-art collaborator, Ben Cramer, and I are pleased to announce the launch of our very first album, Carmelita Velasquez, which you will soon be able to buy on iTunes or listen to for free on Spotify. It's been years in the making and we are simply tickled that it's finally a reality. If you would like an advanced taste, you can listen to it for free in its entirety (free!) by clicking right here.

New poems up at the On Barcelona blog!

Dear Friends,

New poems of mine can be seen at the cool blog site On Barcelona. 

Enjoy, enjoy!

Our Hero (#1)

Our skinny, messy-haired, 19 year-old hero wakes up in his small and shitty first floor studio apartment to the sounds of “Still Life With Hot Deuce On Silver Platter” by Titus Andronicus playing on his Red Firetruck Radio. He jumps out of bed, wearing only his boxers. He does 17 jumping jacks and 4 push-ups. He pulls on jeans, and a T-shirt printed with the phrase: “I’m all about understanding Anarchy." He tucks some rocks in his back pockets and reads Emily Dickinson's "I'm nobody! Who are you?" to his frog (which looks at him quietly from inside a small glass bowl next to his toaster). He fries himself an egg and eats it out of the pan, drinking a coke and reading a worn 1977 edition of LIFE magazine.  Occasionally he tears a page out of the magazine and tosses it into the air, yelling: "Montage!" (Meanwhile, outside, two thieves wearing ski masks and black leather gloves are preparing to break into and steal his neighbor’s car.) Our hero, coming to the end of his magazine, yells “To work! … Or NOT to work!” He quickly ties a blindfold onto himself and sprints as hard as he can out of his apartment door. He SLAMS into one of the thieves, whose head slams into the head of the other thief. THWACK! The two thieves fall unconscious into the street, thieving tools falling out of their hands. Our hero yells “Sorry...Maybe!” and runs off, zig-zagging, down the street. A beat cop turns the corner and comes upon the fallen thieves. The cop grins strangely, with a thought bubble reading “Now what?!” while our hero careens down the block into the distance.