I write rather a lot.
I also take a few pictures.
Hi there.
I like to fix people who are broken. Sometimes it works.
I moved to New York with visions of meeting really interesting sick people (check) and really interesting not-so-sick people (I’ve met a few). If you’re the former, we probably shouldn’t be meeting on MySpace and maybe you should call an ambulance? That’s what I’d do.
If you’re the latter, Hi. Let’s get coffee and tell stories. I'd love to hear about your art.
After a few years traveling through Arizona and Florida and way more at home on the horse farm, I decided for Byronesque Reasons that it was time to move to New York. And did. While the rest of my class was being handed diplomas in Phoenix, I was discussing heavily-medicated schizophrenics on Third Avenue. I'll get mine in the mail.
The diploma, that is, not the schizophrenic. Because I'm pretty sure it's illegal to mail schizophrenics.
I'll be spending the next few decades doing unpleasant stuff with ventilators and needles. I'll leave Manhattan in a casket. Because it's hard to get buried in Manhattan.
I need a few months to write my story about a mad Pope, my book about a faked-but-not-quite moon landing, and enough scratchy songs to fill a demo tape. I used to freelance write a bit but now most of my contribution to literature is notes about Mrs Smith's Headache or Heart Attack and the occasional submission to poetry journals.
When I’m on the road, my old Gibson J-50 dreadnought Maybelleine rides shotgun; the backseat is filled with juggling equipment, old books on mythology and stars and magic realism, letters from friends I try to visit on my many cross-country drives. I listen to fringe indie nonstop, and sing loudly and badly in the car when the music runs out.
I've absorbed the deserts and saguaro and mountainous solitude and am enjoying soot and noise and people and oceans. New York City from here on out: music, writing, and a little medicine on the side.
Latest music:
Weekly favorites:
I occasionally write songs.
Sometimes I chase thunderstorms.
a few poems
Lola
Lola Lacrimosa lacks
a sympathy for Spanish prayers
but reads them in the darkness where
she seeks upended question marks;
feels herself the prefix to
a question yet unasked.
Long-lashed Lola likes to run
through dragon-bellied riverbeds
and in the heat feels half less dead,
against the sun surrendering down
leans hard on what the drought has brought
and prays each step for rain.
Lola's water, and she thinks
to make the desert green--
She drains herself again, again,
the desert drinks and drinks,
Lola, formless, seeks a shape;
Lola seeks, and seeks.
Evelyn
Evelyn murmurs the rhymes that she's written
In dark desert canyons; melodious stars
Assemble themselves into great constellations
Suspending her ten million sandstone hewn stairs;
Evelyn lingers on L's that illumine
Veins of dark gold streaking light-metered hair.
Evelyn murmurs the names that are written
In washable ink on her winter-pale hands;
Rinsing herself in cold streams from the mountain
Cut deep through the canyons, she shivers and hunts
On hands and scraped knees for a stone that is shaped in
The name that she wants.
Evelyn summons the reams that she's written
And folded away into sharp-angled birds;
Uncreasing the seams reads the letters she's wedded,
With scissors excises the best and she burns
Wings of pale smoke, whitened
Words' hollow bones.
Fragment Between Two Kisses
But you, my desert recklessness,
Dutiful roots clay-blunted to bleeding
Seek water from stone; your braiding vines wither
In a dried-river land on sharp-angled trellises.
Saltwater
She cast him away
that his absence might kill
the numbness she claimed
came from him. May no ill
befall her! The child
tasting, cannot bear fault,
fresh water too mild
having known only salt.
Apiator Fallen
Apiator fallen, rattling death-buzz
defiant, quieting whisper fast-fading,
white-robed avenging angels with their gas
bound your muscles with acetylcholine
And here you lay. Wings beating quick against
concrete, swarm separated, do you think
as you yourself, or maybe did you crash
like Lucifer from the sky for just that thing?
One thought remaning--strike me as I pass
and finish it. For if to be's to sting
the honey and the hive and black mad mass
mere backdrop and the queen yellow red herring
For the few that fall away. Bee, if I could
I'd crush you barefoot out of brotherhood.
..[if !IE]
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