Guns Blazing.

[Music: Lightning Bolt]


He Swung the Bat.

(A Flat Tire in the A.M.)

It crumbled under the weight of the vehicle like ogres dying on shalerock mountaintops, lined up across ill-advised crests of unbreathable air. Distant stars pressed on inside some unknown level of reality; attempting to please their celestial queen with flowers and jewels from a bright green spacial sphere. With a lengthy crimson cape around a stiff neck, oversized boots with spikes as far out as the talons of a sickening white griffin from the final grotto, I daunted six moss-covered sheaths. For an age old America that once hibernated peacefully like lazy autumn bears.

Testimony spread its wings and escaped a cage forged from bronze and new lies. Myths mused upon the mighty mimics of murmuring minotaurs and manipulated the milestone of mobile misidentification. Ever waiting, and sighting a coloquial allegory with a shortsword of similar oblivion (hidden under my soaking wet hauberk, its weight was not recognzied) to that of oldtown vandals, began as it once was atop a mid-sea perch not far in appearence from the spot in which I battled an anxious bird. It was after a second encounter with the student body on an entirely opposing position that I sneezed and they covertly let out what needed to be let out the most. In moderation. A curve. Followed by a sinker and a line drive, merely half an inch or so above the bottom of the strike zone. Impaled softly but with precision to disect an ant, a royal swing unlike any other resurrected the heart which woke the idle brain to capsize the sheerwalled satellite which flung the bomb so gracefully.

Strikes beyond a shadow in the sunlight of a doubt. Currently being repaired for the end of the world. Or when time returns to the norm.

Next the plate disenchantingly welcomes none other than my shivering soul.

The crowd becomes mute.

You cannot expect anyone to root for home if no one is there to begin with.

I don't care if they ever come back.

--

A new Titanic Special Edition DVD was just released yesterday.

Eric Henderson from Slant added a review:

"As Kate Winslet's own Freud-referencing character snips, Titanic is epic cinema's grandest erection, and when James Cameron's near-scale model set of the towering hulk of steel that was, at the time, the largest ship in the world severs down the middle, it then becomes the most vulgar representation of castration to ever cause millions of heartwarmed teenage girls to choke sobs into their fists. It's a ready-made sarcophagus for everything that's vulgar in mainstream cinema. Titanic both embodies and validates the excess that is its own subject. And it's arguably the most artlessly touching disaster movie of all. No, really. Time and a number of equally irony-free blockbusters in the interim (including Spielberg's War of the Worlds and the entire Lord of the Rings weep-cycle) have dulled its impact somewhat, but Titanic was Cameron's strike against technophiliac hyper-masculinity in adventure features and a splashing, pre-millennial introduction to a premonitory brand of earnest, new age spectacle."

Slant delivers the comedy.

--

No October Naps.

Attention oh ye emasculated correspondents. You think this is easy, forming fence posts and frames backwards from detail? You think someone like me needs to solicit any suggestive or cooperative onslaught in order to lose myself or to be closer? You're so far off the mark, your brain is wrung out worse than a deck mop after a pissing contest.

Repeat this phrase to yourself: "assuming facts not in evidence."

Examples:

If there is magic on this planet, it is in water.
--Rudyard Kipling

Look for complexity rather than complication.
--Paul Dukas

Lord, I know it is hard to resist! As you feel the draw remember there's no satisfaction to be had, about such a progression it would be impossible to comment.

Red Ribbons from Reprehensible Ravens.

[Music: Silver Jews]


Kindhearted Scare.

It is part of how I learned to love Joviality Press Kinsmen.

The ill-defined triumphalism and class-striving really turned me off when I was younger. After all these years, I still have my original copies and over these many hundred weeks I listened every couple dozen months or so to hear if I still didn't understand the depths I might have missed.

Something this way came, maybe because I have seen so much of this country now over that time. There's a flood of back story that I feel comes with JPK now, maybe what so many worked so hard to erase I had to learn again. Now I can comprehend the ease of JPK and do not disrespect some kind of invitation to emptiness as I did when JPK was originally around.

I stuck with it, I stayed up and I am much the better person for having done so. There was always a strain of racism in the hatred of disco which disco-revivals since have never acknowledged. I was ultimately more suspicious of that than of disco's automatonicism, materialism or orgasm through deathwish-- and lucky me! What great sound I would have missed and what a fool I was to hope that some element of JPK I had held in poor esteem would be wrung out upon the dance floors or tempered by maturity towards the betterment of all things inside some future sounds yet unheard.

Sure, it's good to "walk a mile" in the ruby slippers or static-free clogs of others before brandishing violent suspicion toward their vacuous striving but there are functions of music more direct and honest which, at the very least, might spare the need to communicate the pain of a tight shoe or broken heel.

Just playing kids.

--

People seem to appreciate the Spirit Week video I made.

Check it out, before angelfire cancels the link:

Spirit Candle.

--

In other news, I need a haircut.

--

I was going to post something I wrote in Adv. Comp. But the notebook is too far. Maybe later. It's not that good, anyways.

--

The weekend will go and I'll be back where I started before it happened.

Like it wasn't there at all.

Is it ever?

Registered Archery Certificates.

[Music: Animal Collective]


Lone Trumpeter.

(Brass Petals)

The majority of rejections are untimely and wordless. A chorus featuring a strong recreation of honorable flotsam and jetsam that continue to rhyme with engine and orange. Dope beats playing Harry Potter at a children's birthday party. Extra cash exemplified twice to the ears of the lovesick creator. Just to the center of iron-clad armor, but tied indirectly to, the brothers and sisters who watched clocks as Death battering-rammed through cubicles and petshops. Processing light and dark with up and down can contain profound development if both of the three parties have pinatas and undergrown wine fruits being lobbed with little force through executive branches of the Hate Tree. Once a monument is constructed, hard hats of yellow and dust can be drenched in rivers of thoughts unwinding; like somewhere across forever ended here and now. The chandelier hook responded to the clang of sunny furnace silence during primary work hours. Lunch was spent playing elevator games with the janitorial carts. Insects on the desks, birds in high-esteem business classes as to keep dead allocations as it is and to implement soul funtioning on the prancers.

Drunk sounds. Beer hatchets and helms equipped for boring pleasure and not making love. Tale from a handmaid, like a care existed then strutted out through rooster-inhabited cradles and proclaimed the destiny of rings cutting fingers and robotic thrusts. One giant sex organ. Dressed in red. Transmitting pleasure as slow as smoke signals. Marching towards torn equality and other things signed up to be ripped. An apple was bruised by gravity. The air whispered a chuckle.

Yes, she died. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that no one knew she was even alive in the first place.

Shame. Like SONAR heard by dogs instead of bats.

--

Charles Rocket is No Longer with Us.

You all know him as the wealthy villain in Dumb and Dumber.

He also uttered the first "fuck" on Network Television back in 1975 on SNL.

Slit his throat.

--

Ambient Artifacts in Search of Something to Immobilize.

What is that thing she wears around her neck? Can't say how many times she might have been here at this venue but she seems to know where to stand, positioned so that the black lights hit off that thing around her neck and shimmer. It was not to be escaped. You made your point, that and the cussing.

Point taken-- but when the bandleader demands that they "kiss the hand that feeds" could it not be a misspoking of the simplest kind? Running around these days, a full day as always-- who comes to your job and asks a lot of questions? If you work in technical support or at a library skip that part.

At the library I have been known to come along and knock the book out of their mouths. They really like the bound volumes of Mark Trail. Seventeen years of Mark Trail have been collected, starting with the good years when the fight scenes got too specific and wild.

Jocular Trash Heap Confessional.

[Music: Laura Veirs]


Better to Blossom Than to Die.

I saw it stripping bark from a large winded oak like it was the end of firewood profits through a broken down econostrike in some extroverted community like Franklin, Maine. A raisan, little over stragling-but-unkind middle child height, with a butcher knife the size and length of a compressed metropolitan demon blackblade, minus evil attributes (or so it appeared). I crept like aquadrome silence through cracked concrete, and, in turn, violated high rule of an isometrical trespass. Death could have swooped and stole a brain just then, but it did not. Random distructions were cut back due to slumps in consumer demands for suicide. About half-way through a mudslide tripzone, some tiny bright bird streamlined through the wood and disrupted the wrinkled fellow's punching and pulling. I made stealthy haste, evenly locationing commonground in the midst of a shallow battlefront. The maroon-shaded raisan suddenly disengaged like cruise missles, burrowing swiftly through layers of oppositionally closed-heated dirt and dead leaves. He opted to travel through foreign passings to my own unkown cartogrophy: the wilderportal and into a strikingly omnious bronze elevator. One that would fit perfectly next to a slot machine in a Gold Rush-themed casino. As the doors left an ajar state, my solitary steel arrow pierced the feather-carved doors. The elevator ascended, cracking trees like toothpicks as it headed for the cloudless red sky. Luck struck and my gaze twitched towards the half naked oak; the raisan's prodigious daggar sat shaking, impaled into the cold brown ground like a medieval sliver of justice.

Recalling my days within the tortured riptide, my binding chains exposed themselves and wove around the butcherknife's hilt like a python around an unsuspecting warthog. After fusing the newly chained blade to my carbonbow, a distant light brought fluidity through my frame and hoisted me up towards the ascending third placed elevator. Using the knife to brace the door open, I retracted the steel arrow and composed a melodic palm-slicing to the whistle of the breeze. The door exploded out into the distance, caught fire and crashed through a nearby glider parade. In the corner, shriveled up and gasping for air, was the mad, distopian, shit-red raisan. I certainly could not crucify it like this; a weakness I sustained far throughout the changing of the persecution seasons. It briskly stood erect, and began limping over towards me like an old man about to snatch weekly retirement pay. As it closed the gap, a large congregation of light blue seeds began to fall from the collected skyflowers atop the ascending craft. The seeds levitated around the raisan's skull, forming two sets of rings moving at an alarming pace. My mind was wandering, and drifting in and out of confusion. A technique like this I had not witnessed in all my days of gothic creature execution. Far too late for divine introspection. Seeds began bulleting into my eyes, ears, and mouth as so I could not breath. "Cry," spoke the raisan in a tone that would dislodge tears from an Asian corpse. I held it as long as possible, but the liquid emotion escaped like ghosts from a collapsing dimension. I felt the raisan's weight on my shoulders, it was shaking my head violently and attempting to cram more seeds into my eyes. Rotating, thrusting, pounding hard as ever against the metal walls of the elevator, I thought I had lost hope. But then, my steel arrow caught an updraft of air from the outside and jolted vertically through the dull noise struck deep inside the rising cube.

It split the raisan in half.

The deformed beast released my head and slipped backwards through the hole in the sky's chamber and closed its eyes as it descended. Looking down as the wrinkled fiend fell, I noticed it was attempting speech. "Better to bloom than to die," it whispered through a crass red and green backdrop, "a flower for each of your cells."

As it crashed in a bloody mess of acorns and sand, I sighed a sign of refresh.

But then my head turned into a garden.

...Blind to the world, but not to its beauty...

--

Author's Note: The seeds do not represent semen. Thank you.

--

Or do they?

I should have titled this piece Hip Preist.

Oh well.

I am a Hero.

[Music: Constantines]


Offline Turbines.

(An Outcry in Style)

His monitor glazed green, stagnant red, and monotonous revelations sputtered out like final drops of water after a drought. Polygons lauged round and steady and ions began a burrowing to end all mind excavations from an unseen springrite. Windows, stained with death, cracked and shattered along an elongated stretch of tranquility surge. He fought off legions of shadows as poison flowers fell through loud silence, his rusted armor birthed a sublime friction as an angel unleashed his divine fury. Four wings, wrapped in dynamite and whiter than the brightest sail of a ship under Newsun's rays, turned dancing mist into a wall of diamonds as sunshine split the dark enemies into brief memories. His cottage caught on fire and his four wings called out to the Valfather, who sent dogs to bring him back into captivity. But Kleos was his true home, and it had been as long as he could remember; a World of Fair Report. Why had he appeared to this boy at this moment? A sunken pool of light, transmitting crouching knowledge on whims of bravery. Eventually, he came to valuable conclusion that he cannot die in vain. Letting flames cut his wings, orange heat swallowed him and his futile predicament like whales do squid.

Weapons never felt his grasp, and a challenge sought was a kill in a blink of hummingbird eyes. Clouds follow him, as he does represent higher standards for those with strong hearts. Propped up slightly against blue air, he glanced back at the ashes of past hope. Shadows gone, all he saw was the deep pool of light that connected worlds. A mysterious, and a known. Now it was due to work full time, and accomplish what past gods had upheld. His parade that floated away was now made up of stone and sand, it settled into the ground far too perfectly to not understand the action. Leading the way, in small doses. A moose, sacraficed in non antler season, drew conclusions for a boy well on his way to manhood, all while in the body of what he was to become.

With that, Michael walked over the water to the middle of the pool and sank out of sight.

--

This is Me and My Music.

--

Excerpt from my new One Act (still to be titled):

Bran: I packed down the barn supplies this morning.

Virinsa: Packed down?

Bran: In the pannel truck, next to Hren's boxes.

Virinsa: Packed down?

Bran: What do you want me to say?

Virinsa: You're making your own language.

Bran: Pack up that tone.

Virinsa: Leave this house.

Bran: You take the form of an angel in anger.

Virinsa: A nightmare.

Bran: You should know, I always have sex with that angel.

Virinsa: A dream?

Bran: It's only negative because when I wake up, she's gone. I look through a red city with white people, and all I see are black eyes staring.

Virinsa: Did I not just tell you to leave?

Bran: You did, but I chose to think of it as something I said to you. So you leave.

Virinsa: Let's just fuck.

Bran: Indubitably.

She Washed My Blood-Stained Tunic.

[Music: Portastatic]


Ninja Spine Ambasador (Sprinkled with Sirach).

Seamless is a way of thinking stressed only enough by wonderful and tasteless distractions to be named upon point of entry. Painful things to a sensitive man are abuse at home and insults from his creditors. Helicopter blades catch an updraft and turn around, emulating dechahedron stature to the point of driving statues across distressed fields, which happen to be burning down and releasing sugarcane excretions into the atmosphere. And once a commission is established, dawn can fall and dusk can spring through cracks in a mountainside cavern. Store up almsgiving in your treasure house, and it will save you from every generous evil; better than a stout green sheild and a sturdy spear, it will fight for you against every foe. Upbringing a psycho results in familiar meetings with preists and headless hookers in a black and white landscape. Strictly ominous. Devoid of thrill. Which factor was known years passed by through the toxic clouds. The best episodes mainly feature all the children; otherwise #3 and #4 based excursions keep me running until my kness turn to lucid, opaque gel. The wind in the chimney, it speaks like bullets whizzing underwater, like a ghost caught between two dead trees: saturating, radiating, and sitting idle on God's domepiece as forever becomes now. Wisdom and temperance. A word is athe source of all deeds; a lingering thought of unjust compensation for an action never completed. The root of all conduct is the mind; four braches it uproots and shoots skyward: Good and evil, death and life, their absolute mistress is the tongue.

Pop a fresh spice cabinent open and aromas cut nostril hairs like grass and flies in the wake of summer. Distressed depression tresspassed anally, backwards through decades and centuries. Stopped the crashes of markets, but won numerous sporting events. A palindrome. A catharsis. Predicaments manipulated seas into crookedness, for a galaxy twists like pretzels questioning quazars. Do you see? Do I see what? What's behind you. No. Then how do you know it's really there? A set of eyes that tazer phantoms. Your winged staff of re-summoned stale bread and chariot remains was shattered by your foolhearty battleplans. But do not make the brain understand trust. I'll be in the garage, where there's less breathable air. An extriction only a killer could embrace.

Thespian #1: So, it was yesterday that you started here?

Areden: Was yesterday even around?

Thespian #2: You told us it was.

Areden: How could I tell you if it was not around?

Thespian #1: I recieved a letter.

Tespian #2: Check the date!

Areden: I'm expecting someone soon. You two have to leave now.

Thespian #1: The date is not here.

Thespian #2: He saw it from our births.

Thespian #1: Leading us to milk and honey, all along.

Areden: Pills and wine are in the bathroom, I will discard you this evening.

Thespians (together): Fiery destruction lodges in his tent, and marches him off to the king of terrors.

Areden: Amen.

And back-up is gunned down by the cautious squad leader's suspension interval.

Once again, for humans.

The Acupressurist's Harbor of Mercury.

[Music: Ladytron]


Sawing Down Conrete Elms with Bare Hands.

[She Sighed at Me Today]

If I were to draw you a portrait of yourself, would you be able to tell it was you? It's not my problem nor something to ever summon the brain power to ponder, because time wasted is money gained by people that are not you. People like me and your mother. Whom I enjoy fucking.

As the underground "crimson" (lame (shutup (no (yes (arg)))) rings of nothing and everything begin to rise and elite popstars run frantic through unsettled streets, a dwarf falls into a sewer and unidentifiable beasts rip him apart to nothing but the sad skeleton of a seemingly overweight child. Then again, the way the wind blows is the way things fall down. Nothing ever knows what is approaching until set in dirt below a cheap gravestone...payed for by whom, you say? The Jesus Christ Church of Latter Day Saints? Fucking...fucking Save the Children or some nonsense? Fuck off. I am not a difficult person, I just cannot see what anyone is saying displayed in mid-air bubbles. Like a graphic novel, yeah. The main reason established a birthday party that is designed to take place on shaking towers, yes, plural. The cake and ice cream will not, I repeat, will fucking not be served through walls of white noise. Do the kids ever cease with the distortion? The blacks may have it right. They may have had it right all along.

In that regard, millions were lost in the last two minutes. 1,000 to be exact. Defiant, a legacy of defeat and gutteral/mental erosion. Immense kindly from treehouses and roosters revelate acquatically. Low quality in subsitute for economical benefits. The mother is dead. Matter of fact, all are. The silencer makes a whisper of the gunshot.

And we all whisper back. All.

--

Saw this film, Bright Leaves today. Very good, check out that Slant review for details.

--

Stylus Magazine has a great piece on Thurston Moore's 1995 solo album, Psychic Hearts.

Also, they have their nearly completed list of The Top 50 Movies of the New Millenium. Check back in the next few days to see the list's completion.

--

Re: Opinion on C.C.P.S. (Capitol Contact Probation Services) Version XIX

With the information and guidance I received from your program I was given all I needed and a direction and some (thread) or "safety life line" sewn together smoothly and eventually it became a garment to wear or a blanket to cover me or anything else anyone would want or need for themselves or a loved one to keep someone from going without.A simple box of rags in bits and pieces became parts that finally had become a complete creation that had been needed. I feel I became a more complete, more purposeful creation fulfilling my role of contribution to myself, my family and my community and in our whole lives in general.

--

No Winners (Through and Through)

I'll have the last laugh, at the foot of your grave.
He who laughs last will leave you there alone, laughing.
You will never see the end of your plans.
Who is right?
This is the test: He who laughs last, laughs best.

My friend, I won't desert you.
I will be by your graveside, as you stood idly by my side
when I was choking, beaten down.
You laughed at me then.
But this is the final test: He who laughs last, laughs best.

Fresh-Vegetable Crunchy.

[Music: Helmet]


Sewer Right-Hand, Lad. A Bloody Chip Off the Old Cock. Left-O.

Iron-clad and commencing cuckholds faster than a jet-powered lizard skintone aircraft(?), the underside of an olivegreen explosion tricked priests into confession. Call yourself what you will (would) because time lapses once every stroke, a long stroke being itself for far too long. The girls keep discussing "the incognative return of incubated bird show minimalism", to which I offered an excursion in vital alligator fashion. A leaf fell and someone called it Fall. Totally fucking deprived of originality to the point of foreverness loosing its meaning, architecture fumbling its debt to gravity, and the non-developing results can yield a warm whiskey-bath of Dafoe-style Christ-meets-someblackgod, even-toned otherness, exaggerating the New petrified-but-present in the Old. What (who) cannot be stressed is the stresser, who interacts and balances statistics that lead to rumbling of nights and evenings combining predominantly. Just try. Just fucking give it a chance. If I said I love you, I'd be owing all the saints and lawyers buckets (because bags are out of season) of my own money and/or internal organs. But trust me—this one is difficult as all GET-THE-FUCK-OUT-BITCH to sit through. Like my life was yours to end, anyways.

--

The girl I want is smart. Very smart. But cannot figure out that I want her.

Fuck the math of life.

--

Minus Drummer. It's just Charc.

Some woman asked us to play at her gig. It seems strange, though.

In the immortal words of Addison, "She wants your guyses nutsacks."

--

Dragonslayer Version 2.0

Ex-supermodel and her phantom limb
braces political funtions like coal sucks oxygen
rainbow enthusiasms promote orgasms and murder
nothing that was always nothing is something until it becomes a brief reality
Oh.
OK.
Defy, defy, defy
until the palace of gunners
shoots itself alive.

Snow Black/Heaven Warfs.

[Music: Boredoms]


Spiralstars & Windfallenwood.

Tsunami widow spiders. The decorum where you are only night. Disarticulated the blur into unstreaming. The reversal of all that got tore down, "all tore up". You were so SS in your punk rock days. That was you at the helm of a tiny ship that was you and this, the bony attribute or - footprint put into print its own perilous discharge. Your uncle was creaky and greengrey from the chemicals. I didn't. And the did toos start in, crouching (did you see that deer), cornering and cornered. Inhalants his nicotine stains and other unforgettable marks. He dispatches patches of melting plastic, hewlett packard dropt a present. Happy anniversary to smash our interworld. Intermittent transmissions terminate by a shock to the system. Rest of the time and the times. Stage the death of a news anchor. Hitched up into icy patches of once there was a time. Before we, or once I, or having thus and in that, blood or piss horizons - why less delicate than the muteness of an arm? Said I was sorry and checked out, hospital slippers and all.

--

Rabbit Wave.

--

Last Year's Future Crush.

And so what if laundry hangs untouched in the forceful backalleys of this nation? "I love you", they whimper. A cry for help! It is left auctioned off and carried home by the island natives, simply for the fact that they yelled out "sideways racism" at the rally. "Give it up! Go too far and turn around!", once more an indecent rant from glowstick-ravers and dynomite-miners. Over years of indifferent bickerings, nobody claimed victory after the nuclear strikes by...who? Ex-dinosaur rapist Administration, the only ones with enough legions of placebochildren to counter the mainland reign. and determined as a matter of indirect mediocrity that all valuables should be locked away. Prying objects from cold, alive hands was bound to be an obstacle; crossbows were issued because bullets had fallen through the vaccuum. The Great White North descended on us and started murdering people. Tyranny and anti-Colonial parades began sweeping the streets plagued with dust and trash. We walked the margins of the morning bloom of sunshine for the last time that day. A solitary strain that never was recovered. Until we became intoxicated again.