Tuesday, December 22, 2015



At one point I found myself going from a trot to a full run.
I felt like a horse running and then flying.
I was a horse dreaming I was a bird.

I was listening to Gogol Bordello.

The music leads me into slow motion running 
on Boulder Creek Path under a bridge 
remembering a dream of slow motion running 
from when I was very young, 6 or 7, 
a dream in which I was trapped in slow motion. 

There was a moment of feeling trapped in the slowness 
and then I just let go into the slow. 
This is the greatest feeling in the world
because I am moving, I am running and 
don't need to go any faster. I am running slow.  

I was listening to Velvet Underground.

I noticed a sign that said "Human Impact" 
It contained information about pollution. 
The sign was re-signed when some punk tagged it
-indecipherably- with black sharpie giving
a new meaning to the words "Human Impact".

This is what I call a re-appropriation.

I did a rad jump off the sign to re-sign it again,
giving my own meaning to the words "Human Impact".

This is what I call a one-up re-appropriation.

I was listening to Art Brut.

Later I saw another sign written in white spray paint 
in the gutter of a street. The sign said "flow" and 
pointed downhill. I followed the sign.

I was listening to The Monsters of Folk.


Kids history

Absurdist radio

Waterfalls and ice cream sundaes
Creator of nature
Mil lpmau
Jesus spelled his name with backward esses
LpZj olmlpm l m

Mopping lp
Ppl m


One thing stood up tall and proud.
It was the sky. It was allowed.
It was out loud. It was outlaw.

I thought of that.

I thought about
how no is not alot.

The way living goes
is like a rodeo.

It takes a buck.

Donatello's seraphim
could speak truth to everyone
and everyone would see a star
of righteous indentation


It died first of course. Then, when it had been
horse-whipped to death, it grew a pair. In seven
seconds it was sleeping in a dream hearse
peeling out in the silence of outerspace.

The hearse was very old and only drove
in reverse, so the Scream rode across the sky
like Icarus, but backward. The sun was thus
snuck up on from behind and spun
the car around its orbit thrice
before spitting it out
somewhere near the spout
of the big dipper.
Still a long way from
The Destination
and yet so very far from home.


Cut to the chase: I fell off
the cliff, jumped off 
and landed face down
on the empty concrete, decomposed
as the weeds grew through the cracks
where a creek seeped up, raw garlic
growing out of used rubber donuts. 

Today I did talk to a bird. I tried
my best to match her tone, but
could only barely match the melody.
Every note pierced through me.
And when I sat down in that field
suddenly my blind eye could see
that gods sprang from underfoot.


Dreamt last night of hanging out with Cat Power 
in Thurston Moore's basement and I had NOTHING 
to say to her! I want to reach back into the dream and tell her,
"Look how the ripples in the water make wings of light 
as the swimmer flies in slow motion to the other end..."


There's a robin in the yard.
Her head is bobbing to the beat.
That's how she eats.
She is eating, pulling up a worm,
Snaps the worm in half,
But don't you squirm.
The other half of the worm
Will someday grow into a full length worm.
And he'll crawl through the ground.
He'll come up when it rains.
And we'll pluck him up from the ground,
Use him as bait, cast him out, catch a fish. 
The fish snaps the worm in half
But don't despair!
Because the other piece
Will grow into his own self
On his own behalf.

There's a robin in my bed.
She said something
I did not catch.
Because I was dead.
My ears were no longer receiving any thoughts.
But I heard the robin singing.
(Robin whistle)


"Doe, a deer, a female deer"

Look how beautiful she is.

"Ray, a drop of golden sun"

The deer is in the sun.

"Me, a name I call myself"

Now, by juxtaposition, you have yourself.

You have the thing that you call yourself.

This "me" escalates out of the "doe" in the "ray".

You are a female deer outside in the sun.

"Fa, a long long way to run"

You are a deer running in the sun

And you have a long, long way to go.

"Sew, a needle pulling thread"

The needle is you, leaping as you sew.

"La, a note to follow sew"

The notes are like the leaping needle,

leaping up cloth mountains, up the scale.

The deer slows, near the top of the mountain now, tired,

her voice straining to reach the next note.

"Tea, a drink with jam and bread"

Time for a little picnic.

"Which brings us back to doe doe doe doe"

The bread and tea nourishes you, literally becomes you

and you're ready to start again

escalating up the endless scale.


I am compelled to wake up in the middle of the day and write.
Compelled by a conundrum. It is almost, almost, as if this thing, or things,
were born of dreaming. But it was not a dream. As I lay there sleeping,
wide awake, two beings appeared before me. Not appeared, exactly.
They became me. The being on the left was the shape of language
or rather was the stuff language is made from. At times it was even
the shape of feelings. Other times sight. Light presented itself
to the small imp on the left. The right side was silent. It was something
else, still. While the left side spoke an ever-changing and barely discernible
stream of images and words, the right side sat mute, waiting and watching,
a sentinel. The right side then became, for that moment, a shaggy ewe
bleating game. Sticky sweet saliva dripping from the corner
of its mouth, the right corner. The left side, the one who calls itself mammon
for a moment, and then man-moth and now woolly mammoth is prone
to suggestion. The right side encapsulates. The left is an imp bent on
surprise and exposure. This is the mutable undergirding of expression,
the immovable center of the left, and now the right. The right rises up
as an empty space with a palpable nothing; the isness of space.
Something must come of nothing. That something must be self.
There is that smell. There is a headache.The headache came from the left.
The headache is felt on the right. Inside are two monkeys, chained
to a rock. On the left Bruegel bubbles from the lips of John Wieners font.
On the right the monkey chatter hurts my head. The monkeys
are a symbol of themselves. They are plastic in a flash, dime-store
novelties. The left is taken up for watching. The right pops a drawl.
There is no naming of the left. We can say the right is correct.
The right is fooled by shame, desire & nausea. This side is stopped,
keeps stopping. You see your mother now on the right. The head
expands. The hair grows ginger. The ginger is a new spice and takes
commitment to grow. The left is a rolling ball of clay set to animation,
claymation. The dough is stretched in space. To the right is the analogous
dough in mom's kitchen being stretched to make bread. Good bread.
The early smell of manna that takes us back to the womb.
Then the earlier smell of animal and guts of sweet dew and underwater
salt. Those scents, from the womb, that are tantamount to what the tongue
lacks. The tongue made of clay. The shape bouncing off the center
into wordy vibrations. The station plays on, now a deejay with a soft voice
running down a baseball game in 1967. My father passing out to the drone,
the crack of the bat barely interrupting. The crowd hollers, the dreamer watches.
A curtain falls. The monkeys fall endlessly. The falling feels to them a kind
of trick in time. The chatter seems to get lost in the fall. As heard from high
above and at the same time from far below. Echoing chatter that is speeding up
as it falls. The head swirls in sickness and excitement. The fall continues apace,
the two sides in a race, a perpetual tie. Focus in on the vision of the eye
on the right attached to a corpse come back alive. Now inside that eye
become that eye and on the left the surface is gummy. Walk upon the street
made of candy. The candy road spins off the rotating sphere of language.
The feet stick to the road and make loud god smacks with every step.
Stand still and feel the wobble. Push the surface in waves with one foot
and then the other. The waves wake up the baby. The babbling of the baby
becomes the waves, a synaesthesia of becoming. The curvature of sight
and sound undulating. The sensation spinning out from lower back now
as a sharp pain. This is on the right. As well as all of the new physical sensation,
which starts on the left. On the left the station changes to Socrates giving fits
to one of the students. The student is holding his head. He weakly smiles
at Socrates. Socrates bows to the student, with a slight tilt of the head.
The student puzzles over Socrates. What is he doing? The women start to cry.
The men are even crying now. The tears dry up into fantasy. The cries impinge,
originating on the right. The left is only momentarily frightened. The left takes comfort
in two steady hands that hold it tight. Study. The hands become breath, left breath in
the right breath out. The driver turns the wheel one-eighty. It is a neat trick.
In the center of the wheel is another wheel and so forth, further than the eye can see.

Wildwood Holler

Way up in the Wildwood Holler
Face to face with my killer

He raised his voice
He raised his fist

I raised my glass

I said here's to you
Here's to me
Here's to us

Now kick my ass

Way up in the Wildwood Holler
face to face with my killer

He raised his sun
I raised my moon

He raised the knife
I raised the spoon

He raised the gun
I put the flower in

Come on man
Let’s begin 

Lightning bolt
Lightning bolt and thunderclap

I had to laugh

Way up in the wild blue yonder
face to face with my creator

He raised the sky
I raised the balloon

He raised the bar
I raised the saloon

He raised the morning
I raised at noon

He raised the Ante
I raised my gin

Come on woman
Let's begin


Lightning bolt,
Lightning bolt and thunderclap

I had to laugh

Salsa @ D Note

I’m standing behind the bar
Staring in awe at the dancers
Tearing up the dance floor
When a drop of cold water
Hits my ear. I turn to Diandra
And ask why she dripped
water on my ear for?
She said it wasn't her.
I ask, well, who was it?
She answers the sweat
Of the dancers. The heat
Causes sweat to condense
On the ceiling and now the sweat
Of all the dancers in the room
has fallen into my ear. Sweet
I said, the perfect metaphor.
Yuck, she said. Salty, I thought
And left to join the dance floor.

Reggaeton at the D

I’m standing behind the bar
Staring in awe at the dancers
Tearing up the dance floor
When a drop of cold water
Hits my ear. I turn to Diandra
And ask why she dripped
water on my ear for?
She says it wasn't her.
I ask well who was it then?
She answers the sweat
Of the dancers. She said the heat
Causes sweat to condense
On the ceiling and now the sweat
Of all the dancers in the room
has fallen into my ear. Sweet,
I said, the perfect metaphor.
Yuck, she said.  Salty, I thought
And left to join the dance floor.

I looked in the water at the face of another. 
The other stared back in wonder. 
He watched a bird fly in one ear and out the other.

I looked in the water at the face of another. 
The other stared back in awe and wonder. 
He watched a bird fly into one of my ears and out the other.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015


PHATTYSHACK: the movie

Mos Def: So hey Paul. What's this disc golf movie I hear you're working on?

Paul Rudd: (crooning) "Hey hey paula"

Mos Def: What?

Rudd: It was a long time ago. Anyway, did you guys hear about Phattyshack last year?

Mos Def: Which one?

Rudd: Right. Last year the activists over at Norml put on a big disc golf tournament, to raise awareness for their "cause," or whatever you wanna call it, compassionate legalization. They called the tournament Phattyshack. They invited a bunch of celebrities and disc golf pros to compete in mixed teams. Snoop Dog and Woody Harrelson were the announcers.

Henry Rollins: No way, that's bananas. Who all did they get?

Rudd: Sarah Silverman, Jack Black, Doug Benson, Robert Downey Jr, Ben Stiller, Zach Galifianakas, etc. So it had to be pretty good tournament, right. But get this, Robert Redford is producing and Silent Bob directed the film. It's gonna be the first great disc golf stoner comedy. I've seen the rough mix, it's totally going to happen.

MIA: Sounds like a real rolla.  


Scene one: shelter between Hole 4 and 5.

Mos Def: (points to shelter) is this a safe place to, you know, partake?"

Rudd: Safe from what?

Mos Def: Well, you know, in Amsterdam they ask you to withhold your smoke from places where they got kids?

Rudd: Oh, I don't know. I don't see any kids around here? (camera pans around)

Rollins: Hey Paul, did you bring the chalice with you?

Rudd: The question is what did you bring for "the chalice"?

Mos Def: I've got Coach?

Rollins: Like the name brand? Like the luggage? Like the back of the plane?

MIA: Like the captain of the footballa?  A coach coach?

Mos Def: No, no. Well, yeah, sorta, something like that. Coach is a hybrid of hindu kush and damiana, infused with Goji berry. Not to be confused with Oprah's Acai berry.

Rollins: Ooh, sounds fruity.

MIA: What's the effect, Mr. Def?

Def: Damiana is a very...visionary herb, it gives you powerful dreams. Mix that up with the creative powers unleashed by the hindu kush, and bam, and you end up on a trip to the moon. To the future. It's like a dream quest or some shit.

Everyone nods yeah and the chamber of the chalice is piled high with Coach.