more moon gloom

Hey guys, here is the next poem in the series 'Howling at the Moon.' Enjoy!



text:
howling at the moon: suicide


every woman
is a new dream

contained by Hollywood
and hedonism.

a new man arrives at a porch signing
a silence in the evening;
thin light traces scabs
on his cheeks,
he sticks his tongue out

and is in the house in moments.

every woman is
a dream
begun in the wake
of the last;

every woman
is
a dream

unmade by the possibility of
low lying car
hoods, creature comforts,
apartment tenants’ screams,

and ugly rice paper dolls hanging
in shop windows.

I dream of every woman
full of love and
then some.

the vandal breaks a vase;
he steps into the bathroom;
he bleeds in the sink.

a new video series for a new month

Hey guys, this video series features poems titled 'howling at the moon.' Watch me, goggles, earbuds, red lights, and words, turn into sheer terror! Ha ha ha! ...by the way, the text is at the bottom.



text:
howling at the moon: in the air


I can feel the cat

awful and new
with
a face
full of moon.

a world made of rusty cans
and
newspaper articles
and

ugly bookstores and
hip

kids with water guns.

something is in the air tonight
even
now
prowling sideward
and loose

and it is reminiscent of a seventeen
year old

in his parents’
kitchen

howling silently with the moon

box - tonight

Here is the penultimate video in my 'box' series. And hey, whoa, look out: September is Sound Month. What does that mean? I have no clue! Ha ha ha! Also, boho coco writing group 1 is coming!

box - fate

Is that a giant concrete block behind you Christopher? Oh, why yes it is. Shall I read you a poem, then? Why, yes you shall. Thank you. No, thank you.



text:
box: fate


it is a summons now
to leave ourselves

wayward instead
of
exploring forgotten

spaces.

I know wobble and
tempt to detect a
useless sculpture

in the plains of some country.

if I succeed I will
write a book;

if I fail I will

take back into town a twisted
tree limb

and toss it in a well to hear the sound

collapse around brick lining.

fate would have it either way,
smirking,

shrieking, and tucking itself away
in

a tiny box.

box! orderly chaos!

Hey fellows, here's the second installment involving: myself, poetry, poetry written by myself, Donald Judd, boxes, poems about boxes, video, a camera, mud, overcast skies, and Marfa! Enjoy.



text:
box: orderly chaos


close the tiny boxes
and
return to an old attic
and imagine

a grand collapse.

fate, too, is part
of
it,

the spinning sundial, the hall
of mirrors,
the clown and the

joking pastors.

destiny,

too,

inside the empty containers.
it is written

that when unknown, there remains infinite possibility.

we can jump from the attic window,
and perhaps as yet undiscovered,

we may fly instead.

box!

Hey guys, here's some more video from Marfa. In this video (and the following), I'm reading my poetry series 'box' in front of the famed Donald Judd boxes at the Chinati Foundation. It sure was a great day, and I hope you'll enjoy this series with me. And I hope you don't get annoyed with how many times I use the word 'box.'



text:
box: little boxes


the auburn sky over the falling
boxes

is taut and thrums.

the uncertainty of the tiny things,
what

might rest inside, takes

us lusty

and we arrive nowhere.

upon

opening the damned tiny things,

there is nothing.




p.s. ...box!

silver screen: water front

The last of the summer is here, friends, hope you like skulls!



text:
skull summer: water front


all last summer
red bicycle
steam

powered journeys into
the land of lips
and

tits

across America girls in scout uniforms
and bold boys
eating cheeseburgers and
checking the local
springs for
dips
and to reconnoiter a
proposition or
two;

watch a movie with me
and we will sing
archipelago about
our distant
days as two kids
dancing in bedrooms flailing;

parents of the un
born
disposition stalking out vegetation
and calamity
and
begging oh oh

let me be brand new;

my father in a cherry tree
as a child singing
of the south;

my mother in a black car in high school
hoping to hop hop
into the dank swampy summer of Carolina

skull summer: night babes

Here's the second video in the series of summer poetry! Whoo!



text:
skull summer: night babes


so when she sets foot
on the foreign
soil

and learns something
about
barbarians raving

we will celebrate our
own
way

lighting a cake and sending
it

crashing down a black
fire escape
in

New York City

dancing dangling about the myriad
jumps

of red lights and yellow
cabs and pretty
pigeons and
bum
beer bottles;

send us away this gift we
not only needing
but
desiring to speak in inordinate
manner with the divine
essence of the grand escape;

you and I
together in a tea cup;

believe in riddle, shake out the form,
divide a loose recoil,
set hands on hips and kiss

the summer has just begun!

text:
skull summer: food hop


if in memory
unfolding all a meadow
of
the fast-food landscape
and also
rans

trudging food in
corrals better
served of Austin
and
element barbarous
and
biking

out to see the sights the
two-for-one

trades
and
a beer at happy hour
after
idling all day in air
conditioning;

I am a plate of silver
and french fries
oh
joy;

get in the swim with this
stunning never
been;

a place we used to frequent and
broad soldiers tearing apart
tin cans and Coke bottles;

last summer we dove
into old starry diners and
ordered giant silver
dollar
pancakes, oh the best, the best

final typed page from co-lab!

Holy shit, here it is folks, last of the bunch. And what's this, maybe we can finally post something else now?! Wahoo! And also: Co-Lab is a grand gal who wants you to come suckle her teats every Saturday evening (well, almost every Saturday). So go there. And check out: austinnewblog.blogspot.com, to hear me read this gentle bit of psycho random lovely poetry.

typed page from Co-Lab show 5

Here's the fifth (and penultimate) page of typed randomness from Co-Lab. Just wait, my friends, mores a coming.



and here is some typewriter audio mayhem.

typed page from Co-Lab show 4

Here it is all you wild and wooly friends. The fourth page, sans audio (because the internet can be dumb some time). Enjoy!

space: live

The last poem in my series titled 'Space.' Oh, but will we be so lonely out there in the void? I don't know. Check out: austin new blog, to find out. Hey, see you Saturday at Co-Lab.





text:
space: live


Walter’s
oxygen seeped into the black
veil of becoming,

his skin began to freeze and his
eyes held still.

god’s hand in form of astral wind
swept him from
the gravity well

willow wobble

and into a neighboring wormhole.


a black hole is a subject not best defended
by movie stars or small children;
instead, it is a figurative impossibility
some fear one
day will creep onto the planet
in gray uniform and begin to sing
the blandest song of stasis
and determinacy.


Walter was hurled across too many
dimensions
and his body came apart;
head in an ice belt, hand in rusty meteor, liver in neutron star,
kidneys in pulsar beat,
heart in nebula cloud, and eyes
set down low in the ring of Saturn.

reassemble and toss him back into
the black,

we cry, we demand.

the binary stars twinkle; the comets
sparkle; the radiation crackles; the
ocean drips.

space go way got under
the slip so swing we
oh oh
spin.

space: tame

Another amazing adventure captured in audio. Space continues, and hey, maybe we'll all trip out together Saturday at Co-Lab. Oh, and what other strange adventures may await us? How about this: austin new blog.






text:
space: tame


Walter drifted into the wake
of binary
stars

trapped by a center of gravity
so small

and significant.

days
later,

Walter, trapped between the beasts, began to
laugh;

oh gee,

small people holding a hand in
the sky,

we watch the moon halve itself
every night,

until, brave enough,

she returns with
her

swollen face;

Walter tore off his helmet.

space: drift

The latest poem in my space series. Oh can you hear me in the endless drift, wee little ones? Check this shit out: austin new blog. And, hey! come to Co-Lab on Saturday night.





text:
space: drift


into
on
and over

under the ethereal

all
and beyond

oh destiny
oh
oh

god in the camouflage

bring the
ring sing
dill

deng dang the cral
crack

over and beyond
under

ethereal oh
veil oh

threat oh sigh.

tiny striped comets shot
across
endless hissing radiation

of the lonely.

space: flower

The second poem in a series about SPACE! Check out: austinnewblog; for another poem about SPACE!





text:
space: flower


clover leaf
if you
are
a round orb,

but ivy strand if you
are

a mote in the sea of
black.

Walter began to end his
hallucinations:

now was time to create a god.

afterlife, of course,
was

also-ran; Walter
instead dreamed up

a harmonic vibration
all

energy existed in perpetually.

he called his anti-dying-living
‘entropos’

and tried to recall his

name.

Walter
Walter
Walter,

space
madness

infinite night planets spin orange rosy
novas

space: cognition

Here's a new series to count down to the Boho Coco show at Co-Lab on June 13th. Oh, and it's a collaboration as well. Check out: austinnewblog - 2001 part 3 1; for the other part of this wonderful exploration of space poetry. Zagblot!





text:
space: cognition


left alone to drift through
the void,
Walter

began to hallucinate within his
antiseptic suit.

I am three thousand
holly
lilies set
against backdrops of red fence;
I am
barbarian skull
in
courtyard;
I am

listless tongue boulevard kids
jumping
the church pews.

Walter did not
think on the strangeness
of
his life traversing the
infinite black;

if we are alone,
we
are an ocean.

god - spectacle

The final poem in my series of divine poetry. It's almost as if god himself is weeping because it's over (but he's the type to believe in reincarnation, so don't fret). Hope you enjoyed the poetry, and lookout for a big announcement next week.

god - dummy

The next in a series of poems featuring god, Christopher Savage, some unexplained touching, and poetry!!!



text:
god: dummy


paint blood red
my
waist in a
field of ivy
roiling with summer
heat;

I watch two lovers
kiss another’s
hands and
recite poetry.

garbage heap,
love,
silver and tin
humps,
old bottles of port
and rye,
giggling mouse
faced chickies,
and
an unencumbered
rendezvous of
old airplane buckles.

god is charity

god - spectacle

Another in my latest series featuring that ne'er-do-well God. Yum, poetry on Memorial Day. Who would have thought?



text:
god: spectacle


silver eyelets
on Spanish statues,
dear boys
in choir
open-mouthed
and gyrating
with swaths of gold
trim
adorning their
robes.
evil on a windowsill,
hammer fall and
blissful meadow ouch,
latent blue
architecture,
marvelous damsels,
and old
Idaho busted
loose.

god calls you,
he
calls!