howling at the moon - parking lot

AAAAAAOOOOoooaoaoaoaooowowowowowowwwwwwww! Howl with me, fiends, blog revitalization begins today. B.O.H.O. c.o.c.o. Get on board friends, let's make some magic. And check out: austinnewblog.blogspot.com, too, because shit'll be dropping there too. Oh, and there will be a performance involving the Bohos at Co-Lab this November 17 (starting at 7:30) as part of E.A.S.T. 2009. Come on down, friends. And here's the damn video that finishes the 'howling at the moon' series.



text:
howling at the moon: parking lane


the car down there now reflects
the neon.

the objects speak but not in
reverence;
those that hear are
dolled up and
diving
in the streets.

ting an empty bottle,
make a smooth retreat to
a doorway.

the car thinks little of the
veranda of the neighboring
car port
and

the thin field of spiked grass
beyond.

snap an ankle;
howl at the moon.

howling at the moon - I

Hey guys, it's been too fucking long, so here's another video from one of my latest series. And what's this...is November...blog rebirth month?! It just may be. Stay tuned!



text:
howling at the moon: I

I need to remove my first skin,
that of
the buffalo,
a near extinction,
and don

the remaining flesh of my
fathers.

they and their
massive discoveries of the vagrant
areas of town,
the eucalyptus
downs and the ha ha
heights,
old brick and tar,
wax and mortar.

I need
to take the moonlight
for my own.

I need to own
something.

give away something.

there is want
and I want;
an ivy avenue or
a gas lamp;

I want
to be
a lion.

video from the darkside

of my pantaloons! Enjoy this video (also, I don't think pantaloons is the correct, spelling, but I'm going to go with it).



text:
howling at the moon: joy


never sing of the great
battle of the
young man

venturing down the steps and
the blonde with the dog
wine.

sing of the hymn of a battle
yet to be born,

rusted aluminum placards
adorning lofty
offices of some university

with trim beards.

old stumbles the fourth
will
recite a poem
and the la
lahs

will go gah.

we can forgive ourselves simple
miseries and nonchances.

we must.

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.

life in the desert

Hey fellows, here is a little poem I wrote while in the car driving in the desert outside of Marfa. And then we stopped the car and I read in front of the mountains. Life is good.