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!

back from Marfa

Hey guys, it was my birthday this last Saturday and I went out to Marfa to celebrate. Also, Erin and I visited New Mexico (to see Carlsbad Caverns which were very good indeed!), and we drove back through west Texas to come back home to Austin. It was an amazing trip that delivered some fine material, so do check back throughout the upcoming weeks to see the Marfa/west Texas posts. Here's a little teaser to wet your palette: a video of a train leaving Marfa with Wilco's "Ashes of American flags" playing in the car. Check out dumbsville.blogspot.com too, to see the flip side of my trip.

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: silver screen

text:
skull summer: silver screen


eat popcorn
maniacs oh
oh
gosh we kill a cinema
veritea and
galosh supreme
into

a lobby blitzing with
video game

Mario’s and old bricks
and

two-toned what whats
gasping as
we hope to be the special
ending of the
elegant heroic film wherein
the summer
never dies and all children
fall in love
until death;

kiss me in sheets;

the old theater where we first
worked gets
imploded now as useless
it is only remembered by
us
in our later days of booze and loose
legs;

give and take oh girl
with the silver screen I can
never win
you;

it is easy, yes, sir, take a seat, we
begin now, roll reels,
follow and be
happy

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

skull summer is coming

Mu-ha-ha-ha-haa!

video carnage!

Hey guys, thanks oh so much to Matthew Winters for taking some video of the Boho Coco performance at Co-Lab. Take a look. And who is that in the skull mask? Is it a mask!?

a video from the interior

Here's a video from the interior of our show at Co-Lab. It sure was a magical night.

something is rotten

And it's not Richard Guerra! Whoa! More video from our recent performance at Co-Lab. By the way, did you know that Co-Lab is awesome? See you there this Saturday (and every one after).

landlord king from limbo

Here's a video of my reading my series 'Landlord King' during the Boho Coco's performance 'in Limbo' at Co-Lab. It was a fun night. Thanks to everyone who came out.

strange video

Here is something strange to start a weekend (and a performance!) See you on Saturday at Co-Lab!

upcoming show!

Join Christopher Savage, Erin Vaughan, Miguel Martinez, and Richard Guerra, for a night of fun, beer, performance, poetry, typewriters, tv, painting, monologue, hugs, and pratfalls at Co-Lab (613 Allen Street) on June 13 (Saturday!) at 8:30PM. Oh boy, it's going to be a funky good time. Won't you come and be a boho too?

here's a video as well (it'll calm the beast!):


and check out: colabspace.org

red light night city film and poems

Hey guys, here's a video I took stumbling home drinky drinky from my brothers' place on South 1st. Paired with the video are some poems I wrote about the NIGHT (or in the NIGHT!)! Cha cha!



impressions of night: wasteland


he removes some teeth
and yes,
to melancholy,
oh mighty.

sat awake at two am
with work
in the morning

saw in half the moon

I read adventures of twin
poets

one:
I have the jawbone of god;
and
two:

I have odyssey-like knees.

begin again to swim
the
summer,
begin
again

to Chopin
and
depart from
older siblings

beer
drank

late and obtrusive
and bussed.

speak of community
colleges
and
their faceless time,
of iron
bashed
posts on balcony nights

because everything takes
forever;
I
sip
a sleeping
girlfriend’s
discarded

beer.

believe, yes, believe,

all the world an unsealed
envelope
and
for me then
to gracefully
transform into
tongue and slather across
the wasteland
creating endings for
the opened hearted
beats and
the slack slick slums.


impressions of night: funny ha ha


one rutabaga down the aisle
of the grocery mart
sees
Estelle grab full
a cart of beans

and heaven knows someone
loves her.

I imagine the state
of
written warfare,

people with large egos brandishing
cocktail weenies in
throws
of grand entryway nothings,
uttering

uttering

the spittle spattle
of
saints and messiahs.

Steve is funny,
oh yes,

and a bridge somewhere in Texas
is broken and
receding;

two things barbarous and
toothy,
left lying on the earth
like children’s toys,

I unhappy to create them
again,

they unnecessary to
come apart and
salivate.


impressions of night: dreams


ask me of the dream
wherein
I collide into a coffee table
full of girls
I have
loved
but not loved

gabbing with my girlfriend
about
my face

and unabashedly all braying
with
contempt the moment I enter the room

oh
let’s make
soap

one asks

let’s watch
Bergman and silence

let’s not speak
and effect circles of lipstick
on windows.

again, a dream
that is meaningless is lavender,
it is cotton;
tonight I swam in a spring
and felt
the slime of the bottom surface
tease my toes.

every woman is riding her bike right now,
dodging traffic,
engaged in red lights,
committing
no crime,
singing harmony towards the background
hiss
of beaten trucks and dodgy rat
cars.


impressions of night – a criminal


in the night ether
I
as criminal
will
spool neon
thread
about
hobos’ fingers until
the whole city is
laced tight;
I will then descend into
the sewers and begin
to pilfer whatever
loose
metal piping I might find.

finally,
an adventure into
swollen back
alleys,

we will steal into the liquor store and smash
the bottles.
everyone will hate us;
we will be
revenged by leaving quickly,
silently, and easily.

christopher savage live!

At Ruta Maya! With a mask! Posing as John Johnson reading his last poems! Check it!



follow this link to other delicious John Johnson shenanigans: click here.

here's richard!

Richard Guerra reads a lovely piece about exes at Ruta Maya. Give him back his shirt, you bitch!