meanwhile. . .

meanwhile on the west coast it's spring time~ this is my street~

Jake asked me if i knew about this band, some noise/punk Japanese guys who ended their last show with a stolen track hoe and destroyed the venue~ never heard of them Jake~ but they have some great photos out there~ Hanataresh, i think their called


the progress so far, on the four town homes the Armenian/Georgian army is building



not quite as ugly as i imagined, but super cheaped out~ i can't wait for them to be finished and my new neighbors to move in, maybe they'll slackline with me, in the rain
plus, some new engine dismantling over here~





blizzard ! Snowicane !

El Mutante our roving silver car fanatic and mechanic sent in some sweet snow shots from the wilds of Hardscrabble road~that little red barn is where i used to paint and the mice used to climb into my tea cups and become trapped and swim and swim until the tea froze and they died frozen like little statues of art
maybe Oxford Depot received more snow than Monroe

snow blower! all it needs is an old guy in a suit standing in front of it, timeless


but first, this sad little guy who went and got himself caught and stuffed by someone over at Etsy, and made fun of over at Regretsy, as apposed to Craftastrophie



rather beautifully crafted though don'tcha think, almost life like~i like to pretend the artist, just finds road kill, and doesn't actively hunt squirrel, although i have~ and it is very hard




and now for the weather~ fuck yeah, orange county new york just go buried, 31 inches in Monroe, that black thing is not an orca but a giant dodge pick up truck and behind it is an airstream trailer





Pucci our rabid reporter and photographer sent these out, she's trapped at home, the roads are closed and the state police are shooting at anyone caught trying to drive












i'd like to leap off the roof in perfect form to land a 10 face plant~ tunnel around the woods with the kids, go sleigh riding at the golf course walk downtown and get a couple of slices of pizza at Bruno Bros.






Pucci told me a funny story about the last storm she could remember ever being this huge and deep, and how we had to walk to town to try to get to Goshen to open the grocery store we used to own, why we had to open a grocery store in a blizzard~ i can't answer~ maybe i can~ people really need ciggy's and beer with potato chips addiction, so we all walked to town and i being a little dork, somehow found a rubber finger, and spent the whole day sticking it up my nose and in peoples faces and in my ear and eyes, in my zipper, laughing and carrying on~ as a complete spaz~ but the buses weren't running and we had to walk home and i can't remember a single molecule of this story~



was i there ? i ask, because you know, i can't remember a single event of this life, it's all gone, i need to go get hypnotized to bring it all out~ but why~ what is a life if you can't remember it, from here deep in my own future, today is all encompassing, and tomorrow is touchable~



but, crap where'd it all go, these childhood events, shit i must have been 14, 15, maybe sixteen, that winter, what the hell, i should know this~



that's what a blog, a journal, and photography are for~ to force memories, to exist, a crutch, but then are the memories the real memory or just the memory of a photo. . .






N~











the tree and the dust





chapter 6








get up and look at your child~




the incredibly old man groans through the sweat, blood and snot of his moustashe, stepping to where the girl, almost seductively barely dressed in her night cloths, lay collapsed turned away from the horror of this battle, slaughter and crash




the five or six velveteen robots step back in unison, as a black gloved hand reaches to grab her, and pull her to her feet, when the air explodes in fire~like screaming




get up, face the child, you gave up to the death~




it's dead, i can't look, i need a suit, can't breath. . .




the hand clutches her ruffled cloth and pulls, shredding, and twisting her to her feet to strip her bare,




face the child as it faces the elements and it's birth, naked, cold and so . . . few steps to death,




the incredibly old man in black and silver uniform pushes the girl toward the squirming, fungus covered newborn, asphyxiating in the sucking atmosphere




it's dead, it has the Volve~ are you happy I'm looking, you wanted me to watch a child die, I'll watch~




and her eyes well up with boiling tears, beneath the golden brown, pale blistering skin, watches a sick pink and green human child fight the touch of bacterial assault, the creche, covered in blood, shit and placenta, you poor little thing~ and she can feel her left tit lactate, a thin curdled line of moisture leaking down the curve of her breasts~




my child she mummers a monody~




remove this uniform!

she turns and sees two robots at each side of the old man, they pull down from his shoulders and strip off his black suit which makes hissing sucking, vacuum seal sounds of breaking, and the old, man, standing evaporating in the deathly air, in sweat drenched adrenaline's repose, naked, thin scarred, burned, flesh the color of moonlight, beautiful, starpoints tattooed across his chest




take the suit, put it on and save the child~ he orders and the suit takes a step back to stand with the robots, who close there eyes and whistle~




the child is infected~ there is no cure~ there's no ship, were trapped here~ where can we go~




oh, god. she whispers when she sees the long hand carved blade of deep dark oak, half a meter, tapered to paper thin edge,




only the blood of the chosen can save this child~ the suit and the robots will take you to safety, i thank you~ with all my heart,

the incredibly old man steps before the baby and raises the blade to hover over his heart, and the olive tinged name tattooed above the beat, Sarrow, a pause, a snow shadow passes across his eye, a trickle of sweat, rolls the creases of his check, the girl clutches her breasts, and watches the blade plunge into the flesh, through the bone and into the heart which explodes, dumping it's fountain of blood into the creche, baptizing the child


the girl yells and dives for his hands and is held back, crying, now she knows who this incredibly old man really is~




the robots step in, one grabs the baby and holds it under the hot stream of blood, another holds the old man up as his knees weaken, another holds the creche under the baby ~the blood and the snows washing away the bacterium fungus, until the baby turns, opens it's eyes, black~ and screams~ a robot, grabs it by the feet, pinches off the umbilical cord and holds it dripping a thick dark carpet of red as the old man holds his lips tight and holds the knife with two hands as velveteen robots drag him back and away, dying screaming~with the pain of all of his life's memories kicking in his thoughts, begging for one last attention



Another robot takes the baby from the filth~ presses it into the girls chest~ she clutches it and hugs it to her, she's crying and rocking back and forth, as the robots surround her like flowers, like buttercup armies, like dolls against god~

to watch the snow fall without process, thoughtless










this slapping of water

warning don't look or continue if you can't stand views of children, spring flowers and warm sun~ you have been warned
we slack lined all weekend, went to parks paddled around lakes,

buried placentas


in the yard, like inside out umbrella's made of veiny liver








a full van, smelly





it's February !




























video

my old self wouldn't believe -


what would the younger version of myself think if he could somehow, materialize into my life right here and more importantly~ would i need to punch him in the face








the first thing he'd say~ would be~ you have three sons, are you fucking crazy ?








why don't you live in New York City ?








your still straightedge








you never learned Spanish ?








what ? you never went back to college ? dipshit !








your not very hardcore are you ?








you live in Seattle ? Washington ?








you drive a 25 year old VW van, where's the muscle car ?








you never wrote a real novel ? that people could actually read ?








i'm glad you go surfing, i always wanted to do that








you didn't go to grandma's funeral ?








You and Hugh never robbed a bank ?








what have you been doing all these years ?








you slackline ? isn't that kind of circus ~ ie ?






are you wearing black chuck taylor's ?








go ahead ask yourself some questions




N~
















the tree and the dust






chapter 5





i spent my larval years tumbling and eating my way through the trash and extinction left behind by other races of man, or human, of being, as fleck of dust, as sparkling shard, a black snowflake~worming it's way to your heart
the Measeld Velligee Professtor


the blue, green, and white bubble that was the world sat on the tip of god's dick
which was the name of the ship* that was this world but i wouldn't know this fact for decades~ i thought i was alone on the world, of rubble and puddle and gravel and grave, among the monolithic tombs, tenements, and statue with faces blown off, worn away, tumbled into jumbled weedy beds and copse, me and the machines, the mother, the pony, the guardian and the monsters~ the snow, the ice, silver clouds and cold. . .




Alone in any human sense, is a tragic way to begin a love story~




but could you ever really begin a love story from within a prison, a jail cell, a zoo, under glass, so very Victorian




when i was born into this world. . .
what are you doing? the unbridled unicorn asks, flush yellow in the glare of starstab.
I'm telling you a story, how this all begins, so when I'm dead and killed and dismembered you can tell future archaeologist, what i was all about, what my existence will have been ~
i honestly don't think anyone will care, and i stare with a head tilted dumb, within the bacterium suit, ruffled up around my neck, the voice foggy with glittering ice
when your dead, history will have ended and thus nothing will know of you
but what of the Measled Velligee ?
He/it will look for more~ of your race
are there more, could we find them ?
and the unicorn, she called pony, shudders and lays at her feet, grab your weapons, Sarrow
this world created in mimicry of human habitation plagiarised from the ruins of diaspora, one small world, destroyed by violence and glacier
The creature hunted the barren world with paw and fang and sent it's tethered children out in front beyond it's own eye to fetch the flesh of child
little and mean like rabid feathered puff balls advance with rolling teeth, chattering,
eeeeeaaaat, they shrieked~leaping over the slice edged drifts, Pony run ! Sarrow attacks with fist crushing blows against thin skinned predator, who pop, exploding organ and tooth
she ducks, jumps rolls and kicks bites and spits, with survival vengeance, the pony leaps a tangled mass of white feather blood and cries, as Sarrow lands on his back and they run full speed on into the claw tentacle beak maw of the creature, in white, supernova, snowstorm,
hell of a planet you made, Proffestor
the creature stands up with prickled ear, and massive face and shoulders, a mouth full of hands and claws screaming, puking digestive fluids, and seamen, a horror of wide open sphincter, and the clearest blue eyes intent on prey, all stare at a thin lichen covered girl riding an improbably manufactured pony with a knife welded to it's forehead
while the creature just wanted to understand love, with it's waving frantic tentacle, olfactory, to taste the love of flesh and the flesh of loved
i love you the creature simple states why does it have to be like this ? don't you love me ?
and Sarrow atop the pony painted black with blood attacks into the very heart of this creature
cutting and hacking till she punches through to the other side and is kissed by snowlight and sweet air,
turning she looks behind to see a cave carved out of the very body of this thing slowly collapsing in spasm, death and delight
your leaving me ? i know it . . .
and Sarrow breaks a smile and laughs, as the monster lays on top of the unicorn, who squeaks, help !
















*translated of coarse












cute problems

American death poems


i go to the mall when i want to commit suicide




with beauty and plastics and a faceless love of color behind glass as a zoo of things i don't want, can't afford, can't stop looking at



when the trees whisper my name at six thirty i have to leave and walk to my stairs





the one thing that i will miss about this neighbor hood is the wonderful smell of baking bread, every morning, but not wonder bread, that factory was razed to build empty condos, the bakery down the street is Franz~still making raisin bread and rolls and they still have an outlet store with free loafs and brilliant yellow and navy blue trucks ~ and the smell when the wind is blowing right is like a strangers kiss








the second before dawn







gutter fascination








for things squished









and useless but to the lens










the Fremont troll











now home to Fremont hobos, you can see a dready example in the background












yes, a real VW bug













hubcap eye and the kids drink here and pee on his shoulders, if you come, don't touch, or use your nose














everything free to the eye











i don't even know what to say~ this much perfect beauty is hard to look at

i wish someone could make a real life doll version of me,
















we are crafting perfect beauty talismans in plastic, coping the Romans, who copied the Greeks, in fetish art, in idealized form, in perfecting, in a much smaller scale, huge in the hands of their future owners
if they made the eyes more realistic, could you imagine how frightening she would be with those frosted lips and unstoppable hair
they've come out with a nice city girl doll in the simple black dress, so elegant


but i want this one~







who waits for me while i take pictures that make people uncomfortable








a tattoo star one for every year she'll spend in grubby hands









i never played







the only thing i ever wanted to be in my whole life, was an cosmonaut, but i didn't want to join the air force and shot aliens in the face so i became. . .whatever this is that i have become, a vehicle for three boys to ride into the future












what i meant and don't think i quiet said was that neither the Romans nor the Greeks sculpted representations of what their own actual people looked like, but of some highly refined ideal, their fantasy of men as gods, and gods as women, who wants to play with a fat dough boy doll, who really cares for classical statues but for the crazy perfection carved into the marble, right down to the microphallus







but what is up with the hair commander B ?









dolls are a very odd concept ~ this desire to hold a small version of big things, very weird, but i guess i like it, i had action figure dolls when i was a kid,i didn't shave off my pecker and hair and try to emulate them though~












then this guy shows up and. . . wow, man, wow maybe i will cut it off.


and then somebody made these two ~



































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