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Showing posts from August, 2007

Uncle Russian Cowboy...

You're going home Second City.
Gonna be a princess...
That's right, pretty little tsarevna. That's you Second City.
The purple flocked poster over the urinal is tattered with staples and dry gobahgoo. There's a big ol' smiley face in the middle. Puff, puff, puff goes the nose. My fingernails feel like they're slipping off a little bit. My foot's bent up underneath me and its filling with sand. The girl in the stall beside me is throwing up. That or she's talking to some really deep deep sheep.
What's that Second City, Second City, if it can't be done then it can't be done yeah no... That's so not so here in New York, New York, New York. The place where Crocodile Dundee slept and Washington ran away from. See my I-Heart-Tee-Shirt Second City, Second City. Now Get the fuck out. Uncle Russian Cowboy stuffs his cotton shirt back in his pants.
blahblah, blah, blah, blah... Uncle Russian Cowboy talks some more and then slaps mah face square b…

The Way Home From Mars

I liked the tin music from my flat speakers, it sounded like rolling fuzz on a fat sleeve. My record player was as old as my oldest sister and as orange as a plastic sock. It was on my desk beside the bowl of shells and the odd bits of glass that I found in the field behind our school. No one ever liked being inside as much as I did but if they did it must have been '66 and they were reading, The Way Home from Mars.
They were lost. They needed to make a difference and Buzz the Johnson was going to set them straight. "This is a democracy for leaders Mary," his eyes glinted. "There's no lip gloss where we're going." My ball glove was on the bed beside me. The leather smelled warm and fragrant like it had been hiding under cornflower. It rained during the day so dad called our usual game early.
There was a Gainsborough hanging over my desk, it was all tobacco and cool silk that made me hate horses and spindly ankles for a life time. Mom liked that stuff, …

Tomorrow Now

...scratched knees on palm suffering drunkard nights. Our drafts are saved autoly. Corrosive Dee'n Agents reminding kids of our spilled evil in their marrow. Better than color its Black n Dubya, sifting the trim end of life with a hammers wit, all golden and viral when we meet. Genes in hand, knees in broken denim and a sloppy pour too near the bed. Todo... Todo... little house, red.

In the Future, this happens more than you might think

Pree, John, String St after MomJean's funeral

This house is old enough to be all of our mothers, I agreed.
I poked inside a brown box in the front room. The dark panels seemed to hold the windows just enough but they managed to slip here and there. The sofa was stained to match broken, where it's arms seemed so pious the center sagged brazenly suggesting elopement or worse. The walls were tanked with drawings and paintings on every kind of surface. Bits of curled paper and dry panel hung from filament and drooped from spun ribbons of muslin. There was a pile of yellow and green photo's on the table. They'd been shuffled to the side in a disordered and hasty manner.  
The limits of an unkind, no not that. Hope does spring, John settled on qualifying. Vaughn's sweet. He's young and quotable like that. Oh Vaughn, you know he's tired when he nods off to sleep in his own piss.
The road less traveled leads to better times then these, her hand was candle red. Pree pushed her glass across the table. The bottle w…

Rusty George and the Cartographer's Tale

George is large and as whole as an entire room of Benjamin's he sniggered softly to himself. I hope he let's us have the eggplant in the French room again?
Please, god no, Random turned and shook his head. Look company or not what about that Rothko. The one that's in the passage outside, He asked.  Let's switch sides at least, He suggested. This whole campaign is making me uncomfortable now. Plus, On the train. Now that's for Heroes.
What an unfortunate name?
Poor kid can't even shorten it.the only Otto I know is the bus driver for the simpson's.
and Anne franks dad. he was named Otto.
Anne frank her dad was named Otto.
you know the little girl that died in world war 2.
see it's the 18 hundreds all over again.


The Hopper from the Lac to GloryHollow is straight all the way. The Hollow sets in the soggy bottom land about 30 miles from the big river. There's hills and tree's and birds all around it's high wire fence. The Hollow is a single simple construction with long low lines built up from the local sandstone the lime and and mineral resins. The worn photo’s from back then make it look washed and green with a pale flag on it's top. For contract work the nearby villages were turned out. After that the Neoists sent couriers further down the river to gather every green sleeved grant writer and sling armed accountant they could find. Once the shape was sketched out the whole thing went clickity-quick. Soon enough the first truants moved in.

Bah... What's my Line?

In the Tradition of Conceptual Geography

Like a tilted breeze