I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Tuesday, September 09, 2014
EYE
erased everything that ive written on this
and now im writing this
with no capitalization
or punctuation in this
the 2 things that i wrote before this - i had to save
i had to wrap my head around what i was saying
or TRYING to say
so i saved it
i saved it
it saved itself so
that i can
write more on it
it will be much more
much more than this
because i what i hover over is
not THIS
but the things that i think
the things that you miss
and sometimes what i save
is sososo
much better than this
so i save it
and now im writing this
with no capitalization
or punctuation in this
the 2 things that i wrote before this - i had to save
i had to wrap my head around what i was saying
or TRYING to say
so i saved it
i saved it
it saved itself so
that i can
write more on it
it will be much more
much more than this
because i what i hover over is
not THIS
but the things that i think
the things that you miss
and sometimes what i save
is sososo
much better than this
so i save it
Friday, August 29, 2014
Part of my other job is writing shit like this...
***** ******* Interview Questions
Let’s talk shoes.
Give me old school or current celebrity crushes, and why?
If you were going to be a TV show – what would it be?
A movie that you wish that you played a part in?
Fashion mistakes?
Last best meal that you just had?
Song in your head right now.
Underrated band.
Overrated band.
Last book that you read.
You get one week for a vacation in The United States –
vacation.
International, Where?
Why are you going to Hell?
Why are you going to Heaven?
What do you do well?
ADD?
Describe yourself in High School?
Do you do your own laundry?
I’m eating almonds and am going to open up a bottle of
champagne while I write this. It just started to rain. I just opened up the
bottle of champagne. How does this make you feel?
If you had one thing to carry in your pocket for all time.
Only this one thing. Not a wallet or a cell phone or keys – what would it be?
Catcher In The Rye?
What teen-idol are you?
Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin/Jerry Lewis
Last person that hung up on you?
How do you know me?
One word about you.
Two words.
Your epitaph?
You wind down at home after a lot of work – what’s that
like?
What do you love about what you do?
Three best friends. Explain. Why?
If you would dress me right now – like, you’re my fashion
guy – what am I doing right? What am I doing wrong? Do you want to trade
clothes?
One book to carry with you to take on a desert island. One
book that you’ve always wanted to burn.
TV, magazines or movies always. WHY?
Buying a girl something very expensive. What would it be?
Innocent or diabolical?
Phone or texting?
What’s a gentleman?
What’s a lady?
What’s fatherhood like?
Last vacation?
Aims?
How well would you fare in a zombie apocalypse?
If the 13 year-old you would tell you now something now –
what would he say?
Star Wars?
If you were a political figure from the past or the present?
What bugs you?
If you could ask one question to you, twenty years from now
– what would you say?
Favorite movie. Not Scarface.
Getting tired. Time for sleep….
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Monday, August 25, 2014
Walking around in my backyard...
Looking up at the chemtrail Kanjii in the sky.
Time's passing.
You are too.
All of you.
In and out, back and forth.
Sometimes here for a while.
Sometimes never to be heard from again.
I'm still here.
I think.
Time's passing.
You are too.
All of you.
In and out, back and forth.
Sometimes here for a while.
Sometimes never to be heard from again.
I'm still here.
I think.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Every Night For Years. Written By Kevin Malone. Filmed by Evan Schiefelbine.
About 3 years ago I bought this Tomaso Albinoni record that skipped on a five count halfway through a song. I liked the idea of something that looped...organically?
--- Evan Schiefelbine
All we ever heard was the same record playing over and over again. Was it the little old lady who played it or the rarely-seen, dumpy-looking son? Every night, exactly at 8:30. A skip in-between to flip the record over and then the music continued. Every night for years.
One night, there was no music. We checked our watches, glanced up at our clocks. The neighborhood slowly trickled out into the street. Murmurs, whispers, nervous glances. Why wasn’t the music playing? The front door opened. The dumpy-looking son walked out, wiped his eyes, shut the door quietly and shuffled down the street.
--- Kevin Malone
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Fat Free Milk A
Another day or
Another year
Another beat of the heart is
A-Okay
A bad relationship
A working relationship
An unfathomably-hard-to-believe-how-good-it-is relationship
A certain amount of
Ak-ruh-moh-nee-uhs NESS makes sense
And I hope to continue to make more sense of this nonsense before my
Absence...
...
..
.
Another year
Another beat of the heart is
A-Okay
A bad relationship
A working relationship
An unfathomably-hard-to-believe-how-good-it-is relationship
A certain amount of
Ak-ruh-moh-nee-uhs NESS makes sense
And I hope to continue to make more sense of this nonsense before my
Absence...
...
..
.
Friday, June 13, 2014
noAymanhhDUHbiekirno
“I will not try to convince you to love me, to respect me, to commit to me. I deserve better than that; I AM BETTER THAN THAT...Goodbye.”
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience
― Steve Maraboli, Unapologetically You: Reflections on Life and the Human Experience
Monday, June 02, 2014
THE HOUSE DOWN THE STREET - - -
All we ever heard was the same record playing over and over
again. Was it the little old lady who played it or the rarely-seen,
dumpy-looking son? Every night, exactly at 8:30. A skip in-between to flip the
record over and then the music continued. Every night for years.
One night, there was no music. We checked our watches,
glanced up at our clocks. The neighborhood slowly trickled out into the street.
Murmurs, whispers, nervous glances. Why wasn’t the music playing? The front
door opened. The dumpy-looking son walked out, wiped his eyes, shut the door
quietly and shuffled down the street.
We never saw him or heard that record again.
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