donate to ya boy

Wednesday, October 27, 2010


plays blame on the train
we came in threw the back whores
it felt like the eighties again...well I mean from what i've heard.
I scored a point for sanity,
I killed our "leaders"
not literaly...just with words and sit ins.
unbecoming to the mainstream,we dug our teeth into their grins
ripping their lips off in hopes of becoming future history book revolutionaries.
stop being hippies
or labeling yourself as gutta.
stop immitating past writers,actors and musical scores.
evolve and create from the soul,from both sides of the brain
lost in your own little world
while respecting the one you inhabit in this physical form.
third eye vision on this non-objective portrait of karma
we huddle inside to stay warm.
I draw up this picture and staple it to the wall
i paint over it in knowing itll be lostdown the road
that some one will find it and write a similar note
on the back of a peice of paper,with a scribbled picture
of another ones lover on the front.
my mistress,however
just seems to be hope.

circle takes the square

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Band Of The Week

San Diego on my mind jesus christ. The Sess, are good ol' rock and surf with a psychadelic twist. I'm not going to talk you up on this because I have more pressing matters to attend to:

This is your first recepiet from the master chef,myself.
Olive oil & cinammon in boiling water,with a pinch of sugar
next macaroni and long angel hair pasta
then chili with 2 peices colby jack,three havari,1 swiss,1 pepper jack,and american
now diced up (FRESH) jalapenos,peppers,white onion simmered in an olive oil frying pan with salt,pepper and garlic salt.
add ranch,hot sauce (preferbaly Valentene) BBQ,jalepeno juice and half of a limes juice in the chili.
stir it up to a thick consitencey
drain the pasta
and cut up some cheese,milk and butter and melt it.
now put the pasta/mac,chili,lettuce and avacado all into the bowl you cooked the pasta/mac in.
mix it up until its a brown and green,cheesy mess
and serve either on plate or in a warmed tortilla.
This is the admirals plate.

be careful talkin hella trash

Rhythm breaks teeth

And yet theres a silent success

“two men enter,one man…”

leave it..

Double fisting a dirty martini and scoth I approach a fellow

Eyes low,I connect our elbows

A soft punch.

He starts to mellow out as he realizes im not who he thought I was

(sounds of loose breath)

scene change.

stressful nights on the beach,we clasp hands as the tide takes are comrads away

their bodies decay out in the medeteranian

strange as I relate this night to the first time

her breathe being mine,

menthol and all those other men.

The drums kick in,and the bass pops

The block is shattered as the night becomes morning

A chorus of crows is all that’s playing

My hands empty,im guessing

in the midst of the murders my monologue dominated the court room screenplay

I smoke a cigarette and turn away from the judge,she’s curious,I can tell by the look on the defense

A chainsaw slides out of the wall

We medicate and restart the day again

Its always going

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Friday, October 22, 2010


I woke up a few minutes ago with brandy still coursing its way threw this shell. A couple of pain pills,you know,not to many real feelings anymore. I feel like its '64,few years removed from the war.Kearouac hasent died yet,but cassidy has..the movements close to folk lore. I have this reoccuring dream,these beautiful sisters lead me across Italy,er,Rome to be on point. Im naked alot of the time,but that dosent bother me (nor does it in real life,or I would assume post labodomy). I raise glasses to irrationality,to a heirarchy, a question,I says.The sun isnt out and this town is haunted so we might as well set capital hill a flame...All the politicians and homeless would rest together in their unnamed graves. I'd smoke cigartrettes and place my trust in the river,watching the water playfully tumble over itself. The sun comes out for a breif second,and across the pond is a reflection of this beautiful blonde girl. Not like the sisters,more elegant and brief in the way she enter and exits my psyche. I write to her... every once in a while on my tounge, it always melts away before I can say a word.shes got a half cocked grim as she rubs her hands up and down her long legs and further up her arms until her left hand rest on her shoulder and she smiles from behind her smirks. I often want to ask her to run off wih me..."lets go to greece!"...again smiles and understanding. This time she reaches into her purse,and removes a painting she finished this morning,shes says its for me. she runs her fingers threw her short hair,breifly smiles,and glares down at the piece. I take it from her hand and run my thumb over the creased wood,feeling all the bumps and imperfections. This is the moment I feel as though a kiss is deserved,yet I stare outwards and murmur a thank you of sorts. The feeling in this time line is unimaginable and sweet ,I swear I would give up anything to relate;but another brandy awaits. The days turn into letters I crumble and throw away...I feel so foolish,though,she haunts my thoughts...I lay on my back and look at the stars.

come home I whisper,be in my arms.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

OMG this is my music video that I made with Jarrod Saba (aka the man) please go watch the passwords shittyvodka

My explanation to this point...

I'm so happy about the new literary journal Eduardo Jones, Jesse Mitchell,Sham, Andreas,HST books,just all these dudes ive met in the past four months thanks to "Finding the Beat..." the little documentry if you know me I've spoken ad-naseum about since the first day I found out. Every day they get great new writers,like a personal friend of a friend Leah Bodenhammers work,or Ben Simon, or Bryce. Trina and Jinx have really started somthing special that is so young and so promising. This is special especially in a time like this in World History. An economic depression,such tension from all sides in a time of a technological rennissance. It makes me feel like at some point,if somthings not done,we will have lost sight of the enjoyment of life,of each other. Its simply easier to coexsist ,but that is the flaw...haha that lame,lame flaw...

I was born during a flash flood in the muggy Texas summer. Born to two Methodist ministers and torn threw the machinery of salvation, I feel repulsed to know its just another business all about its weight in gold. I see time hasn’t changed in these edited history books. People remain the same; the hierarchy is a dark dynasty, then the sheep follow the Judas goat, while normal people know about the finales’ of television shows .I haven’t felt more on edge since I was seven and beating my cousin with a baseball bat on my birthday in a backyard. I can’t explain who I’ am because of this cesspool I swim in, I’m just not as aware as I should have been. If I were to say that I slept in a mansion on a furry rug would that make me distasteful; or if I slept on my friends couch scraping quarters out of the cushions, would that mean I’m a waste of time and space? I’m not the voice of the doomed, or the common obscure. I am the poster boy for a reeling generation; one of dormant aptitude and hasty immoral decisions. I barely trust my eyes and remain constantly vigilant, open to the road and in search of visions or hope, which ever comes most. I’ve made love to the most beautiful women, and bloodied an enemy’s nose all while medicated on high doses of...Whatever was cheap or free at the moment… I’ve spent days in jail, listening to the trains yells wondering the next time ill be free to write or smoke. I’m not as important as I once perceived myself to be; therefore I vomit the beast out of me as consistently and cohesively as my grammar allows it to seem. I am not the thief I once was, stealing the brains of young children and over priced clothes. I’ am a cold heartless man with motor oil coursing threw my bones… I’m sick of EM! All of EM! High horsed coattail riders with neither the scrodem nor skills to envision such a revolution; the sad trend of being someone who’s previously lived threw imitation. Were regressing, as a society, BREATH LITERATURE & ART, and question authority. Libraries will burn if we fall further unaware.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Well kids

So things are looking up for this homeless vagabond. I have finally assembled a super team of artists and the Eduardo,Jesse and I are starting a magazine for people like us...deginerate loop pushers with a knack for word play. Though we do have help for the shirt company (i.e.: Illustrators,buissnesspeople,printers and A (yes one) investor..we still need help. This shirt company is going to make incredible clothes,for cheap prices too. The ideas on my side include whole shirt lines coupled with comic books,both written and Illustrated by mwah. As always the music my friends and I make will be included,and a copy of my manifesto will be included...but why? Art is money,right? is the third eye of the psyche. My colleagues and I want to enlighten you and plead for you to be apart of US. We need constant ideas for what YOU want on shirts. Kellen Guse and Amber Devilbiss(who joined the team this morning) will absolutley blow your mind with their unique styles and gifts,where as I will draw by commisson,and by whatever the fuck I want. All Ideas are welcome and encouraged. The revolution will commense (since it seems materialisim is the only thing that makes sense) it will be done threw clothes.
Now the magazine! Oh the magazine! "Sick of Em'" ode to all the publishers and magazines who hold themselves in such high regard they choose our worst prose and poems. To those goverment officals who play with our lives. Our mission is to approach reality,with out all the seasonings of the "media". Conspiracy thories (or truths if you will ) will be proposed,and unbaised veiws of sports and the hypcoricies of "truth" will be uncovered or shed light on.
Oh if i could explain my excitment of the coming days and months I would,just be prepared.

Thursday, October 14, 2010


the ancient ship was docked by the admirals vessel,and old drunk observed from the street. The rats scampered joyusly amongst the garbage of the sea fairing people,while the lights on the harbor swayed with the wind in the evening. Two young crew workers toss the ancor into the bay,the ghostly figures haunt down the stairs to their captain who awaits. A large bulbus fellow with a beard full of lizards. Their ship smells of vomit,and the men like the aforementioned and shit. It had been noted by another captain,that they were worst class swamp rats,with nothing but balls in their heads.Six shooters and jagged blades were the weapons they brandished and during their raids they'd rape the mayor in the square,then remove his heart for the crowd in windows and doors. Still beating they'd often shout "We eat bones."They raided homes. The city was then always laid to ruins. Their barge carried a misma,the first officer carried his wifes face(quote:she never looked at me the same way again) the crew carried a grudge,naturally children would stow away. Girls were sent to clean barricks,and boys to scrub the deck.If a child acted up,loss of a finger,if it happend again a head. Colonies were destroyed and the night raids wore on for decades,as the gentle sea held tales. Children got older and replaced their elders,as any healthy society should. On the euinox,a new captain took hold. A bold young cunt with shining blonde hair. He spoke few words,and dressed like a modern regal. The thouroughfares were a buzz over the sacrafice of ship to such a man.His teeth sparkled from the reflection of the ocean,the pig war is over.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Grenade Knife

Up in a redwood full of squid
I slid beneath coral reef.
creepin the beats of junkies deep-purple streets.
I hid in beilf,that this infact
was greef.
The first time I've smiled in a while,or rather
fell into rim sleep.
I reworked the entire screenplay in this dream.
The lights were as haggered as the dull too
flying saucers...
sword fish...
no one would say a word.
I lowered my gaze as I blew smoke.
Now invision gold,your sub-concience in a labryinth...
Vulcan logic fused with Jedi mindtricks,
coupled with a swollen brain from all the wine thats been sipped....
grease traps then fill to the tip..
with old poems and pictures.recent paintings and manuscripts.
(Charecter enters stage left,sips Brandy,exits left again.Flawless,almost little to no motion)
No motivation,the heads of the corporation ask for the next presintation
(exit stage right.tame aggrevation...restrain your hands from breaking
12 months pass..
I lace my cigarette with embaulming fluid,huffing paint on an unmarked tombstone.
my iris reflects the blue moon,
seems that ill run into gunplay at high noon.
I thought today would be a good day,
yet again im grabbing that A.K.
& a long feathered caligraphy ink pen...
I develop literature for a political movement.
And underneath all my involvements
my God damn Christ like hopes and King like entitlement to apathy.
I found leadership in a dying form...
spreading my wisdom like ash to an urn in a violent lightning storm
the body seizures synapses to the brain of a monster
(next chapter)
I'am consistently discusted by the discussion I hear,read and speak.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Band of The Week

I don't know if its been a week...honestly. Whatever.

My mafuckin' man,Justin Pearson,is at it again. In 1995 a microscopic record label by the name of Three One G hit the scene. They've had a host of underground west coast bands (namely The Blood Brothers,Das Oath,Holy Molar,Head Wound City,Some Girls,Cattle Decapitation and,most noteabley The Locust.) This dude owns and operates this whole little shin dig and to date has been involved (or is currently involved with) ten bands. Now these aren't little indie bands singing about girls and shit,this is noisy and uneconomical music. Think about a spaceship crashing into a metropolitain area,and this can hint to the alarming nature of this music. As a brash fifteen year old,hungover from the straight edge life,these bands set me on the destructive course that my life is now on (not really,but seriously). The Band this week is Leg Lifters. An intresting turn from the normalcy of the chaos that is 31G music. Strange as this may sound,Leg Lifters,is a slower Locust. Now If you dont know The Locust,the only way to describe them is as a swarm of Locust with syntheziers and fast paced acid punk. 40 seconds of terror,and delight.Now Leg Lifters is not a convential band. Its Nathan Joyner & Pearson,just acting like disco robot maniacs. Their best track,that I've found is "Halloween Swim Team (remix)...if i could describe it I would...

SO here is the link to Leg Lifters:

and of course Three One G:

please,if you have heart problems or strange music makes you cringe,give it a up...loser.

I'm sorry.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

egyptian nights

I'm riding threw the graveyard,splashing through the puddles on this overcast day.
my tire track swirls in between the broncos tracks which is now puttering away.
lost are the days of youth,as like I cared anyway.
behind me is a funeral procession,thirty or so cars deep.
Mexican family:beautiful:grieving.
I hide my face,never turning around...I feel as though IAM leading,
to the ground.
swirls of colors rupture from the oil in the puddles as they splash on to my red framed bike.
like it or not,i thought,the wind will be coming tonight.
I felt the raddle of my bones as the anticipation of first snow,now breathes with the combating of fall.
I see the mountains in the distance,awe struck with the feeling of winter,the city to the south, bound by memories.
standing on the footsteps of a bookstore,smoking cigarettes laced with liquid hyrdrocodene.
all before the hour long walk threw the dirty slush and smog filled cold.
coughing my american spirit,as if I should have known,that this American life breeds cancer
among sorrow.
back in the bathroom,the shower screaming with the broken toilet closed,the mist folds the paper to my diary as the words begin to run soaked,
my heart foams for methadone,but the shivers press on.
surrounded by people who love me,I now feel at ease
leading the procession of people to a grave meant for me.
past the mausoleums,between two aspen trees,next to the fence by the tree ladened lake
thats where my empty Pharaoh chamber sleeps.

Monday, October 4, 2010


In ten years from now I hope to believe. I hope these two feet can stand solidly threw the pyroclastic flow. I turn my head now,downwards in motion,only to see my old man...the ocean. His waves crush the land beneath,creating a moat around me made from sea. Fish quiver and rattle on the soaked sand as I hear whales in the distance,Jesus fuck,such magnificent sounds. These are not war fearing people;they simply haven't a concept. Telegraphs and postcards bombard my heart. I miss the way things use to be. The only thought is change,really the only radical way to assimilate. Feathers pour down from the sky,as a delusion of words catch my eye. I've been haunted for a while. I creep down dark stairs into the hull of my cabin,the spirits are listless in the dark. They've been talking to me,asking if I could help them be free. The graveyard is quiet across the street. The rain still hints at its release. Brief encounters with past lovers via damaged thoughts causes me to cough up a petition to a decree. No more envelopes. No more bites from the coral reef. No more ordinance,or ordinary sleep. I merely want to breathe,but the air is too cold to see.