A Rather Offensive Pep Rally

There's a benign argument to this city. It's strung out like two passive aggressive lesbians in the ninth ward that give each other mo halks before bitching about the others over played cover songs. The hair standing on end, holding together the shaved parts like Frenchmen St.. The duality of anarchists and down to earth construction workers... throwing hammers at each others thrift art work right on esplanade between Mid City and the Marigny.
Whose tax payers dollars are paying for squatters?
Whose 'live in' volunteer work for city revitalization will bring back the soul of New Orleans?
Whose conservatism will keep it warm in the south?
Whose starving artists will attract all the street performers? What about those illegal animals, fire shows, the ones with instrumental experiments bellowing from within dreadlocks that are no longer rastifarian?
The two tag teams call secretly through beer cups on threads of logic that are dicey enough to break up the unity once formed in this city among french prostitutes and hobos. The only neutral ground cheered over shots, vowing to ignore bourbon street's din of 67 year olds in hawaiin shirts taking pictures of transsexual strippers, burnt out tourists, and college girls flashing their tits for mardi gras beads. You can hear their own spite, secret as north eastern racism. It creeps up right in between the drive by shootings and the brass bands. Sometimes lurking in the shadows of the over grown white pot bellies in uptown there are pick up trucks full of paint and renovated vw busses having a stand off.
Everything in this town is outdated, including their argument, that's what makes it so compelling. Modernity never has had such sturdy foundation, the worshipped maple wood etched in Banksy says it all.
What better solution to post apocolyptic reckage than a bunch of kids marvelling at garbage with the pride of poverty? It's as if their reinventing shot gun house architecture, taking the pillanders and flying buttresses out of classy. The old banjo player with a cigar and harmonica whose been on minimum wage his whole life can pop a squat next to a kid with rip off pants and a stolen acchordian on the mississipi. They both drink cheap whisky and have friends on crack. One lives in a tree house, and the other in rocking chair. New family portrait to toss on the fire place next to photos of Saint's fans and soul food recipes.
Esplanade can wrap its arms around the construction companies and the north eastern environmentalists alike.
Maybe this is a fantasy. A head trip of youthful socialism, rural liberalism drawn in to the sodom of the fast lane in the slow motion guise of an afternoon stroll, the 'walk in the park' that New Orleans holds so dear. With a mustang going at a top speed 30 miles an hour down main street, who can resist? Disclaimer granted... I hope these two paths merge, meet in a ware house of folks who were republican until Katrina, and impoverished side shows that tap dance with cans only wishing they were cool enough to be 10 years old like the locals in Jackson Square.
Make way for the whole population to recognize a common ambition among all, regardless of socio economics, to invent a middle class life style that spits on the consumerism associated with materialism, like diner milkshakes that are actually vegan.

Feel Good on a Friday

She rotted in her mind, as if her visual cortex was made of felt washed too many times. Squinted at clusters in the bright light of drab, the only beige in this city. They were all staring at the letters clunking on their teeth when they smiled, their toungs label makers espoused to unpublished snark blogs and post modern bla bla blas. Their enamel will deteriorate post whitening before their complaints can fertilize, a dessert of spoiled milk.
All their risks are drained down antique avenues in street rhythm rivers conjealed oil, sunburned kitcschy merchandisers, alcoholic residue, squatters dandruff dreads, a pealing tattoo, or the bloody lips of a sweating street artist at high noon. A casino of rotting dice.
Ebbing away the cobwebs of thick notions, stretching them thin within my grin, I peer out this womb of a shattered window. Rickety thoughts collect on dew drops, emblazoned on prehistoric plant life. Carving into mud with my toe, spelling out adenine triphosphate radio. The string theory of energy intermediates clinging to my peach fuzz stereo. Queer in the night, sitting in a cemetary enjoying a poor mans insight. The sake of things staggered in bricks, wrought iron gates, baring the bird cage I curl within.
The truth of pain decieves more than our wrinkled smiles. Embrassed winces are cobwebs of wroughting granny smith apples, that crumbles in my asophagus as the synthetic foam on mail order grocery cakes
let's step outside look up. The stars nonsense satisfaction tickles you, giggles a harmonic river tune, creaking beats with a rocking chair of life. Humorless hermits hear the rhythm like nails on cardboard, they want gentrified enlightenment.
All I want, what I'll get, is a long, warm night.

Stereopticon

A mirage reverberating in sensations,
the harp of bullets plinking prison bars,
Of Ravenous phantasms in dogmatic silhouettes
Fabricating stitches on my shadows
Gelatinous contours
Seeping tears of sex
A transparent concoction collar
Grasping my retraction
Tearing my nothings muscle
Straining away this undulating vista
To a raw downy vagabond of vanity
I’ll curl up within satiric women
Pop corn and my priceless projector
It’s a double feature… tune in

From one blog to a better one....

trashbagskids.com My new favorite dance party website : )

Are we floating if there's no ground?

What's your name?
Jane Dough?
Where do you live?
Los Angeles.


A magnetic name,
the suffix on our anonymous vow.
To abandon liability
unleash my minds crowd,
platform it on four inch heals,
gift wrap your novelty
and piss it out on your bus seat.
Just another trapeze necromance commi.


My shakra is in the car
underneath my specialized exercise garb!
It's a prias,
meters emotional exhaust.

Would you just listen to this face?

I'm choking on freedom like breathing in a strut.
Following the ultra violet gas streaks
with my rainbow gut.

Fuck your skin!

Don't penalize public nudity,
I'm just wearing mirrors in my spectacles.
Try on my tears,
go shopping for skin.
So I have testacles,
but I'll never be naked again.

If I'm A Turkey Than You're A Rooster

Missing a step on your facial escalator
A fleeting composition
as if your nostrils were interrupted for a brief message from your sponsors.

John's stretching through Stitzer's aviators
A brief light escaping between the leaves
olive green, hesitating
in a flicker of dissonant brows
waxing your face onto your mouths
rooted in sporadic photosynthesized academics,

The eye of your fast history
flipping Californian mountains, train stubs
and crazies, their roadside thumbs warring
entangled within a begger's glee,
a meditative gaze floating on my afternoon tea.

Glimpsing our duplexity
quadrilateral collateral
coloring my cities
pressing against the glass with a muted trombone
imagine waling in a washing machine
serenading your contented giggles
furiously haling their validity

when the sound cuts out
transition lost in transmission.
We, the bi
oh
logical sincerity of 'peek-a-boo' and 'hide-and-go-seek',
I duck and cover in this word cellar
where I ask us to find me,
drive right through my thumb
strutting amongst a garden inflating the pride of knik knaks
washed in artistry.

We'll echo about a clearing
where deforestation didn't phase us.
There's a year of silence in all that we've given trust.

Typewriter days

Do you ever shiver your mind into your throat?
Feel the friction, turning your words to saw dust. The brain herbs ground to grain.
A shell of imposed impressions,
superimposed on the restless faces
haunting you in your lonely.
Not knowing how to shed the skin of days words,
or collapse from the embracing social sensation
contradiction.
Letting go, running go, collecting
pass
go,
The Magic Tollbooth let's you grow down with these words.
Loving anatomy not physiology,
loving your response to your reaction.
Following your footsteps walking on your hands.

As if the world can't see you blinding yourself with a table cloth, crouched in footy pajamas with that typewriter. Plinking away the stutters skidding scabs on your way.