Thursday, December 07, 2006

Biocide from the Inside

Perspectives narrow and unbalanced
Totter and moan under the overwhelming
Weight, urgency, and terror
Of life

Lightning flashes of satori
Of revelation
Self immolation
Bring bliss, love, enfolding
And unfolding possibilities

But no permanent understanding
Is guaranteed by this brief

Skillful interpretation
Useful integration
Permanent evolution
Requires hard work
Brutal honesty
Infinite flexibility

Surviving the thunder
Requires above all else
Open hands
Open minds

Wrapping the lightning
In rootless magic
Or outdated myth
Or limited logic
Can no longer be tolerated
In the age of Biocide

We cannot escape this world

If we desire heaven
We must become angels
And work together in the mud

There’s some lovely filth right here

Thursday, November 16, 2006

One for the Road

Martini Gorgonzola celebrated his 50th birthday with a front end alignment and a brake check. While his Mazda was levitating on the hoist and being serviced by methheads in blue jumpsuits, Mr. G made a scientific study of the thin oily coffee in his Styrofoam cup. If he squinted his eyes to reduce the blurring effect of his stigmatism, he could almost see the coffee etching a ring into the cellular structure of the white petrochemical foam. He made a silent bet with himself, 3 to 1 odds, that the oily sheen on the surface of the coffee was actually petroleum released from the Styrofoam and not natural coffee oils released from the beans before testing the temperature with a tentative sip. He grimaced briefly at the sour taste and slugged the bad brew back like it was a double shot of whiskey. Well actually he swallowed the rancid brake-shop coffee in a way he imagined whiskey drinkers would slam hard liquor, having never actually tasted whiskey. “Maybe I should get drunk on whiskey,” thought Gorgonzola. “That’s sumthin I’ve never done before. Be a better birthday present than a $436 dollar repair job on the Blue Zoom Zoomer.”

The man named Martini who had never drunk whiskey crumpled up the Styrofoam cup and lined up a basketball shot to the chrome garbage can next to the coffee maker. But he was startled when the waiting room television made a jarring grinding noise and then started to whine. The crushed cup missed the can and bounced off the window, splattering coffee on a poster for Japanese tires. The VCR built into the TV was rewinding its tape while the screen showed blue with a series of white letters in the upper right corner: REWIND. Mr. G looked around to see if anyone had noticed the mess he had made, but he was the only customer in the waiting room and the only employee, a balding Asian with a name tag that declared his name to be “Gus”, was twirling a pencil in one hand and listening to a distant voice on an ancient black telephone, wasn't looking at him. So Gorgonzola walked over to the window and picked up the cup. Placing it carefully in to the garbage he noticed the oily coffee was dripping down the tire model's long legs and dissolving the poster’s ink. He considered using a napkin to clean it up, but was intrigued by the kaleidoscope swirl of red, black and cream colored ink—logo, tire and flesh running together. But the model kept smiling despite the mess her legs were becoming. “Maybe I should get laid,” thought Gorgonzola. “That’s sumthin I haven’t done in a while. Be a better birthday present than a $547 dollar repair job on the old Mazola.”

Another shuttering sound of gears grinding together came from the television as the video tape began playing again. The blue screen briefly displayed the command: PLAY, then a trustworthy gentleman wearing a red tie under his spotless blue jump suit wiped a red rag on a gleaming socket wrench and proceeded to congratulate Martini Gorgonzola on his wise decision to bring his automobile to Brake Masters. Gus said three words in what Gorgonzola guessed to be Korean and hung up the phone. Gus scratched his bald head with the pencil eraser, scribbled something on a yellow invoice and put the pencil, point first, into a glass bowl filled with kitty litter on the red counter. “Your car’s bout ready,” Gus said in a surprising West Texas accent. Martini turned and saw his blue Mazda being driven out of the work bay and into the parking lot. The attractive young model was still smiling even though the coffee stain had eaten all the way through the poster, and Mr. G began to have an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his stomach. “You want to settle up?” asked Gus. “The total comes to $325 for the alignment. Watch out for those curbs, now ya hear? Oh, and your brakes were fine. You just had them done three months ago. Should last you a good long time yet.”

Martini Gorgonzola watched as Gus swirled and blended with the phone and the counter, red, black and cream. The television assured Mr. G that all Brake Master Mechanics received periodic training in the latest automotive technologies. But Gorgonzola was more interested in the cool plastic feel of the floor tiles on his cheek and the hole that had appeared in the Styrofoam ceiling tiles just above and behind Gus’ swirling face. “Happy birthday, Gorgonzola,” he said as the hole grew wider to meet the darkness creeping in from the edges of his peripheral vision. “Never did like coffee much…”

Fishing for Mao’s 15

Psychotropic rivers run through
Pulsing rhythms pound

Particular particulates capitulate
Portals quietly populate

People fishing on stilts
Pondering cultural revolvers

Friday, October 27, 2006

The feathers of your wings

The feathers of your wings
Sometimes makes my nose itch
And my eyes water
Well worth it for the fresh breeze
Of your arrival
And the warmth
As we share our nest

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

I am not

I am not a microscope
But there is a lack of focus
I am not a freeway
But there are traffic jams
There are accidents
I am not a radio
But there are voices
There is music
There is static
I am not that
But there is this
There is we
There is me
There is [ ]

Ah, I am that, [ ]
Say that, [ ], three times fast, uncle
And hand me the fucking map

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Collecting Stamps

Your textual context is dense
And sometimes heartbreakingly dark
But with Cliffhanger Notes in hand
I wade, waist deep, into the space
Between the neat lines
Where the real you
Just might lurk
Yearning to be understood
Hiding behind the shadows
Of approaching twilight

Casual approval
And gold foil stars
Are not what I need from you
I collect unguarded looks
Fleeting smiles
Unconscious laughter
And paste them proudly
Like stamps in my passport
Just graffiti on a wall
Testifying that I am really here
With you
Sharing a cold midnight
Leaning toward each other
Meeting in a warm pool of waxy candle light
Translating ancient languages
Into modern love poems

Share with me the diamond dew
Displayed on blades of grass
This morning

Friday, September 15, 2006

4 > 0

Being against something
Strengthens the thing you are fighting
It defines you as opposed to that thing
What happens if that thing disappears?
Who will you be?
Being against things is a zero sum game

Being for something is much harder
But it defines you as being part of a thing
Part of a thing that you love
As long as you are for that thing
That thing and you cannot disappear
You know who you are

Being anti-war
Subtly increases war
Being active for peace
Increases the power of peace
If more energy is directed towards peace
War will naturally decrease

Let us spend the effort and the time
To discover who we are
And what we are for
For love
For peace
For compassion
For dignity
For health
For education
For saving our selves and all others

For is Greater than Zero

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Heads Will Roll

Couldn't afford 200 bucks
For a recycled ticket to paradise
So I avoided the long lines
And the black Tee-shirts
I thumbed a ride out of town
With a gender confused
Trans Ambulance chaser
A wild honey dripper
Who gave me the grand tour
Of the wild side
The under side
Your side
And my side
Before slip sliding away
Into the petroleum sunset
Stone free
But united with something
Ingenious and indigenous
Couldn’t afford 20 bucks
For a bus ticket to the marketplace
So I loitered with the locals
And drank green tea
And added my gangly rhythms
To an impromptu jam session
Pounding on a rusty bucket
And chanting a wordless
But not soulless
Litany of solitude
Of solidarity
And finally of solace
Before slip sliding away
Into the hydrogen sunrise
Thankful for the tour
And the postcards
And the friendly natives
Who helped me feel at home
But most of all
Grateful for the miles
Stretched out beneath my feet
For the throbbing of my temples
That tells me
Tells me
Tells me
I am alive

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Sitting Still

Burning dead pages
The rusty barrel steams
And smokes
Inky smoke
From dead pages
Written in a simpler time
By a simpler mind
Now morning sun illuminates
The flying bits of ash
Still bearing faint imprints
Of text
But never read
By another

I’m still sitting
New words swirling
Beneath a blanket of desires
Clamoring for a chance
To audition
To sit in inky stillness
On a dead page
For the burn barrel

Monday, August 28, 2006

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Hands Up

Hands Up
If you think you’d like to live a long life
Hands Up
If you blink and cry at all the world’s strife
Hands Up
If you’re tired of prepackaged desires
Hands Up
If you would like to fly much higher
Hands Up

Friday, August 11, 2006

I'm Probably Not Moving

I seem to be stuck
The latest poll numbers tell the tale
Only 33% of Blog Readers Approve
Of my attempts at poetry
And Dick Cheney has suggested
That you reading my prose
Makes Osama happy, happy, happy
So I will have to find some way
To excuse my verbal outbursts
To tie my inconsistent use of punctuation
And distrust of caPitalIZatioN
To the recent terrorists plots in London
Or at least negotiate a cease-fire deal
With the Right-Wing pundits
And their zombie followers
Who have accused me of using steroids
To enhance my typing skills
I am only expressing my self
So if I drop a poetry bomb on your head
I am only defending myself
From the rain of propaganda rockets
Fired by institutional terrorists
Who insist that I must dwell in fear
FEAR and nothing but FEAR
So help me
Great Invisible Friend In The Sky

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Thursday, August 10, 2006

Gyromatic Action

Nimble Fingers spin yarns
Many of them off color
Filled to the gills with innuendo
They never fail to reel in
A tasty Bass Assortment

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

What’s So Funny ‘Bout Peace, Love & Understanding?

Hello Internet. I’ve been on vacation, so I’ve been out of touch. But I still love you.
I’ve been camping with the family and the family dogs. Roasting marshmallows, getting bit by mosquitoes, fishing for bluegill, hiking in the forest are the kinds of things I have been doing. So I haven’t been reading Blogs, or watching TV, or listening to talk radio, or reading newspapers. You could say I’ve been out of touch. Or you could say that I have been in touch. In touch with older, deeper, more primal things like sun sets and moon cycles and keeping my small tribe fed and sheltered.

I had kind of hoped that when I returned from my technological exile, that when I returned to the fast-paced world of email and news updates that there would be some progress, maybe a ceasefire in Lebanon at least. But no, I have returned to find that despite the speed of modern American life, not much has changed. But then again, maybe I have changed. And maybe that is the only change I can really expect to make in this world.

I cannot upholster the whole world, but I can make new sandals for my sensitive feet. I cannot make others stop hating, but I can fill my thoughts and heart with more love and compassion. You could say that changing my insides will not change the world. And you may be right. But from where I am sitting, changing my insides changes everything.

So, Hello Internet. I’ve been on vacation, but I feel more in touch. And I still love you.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Earth Body

Four travelers met on the road
Dipping their toes
In cool water
Heads held high in the air
Hearts harboring a gentle fire
Which gave animation
To their earth bodies

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Shine On You Crazy Diamond

Syd Barrett 1946 - 2006

Trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
you have no word
trip, trip to a dream dragon
hide your wings in a ghost tower
sails cackling at every plate we break
cracked by scattered needles
the little minute gong
coughs and clears his throat
madam you see before you stand
hey ho, never be still
the old original favorite grand
grasshoppers green Herbarian band
and the tune they play is "In Us Confide"
so trip to heave and ho, up down, to and fro'
you have no word
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
Isn't it good to be lost in the wood
isn't it bad so quiet there, in the wood
meant even less to me than I thought
with a honey plough of yellow prickly seeds
clover honey pots and mystic shining feed...
well, the madcap laughed at the man on the border
hey ho, huff the Talbot
"Cheat" he cried shouting kangaroo
it's true in their tree they cried
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
The madcap laughed at the man on the border
hey ho, huff the Talbot
the winds they blew and the leaves did wag
they'll never put me in their bag
the seas will reach and always seep
so high you go, so low you creep
the wind it blows in tropical heat
the drones they throng on mossy seats
the squeaking door will always squeak
two up, two down we'll never-[lee] limit
so merrily trip forgo my side
Please leave us here
close our eyes to the octopus ride!
-- Octopus by Syd Barrett

Friday, July 07, 2006

Can I Buy a Ticket to the Mountain?

The boy used to wander in the fields around his house.
“Don’t go too far,” his mother would cry.
But the boy used to wander in the fields around his house.
One day he followed the teasing of a crow.
Into the dry hills which climbed like steps
On a magic staircase lit by sun and moon
When the crow abandoned the boy
There was no sun, no moon
Just a rocky seat and a cold, cold wind


“Why did I wander so far from home?”
The boy shivered and wondered
“Who do I think I am to wander so far?”
The boy sat and shivered in that dark place
Until a silent explosion of light broke through
Clouds the boy did not know were lurking in the dark
Light blazed forth and the boy beheld that his hard seat
Was the grand pinnacle of a great high mountain.


Eventually the light was shrouded by the clouds again
And hungry for his mother’s sugar cakes, he thought of home.
The boy left the mountain and climbed down the hills
He promised the crow he would not forget the mountain
As he reentered the fields around his house
And was wrapped in the apron embrace of his mother on the porch
He promised the crow he would not forget the light
“Why did you wander so far from home?” mother asked
The boy tried to explain about the crow, the hills,
The rocky seat, the mountain and the light
But the words did not reach her heart


Mother kept the boy close to home
And frowned when ever he talked to crows
Or sang tuneless melodies about alpine light
“You must go to the town and learn your trade”
“You must please the mayor, the banker and the priest”
“You must never, ever let them hear you talking to the crows.”
So with a sack lunch in his hand
The boy put his feet on the hard road to town
And tried not to hear the complaints of the crow
Behind him in the fields around his house


Now the man works in the market square
Buying and selling but never far from his house
He greets the mayor each morning
Gossips with the banker over lunch
Bows his head and accepts the blessings of the priest
Searching for cheap groceries to take to his wife
Buying and selling but never far from his house
The crow sometimes teases him
Calling from the telephone post
The crow leaves him gleaming white gifts
Which remind the man of small mountains
Drying and crumbling slowly in the sun

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Words Never Spoken in Public

Words Never Spoken in Public

It is so easy to feel overwhelmed in public
The simple fact of mathematics makes it clear
I am only one
They are many
A multitude, a throng, a crowd, a party, an army
All with opinions, all with weight, mass, momentum
I am only one
They are many
And it is so easy to keep my private thoughts
My little fears, my little hopes
Bottled safely within my glass heart
Protected by the brittle green barrier of my apprehension
I am only one
They are many
And my voice does not carry well in a crowd
My murmurings are drowned out by the cheers and jeers
My questions are unheard whispers in a bustling marketplace
I am only one
They are many
So I hide my tiny treasures, my tarnished silver trinkets
My delicate lacey butterfly wings of tender love
I pack them away one by one wrapped in newspaper

These are words never spoken in public
I am
Only One

Friday, June 23, 2006

Cassette Tapes Killed the Music Industry

Something that I said has the arcade in a rut
There she goes again singing cannibal hymns
Blessed persistence circles justification
Just out of reach
Just enough to get by
Just a penny for my thoughts
Now that the future is here
Machiavelli labels wine in the Preacher’s cellar
Stoned and drunk she rings the funeral bell
Original Mothers rehearse institutional man
Instead of you
In straight lines
Inside dying America
Metal oxide coatings not withstanding
Her sound fading despite plastic tabs now missing
Cassette tapes killed the music industry

Thursday, June 22, 2006

In a Different Sort of Light

Watch out for Buddha
He just sits on his butt all day
And smiles that mysterious smile

When you call on him for help
All you hear is the sound of one foot
One foot kicking your ass out the door

Watch out for Jesus
He just hangs around all day
Talking about his Daddy’s estate

When you call on him for help
He just makes vague appointments
Appointments he doesn’t ever keep

But in a different sort of light
Everything is quite all right
In a different sort of light

When you take the pressure off
The bodhisattvas and the saints
When you take the pressure off
Yourself for goodness sake
You catch the mischievous wink
You catch the knowing nod
You catch a hint of the coming punch line

In a different sort of light
Everything is quite all right
In a different sort of light
You’re happier with wise friends
Instead of holy gurus and martyrs
In a different sort of light

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Element 91

Crooked memories of Doctor Bliss
Forfeit summer sing alongs
Some kind of jet stream pilot
Snuggles darling brother daughters

Make yourself uncomfortable
Under dry ice heavy branches
Element 91 will not fall
Element 91 will not fall

Condition green ocean waves
Flags flying godless grave
White hot black love lender
Fearless vampire pretenders

I’ll keep you alive survive alive
Sympathetic Hollywood enders
Element 91 will not fail
Element 91 will not fail

Consolidated hands on beat
Spin webs of the down footed
Careening trips head up and up
Where the hell is my uncertainty?

Turn you cowboy turtle necks
Lifting heavy petting zoology
Element 91 will not fall
Element 91 will not fall

This fission is complete

Thursday, June 01, 2006

From Souza Keiko,

Her delicate rice military questions,
To earth is mine amount or library,
If desire and peace base is jump
Or tail is skin support and cheese.
Is summer left shade but fly?
Must round too dark range
This year’s idea is mind industry?
But brake to rest, else skin art doth judge,
And wax to cough instruments else paint,
Key but small arguments are loud.
Insides do pump acid this time.
If conscious detail sounds the present,
Too holy daughter growth in shoe,
And taste insect top kettle,
As fertile as flag opinion is
Use early representative cotton and test
And burn as copper key parcels,
Her delicate rice military questions.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

the right point--Or Else!

Rabbit left his mark
Inscribed on the stones
The public stones
He stood back
To survey his work
He was not sure
If he had gotten his point across
But he appreciated the comments
Left by the social butterflies

I’m definitely blogging this,
Rabbit said to himself.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

How Do You Define Family...

Stepping out of the shadow
Cast by the television reports
Young people try to read
The signs
The old ones say
Slow Down
But the biology of youth sings
Hurry Up
Go, Go, Go
Dive in at the Deep End
Find out what it is all about
The activity is furious
The signals confusing
But life and love
Are never neat and tidy

Thursday, May 04, 2006

A Little More A Little Less

Having a little less
The travelers come
Carrying the little they own
To a land that promises more
The locals have so much stuff
They seem overloaded and bogged down
Yet they scream at the travelers,
“How dare you come here?
To take what is ours!”
Meanwhile the unwieldy piles
Of excess possessions
Wobble and threaten to topple
A little more

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Knitted Pandas & Cowboy Boots

I love you man, cries Rabbit
Suitcases in his hands
But I’m out of here
Those dogs have completely
Taken over the place
Turned a nice quiet house
Into their own private doggy disco
No hard feelings, my man
But they keep jumping on me
They’ve licked half the fur off my face
And they chew holes in everything
Even Chani’s favorite panda sweater
And they bark at every noise
They are more nervous than
A pair of shaved monkeys
At a tattoo convention
And I don’t even want to talk
About the surprises they left
In my Tony Llama boots
Do you have any idea
What full quill ostrich costs?
In rabbit sizes?
Later, alligator

Monday, April 17, 2006


Interior exterior
Thoughts written on my skin
Exterior interior
It’s fair I spill my guts
The outside’s trying to get in

Individual collective
My hopes plastered on the wall
Collective individual
Thought police tear down dreams
Enforcing sameness in the mall

Watch TV
Suck the tit
Tourists in our own lives
Buy T-shirts
Snap some pics

Did I we see the Taj Mahal?
You us would like it
This time of day year
Its so subjectively social

Everything is so immense
Contracting expanding
But still at the center

Friday, April 07, 2006

I am afraid

I am afraid of missing those I love
When they are gone
I am afraid of being bored
Because the bored are boring
I am afraid of hunger and pain
Especially other peoples’ pain
So I look away
Or laugh
I am afraid that my entertainments
Are wallpaper coving empty spaces
Inside of me
I am afraid of long silences
They loom so large
Between us

So I tell a joke
Or laugh
Or roll my eyes
And hope you don’t walk away
Leaving me
In an empty space

I am afraid

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Time to Kill

Living like Persian Rajas
We summon entertainments
With the snap of a finger
Music, Text, Images, Data
All available in our Digital Kingdom
All at our command
Do we rule the entertainments?
Or do they rule us?
But enough of these difficult
Philosophical questions
We have some time to kill
Before dinner is served
Have you seen that new band?
The one catching all the buzz?
Oh, Jeeves, bring us the Arctic Monkeys!
It’s not that they are all that great
Don’t get me wrong, they’re not bad
But everybody is talking about them
And we have some time to kill

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Godzilla at the Opera

Rabbit looked at me over the top of his Ray Bans and smiled.
"Despite Robot's reputation as an original thinker, I can tell you that none of us has had a truly original thought in ages, if ever."

But before I could ask him what he meant, the first limo pulled up to the curb and Rabbit swung into action, greeting the guests one by one.
"Ladies, it is wonderful to have you here this evening. Please take a complimentary program and wait in the lobby. Refreshments are being served, and the great green beast from Tokyo will be with you soon. He has been temporarily delayed by the futile attacks of the Air Force, but I can hear him approaching the city from the harbor now."

I caught Robot spying on us from the roof of the building across the street as the theatre filled with patrons.
"I will be blogging this!" Robot yelled, waving a metal fist in the air and snapping pictures with his camera phone.

"See what I mean?" Rabbit replied, "That box of bolts just doesn't understand the demands of true artistic expression. He has reduced the whole thing to simple journalism. Any dolt can echo the thunder, but it takes genius to produce real lightning."

Rabbit shook his fist at Robot and yelled above the wail of the sirens announcing the arrival of the main attraction.
"Go charge your batteries, you monster!"

Godzilla stopped at the painted tape, threw his cape over one shoulder causing an attack jet to spin out of control.
"Don't these people know who I am?" he rumbled.

"Pay no attention to them, Maestro," Rabbit soothed. "You have a full house tonight, and your claws look fantastic. Did you get a manicure?"

Monday, March 27, 2006

FYI: Computers Don't Have Love

The Taj Mahal is an expression of love
But it is still a technology
Like a computer

The thing
The it
Means nothing

The Expression means everything

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Making My Mark

Like a prehistoric shaman
Tracing outlines of my hand
On the wall of the cave
Where the hunters gather

Like a tropical bird
Decorating a bower
With bright shells and moss
To attract a potential mate

Like an adolescent
Mapping imaginary battles
On book covers and Pee-Chee’s
During the boring classes

Like a one-man corporation
Plastering quirky logos
In public places
To prove I exist

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Taste of Copper

Ramming my head into the post
The warm metallic taste of copper
A liquid penny on my tongue
Buys me a ticket to a light show
Which transforms the moss
Into the beard of a jovial god
Smiling at my mortal misfortune

“Cry, Bahooooom, Harooooom!
From Your Scattered Blood
The Hosts of Spring Arise!”

I am late for lunch.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Hot Head

We’ve Got
Digital Communications
Less Static
More Noise
Digital Communications
Less Wisdom
More Toys
Digital Communications
Less Men
More Boys
Digital Communications
More Fire
Less Heat

We've Got...Digital

Monday, March 13, 2006

Thrown Against the Wall

If I make something
And throw it against the wall
If it sticks
Does that mean it is made of words?
If it slides off
Do the words have no meaning?
If it bounces back
Do we still have to go hungry?

Without words and without meaning
Is it still poetry?

Is it still a wall?
Or just a Waste Of Time?

Download Waste Of Time
the new Thunder Echo Ensemble Album
Free MP3's to confuse your iPod

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Shine a Light

Sidling up to the truth
Echoes bounce clinically
From institutional tile walls
Quit trying to be the Buddha
Start living with the spark
You are given
Right here
Right now

This moment is sufficient

Thursday, March 02, 2006

In Loving Memory

Jeanette Marie Larsen
Dec 19, 1939 - Feb 25, 2006
We Love You Mom

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Subway Window

Subterranean rushing
Sublimated pressure
Soporific dozing
Split second
Slip by
Squinting blindly
Subway window
Swallows visions
Station ahead

This is where I get off

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Monkey Can You Hear Me?

Retellings suspicious
Transactions malicious
Tries not to be annoying
His affections are cloying
A pathetic heaving
Frantic cleaving
These demon days

Swimming through the late night
Scanning dark interiors
Surrendering to the
Shimmering chit chat
Summoned by restless
Shuffling of memory
Shadows cast by
Shimmering half light

Paid to stir the monkey
From deep sleep
Starshine Dracula
Lingers over sound checks

Monkey can you hear me?

His soul is vacuous
Canines ravenous
Circling the dance floor
Always wanting more
Sweaty thrashing
Sexual posing
This demon preys

Swimming through the late night
Scanning dark interiors
Surrendering to the
Shimmering chit chat
Summoned by restless
Shuffling of memory
Shadows cast by
Shimmering half light

Gently stroking monkey
On his cheek
Starshine Dracula
Continues his sound check

Monkey can you hear me?

His tone is melodious
Meanings poisonous
Drawn to the bleating
Of hearts still beating
That final trembling
Life is fleeting
The demon slays

Swimming through the late night
Scanning dark interiors
Surrendering to the
Shimmering chit chat
Summoned by restless
Shuffling of memory
Shadows cast by
Shimmering half light

Squeezing the monkey
Till he squeaks
Starshine Dracula
Finishes his sound check

Monkey can you hear me?

Friday, February 10, 2006


Why are you so political?
Can you find the monkey?

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Winter Sun

Remember yesterday’s sun so high?
Sky burned and our blood yearned
But the angle has decreased
While distances increase
Our lives become one long mistake

Tell me, Winter Sun
Why has this Shadow come?
Wish I could stomp it down
And be done, done, done
With Winter Sun

Our hearts filled a wide open future
With lovely impossible schemes
But dreams and expectations fade
Fall and get stuffed away
Into the dust of our crowded past

Cold, cold, Winter Sun
Why has this Shadow come?
The Wheel spins beneath
But still I run, run, run
From Winter Sun

Our manic youth, its magic fades
A gentler calm, it fills our space
But the whole world is a pit of flame
How can we find, a state of mind
To shelter love and not be burned?

I’m telling you, Winter Sun
I think I know why Shadows come
We forget our heart's our only home
And we are one, one, one
Thank you Winter Sun

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Robot Cafe

The blind man could not believe
In the reality of time travel
Despite frequent hops to
The Robot Café with Rabbit
For lunch or a late breakfast
Big Band music on the radio
Frequently interrupted
By war updates
Steak and Eggs mingling
With reports of fascism
Sweet cola sparkled with
The thick blood of patriots
So many artificial beings
From the future
With their chattering disk drives
And whirring servo motors
Made it impossible to
Fully appreciate 1940’s America
Despite the free refills
For his coffee
It was for him
A Sound Deception

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Transfer of Title Page

Robot can accept blindness
As a mode of operation
Rabbit knows that operation
Is a skill game where you’re
The doctor
Jay is troubled to find
The patient is here to see him
Broken heart
Water on the knee
Butterflies in the stomach
Take two D batteries
(Not included)
And call me in the morning

Monday, January 30, 2006

Slow Bash

The blind do not lose their looks at an early age
They do not have to carry fire wood
In baskets on broad shoulders
The blind can however
Read the faint brail
On every stone
In the valley

Thursday, January 26, 2006


The blind man ran into his friend
Flavio de LaToyota
Outside the organic food co-op
The Japanese-Italian American
Started asking questions
You still writing those haikus?
Ever get any of them published?
Still struggling in obscurity?
That’s fantastic my friend
Flavio took him by the arm
Led him over to a sidewalk table
Can we get two espressos over here?
Ever hear of Angelina Jolie?
How about Bono?
Of course you have, they’re famous
Ever hear of David Straldata?
How about Amelia Kretchburg?
Great! They’ve never heard of you either.
He is an abstract painter
With a garage full of unseen masterpieces
She composes sonatas for felines
Horrible screeching things
But what do I know about classical music?
We are building a new collective
Anonymous Artists For Peace
We’ve decided that the famous
And well known have had their chance
Bono keeps meeting presidents
Angelina keeps going to rallies
Yet the world is still at war
The refugee camps are overflowing
So are you with us, my unpublished comrade?
You ready to bring peace in under the radar?
The celebrities are out numbered
By the masses of odd, hidden, secluded
Anonymous Artists For Peace
Will you lend your obscure creativity
To this noble cause?
Think you could come up with
A haiku about Darfur Sudan?
Can I put it on the AA4P website?
Who knows, maybe an agent will see it?

Download AA4P so you can say you were hip to it before TEE sold out and started thinking they were all that!

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Man of Danger

The blind man takes a job
He answers phones
At the off-track betting parlor
He finds the strident voices
Of the track announcers
Strangely compelling
Mixed with the stale smells
Of cigarettes, perfume
Whiskey and beer
It stirs up a smoky
Cocktail of intrigue
He sips and savors
Every week night
From 7 until 11 PM

He imagines himself
A minor character from
The Sting
Minus the Ragtime piano
He is the charming criminal
With a heart of gold
Waiting for the swish
Of silk stockings
His late night lover
Drawn to him at last

“Hey, handsome, got a light?”

He keeps his lighter
Fully fueled
In his pants pocket

Download Man of Danger before the Feds shut us down.

Monday, January 23, 2006

Film for the Blind

It started off innocently enough. Some friend of a friend of a friend invites me to have a drink after a gig. He is a film director, the cousin or nephew or some such relation of a famous movie mogul, but he doesn’t use the name because he wants to make it on his own merits. He is bearded, frazzled, and hunched over like an old man, but he can’t be more than 35. He orders something shaken not stirred and gets me a beer. He keeps leaning forward, peering through the tiny space between the top of his glasses and the brim of his Greek fisherman’s hat. He’s been talking for several minutes about how shitty Hollywood films are, but I think I missed a transition somewhere.

He has just finished an over long sentence with, “…blindness is the metaphorical affliction of our times, man.”
“So,” I ask him, “your film is about a blind guy?”
“Not just about a blind person, but for the blind.” He waves a cocktail onion dangerously between us. “It is literally a Film, For, The, Blind.”
He pauses watching me for signs of enlightenment, waiting to see if I get it.
“A film for the blind,” I parrot back at him.
“Yes!” He is ecstatic. Apparently I have responded in the appropriate manner.
“Yes! I told Francis you were tuned in to this. I played him your song, Secret Ocean—deep, man. Deeeep. Life is a river, man. I knew you would see the importance of cinema for the blind.”
“So are you going to have descriptive audio for the visually impaired?” I asked.
“No, the film will be an emersion into the world as it is for the blind. Everyone will be equally blind when they see this film. You will be blinded by this film.”
“So the soundtrack would be pretty important,” I offered.
“Ex-friggin-lactly,” he said, fist striking the table. The cocktail onion wobbled and rolled, disappearing onto the floor. “I’ve got the best special effects guy in the business working the visuals. Stole him from the ranch. George is pissed, man. But I’ve been struggling, looking for the perfect music for this project. Then I heard you guys. Thunder-friggin-Echo, man.”
“Well, I’m glad you like our music,” I said lamely. “Not knowing much about your film, we would kind of be shooting in the dark. So if you could send us a script or some rough cuts or dailies or whatever you call them. Then we could come up with something that matches the film.”
“No, man. I want you going into this blind. I want you to shoot in the dark. I want you to compose music blind. Then I will meld it with the film I am shooting. Blindness is a mode of friggin operation, man, not just a metaphor.”
“Sounds like the blind leading the blind to me,” I said.
“Absa-friggin-lutely, man!”

I should have said “thanks, but no thanks.” But I didn’t, and 4 or 5 drinks later I was starting to get sucked in by this guy’s weird energy. I was sure he was doing something important. And he wanted the Thunder Echo Ensemble to be a part of “cinematic history, man, cine-friggin-matic history.”

It turned out to be a Waste Of Time.

Download, Waste Of Time, the soundtrack to the film for the blind that was never made.

Waste of Time

To the 23 fans of The Thunder Echo Ensemble worldwide, who have been asking what happened to the band after our disastrous world tour last year, I can finally let the monkey out of the bag: TEE has been recording music in the studio as part of a film project. But like most things TEE, the film has gone sour (more about that in future posts), the lawyers are circling overhead and we have been told we can’t sell our new music. And we thought the music business sucked! Movie guys are even worse…

So we are officially bootlegging our own music and offering it for free on our website. That’s right; the contracts say we can’t sell it. They don’t say that we can’t give it away for free.

So go to the website:
And download the new Thunder Echo Ensemble album: Waste of Time.
For Free. But only if you have lots of time to waste, because the zip file is huge.
Do your part to piss off the Hollywood Business Complex, a hundred or so lawyers, an egomaniacal director, two minor celebrities, one film festival organizer, and the IT manager at your work. Download the file, listen to the songs, and Waste some Time.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Zany Spokesperson

Paid to stir the Monkey
From his deep sleep
The Starshine Dracula
Lingered over the Sound Check

Don’t waste double time
Or November Bass Clefs
Ming’s left-handed Suzuki method
Cleans socks and clocks

Apathetic heaving and cleaving
Leads to frantic panic
And Demon Days
For Offical Parking Man

Oh Monkey
Can you hear me?
Testing, one, two, three…

Don't Write In Books

Books are precious
And must be treated with respect
Others wiser and more important
Than you decide what gets printed
Accept your place
Keep your crayons to yourself

Don’t write in books
Don’t expect to have a conversation here
Just take what you are given
Don’t ask questions
Don’t add comments
You are lucky to have these words

Bow down before the monuments
Of history and their inscriptions
Ignore the fact that archeologists
Learn more from the graffiti
Scratched on the walls
Than they get from the official
Proclamations of the Pharaohs

“Adjib slept here”
“The priest cannot keep his wife in bed”
“Isis fed her husband’s member to the fish”

Don’t write in books