Monday, July 9, 2012


and seep
the subluminous exchange
spent figures
a distance spoken in
(and waking from)
egyptian formed
tremulous heat

sleepwalking fingers
digging with
long morning
curtain traced shadows
to come
the electric
briny glaze
of subsumed
milky liqueur

there is a rhythm
there is a rhythm

this collapsing maw
that swirls
cosmic body signatures to
the sudden laughter
of unexpected
listing vessels

Friday, July 8, 2011


i will
slide your shoes



and trace the map
the tired creases
of your instep
with a
slack hand
the distant hidden threads

Thursday, May 26, 2011


in the cradle of your
turned tongue
wavering warm cave
ice melts
by teeth
to teet
and unsung
liquid lines of light
to the

Wednesday, November 24, 2010


i love, love, love, love, love this song.

i finally broke down and bought a canon 7D about a month ago (along with a 60mm f2.8 macro, a lensbaby composer, and a minolta ring adapter). it's the first video camera i've had in probably over 5 years. i missed being able to explore ideas on a whim without having to call around and drive across town to borrow a camera i knew nothing about.

on one of the last shows i worked on, i got a chance to do some 'additional photography' where i basically dumped some milk, dry ice, and oil into a bowl water. since i was on such a short time frame then, i didn't really get a chance to dig into the idea... until a couple weeks ago.

while i knew the fluids wouldn't sustain the whole video, some crazy new imagery from SDO (solar dynamics observatory) started to give me some vague ideas. so, over about a week, i downloaded over 2,000 clips of soar data and sorted them into a couple hundred selections and select selections, etc. beyond that, i rummaged thru another couple hundred featured videos on the SDO, TRACE, and STEREO sites. even after going thru all of that footage (which took about three days), i'm still in awe of how complex, powerful, and elegant the sun truly is.

anyway, i know all of this is definitely not a novel concept (i probably steal way too much from sci-fi movies), but ive always loved the idea of juxtaposing the very big and the very small (coronal mass ejections vs heavy whipping cream in a clear glass bowl of water).

the only thing i had to do at this point was decide what the hell i was going to set all of this to. it took a couple days to decide, but i finally came to this song, the drunkk machine by thom yorke. i think i always knew i was going to use this song, but i guess i wanted to be absolutely sure.

since i wanted a sort of linear progression, where we start outside the star then slowly (in a way) make our way into the star, i knew i wanted something like this song with its sort of unhinged bridge and frantic second half. so why look for something like this song when this is more than perfect? also, i wanted something which would either complement or counterpoint some of the satellite glitches... which i had to include (much to SDO's pleasure... undoubtedly...).

not sure what i'm going to do next, but i've always wanted to make spaceships!


thom yorke

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

free write ix

did you think;;; that i would ripen for you, come to bear, in you wrist,,, any less? did you think i would ripen like beads of sweat on your rocking rocking chest any more? did you think, did you dream, that i would poison myself any less on russian tongues, on nordic hips, on persian necks?///i will slide/inconsequential/ sequential/from the bed, from a mouth slack/with alcohol. there are only so many drinks i can chase at night. there are only so many streets i can tread. there are only s many eyes at sun-up/sun-down, closing the sun like a lost, like a lost child. alone in the wood,,,, finding the glen to rise at dusk. rise like hands. rise like hands flat against the sky. with me. with us. we move. like tides. like afternoon spectres. we take tea, we make coffee, we drain the trees of nectar. we are the neon blood, we are the tumbling towers. we are the undone buttons. unfastening one by one, prone, across a summer bed. and with each loop unhooked another line, another thread of sweat to the slope, to the crest of your back, to your basin where i wash. but, it all melts. i collapse, i am uncluttered i am broken mirrors and i am unfamiliar as fogged glass. write your name on my pane. blow your breath across me and a snake that finger, mark me like ghosts, mark me like spiral arm of spiral galaxies, as permanent as, as ephemeral as///but not not too close/dont undo this flesh/dont retouch this trembling lip, i will find i will find an open mouth/respirate/ hesitate/tesselate/// there ages there are pages there are books and crooks and hooks and nooks. there are moments un marked. minutes unmeasured, there are distances i have not moved. there are songs unsung and there are fires unkindled. but there are no eyes unopen there are no breaths untaken and no nails undug when i find you, when i find you// one leg over the other//one wrist under another/one palm up, one palm down;;; but i stop this i stop now i let it run off the rails let the film slip from the gate let the piano roll down the stairs. but from the ground/from the earth/ the lights will rise marking lines across the sky from here to nowhere.,,when i find myself alone//unsurrounded/// these thoughts will not collect they just unravel, untwine with no wax to wrap them back they simply split/so/ i will do my best two twist them back together thru thumb and forefinger, like beetles,like insects finding the summer stagnant nights, their wings unburdened by forgiving breezes, i will twist these fingers and i will twist this thread and take it/place it in my mouth and lock them together with this paltry spittle until/until i can find.this voice that calls only in caves, that calls me to the mouths if mountains, that finds me barefoot in the morning, with sunrise grass, blades rigid with sleep and fog,blades that would take my blood/that i would gladly offer should either ask or give.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

///FIRST FEATURE 7.13.10

i found my way to the end of the script today. barely shy of 60 pages. even though i know this will dramatically expand on screen (judging from previous projects) i can't help but feel uneasy about this. why couldnt it be more like 70?

fucking numbers.

but i know that's going to change anyway.

i just needed to get from point A (that i love) to point B (that i now love)... everything in between is bound to breathe. i already know a couple spots i need to do more work.

one thing i am proud of... it seems like the main character has completely changed from the opening to the ending.

it's tough to try and look back at the whole thing as you work in increments, you can only see as far as a couple scenes back. you forget every other turn. other beats. all that stuff back over the horizon.

editing time. time for the REAL writing to begin.

free write viii

and///you are the knife, digging into me, you are the knife pulling into me, dragging me across the sky. and we cry together in the purpuling clouds, tears of diamond. diamond gold diamond blue tears, pooling in our hands and you offer me a drink, you pull it from behind, from the floor and you offer it to me with both hands, both cans cupped together and you tilt the trembling liquid toward me, and it spills off of your finger tips and washes over my chin, washes over my face. i am. you are. you are my communion. and when the skies have turned, when it all fades to black, where will your eyes go? where will they find us and our treasure troves? will there be maps? will there be winds at sea to blow them here or there, to or fro? wher, where where does the last breath of the sea run down the throat of nowhere? where will we find our cast and broken ship? which shore will we call our own? will these limbs be broken and dashed? where o where o where will it go. you are the knife. digging into me, carrying me across the skie. i am your kite tied with twine to my fingers, pulling you across the flats. but here but here but here i find the serpentines. but here, but here i find the roots, the trees growing through me. when i trip and fall and knock my head, all i see is red and the only stupid thing that spills from my sill mouth, is garbled and coded. it comes out in numbers. colored numbers and rays of digital mess. its a mess, a mess a mess all this blood an offal spilling from my side. but i dont believe it, i cant see it, so i find it with my fingers, i find the open knife. i find the open trap, i find you in my side, and i split us with my fingers and when i do, when i unopen us, when we unclose, there are notes that sound with soft distortion, a trembling ember of reverberations. moving hairs moving the tiny hairs on the small of your back, the tiny hairs, the tiny hairs. and i can feel the lashes like tiny british voices. i can feel them brush across me. but, but, but... it fades. it slips into clothes ive never seen before. memories, memories, memories fade, like fingers walking across a piano, drifting up or drifting down, either way, you get to a point where you can't reach and it simply runs out. the hall is empty. it only remembers the light. it only remembers the foot falls, the dancing toes, the sprawling nights. it only remembers the tide, it comes at night, but i never see it. you can see the timber, the sea wash up beyond any place it has business being. but where does this ramble? where do i go? i can pull the knife from my side, and it shatters like class, and falls in sparkles to my toes. i can collect it, i can collect it in my hands and cup it to my lips, i can take it in my mouth and i can swallow your blades, i can put us inside me, i can swallow all you give me, i can fill the sky, i can fill the sky with our diamonds. and i can fill my side with late summer grass and early autumn nests.

Monday, July 12, 2010

///FIRST FEATURE 7.11.10

i am going to write a play after this.

page after page after page with lines and lines and lines of action with no dialogue is... exhausting.

a play would be nice. crackling repartee. meandering profound soliloquies. ahhh.

i'm dreaming.

page 50.

should make it to 60 no problem... should. once i wake her back up, he should have someone to talk to... if she's in the talking mood.

free write vii

when i fall back, when i fall back completely overcome. overcome with still, with still mists. when i fall back and feel the full weight of unbroken thunderclouds, cool, ready, waiting... i feel them on my face and chest as i fall back. and on the ground, as the whisps shoot past my ear, tickle round my neck,,, my mouth, my mouth will slack, it will open, and it will glow, and it will beam as stars, giant stars, giant innumerable prominences reaching, reaching across space, across the lazy, languid, thin space between here, between there. and my mouth will open and things will pour from it and run down my cheeks, they will run up my face and pool in the deep of my closed eyes. it will be golden, it will be honey, it will be luminous. it will take it;s time, it wil make it as it moves. but, i,,, but i will wake and i will wipe this from my face, let it fall. i will wash it with my hands. can i open my eyes here? is it bright enough. will i find them blind, my eyes? find them blind like hands reaching for rays of sun. will i find somthing on the air, can i smell you only inches away? i have dreams. i have dreams and dreams and dreams. there are places i wander, and it alls, it call out, only in echo, only in quaking whispers. it doesnt take much to knock me from the rail. i was balancing, one foot in front of the other. but it comes like a gust. like a swift push and im falling from words. im falling from open eyes. and im falling to the ties. to the tines. that wrap them selves, the fingers tying knots in your hair. in your mane. and i will fan them out i will display them for a collection. i want this enough. i wonder if i can tell the truth, if it comes out as some other language, can i find the breath to move these lungs? i question, i question. i wish for this and that. i wish for your pain. i wish for your broken limbs. i wish for your sick and your death. so that i can come. i can come with holy palms, so that i can find the magic to heal you. to stitch you up and mend your bends. i wish for, i wish for. i wish for voices calling me. i wish for nightmares. i wish for overturned cars and poison meals. i wish for empty beds and long drinks. long drinks in the long still night of middle age. and i can be the condensation you wipe from your glass, the liquor you draw out with your finger. i can find my self running to your palm. meeting your breath as you clasp them (your fingers) in your mouth. i can be the ice, crumbling in your scotch. i can be the pulp in your gin. i can be the last sigh (the last gish) before you finally slink back, tumble back into waves of sleep. it takes us all under. and i find, more and more, that i run out of things to say. that i find myself turning circles. but i but i but i could be, i could be the pall, the shroud that covers you and keeps you. i could be the undone. i could be the tomb, and i could be the stars watching you turn to ash and calling you home to dance under the proscenium of dust and other unborn stars.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

free write vi

i took a dream this afternoon/// when i was in that nap to escape the day/ i took a dream and you were five or six people. there before me. and i took you and your legs were splayed and we shared a pice of ripe melon. running in long drops, unrolling like smoke, like fog on a new wind, running like stumbling children down our arms and off of our elbows. you were five or six and i was one or none. and i took the time to search the sheets. to search your legs. there is no saving. there is no counting . when we whisper. when we hold congress. when we find this wooden floor/i find these dreams old and vaporous. it goes up in smoke. up in furls. up in curls. and lights. lights in the sky. lights in the trees. i lose my train of thought and it takes hands, it takes large hands, as big as they sky to hewn. to cleave the new earth. to dear a crescent. to find the nape in your field. there are dreams i can taste. and there are tastes i can dream but it all runs out like beads of water. it finds the cracks and drip, drops. plops. the sky has run indigo, and i find the evening breeze as i turn to find the east. i find the moon cresting, i find it. secong gues this and i know i need to open up. i need to forget this place. forget my face as these whiskers grow, as this beard finds its way around my face. i havent looked in the mirror in ages. i havent bothered to step through i havent bothered. i havent bothered. i stop. but why. where does this go. i cough and i feel the dust settle in my lungs. i feel it wheeze and i wonder, i wonder when i spend myself alone, where it runs. where you find yourself when your eyes are closed and sunken. wher i findmyslef when i drift off to sleep. where i find myself when i drift off from life. there are roads ive never run. there are tides that have never washed me. and there are hills. there are hills that have not called. i cant look up, i cant look up to see where this is going. too conscious. too conscious. too worried of the eyes that might see this, its neither here nor there but it fumbles and i tumble and i ramble i see the same images over and over and over. and i cant help but feel that im beeing pulled apart. pulled apart by feral dogs and wild things there are two ways to go, and five to follow. five or six, i cant remember, i can never remember any dream i can never remember touch. i can never remember the lungs that fill, the chest that rises and falls like the sea in my arms. i never told you and i lied when i said i could feel your heart. and i remember. i rembeber wondering what that meant. i wcouldnt dream of what that meant it just drips away. i held myself there before your open chest and i could feel nothing. my had was warm agains your cooling chest and it was there, i saw your eyes but it was too deep below. not meant for my fingers not meant for my pulse. some unknown rhythm to, some foreign language to my searching palm. i want to dream. i want to speak in tongues.