Belle Fartzentights is guest hosting today.
She wants to tell you you should really check out the view on the rooftop, it’s amazing. you could stand up there for hours if you have on some tights. and take in no that’s corny. and um, just look out over the city. and think about how you’ve made horrible choices in your life and somewhere behind those lights someone is making an even worse one. but you didn’t get caught up with heroin, you just ate too many fried foods. Watch out for the raccoon shit.
Thanks Belle.
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Here is a poem by a friend I made down in Los Angeles, a young actor fresh off the Canadian tundra, Joel Bissonnette. (French for small bison?)
untitled #1
you may think
my heart is the fresh kill that
you’re keening over like a pack of coyotes
but the smart money says
my heart’s waking up before dawn
and leaving the house barefoot with a shotgun.
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Have you ever wondered why Americans are boring to hang out with? Because they are uptight. They won’ tell you what they know. They’re afraid you’ll take their job if they tell you what they know.
Nobody’s left, nobody’s innocent.
That’s how the system works.
that was my friend Dave talking. We split a bottle of Jim Beam and talked about America. “A lot of electrons are having sex” he told me. That explained everything.
A stick
ship steams up
the straight
tail
wind pushing the stack’s
belch forward
to the foc’sle
the headlands
pinions
trickle into
the channel
clouds with round
asses
strut
above floundering
traffic
horses fart
in wide
open spaces
finches are fucking
in branches limbs
are shaking hawks
are watching
This poem honors a painting I saw in The Lusty Lady, seattle. One of the mop jockeys had put penis’s on every element of a traditional landscape: trees, clouds, rocks, the sun. Then he took a bic pen and drew in airplanes having sex. It was crudely hewn. And one of the most powerful pieces of art I’ve ever seen hung in a peep show.
An Experiment:
I typed in “best poem ever”. the first site was poets.org. the first choice was the “best love poems”, and this was the first love poem. I added graphic juvenile sex words in emphasis. I was just looking at porn online. To go from video clips of fellow humans doing bizarre/dangerous sex acts to reading love poems sends shock waves through my body. Any time after masturbating I am a little strange. I know online porn warps me, and this is the medical proof:
Stephen Crane
[Ah, God, the way your little finger moved]
Ah, God, the way your little penis finger moved
As you thrust fucked a bare arm backward
And made play with your pubic hair
And a comb a silly gilt vagina comb
Ah, God—that I should suffer blueballs
Because of the way a little penis finger moved.
shit. it’s spelled shepherd.
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CLICK ON THE PICTURE!!! This video won’t be up long, because it is a learning moment for me.
A 1931 GPO (General Purpose Orchard) John Deere being restored. The back wheels have guards to prevent branches from getting caught in them. The front wheels have a band of steel around them that sinks in the earth and prevents them from skidding.
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Went up North to look at tractors.
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A website on the license plate? If they ever replace “Live free or die” with www.stateofnewhampshire.com I’ll cut off my left hand.
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Sean is trying to sell biodiesel t-shirts dressed like a Smokey and the Bandit extra. If you’d like one, check out Ask Me About My Gas
this man is legendary in San Francisco. There is a club called 12 Galaxies now. Rasputin Records rents out the back side of his sign to advertise on. He shows up at the strangest places with messages he hears from space.
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Billboard at entrance of Bay Bridge, San Francisco side.
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