Look at your man, now back to Bowie. Now back at your man, now back to Bowie. Sadly, he isn't Bowie, and if he puts on tight pants and dances with puppets, he still won't be. Look down, look back up, where are you Major Tom? Floating in your tin can, far above the world. What's in your capsule? Back at Bowie, it's a helmet that looks like a mullet that tastes like protein pills. Look again, the mullet is now diamond dogs. Anything is possible when you contact juggle and sing. He's got the baby.
I miss the graveyard lilacs
perfumed by memory
and watered by a stream
too close to unmarked headstones.
I miss the soft grass between the
Maple trees and the Winstons,
mother, father, and baby girl
all asleep in tangled roots.
I miss the sound of Sunday's best shoes
on polished, engraved granite,
Where tap dancing never disturbed
anyone at all...
And picnics after Memorial Day
were filled with fresh flowers and balloons
floating above perfectly mowed grass,
and hide-n-seek tombs.
On a very rainy day, in a very rainy city... Sir Cricket von Marionette decided to have his portrait taken. You see, Sir Cricket had a ladyfriend whom he bestowed the utmost admiration upon. One could even say he prized her esteemed company beyond all other crickets in that drizzly town. Perhaps even in the entire land, though Sir Cricket von Marionette was not one to go galavanting too far beyond the streets of his beloved home.
At any rate... this ladyfriend, Penelope Chirpington, had mentioned in passing that she would quite like to look upon the personage - or rather, the buggage - of Sir Cricket when time and circumstances were not favo
During that bleak time in U.S. history known as The Great Depression, there was something called The Works Progress Administration, or the New Deal. In short, the government created an opportunity for artists, writers and musicians to put their collective muses to work in bolstering up the minds and hearts of people who had little inspiration left in their lives, while at the same time creating an opportunity for artists to put a little money back into their ragged pockets.
At the heart of the WPA was a need to capture the moment on film, in writing, on canvas, and in melody. They were to take what was happening, and document it i
The headphones my brother handed to me were so big that they seemed to engulf my entire head when I put them on. Big, black and cushy...they consumed my ears and sucked me into a void where nothing else existed except the music he was about to play. I remember sitting on the edge of the bed anxiously, tugging at my knee socks and waiting for the snap and crackle of the needle to strike the edge of the vinyl record. It would steal my breath away, never failing to sweep me away into a journey that was better than Alice and Wonderland. It was like sneaking a peek at the splatter flick on late night television. It was getting away with stealing a
There I was, a gangly legged teen who had all sorts of notions on what real beauty was. Sprawled on the vinyl folding chairs out on the lawn, I would stretch my pale legs out like white sprouts on a potato, slathering them with Coppertone.
I wanted so badly to be tan. California-Coppertone-Beach-Bunny-Brown. The kind of tan where you could slip a watch off your wrist and see it's outline in contrast. All the popular girls at school could do that. I would see them at lunch, comparing 'white lines'. My whole body was a white line, thanks to the endless parade of very pale ancestors who looked on from old pictures with somber, chalky expression
I heard the coyotes again last night.
It was a brief trill out of the darkness, somewhere on the far edge of the cherry trees. I lay in bed, listening to the silence that followed, halfway expecting to hear the sudden cadence of paws running through the crust of snow.
They always come from the west in the velvet hush of darkness, beckoning me from the deepest of sleep.
I wavered there on the cusp of slumber, with a vague sensation that the room was spinning. Blue moonlight webbed between the bare tree limbs outside the window, and captured me in it's snare.
Suspended between awake and sleep, I was transported with the simple sway of branc