Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Communiqué from the Age of Consumption


I killed the Grand Ump of Wal-Mart!
I killed him in a snowdrop!
I killed him with a radish and a roadshow!
I killed him with rosin and sonar!

I killed the Grand Ump of Wal-Mart!
I killed him with a handy pair of trawlers!
I killed him in his underpants!
I killed him on Shrove Tuesday and Michaelmas!

I killed the Grand Ump of Wal-mart!
I killed him with prawns and a rat-trap!
I killed him in Jerusalem and Petaluma!
I killed him at noon and dawn and all the nameless hours!


Monday, March 26, 2012

Jacob Freeze, Master Mis-o-dromist

Mastery of just about anything is hard to attain, and if you're looking for easy ways to attain it, what could be more pitiful than inventing an art-form only for the purpose of proclaiming bogus "mastery" of some kind of tedious busy-work?

But what the heck!

Here come the mis-o-dromes!


And that's all there is to it!

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Marlene Dietrich


Cropped, rotated, and re-lighted, because Edward Steichen's original includes one hand that looks like a claw, grain like raw cement around the shadows, and a whole tableau of threadbare prop furniture, and there's nothing about it worth looking at except Marlene Dietrich and the flowers.


Saturday, March 24, 2012



I had a life before I was
crushed like a bug in an accident.
What kind of life?
Life like a bug!

Born screaming, died screaming!
Screamed in the middle!


Friday, March 23, 2012

My Typical Evening

Chicken and Child

My typical evening begins with me in
knee-pants and buster-browns until 9 or 10.
Then I hit the road to selfhood.

What's your favorite appliance?
Can you lactate on demand?
Do you dwell in a heliport?

Is that a typo?

My typical evening began in 1987 and never ended.
Is it always the same?
No, it isn't.
The only real constant is my tentacle-
Telecaster and an ancient
Peavey Deuce
that leaks so much static
it's more like a bug-zapper than an amp.


Wednesday, March 21, 2012



Show me your junk!
You think I’m joking?
You’re the joke!

Uncork your little cruet, cutie!
Crunk that jerk!

Is the surf erect in Malibu?
Watch those fuckers twitch!
Unzip your suture!
Suck my tusk!

These truisms were
written in shit
on the toilet-walls of some club in Malibu.

I trusted all of you, you butchers!


Monday, March 19, 2012

Space Available

Space Available

I got my teeth fixed when I was eighteen.
This entitled me to a few feeble benefits,
like inflight movies and the bibles you find in hotels.

After college I became a
giggolo, ate lice, googled,
grew a pair of gills, and that's my life.
I was loco right out of the egg!
I'm a beast of a billion genders!

That's enough about me.

Are you a slave with epoxy labia?
Slob for love?
May I bake your viola and park my
axel in your calyx?
Can you ride an okapi?
Is this your babel-villa?
Do you live in the sky or a box?


Sunday, March 18, 2012

The Angel of History

The Angel of History

"His face is turned toward the past, and where we see a chain of events, he sees a single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage upon wreckage and hurls them at his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and reconstruct what has been smashed apart, but a storm is blowing from Paradise and it catches the angel's wings with such violence that he can never close them. This storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the wreckage in front of him piles up to the sky. This storm is what we call progress."

Walter Benjamin, Über den Begriff der Geschichte


Saturday, March 17, 2012


I wanted to be an enigma instead of this
infinitely fractured fish-boy!

Home-boys! Faux-naifs!
Forgive this fish-voice or if
not him, grieve for thyselves!

Wait a minute! Wait a minute!

Is hog-bane the same as begonias?
Enjamb my iamb, Grandma!


I was famous!
I was famous!
I was famous!
I was famous!

I was famous
in another life.


Wednesday, March 14, 2012



Last relic of a farm...
wisteria in bloom
behind a truck-stop.


Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Rolling in the Deep


This is my latest adventure applying high-concept audio software to music videos recorded on some very primitive equipment by some very talented musicians, and in this case I bounced a cover of Rolling in the Deep by the amazing Grace Rose back and forth through a German impulse reverb which gradually smoothed away a LOT of digital distortion, and I also cranked up the video contrast  to make it look maybe more like the very dark blues, at least the way I feel it.

You can see and hear Grace Rose' original video on this link, and while you're on her channel, don't miss her beautiful rendition of Les Yeux Ouverts, which IMHO she sings just about as well as anybody ever sang anything.


Friday, March 9, 2012

Valley of the Uncanny


I live in the valley of the uncanny,

Your world falls in.

Welcome to my cartoon!
Your navel looks like a vulva!
Your vulva looks like a valve!

Instead of love you got
noodles and a null
agenda, Brenda!

"Are those supposed to be your gonads?"
Brenda/Sally replies.


"I shall write a novel and avenge
millions of generations."


Thursday, March 8, 2012

Ayn Rand About Marilyn Monroe


You may love Ayn Rand or you may hate her, or you may be more or less indifferent, like me, but for anyone who doesn't have his or her head up his or her butt, this is obviously one of the very best essays ever written about Marilyn Monroe.

Nobody ever had a more sordid childhood than Marilyn Monroe

To survive it and to preserve the kind of spirit she projected on the screen–the radiantly benevolent sense of life, which cannot be faked–was an almost inconceivable psychological achievement that required a heroism of the highest order. Whatever scars her past had left were insignificant by comparison.

”When I was 5, I think that’s when I started wanting to be an actress. I loved to play. I didn’t like the world around me because it was kind of grim, but I loved to play house and it was like you could make your own boundaries. It’s almost having certain kinds of secrets for yourself that you’ll let the whole world in on only for a moment, when you’re acting.

No one else could project the glowingly innocent sexuality of a being from some planet uncorrupted by guilt, who found herself regarded and ballyhooed as a vulgar symbol of obscenity, and who still had the courage to declare: “We are all born sexual creatures, thank God, but it’s a pity so many people despise and crush this natural gift.”

She preserved her vision of life through a nightmare struggle, fighting her way to the top. What broke her was the discovery, at the top, of as sordid an evil as the one she had left behind–worse, perhaps, because incomprehensible. She had expected to reach the sunlight; she found, instead, a limitless swamp of malice.

It was a malice of a very special kind. If you want to see her groping struggle to understand it, read the magnificent article in the August 17, 1962, issue of Life magazine. It is not actually an article, it is a verbatim transcript of her own words–and the most tragically revealing document published in many years. It is a cry for help, which came too late to be answered.

“When you’re famous, you kind of run into human nature in a raw kind of way,” she said. “It stirs up envy, fame does. People you run into feel that, well, who is she–who does she think she is, Marilyn Monroe? They feel fame gives them some kind of privilege to walk up to you and say anything to you, you know, of any kind of nature–and it won’t hurt your feelings–like it’s happening to your clothing. . . . I don’t understand why people aren’t a little more generous with each other. I don’t like to say this, but I’m afraid there is a lot of envy in this business.”

“Envy” is the only name she could find for the monstrous thing she faced, but it was much worse than envy: it was the profound hatred of life, of success and of all human values, felt by a certain kind of mediocrity–the kind who feels pleasure on hearing about a stranger’s misfortune. It was hatred of the good for being the good–hatred of ability, of beauty, of honesty, of earnestness, of achievement and, above all, of human joy.

She was an eager child, who was rebuked for her eagerness. ”Sometimes the [foster] families used to worry because I used to laugh so loud and so gay; I guess they felt it was hysterical.”

She was a spectacularly successful star, whose employers kept repeating: “Remember you’re not a star,” in a determined effort, apparently, not to let her discover her own importance.

And she was a brilliantly talented actress, who was told by the alleged authorities, by Hollywood, by the press, that she could not act.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Myth or Math?

Peaceable Kingdom

Myth or math?
A moot totem!

Myth or math?
Hey! Is that a great question, or what?

Hoot for love!
Hoot for compassion!
Hoot for abundance of life you can't even imagine!

But we choose between ennui and a fecal empire.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Hollywood Boulevard

Hollywood Boulevard

My mom lives in a tree.
I live in a flower pot.

Some people pray for rain.
I pray for meteors.

My name is Mr. Rot.
I bought a beret and moved to Hollywood in 1987.
A mob ate me.

Am I your first famous girlfriend?
Were you the first whore on Hollywood Boulevard?

Our car is on fire
in a faraway galaxy
and another car is burning
where we were.

Friday, March 2, 2012


 photo r2_zpsehznhoag.jpg

My much-delayed mural "Bruja" was unveiled last week with the rest of a major renovation of one those breezy old mansions constructed in Las Lomas way back in the Twenties for early grandees of the PRI, and while the guests slam down champagne and murmur appreciatively inside, I drift out to the street where my friend Miguel and the other chaffeurs and bodyguards are stomping around and singing snatches of pop tunes to keep themselves warm in the cool night air of the hills above Mexico City in the middle of February.

"The boss says to me, if that crazy yanqui painter don't finish my mural in time for the party, Miguel, you take him out to the farm for me and feed him to the hogs."

"But I like you, I don't want to do this thing, so I say to the boss, It is very unlucky to kill a crazy man, worse luck to kill a painter, and to kill a crazy painter is as the curse of seven brujas."

"So the boss thinks it over for a little while, and then he says..."

"Kill him anyway."

"Ha ha ha ha!"

Our little mob of drivers and mercenaries laughs merrily and congratulates me and Miguel for our good luck that I finished the mural, and then they go back to singing and stomping around until a passing car slows down on Paseo de las Palmas and all of them suddenly fall silent, glaring into the headlights.


Golden Calf

Golden Calf

Is that the tide or some kind of
uncool coital influx?

Flog the waves!
Squeal and drool on the throne of Xerxes!
Are you from Iran?

Are you hiding a gun in your cunt-wool?

I am the Golden Calf of Southern California!

Do you worship the sun?
Is it ogling my titties?

I'm the Golden Calf of Southern California!
Icon of the ironic cowboys!

Don't laugh!

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