Sometimes I like to imagine that my family
and I are a heavy metal band,
playing gigs in the southern states,
riding in a big tour bus that has skulls
painted on the side,
and a big decal of the grim reaper
Ocean fog thick in the avenue night
white Christmas lights in October
Shamrock Arms Bar
glowing green & red
through clear quartz-glass block front
the Dead Sailor Girls will play tomorrow
salt taste in air
I don’t know what I am seeking
In the cool night
rivers and birds
a sensuous lip
a rainbow of dreams
the ruins of cities appear and fade in front of me
he dresses and clowns
Justin Hott was a retail analyst for Bear Stearns I met at LaGuardia airport one night
heading back to Detroit in December 2007, shortly before his company imploded.
What is the basis of greed / wanting to be free of ...
J. D. King
(i love the scent
of fresh cut grass)
the mower is black
with bright orange
illustration by JD King
to cut is to hear
of the reel
and to smell fresh cut
Take the gas mask off. Take a bath.
Take the cake. Take the China exit.
Hell is out there too,
Other people’s concern,
Gods’ voices, at it like grownups
In the front seat.
Photograph from the Wall Str...
John S. Hall
by This Fuckin' Guy (as told to John S. Hall)
Owls don’t seem so fucking wise to me.
They look like dicks, usually,
With their chests all puffed out and shit,
Like they’re saying
“Fuck me? No--fuck you!”
Nancy, the iconic series of graphic tone poems by the legendary Ernie Bushmiller, achieved landmark status not for its dada-esque art, its stark depiction of a near-barren (yet strangely psychedelic) landscape populated by p...
Quite apart from the circumstantial affiliations that normally obtain among contemporaries, and quite apart from the facile optical resemblances that one can discern among artworks across distances in time, looking at a pain...
William S. Burroughs
Truman Capote once famously said of the work of Jack Kerouac: "That's not writing, that's typing." A decade or so later, William S. Burroughs returned the favor with this epistolary riposte.
July 23, 1970
My Dear Mr. T...