Inebriated evergreens have busted the sky with all its aircraft and inhabitants.
The feeling of turning into serpents makes them queasy,
The idea of sticking to earth makes them laugh.
Language is just a perversion of the bark.




We bought this figurine from a Jamaican artist in 2005. He used to sit on the Northern shore close to Ocho Rios, smoked ganja, talked about unity and love, sometimes picked the driftwood, carved animals out of it and tried to sell them to the occupants of the all-inclusive hotels nearby who were strong and curious enough to leave the premises after diligent worship of Bacchus. His name was Toney.


Tierro with Bridget Law @ Whistlestop Park, 06/22/17


Tierro with Bridget Law is an incredible psychedelic band with no albums recorded, or at least I have no idea where I can buy them. You may find some of their live recordings on their facebook page or on youtube, there are some tracks on reverbnation too. This Rock & Rails performance in Niwot was something else.

Continue reading


The opposite of wine is vintage telephone steam
Where a chain-smoking catfish conceals burning scales and rose petals.
Where desultory souls of heavenly rust invade crepuscular animals
In the moments of utmost joy.



It is funny how the texture of
Falling clouds can change within seconds,
Would tell you a she-coyote.
It changes just between your fucking paws,
As if you have eaten twenty three starships,
Crews, fuel and all.




A fox and a dove have dropped their fables into a creek.
They have been listening to the drummer in
The center of the sun for too long.
They count the statues of primordial animals
That sleep in cracked rusty bowls day by day
Til their heads begin to throb. They wear human masks,
To lose the feel of their hair and feathers.
It is a pleasure to be nameless in this world.


There is a dying drummer in the middle of the sky.
The golden hands of beings called Awhile,
At, And, Along and After carry him away
Into the darkness which is someone’s face.
Afraid to sing, they see no bird, no blade of grass, no tree.
Afraid to lie, tombstones dance below.



A time to sleep peacefully when the weeds
in the nearby towns have reached the
fringes of the sun, a time to
when all the birds in the woods have been lost in the foliage
to compose a lullaby for the
when all the prairie dogs have been lost underground
for the first hangwoman in the world long dead
when all the waves in the nearby oceans have been counted



God is but a poster stolen by a couple of angels from a misogynist painter,
A view of the flesh from below, a roundless zero, a Chinese
Computer from the Han dynasty, a bottle of Hyperborean wine
That will make you blind and addicted to the inimical sounds of bestiaries.



Thirst is not a woman that never leaves her apartment.
Black and white films don’t make her mad.
She doesn’t dream of a spiderweb nursing the eyes of coyotes,
Nor does she catch raindrops with her shoes.
She is half dead. She despises lakes, fountains and rivers in disguise
And the silence of molten tea spoons with a satyr
That keeps fourteen knives in his heart.



Ghosts never talk to the landscape.
I mean, the words disappear as fast
As the bottles of brandy, and the rain
Means as little as another century
To a housefly. It is funny to gape at the relentless stars
And coyotes and policemen of a stolen hour,
When you know that time is the worst toothpaste
Ever made. Thunderbolts and shivering dogs
Make me laugh. I do love them.



Flowers bloom in the mirrors like broken letters. Poisonous, according to the rumors,
Flowers silently count museums of noise in the towns of crumpled birds.