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.

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everything is heresy

In the city where my mother was born and where I have
Never been an infidel could hide
Behind a blade of air or cut the world into thin slices
Just for a grain of sand any vagabond could
Detach the roofs and towers from the sky and walk
Away laughing
Cursed by the snore of the empress
(Time on her temples dried faster than submarines after rain
Than the wine made on the fifth day of creation)
People ate rat tails and had sex with demented horses
Local angels were eternally out to lunch
And the street campfires smelt like the tongues
Of soused storytellers wrapped in blankets and towels


aeons aside

Sometimes sleep
Leaves squirrels ajar in the
Burning puddles of exploded footprints.
Relentless comfort of stolen identities
Makes fun of pawned nirvanas.
More than anything
It depends on the typeface how fast
A book can imbibe the pungent
Stupidity of the reader.



Shaggy rodents ceaselessly look for the urine of the stars
In the roar of the stairwells too short to be tired of
Dry black grass scratches at the shadows of hoary beings
Forgotten somewhere between the folded waves of insomnia
And puddle light can’t help cursing the sun
Let me tell you a story too short for a pillow too crumpled
And huge to be smothered with



There are burning maps of a tasteless forest
With paths lost in the bellies of spiders
We step on pictures of humans made by birds
And rotten fingers pointing at the clear sky
When kettle and shampoo trees grow quiet

Children beget stolen words
Vomit stolen magic



Something always hides between the wind and the voice.
There is always a mask under the face.
The soul of a red-haired mannequin quickly loses itself
In another one, impossible just a moment before.
The dirty shell is supposed to shudder, as if
Being eaten by a tiny transient cloud.
The flesh of a tree giddily catches wisps of cold.



I hear the sky’s sediment kissing a broom
A shopping bag believing in uncombed forests
I can’t fathom how many songs end up with a handful of unsound suns
Whenever silence devours the eyes of a tyrant
Crossing the birdless air to save broken ashtrays



Slivers, I swear by water, by
The surface of abstinent flesh, of
A shattered sun belong to
Dying insects. But be careful: wine
Left for indigenous spirits after a bout
Can cut your tongue.
Foxes circle like the names of someone
Who should never be named
In the mouth of a sleazy priest,
Circle around the spots of
Eternal sleep. The tails
Burn your exhalations on the sly. Cows don’t
Perform miracles in the fields anymore.



Days begin as the universe cannot,
With inarticulate slogans removed from the otherworld.
Red-haired plumbers send birds to a place
Where smiles are enemies of shampoo,
And envelopes for voices and tails are cheap.
Songs begin where all of them end.



Stinking stairwells hide wet stars between discolored steps, smack dab in the walls
I have done things worse than swimming in homemade stone
Or divining by bleating cars of cast iron groves
No lover can touch a warbling jazz critter on the roof but
I believe in overdue pills buried in musty carpets of historic buildings
And neolithic weather reports and postponed haircuts
Splintery boards stretch out between clouds plundering time
Horror stories become shorter than cigarette butts in the prayers of children

no doubt

I forgot my sneakers in a trumpet-infested country
Where unshod horses guard the toothbrushes of the residents day and night
I placed my soul between my heels in order to keep it soiled to no avail
But in the guts of each grand piano there is a frog looking for moonlight
Which never comes with the territory and sounds timidly leave
The times when no one is going to write a jellyfish manifesto


Gregarious songbirds peck at the amorphous
Amorous faces of sleeping gods whenever they please.
Ghosts invent languages and forget them instantly.
It is sick to wait
For an animal to howl into black foliage,
But who could resist the temptation.


sasquatches are not for sale

I enjoy walking narrow paths that don’t
Lead to the Kingdom of Heaven, surrounded
By stone-mouthed chanting fish,
Exalting mushrooms (not the
Hallucinogenic ones, mind you) over
Marsupial dust. Two-legged chairs
Frolic around celebrating the birth of
A sasquatch. Casual music
Has eaten away half of each tree
Under the sun which is still
Bothersome outside its heat. A frog
Faintly plays flute with the shadows.
Old fiddlers blabber about fabulous floods.
Leaves lose their texture between
The soul and the eyes. Sounds
That musicians rejected are substitutes
For sand in my food.


The ocean is a lone huge eye and those who
Have never learned to swim, who cannot cross it over,
They can just walk along the shore replete with dying monsters,
With dying sirens, dying sailors, dying jellyfish,
Indefinitely, without end, without any sound
Imaginary creatures can perceive, they can
Just timidly pick up discarded shoes,
Discarded toes, discarded songs, discarded wood,
Discarded sails, discarded socks, discarded souls,
Discarded moons that tremble
Half-buried in the sand.