November 23, 2015

Willie Nelson just sang  David Lynn Jones’s
“Living in the Promiseland” a few days ago at 82-years-old
while accepting The Library of Congress Gershwin Prize,
siting it as one of the most appropriate songs for this period in America.
Screen Shot 2015-11-23 at 12.34.58 PM


    Finger Painting Phones for the Call of the Wild

    November 22, 2015

    Woman, this is fantastic and I like the way you weird.
    Jon Berardi and I had so much fun creating this song (2005?).
    Stoked you made it even more fun, Jenna Nordgren.
    Was a sweet surprise to discover your video.
    And what a rad thing to hear Denise Jolly‘s laugh on that track today.


      To What End?

      November 20, 2015

      In A New Earth Eckhart Tolle says that we are the noisiest humans in history.
      photo_101607_003 (3)
      Some things do not need to be fact-checked.


        I Left You A Voice Message

        November 19, 2015



          November 17, 2015

          So flippin’ excited to see my family and do a set this Saturday
          November 21st at Alley Theatre for the 5th Annual
          Bayou City Poetry Grand Slam, 615 Texas Avenue, Houston, TX, 7pm



            Los Feliz

            November 15, 2015

            Remove screen from window: check.
            Hollywood remove screen


              Daylight Under the Bed

              November 12, 2015

              I wrote a new piece called Missoula Got Ugly
              while I was still on the world tour and at wits end.
              I fiddled with it, changed the name to Daylight Under the Bed
              and submitted it to Pouch. Here it is for the first time:


                NEXT LIFE SOUNDTRACK

                November 10, 2015

                Gonna read this piece tomorrow night at the event below
                because I sure like performing it but never did much to get it out there.
                If you’re in L.A. you should come. The line-up is holy f… fireworks.

                NEXT LIFE SOUNDTRACK

                Having pumped our panic buttons and pedal metal
                down the throats of freeways
                then crashed
                like heavy glass ashtrays
                into our own homes
                with department store force
                and a gas can,
                distended stomachs and God’s holes…

                Having shown off our momentum for yawning
                as a clever way
                to denigrate deeds of kindness…
                Having created
                enough minimum wage faith
                to distract orphans from the exit rows
                then thrown holding pattern parties in their honor
                only to present each other
                with our own names
                on gold plaques
                bolted to a fountain of toll booths used
                to get dressed up up
                in our go go go and gone uninterrupted
                by the signs that serve to encourage calming down…
                It is good to know
                I have finally been loosening my grip
                on the expectation that our thumbs
                will necessarily oppose each other in the next life.

                There is a next life.
                And it is my understanding
                we will not necessarily be binge-drinking bros
                wearing Greek lamp shades
                paying for friendships
                based on how pornographic our breath smells.
                I will not necessarily find myself
                rationalizing with computer gamers
                and overly polite customer service robots
                about how much life is lost
                on alternative realities
                or how much violence peaceful consumers cause.
                The results of our language cannot be programmed.
                There is no proper way to hide the rampage
                with whom we have been banking.
                There are no words
                thick enough to conceal the transparencies
                in these stories we have crafted
                out of loopholes and nothin’ but net.

                The next life is being offered to us daily
                via live streaming satellite
                by entitled white rabbits and tragedy addicts
                dragging their fingernail
                file cabinets
                across records of the damage my nerves have done.
                Inglorious preachers of a sensational game.
                Sensations and games
                are at the root
                of why we are walking so inefficiently,
                warped 45’s with credit card swagger
                charging up a sad sad path
                like Ray Charles singing Seven Spanish Angels
                to the bottom of the barrel in broad daylight.

                Stop congregating in the valley
                just because an echo
                sounds good
                when it agrees with itself.

                A trajectory of misery –
                at this point –
                seems intentional.

                We have all the information
                we need
                to see clearly.

                We are no longer toddlers
                on the landscape
                of consciousness.

                It is no longer cute
                to crap ourselves.

                Get the sticky off your buns
                and roll with me.

                Brush the hair from your eyes
                and comb over.

                Stop paying the dentist for a night guard
                if it’s still allowing your jaw
                to pulverize the truth.
                The truth is:
                We feel fine. Right now.
                We are a point of complete, not a soundtrack
                to the next life. The future
                gets no say
                in who we are. Thank you
                for laughing at the joke several lines ago
                about sticky buns.
                That was sweet. This is nuts. Listen…

                Having listened
                to the parentheses of passive aggression
                and made far too much bracket in response,
                incriminating ourselves
                as sucker punches and suckerfish,
                soaker hoses and preying on
                the dead weight
                of fashion-forward food for overpopulation…
                Having inflicted the most amount of pleasure
                with the least harm done
                then called it progress…
                I am still, without fail, eligible to remind us
                that there is a reason the future
                gets so agitated by our advances.
                We are not built to barge ahead of ourselves
                in false fast-forward on a flat fifth wheel
                made out of spokespeople for progress
                who fly off the handle
                whenever anyone taps the breaks.
                Throw it in park.

                Gauge the pressure.
                Renunciation is not a frigid concept.
                It is okay
                to abandon the tackle practice
                of having and crashing and
                having and crashing
                through this circuit board of carrier pigeons
                carrying torch carriers
                over an orchestra of strung-out sixteenth notes
                composed with a matchstick
                that struck out and broke off but did not
                burn up. If the future
                keeps finding us
                in these uncomfortable positions
                they might mistake us for honest
                before it’s actually true.
                How honest is it
                that we drink
                until we are dehydrated?

                If my throat turns to carbonated leather
                and you hang me
                like a lucky foot from the rearview mirror
                while barreling down the freeway,
                toll booth after toll booth,
                in a heavy glass ash tray,
                how the hell freeways got to be so
                goddamn expensive,
                remember this: The White Rabbit
                is said to be a symbol
                of human beings
                who are pompous and belittling
                toward anything they deem less valuable
                than themselves, yet
                they grovel to accommodate
                anyone from whom they stand to gain.

                To what end
                are you gaining?

                I’m not speaking
                to our governments.

                I’m speaking
                to the way we govern ourselves.

                Make your stopwatch
                live up to its name.

                We are not late
                for an important date.

                We have simply shown up
                too early
                for the next life
                and forgot to knock, forgot
                that the future
                doesn’t want us to arrive.
                It knows that if we do, it dies.

                As if people on stilts really need you to offer them more gravity.
                Easter Egg


                  A line drive of pilot lights guided through a single tambourine

                  November 7, 2015

                  1million meditators in Thailand
                  Two Jim Hodges installations over a million meditators in Thailand.
                  I’m new, and I don’t know what else to say.


                    Hummingbird Glass

                    October 22, 2015

                    Headed off the grid to Joshua Tree
                    and Vipassana.
                    Back in action early November.
                    Until then, I leave you with this…


                      Finding Thanks Given

                      October 15, 2015

                      Didn’t know this little nugget existed.

                      Grateful for the footage, Aiden Kalous.



                        In the voice of Dina Martina

                        October 14, 2015

                        “…and they all congregated in clusters
                        around little bubbles of emptinesh.”
                        said the live narrator at a Griffith Park
                        Observatory movie just before I
                        involuntarily lol’ed on myself.


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