First scene on film

December 9, 2015


    said both sides of the war

    December 6, 2015

    We will not be caught dead acting like Jesus Christ.


      Butt Rock

      December 2, 2015

      I… I was gonna tell you about the time at Joshua Tree when Jeff discov… no, okay. Maybe later?buttrock



        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 a most appropriate song for this period.
        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.


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