Wrote that once, the sound of empty

Wrote that book, saw that play, bailed that hay. Inside the boat there is no upside right. The moth to the light determined the way north, my hand on the rudder is the only sound I hear. Made of wood and staring at starry skies. Lost ways and slow running clocks are not marked in the journal. So the pages blow rife with empty. And the day starts with anew. But the compass must still point ever which way. Dogs? Dogs. Dogs will not bark at the sea if they are not there. Horses will not bay at the moon. The horse is the boat and boat is at sea. And I will look bow-ward, despite the direction we are headed. Underground is good, underwater is a life worth living. Surface tension, and the book will sink right to the bottom. Eye on the time, with a wheel of lime. The wheel goes round and round.

Section 3 starts Here >

Jr. CHemists revised and revisited

Jr. Chemists—Back in the early 80's when water was just water I was in a band called the Jr. Chemists along with my pals Michael Cornelius and Dawn Kelly. We played our own unique flavor of Punk Rock. Something about intellectual music for twelve year olds. Anyway I recently received a very nice email from Roger Piskulick who was involved in putting on shows in the Phoenix area and he straightened me out regarding some dates on my list of gigs we played. He also provided me with several cool posters. I have updated the pages that I keep on the inter-web please check it out.

Bands of Brendan: Jr. Chemists

Also Michael has been busy putting up some of the tracks on SoundCloud which can be found here:

Arizona Disease

—brENDan

Gun . . . .

Right in two

Cracks the heart right in two, right in two. I’ve opened letters like that. I’ve sat at the crucible and played it like a piano. And it really does warm the fingers. Like a hand shake with Satan. I have devised a plot, a plot to remedy the shark bite. I stand here bleeding to death and I may actually catch a cold and die as the blood puddles below me. Stand tall and be smart. The gift is the hand shake against all unnerving, all undead. The undead do not shake hands. And journeys do not always end in silence. Some with a crash. And home is made of splinters of wood, that get stuck in the hands and arms. Blood, blood flowing unseen, behind the scenes, like hardcore. Like a mail delivery. We will live as visioneers, siding with the winners every time, against all tyranny.

Section 3 starts Here >

LuLu

Here is a great song from Ed McCurdy released sometime in the 50's.
And if you have a daughter named Lou Lou it is irresistible.

LuLu

THIS

I'm working on some art in the form I like best (8.5 x 11"), collage, words and pictures. Trying to do it all in the digital realm. This is the first one I have completed.

No Big Deal

Hear this in the rotten key:


No Big Deal