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Its A Funtime | Niche - Artist
eric-faulkner
Untitled
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BLM ACAB
Text
Whistling while he hums
there’s a blank day
just outside my
single-pane window
seems like every day off
is only half a day
gray and/or raining
at least
I inhale and exhale
at ease
my wife
right here
giving me
everything
it’s a good life
when we both
manage to find
a miraculous way
to relax
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Riding to a Valley
Beneath a Devil Mountain
random close interactions
sometimes
with energetically dissimilar
strangers
we cross paths
trapped in the back
of an angry bald man’s car
he hate drives me
toward my mother’s house
coughing repeatedly
his mouth wide open
car windows shut tight
all I know so far
he is caught up
in a snare of his own devising
forcing me quite simply
to not give a shit
about anything
related to his bald
-faced rage
until I can safely
get away
I keep catching him
in the rearview
staring
the traffic compounds
compounding
this back-wrench
ing feeling
this automotive entrapment
herking and jerking
through the congested lanes
of highway 680
the exhaust pipe next to us
blackened and spitting
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Photo
Self-Portrait, Tangier, 1964
‘Calling partisans of all nations - Cut word lines - Shift linguals - Vibrate tourists - Free doorways - Word falling - Photo falling - Break through in Grey Room - ’ - Nova Express
William Burroughs was born 100 years ago (…). If there’s a hell below he’s down there for being a queer junkie who attacked the religious establishment along with every other, but there isn’t, so he’s not. From the literary bomb that was The Naked Lunch through the cut-up trilogy of the 60s to The Third Mind (with Brion Gysin) and beyond he tore up literary conventions. Essayist, tape manipulator, artist, he was counter to even the counter culture that embraced him. via: Include Me Out
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J on my mind
I don’t really remember
how long it’s been
since I last saw you
meandering by
wandering
a metal bridge at night
in Alameda
a side street in Berkeley
a sidewalk in Oakland
recognizing you in my mirror
Your beat brown shoes
shuffling out a soft rhythm
You absent-mindedly smiling
eyes down in the cracks
with the tiny plants
random encounters between daydreams
Slowing my car down
I lower the window
call your name
Your arms are full of books
or a tote bag held by one strap
a million stories you never told me
usually a beat up hat tilted back
over your furrowing forehead
leaning into the window
you speak softly
a butt still burning
in your battered hand
How long has it been now
since I last asked
Where are you going?
smiling, my neck craned
doing a husky laugh before
offering you a ride?
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Video
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Corey Sizemore b2b Richie Panic | Boiler Room LA: Lights Down Low
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Goodbye, Professor Morsberger, and thank you.
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What can I say—we’ve been Binging!
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GID Tiny Heaven
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