The realization comes with little breath. But I taste it nonetheless. All we ever want is love and recognition. It's so simple. Say, give it to me please. Give and take. Welcome the words. Feel the awkward contraption of love shared. Give and receive. Accept and reveal. I finally know that.

Youtube, with so many videos under a thirty second duration, or a girl in her bedroom dancing to the rap music she loves, or a geriatric man recording his life, or a guy falling off a bike, or anything, any moment of time anyone anywhere cares enough about to upload onto the web just to receive a little comment, or even simply a 'view'. To know someone watched. Just some recognition of our existence. Just to give and receive a little love. Even if it's of your best friend trying to broad jump over a moving Nissan Sentra and he snaps his neck in the stunt. Whatever. Just give me a damn comment and five stars. Show some love for fucks sake.

Music For Two Cellos and Twenty-Four Televisions

These videos are part of a much larger stage performance consisting of two live cellists playing in front of a wall of 24 synchronized TVs. MF2C&24TVS was first performed in Berkeley, CA in June of 2006.

Music Composed by David Rhodes
Video Edited by and David Rhodes
Text by

This short film is one I made with some friends. We shot it in one night and I edited it the next day. David did the music one evening and here it is. This is very first thing I've ever shot and with that being said I feel pretty...not embarassed by the outcome. I apologize for the poor sound and lighting and I promise it won't happen again.

I Got To Thinking And...

I can’t wrap-up my brain folds cardboard castles wrecked the streets alive with dingy beards and missing teeth and blind blathering billboards are the horizon unable to look past the signs battle with fatigue and brilliant litanies of life shaped in loud crashes and wheeled spokes of red light because the hills have burned black to turn away from golden parcels foreign moments twinkle behind the still framed distance always just slightly wavering as if through the heat my eyes will focus even after the equals balance on the surface it sinks into sand breathing deep grains forever and for nothing an army is on the way to shell out for the prospect of decreased certainty but I am not between coward screams or cubes of watermelon in red Jell-O giggle security measures right through crossed hairs and metal detectors painted grey to inform the seriousness with regret to slalom solemn through check points head down to paint the ground with heavy handed reverence could not hope to make eyes reflect us all in each glance of a baton stick or cattle prod or manufactured tennis shoe or hot dogs or candy apples dipped or shiny diamonds unearthed or blood soaked tampons or a uterus picked clean or a head be- or Portobello mushrooms grilled or books printed large or hats worn side ways or jeans pressed just so or actors greeted millions or car horns playing reveille or my ears and eyes and nose and mouth and face and arms and legs and chest and dick and asshole and toes and fingers and skin and blood and breath and all of us probe deeper the crusty earth to find the heated center boiled till firm and yellow and dead and salt and pepper and teeth dig deep to taste the sulfur in us all

Due to this blog being overwhelmed by poems I decided to start a new blog with only poems.
It's over there in the links section. If interested click. Housed within are poems from my past to present. Some of the poems published in Warble Me are repeated in The Poet's Cookbook.

Lay Here Look

Look up at the moon
Press your fingers to my chest
Crush the darkness
The grass blades burn,
Itches skin on flesh on calves and hamstrings
Even after the sprinkler scatted
Moisture evaporates leaving us frigid
Hear Junebugs mettle through toward any light
Hear cars hurl almost like an ocean tide only
The highway points north south and never reflects
The curvature of our world
Across the horizon where high beams lean
On arms resting in window jambs
Across the world a series of veering lights
Pump like veins just beneath thin aged skin
Hear them, see them from the moon, wince or wink
You said “Up There, Look” but,
Even here, in the wet blades, I can see them coming

Hollywood

Purse snatcher on yellow Addidas
Jumps a crumpled trash can
Steers through sidewalk commuters
Hairpins an alley hidden till just then
When I see for the first time
Below graffiti burners and rusted escapes
Between Bentleys and Jags this alley forms
That has always been there and for the first time
I notice I am not home