Panel 2: A small printer is spitting out another ticket. *bzzz* *shrrnkk*

Panel 3: The printer is spitting out another ticket attached to the previous. *bzzz* *shrrnkk*

Panel 4: The printer is spitting out another ticket attached to the previous two. They are starting to curl around each other. *bzzz* *shrrnkk*

Panel 5: He is hanging the newly printed tickets on the ticket rack behind the ones already there.

Panel 6: *sigh* He’s holding a ladle full of dark red tomato sauce. He is looking at the ground.

Panel 7: His face is terrified.

Panel 8: The row of tickets. Written on the tickets in red letters is the word “loser.” One letter for each ticket.

Panel 9: The printer. *bzzz* *shrrnkk*

Panel 10: A black panel with “*bzzz* *shrrnkk*” written as many times as can fit.

Panel 11: He is on his knees. The ladle is on the ground and the red sauce is  splattered about.

Panel 12: The walls are closing in around him.

Him: No!

Panel 13: Looking down on him the walls are closer.

Panel 14: Looking down on him the walls are closer.

Panel 15: Looking down on him the walls are closer.

Panel 16: The printer. *bzzz* *shrrnkk*

Caption: It’s the kind of day it feels like the walls are closing in on me.

“The Ostrich or the Lark”
August 17 on Other Electricities

We became a giant monster with 12 billion eyes.

And in turn came a ravenous hunger that could only be fed

With several miles of pipe jammed deep into the ground.

We will drink the black blood down filling our monstrous belly.

But all our shit and piss will be foul and vile,

And will leave disastrous dead-lands wherever it does fall.

And soon there air so thick with stench will blind 2 billion eyes.

With 10 billion eyes we can still see very far,

Though the view will be uglier and uglier until there is nothing worth seeing.

And the black blood we are drinking would be harder to find.

Our straw of lead can’t break the skin deep enough anymore.

The lumbering beast of us is losing eyes faster than before.

And now the starving monster is left with just one choice.

To eat the shit that’s blinding us, to choke it down.

The pain in our belly is a constant reminder.

Like every day’s increasing blindness.

Drinking blood is no way to feed a hunger.

thirsty nashville

download their album here: http://denovodahl.bandcamp.com/album/tigerlion

Once I saw a big buck deer in a clearing, alone. I don’t know where my father was. nearby, but not immediately beside me. There was a moment, me and the deer, then he spooked and ran into the thick brambles and other forest plants of which I don’t know the names.

At least, that’s what I told my dad.

Actually, I gave a little yell. That’s what spooked the deer. I was afraid my father would kill it.

I didn’t want it’s blood on my hands.

Perhaps our bodies are cocoons and we are instinctually trying to force metamorphosis?

May be violence is instilled by some lonely creator who knows it speeds our joining his/her/its side?

Possibly we’re imitating the natural world. Violence in return of violence. Man vs. nature vs. one another. We can’t stop ourselves as a species.

Let’s return to metamorphosis. I like the thought. May be disease, cancer, guns and knives, and time, always time, are tools for a great change. The last frontier is death. We leave the earth as pioneers in some great wagon train to whatever is next.

A creator: giving said tools as gifts to his creation to bring us home. Is that a scary thought? May be it’s kinder than it sounds. A selfishness that, too, he passed to us.

Or mankind in a constant fight for survival. Killing animals to eat, killing each other to better the lives of our tribes or states, or even killing in the name of an idea with many definitions such as freedom or god. I do not like this. It implies a choice in our violence. I have chosen to be as non-violent as I am able. If an individual can choose, it would seem that a people or even a species might also be able to choose or to learn to make better decisions.

Contemplation with no hope for resolution… also a reason at times for violent behavior.

a representation of art?

A caveman sits the woods upon a hollowed log. He drops his club. A sound, pleasant and holy. The caveman continues dropping his club. A strange music pure and new. a foundation.

Caveman two hears caveman one hitting the log. He finds his own log and imitates number one. Caveman three hears caveman two and finds his own log. Caveman four. Caveman five, six, seven.

Each additional log takes a bit of holiness from the original. What was once strange and new is now old and common.

Each floor a bit uglier.

4/19 Kansas City
4/20 St Louis
4/21 Bloomingon (IN)
4/22 Chicago
4/23 Grand Rapids
4/24 Chatanooga

go to them.