About Me

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Ridgewood, New York, United States

Monday, October 31, 2011

Again and again and again.....hipstirr suprastarz

The Fox and the hound, wolf Mama ladybird, the butcher and a tiny spider vampire. Cutting Clouds with swords and poking a hole straight to the sky. When she said that girl could do whatever she wanted, boy was she right. The Antithesis of the halloweekend drove us into a warm cozy cave with stews and brews and song dust in our eyes. Ladybird has always welcomed the strays, gays and silly douchery into her house in hopes of brewing up a pack of ferocious warriors. What is all this? What is it really.....you ask. I am merely a flesh conduit typitty type type typing away. This all sounds vague because it is.....what? And then I count my days slowly, again fast forward flash and there again they are, the whole lot of them family, lovers, kings and queens. Every era is the same and man and cat never change. Only those rare heavy coated creatures who soar above the mist can scratch the newness and re-write the stars. Blah, blech, down into the hole you go silly words. Disguised tongues, serpented split pea soup. For Eva young babbling from the womb about how beautifully formed your hands were in the last life and NOW, now what? These creatures are no man I know, no flesh I've smelled or tasted, no eyes I've stared into. They move in shadows and transform the aurovisio. The fallen heavy light. On this earth I am full of dirt and sorrow, if only for brief sparks in time to imagine beautiful crystalline memories in the ocean, across the sky and feel every bit of the crushing. The pieces are forming and the house is getting stronger. The arrows pointing in all directions, yours pointing at yourself.  Sheathed in warm woolly wombs. The conscious ooze has arrived, has been arriving for centuries will keep drooling like lava off the side of a volcano. I am going to safely say that in my lifetime we will see the likes of angels only a few have been able to conjure. What then.....when the angels cum? Will it all be set again, to shatter and mourn, to capture in words to spell out a song? Of course it will. Pass  me the porridge ladybird, this little spider is hungry. I cast a light into the world and find you wide eyed goggled hero and open. I still hear you over fermented rice water and nautical delights. My lighthouse is yours, when your path turns right. I am wish, swish rattle and roll, cause the harbor lights are calling.


Wednesday, October 26, 2011


I am living a small utopia, nuzzled in between two amazing friends who have adopted me and taken my spirit in like a broken bird. The house is bright with sunshine and there are two beautiful cats living here, protecting my dreams. Soon there will be a third feline companion who will complete the circle. My heart swells to think how therapeutic these small animals have been for me in their simplicity and stillness. I long for solitude amongst them and I thank the spirits who brought me to this place. Today we prepared the altar, a way for people to feel invited into our small piece of wonderland. Today is beautiful with its greyness and mild sunrays and so I eat them consume their warmth in preparation. Tonight will be full of honesty and grace, violence and purification. My moon bath celestial sacrifice goes out to YOU. You are all in my heart, I wish you happiness my dear slaves. Alone we move mountains together we birth the universe. For the moment ground yourself in song and tell me what you feel, think, smell, want to see, hear or speak. Be heart guts and blood for me......I will deliver you from the sins of dishonesty and loneliness. Ah-men.

Listen to some of my favorite friends:
Les Bicyclettes Blanches
Teta Mona
Les Sphinxx
Ish Marquez

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Spiritum Sanctum

La naturalez es un movimiento quieto y arduo. El mar sereno y activo. La noche en tinieblas persuiguiendo la luna hacia el amanecer. Y en la luz del sol encontramos el calor sanguĂ­neo. Llenos de vida en el silencio eterno. Llenos de amor y muerte lo perderemos todo y naceremos de nuevo. Con ojos de ave y sangre de grado sanaremos la aurora rayada, sanaremos la tierra ya destruida. Por que el corazon clama sin entender, pero veo que ese llanto nos une. Y en las voces escondidas encontrare la verdad. Espiritos Santos Espiritus Santus Spiritum Sanctum.

Thursday, September 29, 2011


Today is first Today is first one time story with a fever I roam into the ether rock into my lover's arms The map is all confused...again money is all we lose...again taking what we choose...again one time story of the grand mind holy holy once find water to myself...again control it all abuse....again If misery you choose then baby.....guess...again guess... guess again......guess my fortune is set maybe, my glory formed how the eyes shine and grow Today is first We are all cold and crying dead and alive we fly in We are all left denying TodayToday To day.... (2x) We are all gold We are alien waves to sleep it in is ok

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

all made up

all made up
its hanging tirelessly like the smoke in your hair
those circulars around your eyes
pearled chomps, venomous teardrops
siren foaming at the mouth

I spit and it is all blood and bile I hear

what to take when the voices all harmonize to your ramblings?

I would eat all of your potatoes, gorge myself with your bowl of sustenance
were you to take my dear black hat away from me.
my wavering fingers draw a heart's scar that fill your emptiness

I spit and it is still dragon's blood I smell

but a spotlight in your chest
envious youth
push and pull on my dress

take hold young mistress, masters come in disguise as your motherly breasts

the two that sit in darkness know better, feel better bruise as easy as the apple

from the snake oh Eve you are not
from the lake, Lady you are not.

Hunger wolf, horny female
snarled darling sea cow
enough is enough but enough when you're dead

You will look for your head soon enough, inside my mirrored eye

Monday, September 19, 2011

death of a flower

the death of a flower is a path
crushed underfoot
leaves and grass
and crushing still packed fresh snow

I suppose the death of a flower would illumine,
outlast the darker anguish of living so close without its bloom.

Shaking leaves
and running waters
scorched earth
scarlet crimson

will within
when the poet walks amidst the fields of flower's dust
the death of a flower is a path to trace and wonder all at once
what gold gods we may become in slumber
what golden mermaids lie beneath the lust

So broken as to hide away from the light
so broken as to fall into a depth
to mine the word for shattered flowers
at once rebuild in tiny pieces what was fallen whole from the sky

Quick and dead are all that rest beyond pearled gates
behind the cross of choice we choose to follow
the tinman's grace without beet muscle
metal machines speaking in code

(I hide, I choke, I run)

I follow the tail of one too many mystic comets
imagining in them the sun

God's do welcome me in with gold dust wings
 I am bonded strength
enraptured light
forgotten traces of your wildness
delight in the flower
it will be erased
it will be devoured

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Monday, August 29, 2011

Holy Gone Monster

Everyone is seeing up above and beyond
seer's dreaming up all the visions.
  Not one ounce of pure sight is left.
All real estate taken upstream
by the flesh saturating west
from an eastern shore I can see people

but spreading over across the wilds of our barren country's heart lies the way to anima

engrave it on your lover's palm
a love whispered prayer
no snarky remarks that injure or condem
love to no avail
keep your blackened bird smothered under breath
sole mutterings till your death begins again 
but this beautiful bird only visible to wonderkind
lovely creatures in their own rite
spring forward to offer her life
they are her saviors

I dreamed of leaves torn to shreds
and paper children flowered in the wind

I dreamed I killed a whale, rode its hide to the other side of the ocean to find the tortoise lover

she was covered in worries, not of her own
but those accumulated from the tide
barnacles clasped to her body
centuries ago she learned to fly                    and through the water she found more of her wonderkind
lovers and friends
new family myths beginning again
inside of her like embryonic imprints upon her womb
a matrix child, mother in making spirits light 
only when her dark horse arrived to take her home would she rejoice 
for tired and worn were her soles

this empress knight, fighting her way home through all bodies 
running upstream
No valley could contain the sounds of glass she made underfoot
                                            her fingerprints washed off her hands 

she belonged to no country, she belonged to no man.

New think speak

There say luck would have me one day.
Just the day I chose to meet luck out in this wide open world, would the world swallow me a hole?
I make sure to care for my breath and visit you quite regularly underneath it

the words blanketed by the sounds underground, underwater.
Dripping down like honey combed wine from fair lips.
You've got hip appeal and flags that bring down ships to a quiet still.

and still as if to divine and to unravel so much more time is left when you are mine
unraveled thin
like crosshaired love wires
I'm shore
you wave
and so one softened kiss is moore
than a thousand stiff kisses
lets chance again
I miss you and the good lord tht holds your hand
its auburn wonderful
each and every strand
you take care of every one of us girls the best you can
how i miss you so
how i must let go
how i miss you so
how i must let go

Thursday, August 25, 2011

En Rapture

Cottage Cheese, a banana, two coffees with skim milk, walked to work in the faint rain.

It is instant, you run into the building covered in blessed stone, tall and pointing towards the sky. A place where you have devoted all your faith, your beliefs locked away in a small incensed boxed tucked underneath the dusted altar. But first, the fire sky opened and the rains came down again as hard as they had ever been, you were frozen again and your tears came down again when your look above you held  the exact precision of the holy building. You ran there first because the town was small and your flashing lights were bright, tracing a path directly into the church, gold bricked and paved to safety. From harms hasty way the ground shook and bodies were propelled forward, heads pointed horizontally erect. This was the rapture covered in lace and you were still on earth covered in dirt as the souls lifted from the ground, whose legs you desperately embraced in gasps. You were lost and winded and behind the words that were whispered in your ears from your childhood memories, like the thunder and the rainstorm passing by, they faded into the ghostly wind. Was your lover not in heaven coming back to encapsulate your love in his bottled potion? Positioned with a tincture to revive you from your slumber white snow lovers, whose winter warmth held the earth's balance and fevered the blistering sun in the summer's brightest rain?

For all year long we waited underneath the fickle trees of lust and their fruit lay rotting barren without seed. Boyhood dreams left unfulfilled were dreams floating in the clouds. How could we recover the sound of the river in our hearts? This rapture wrapped in solid ice caps, unable to breathe but for the cathedral sky, crystalline letting in tidbits of the sun. From its portioned rays grew a deformed vine enraptured entwined round the lines of holiness. Following the light it grew as strong as the the slivers of light would allow it room. 

Will you lie dormant under the rubble until the wind comes off to carry you? Earth overbearing mother, soaring eagle to carry me home in a blue box to the sea.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Violent Waves

A diver falls deep into the pressure of thought and sense and breath, and he waits. He waits until a point that will almost sever his spine, a point where he is bowed by gravity and falls to its pull for fear of caving and snapping suddenly towards death at the bottom of a silent ocean. The pressure of depth overcomes his courage suddenly and he is without blood. He feathers down to the bottom becoming tiny pieces, fragments of photographs, vector lines.  In my dreamthought he can fly and breathe in the waters that consume his heart. but his breath is slow and labored. He breathes in the salt and minerals, the animal fragments, and seashell shards that pierce his lips. Moves change into waves and lead us up on the way down. Of clouds, we are helpless, slapped by the presence of composite goddesses. Is it your desire now to conjure yourself transformed from earth to a crescent waved water god? 

Thursday, May 19, 2011


First and foremost I would like to thank the ever adventurous Clifton Hyde, whose interest in the finer libations of the world has brought me to my new standby drink: CAMPARI & Soda. Made with quinine, rhubarb, ginseng, orange peels and aromatic herbs, I am happy to say this bittersweet aperitif
is favored by Italian men awaiting death and now by yours truly. I recently went as far as purchasing three rounds for three friends at a show, quickly converting everyone to the drink.

The slow burn of the herbs and aromatics makes it less likely I will get too drunk too quickly, that said I may indulge in lots more of it because it is so damn interesting in flavor. I savor the moment it hits my palate and indulge in the image of old world Italy, where old men stumble home on their bicycles on cobble stone streets.

I recently found this simple recipe and will have to try it to as an enhancer to the original soda mixture.


Ice cubes
2 ounces Campari
1-1/2 ounces white wine
1/2 ounce club soda
Lemon slices (optional)

Fill wine glasses with ice.
Add Campari, wine, and soda.
Stir to mix.
Garnish with lemon slices, if desired.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Future Sounds of Love and Magic

Two summers ago I began a journey into the world of complete feminine independence. I met a beautifully strong and equally ravaged woman named Teresa Colomonaco. We walked an entire summer holding each other's spirits by the hand, blessing each other's foreheads and playing music for the gods. I cherished that time very much because I was given the opportunity to become a nurturer to my fellow woman and in turn grow stronger in my own feminine magic. The stage was set and when she departed so abruptly, I cried knowing that for the first time in a very long time I had found a sincerely brave soul. One who not only shared my crazy lust for life, love and art, but who could equally wilt like a delicate orchid. Today, I want to share her music as I sometimes do when I feel the nostalgia of the old world pull me in. Teta's sounds are a cry in response to a cruel and devastating world. A past of exploitation in many forms - tribal - family - magic. She is luminiescent and flows over you like a dusted mist. Breathe her in and exhale your wishes because they may just come true.

As for myself, I will one day share all the strength and power I have acquired that began with our chance meeting with Teta in person on her home turf, where she is cherished and nurtured by the land and music.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

"As is Painting, so is Poetry" - Horace

Dreams ooze from their pores and into their phallic strokes. I can't shake them, I try and continue to hide but hit head on into them, swallowing those sharp daggers one by one. Slaying myself continuously. But I would  just as easy be the sponge they're looking for. A soft gooey fluffiness that lives inside their loins.

You're the one who paints the world's figure flat and you're the one who writes desperate illusions in your sleep. I am a sacrifice to devour. A loving meal upon your feet. Your features are rugged; creatures who don't give a fuck but feel so much they ache with all sorts of desires. Babies, young and stupid babies.

In my mutterings: " a minor allowance from these is a form of sorrowful affection."

It is a bitter  aftermath collision that stutters for days. All I can do is eat and drink to plug a void they leave behind in their slimy get away car. It is a phantom void, one that I see walking next to me and not living inside of me. Skin slapping on naked skin type of affection. Supple lips, the inner thigh, a warm beating heart, the sweet of the neck. Who was Jesus Christ without Love?

I am hungry. I ate and ate this weekend purely out of anxiety and boredom. When I return to New York I will do the opposite and feel light again. The Burden of walking down crowded streets. I think I want to sink into a bowl of cereal. Someone once loved cereal. I don't remember who. But I care enough to write that I don't care at all about a stranger who I know for a fact is a breakfast cereal whore.

What is your favorite cereal lover? I myself prefer to fast. Anorexia on me, vomit all over your face. Such a pretty picture of boredom.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Things I've seen, heard and done in the last couple of weeks

SEWN LEATHER @the now defunct Champs Cafe 

For those folks who forgot that shows/concerts were meant to be the smashing ground for our collective soul.  Yes I like dancing and Sewn Leather absolutely conjures the energies of a spinning dervish smashed with the aesthetic of an  apocalyptic trash punk. The energy is 100% sensitive to the misery and grime of our time. Please go see him live and let him drag you down, slap you up and win you over with his magic.


More SL

Sewn Leather dancing to DJ Ratbeef 

SHAMS @Silent Barn 
One of my favorite performers, Shams fuses mysterious apathy with genuine shake your ass tracks. If you want to dance he takes care of you, if you want to trance, he does that to. Sometimes he sings like a banshee, but maybe on that rare occasion he might just get baptized on stage with a saxophone in hand. Not to mention, some of the best locks I've seen on a man in a while.
 more Shams

My deconstruction of Shams at Silent Barn

Below are a couple of my projects, check them, talk about them, and let me know what you think.

 Alt Country Singer Laura Minor & The Talented Jail Birds

My arsenal for Laura Minor. My official title is texturizer. I'd like to think of all my trinkets as different gradients of emotion that I use to fill certain songs. A melodica for a French revival tune, the viola for the swamps.

Helped style the girls of Supercute for their latest video shoot.


Rehearsing with Juggernut - I rip up roses over the setlist to set the mood. I also perform as a human sperm,  while trying not to become the performance art whore. Safety first as they say in AA. 


Monday, May 2, 2011


Those things we are not supposed to eat. The unclean meat, the sacrilegious skeletons of a poor jumbo shrimp. I love the untouchable. The dirty, the vulgar, the foul. Like my friend Sam says, "if you can't stand my musk then I guess we are not compatible {animals}." Very simple, very clear. Complexity, I need to drop that word for a while. It gets me into more trouble than is worth handling in my tiny body. How about a slip and slide. A good meal. Interesting conversation. Lace leggings and no bra.

Too much television did not hypnotise us, convert us into zombies, flatten our eyeballs. It opened our brains and taught us to process many tiny things at once to create the illusion of one singular big idea. Pixels vs picture. strands versus coif. Little lines on a map, none too important as to make them the ultimate WAY. But all flowing into some way.

A wig fits nicely on top of a clown's head. Bare feet may get you a broken toe. Not flossing is not essential to the cause. Having too much fun is always acceptable. Not calling your mom is typical and not very nice. Years and years and years will go by and you will still be friends. All of you, trust me.

If you can't make it to the BBQ you should dance at the poetry club and make new friends. One big orgy we are all afraid to attend. Don't yell at me, don't touch me, don't look at me.

Then why all the makeup? Why all the adornments, why all the smiles and laughing noise. Mix medicine signals and you will end up with a soggy sandwich. One person always left unsatisfied, unfulfilled, ignored. On the other end is the suffering darkeness. A fevered siren waiting to devour your insecurity. Blah, Blah, Blah. Girls can be so damn Katty. Blech!

Aah, I'm not interested in fighting anything except this impending fever I smell in the back of my throat. Too much alcohol, too much too much and still never enough.

On my way home I will buy a book that will unlock a song that is stuck in my head on repeat. May also buy some more masks. Maybe not tonight, the cold is looming inside and I must hurry home and fight it with a warm blanket, my uke and some campari and soda. The drink old Italian men have while they are waiting to die.

Repeat after me: (these are probably the lyrics to three different songs) ugh. words.

I am fighting for YOUR lifeless words, more moves, less give a fuck.

who will heal the healers
from the shards?

broken knees
broken backs
slip-on vomit thong

thorny thorny
horny teens
slide, slide, slide
bump splash slide
slide, slide, slide
bump, splash slide

who will heal the healers
from the morning light?

Who will heal the healers?

Friday, April 29, 2011

Pray for your mother


The Bat The Rat & The Spider

As she has always had you in her prayers. Even though her superstitions perturb you, there are moments throughout your day where everything inside you rattles. It jolts and shivers. Could this be her prayer shooting life into me, waking me up out of death into a living dream? She loves to hear your voice. Although sometimes the burden of listening weighs heavy on you it is nice to hear her talk incessantly about a puppy she met on the street or how annoyed she is with her mother who calls her everyday. This makes you smile. To see yourself in the past as a grown woman and imagine that future of an old soul you are becoming. When old souls return to a present they are playful, vulgar, disrespectful, misunderstood and possibly a little dusty.

A rat turned bat a combination of terrestrial and celestial. Ocean Skies. Cloud Islands.

By the way where did the spider go?

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Juggernut plays C-Squat this Friday, April 29

Juggernut with all of its fury and tidal destruction will be playing this Friday at C-Squat's Gay Spring Fling. Come and enjoy the show Bitches!!!

155 Avenue C & 9th Street
11:30 pm
$5 donation

Friday, April 22, 2011

of sleep

I did not sleep last night. but I did enjoy a nice cuban cigar and a shot of caribean intoxication. The aperitif incuded two beautiful dancers, a fox and a hound ramblin away the night and stealing my heart on the dancefloor.

A kiss to you two beautiful beasts. Then there are darker more sinister eyes that caught me for a moment and strongly held their grip until they themselves were blinded by my light. The darkness walked away compassionately as it always does, leaving me to myself and to my dancing. I waited to hear from two different Caribbean princes...of Miami and Cuba combined. Oh the force of the ocean to mold the shapes of man's hearts. These men who drive me to unbridled madness for single nights, who enthrall me with their grip, take care of me and hold me until the dawn.

But these are only Princes.....not fit for a queen.

One day I will find the King of Swords who will slice my heart into tiny pieces and dust it over the oceans. He will die for me and lift me across the sky. His arms will be made of copper and his feet of burnt terracotta. Clothed in wolf hide, smelling of sweet cut grass.

I'm bleeding all over today, I'm tired all over again today, and tonight I will celebrate a birth. To hell with sleep. I'd rather kiss the blissful moon longing for rest rather than sleep away my youth.

Good night sunshine the summer moon howls over you!

Friday, April 15, 2011

Meditations on the Kiss

A devoted spirit once kissed me and I ran away, I left him on an island in tears. I was searching for another kiss. This one this time from the betrayer who is still burning buried in his shadowed existence. I hope he moves to Antwerp very soon and marries someone who will take his shit for treasures. Because for all my showers of gold on his darkend skull, he still betrayed me with his oozing salival bath. This will always bring me sadness. And right now it is an echo of sadness, but sadness still.

I don't look to intimidate you with a kiss. In fact if you end up in my bed, there is no way I will let you touch my lips until you admit that you are trapped. Vulnerable in my web. Soft and gentle. Go to sleep. Then I will kiss you on your forehead little bear. I am now your mother, too much like her and not enough unlike. Shit, it happens again and again and again.

My mother was beautiful and cunning and trapped my father. But she forgot her beauty through the years, never taught me her mysteries and instead replaced it with a scornful temeprament that aged her twofold. He was a cheater a liar, simply the best human he could possibly be. A stalker, a charlatan, a charitable soul to everyone except his own.

A kiss from him felt like the earth, dirty and destroyed. A kiss from her - I'm not sure I remember. These days she kisses like a child. my brother is cold my sister is tired. In fact a familial kiss is the only ritual we are all embarrased to admit.

Tonight I will attempt a kiss with a poem, the poet's soul. Imagine longing and push out from my lips a subtle devotion to the spirit that inhabits the creation.

Come to HiChristina tonight @10pm 5-min lectures plus me doing a Kissing meditation.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

Payday Meditations I

Today I decided that I must save money in order to supplement the resources to make things happen for myself. I never have a plan and this in itself has been the bane of my existence.

Is this adulthood?

A heightened awareness of the power of money, organization and a planner?

My mother has never been the best planner but she did teach me to save any little bit of cash for a rainy day scenario. These days I wish to travel back home as a first priority and visit my new baby niece, my brother who seems to have returned from the catatonic lands of the east that tend to consume those who play with fire at an early age. My grandparents who sit patiently awaiting my arrival, like royalty waiting for their prodigal princess to return.

The joy, the joy of knowing that there is a group whom you belong to exclusively and forever more. A lineage a heritage a link that is unbreakable. Unbearable is the love for family. Difficult and strange, overbearing and smothering. The fish swims away from this affection, only to swim tirelessly with teary eyes wide and open consuming in an almost frozen gaze. Where is the love that wants to stay? (as my friend Laura Minor sweetly sings) We are beasts ravaging each other, following, hunting, longing, then mourning the loss of our conduits for exstatic pleasure and catalysts for extreme pain.

I take things too hard, he said. Yea, its my style, I whispered. I stare icy in trance, making sure not to waver and look his way. I'm on a tightrope leaning dangerously on false notions of love from the past while finally realizing today that he is simply a hollow. A bloodless vessel with no roots. There never was anymore he could give and in that moment of truthful surrender, I finally felt the faintest pulse of waves. Waves of affection pouring from his hands like honey on my skin engulfing my spirit. Soft and gentle, fragile heartbeats. But it was too late. I was a statue, adored and hated in that moment of affection. I quickly recovered my senses and got up from his couch, walked away from him and did not look back. My eyes did not focus on any one thing except the door. He rushed after me and stopped me, turned me around and asked for a hug and a kiss. Don't take things so hard, he repeated once again.

Click on the word beast below to listen to this beautiful song
Beast by Laura Minor

Friday, April 8, 2011


Before bed I say to myself, there are too many humans on this world to love and hate and ignore. Let me try and watch them all....one by one by one.

Beck "Bit Variations in B Flat" from wyldfile on Vimeo.

Obits "Pine On" from Sub Pop Records on Vimeo.

FREAK OWLS "optimistic automatic" from maxime bruneel on Vimeo.

The reason to move to San Francisco

[live tv] #027 Pt.2-2 - Thee Oh Sees - Contraption from RaRaRa on Vimeo.

and also Hot Cookie">

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Books, Music and a potion called Neuro Sonic

I've been reading alot aout Ms. Elizabeth Taylor this week. The violet eyed goddess from a golden era of films, the queen of the nile herself whose one true love was the scorpio that posoined her soul. In the meantime right before bed I have one delicious ritual of sipping on a tiny tea sized shot of Sherry from Jerez, Spain. The stuff is almondy rich and covers the entire palette with warmth all while reading the The Uses of Enchantment. The nest is growing in magic and I am loving every moment of creation and passion that unfolds within my walls. My habitat is at once nurturing for my body as well as my creative spirit. Let the gods be aware there is one more butterfly fluttering up to their realm. For under the sparkle of the daylight and during the most tumultuous time of my workday I replenish my strength with this nifty drink: Neuro Sonic

I mean I have to say it I have really exquisite taste. Try me sometime.

::I'm Playing music here:: Art, Love, Japan @InRivers Friday, April 8, 2011 7 pm

Tomorrow night at InRivers gallery I will be performing some new songs at this very special benefit for Japan. Come enjoy the art and witness some lilting music. I go on towards the end of the evening (8:45/9 pm). See you in Greenpoint, fairies!

Thursday, March 31, 2011

My New Canticle - Misericordia Mia

Wrote this today during lunch, inspired by Paco de Lucia's "La Paloma" and also any Latin Mother's lullabies

Hay Paloma, hay Paloma
Hay Paloma de mis ser
Ten misericordia mia, ten misericordia fiel

----Hay Paloma, Hay Paloma!
-----Hay Paloma de papel

Y este mundo va rotando, frota el cielo con mi piel
Dulce ave navegando, tierra seca pa Noe

------Fuerte olivo entre tus brazos,
--------traeme paz para dormir

Hay Paloma, hay Paloma
Hay Paloma de mis ser

Tranquilita palomita, canto un canto para ti.

Morning Meditates

I won't put on makeup today, but I will brush my teeth. I won't eat a greasy breakfast, but I will take my vitamins. I procrastinate when I have to leave my home because it pains me to transition into something concrete and specific. I long to be vulnerable to all elements. Maybe I should thank the earth for the rain and the snow today and pray that my weekend freedom is covered in sunshine and warmth. This winter may consume the last of me. But Kerry don't forget to put on your shoes and don't stomp so loudly down the corridor. You now have five minutes before it gets too late, before the subway has no mercy on your commute. I wonder why people keep getting hit by the subway at my station? It's been two in the last two months. Again, I tell myself tread lightly because there may be a wind that blows your feathery body away onto the streets, onto the tracks, or off a cliff. Remember your practice, the one you have polished bright and true. Remember your family, remember your friends, remember your legs. Now stop thinking and go to Work!

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

DaliGlama- InRivers

As many things go to decay and neglect, so do many things deserve a second chance and a resurrection. A couple of months ago I merged the musings of my personal blog with the DIY production brain I had established with fellow artist and collaborator Giancarlo Romero , called DaliGlama. For reasons personal and practical we ceased working on the project while he created his upstart gallery InRivers. Now in the midst of curating and performing we are back and focusing on culture, community, and the necessary role art plays in dragging people off their asses and into the light of productivity.

Lets Play: Figure Drawing class this Sunday. Yours truly will be modeling body formation attire. At the end everyone gets a hug-n-squeeze.