The Most Widely Practiced American Art Form

In my almost accidental acquaintance with mixtape culture

and it's underground bevy of zealous enthusiasts,
I've come to post another crowded,

homesick, chummy, pensive mixtape track-listing.

With this one,
my focus was to create a soundtrack to

the inevitable bodily plunge into the
dreamscape of deep-sleep.

The mystically unsettling, mind-bendingly beatific,

tumultuously tantalizing and sometimes petrifying habitat

of our rapid-eye-movement penumbra

waterslide to the sub- consciousness.

Here I have experimented with hodge-poding

film scores and arrangements with
gloomy studio gems and other assorted eargasms

to birth a nightmarish odyssey

through circuitous audio astral planes

by a protagonist we can refer to affectionately as
"wildly under-cooked lil mr. angsty pants."

What the hell was I thinking...
Good luck with the torrents, fight the good fight!
And check out

http://www.artofthemix.org for some boisterous good fun!

THE STATIC OF SLEEP
1. Lantern-Head on Piano- Akira Ymaoka
2. Pornography- The Cure
3. Mullholand Drive (love song)- Various Artists
4. Pure Morning- Placebo
5. 9 Ghosts I- Nine Inch Nails
6. Larks Tongues in Aspic Pt. 1- King Crimson
7. Steal Compass/ Drive North/ Disappear - Set Fire to Flames
8. Tales of the Future- Vangelis
9. How the Dogs Stac- Mogwai
10. White Cinderblock Walls- Akira Ymaoka
11. Hunter- Bjork
12. Jetstream- Thom Yorke
13. Bocuma- Boards of Canada
14. A Story Teeth Rotted For- Omar Rodriguez Lopez
15. Harmony in Blue I- Tim Hecker
16. Static- Godspeed You! Black Emperor
17. Prospectors Arrive- Johnny Greenwood
18. Just Like You Imagined- Nine Inch Nails
19. Last Flowers- Radiohead
20. Lateral Noise- God is an Astronaut
21. Flood- Tool
22. Local Authority- Mogwai
23. Kids are so Small- Deerhoof
24. Allah, Mohammed, Char, Yaar- Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan & Party
25. The beginning is the End is the Beginning- The Smashing Pumpkins
26. Rockets Fall on Rocket Falls- Godspeed You! Black Emperor
27. First Breath After Coma- Explosions in the Sky
28. Take the Veil Cerpin Taxt- The Mars Volta

Picturesque Excesses are Raffish Picaresque Indulgences

Fruit of the cellular telephone camera's divine and pixelated loins...

Near the Park

Early Morning, In Doors

Rooftops and Sky

Shortly after Snow

Credit Union (from the curb)

Balladry in the Gallery

Visited the Frances Lehman Loeb Art Center
a few days ago to catch "Late Night."

Where every Thursday the hall stays open until 10pm
with up-tempo contemporary underground techno tuneage,
extemporaneous versification and other hidden pleasures.

It had been my first chance to poetize in the presence of Pollack, Picasso,
and other greats and was, I must say,
a truly rewarding experience.

My friend and fellow wordsmithian Lord Nodrog, my darling Nee Nee in sumptuous black skirts and I arrived at about 7:40 to a bassy throb of electronica swirling blue phantoms
down and out the glass hallways.

The lights were low and brown and a flat balmy breeze was purring from the paintings
and through us all with unwavering intensity.

Ley-line dividing cloudbursts of stimulating visionary vivacity shifting on-off-on-off with the drive of obsessive compulsive light switches and the kind of fecund exuberancy almost reserved to the imaginative bohemian brand of modern American bourgeois,
the few and far between,
the last poster-children of a craft and mastery outsourced to charlatanic posturers
and mountebank smiley glad-hand-goody-two-shoes
with their make-believe book deals and lime green Mac-books.

The main hall was overcome by a slew of fragrances, some designer masking the delicate
sex chemicals of well-to-do art majors, hazy coquettes thumbing their belts, upturning wrists and gossiping in mousy squeaks.

The pleasant perfume of bastardized pheromones was soon extinguished by the pungent redolence of Costa Rican coffee, Japanese eggplant salsa, olive baguettes, fried wantons and room temperature Bleu d'Auvergne.

The music grew louder but did not escalate above the fridge-buzz of young confabulation.

The off-the-cuff reading began at around eight adjacent to Francis Bacon's Study for Portrait IV and an ominous factory landscape of smoke columns and shore lines by Georgia Okeefe.

We read without a podium or chairs or other superficial distractions...just verse clothed in the fine salt and sinew of the artisans sensory interpretation of the world.

The pink, intent, tender and jovial crowd packt like sardines
between the white wooden frame of the entryway.

And just as soon as it had begun, it was over...
Like a breath in the Martian dispensary, a candle flame in the ashen wind of a winters eve;
peculiarly animated and swelling with life’s blood but only for a distinctive, designated moment.

But that moment was something to remember,
a titilating occurance I would recommend to any bundle of nerves with even the slightest interest in escaping the mundane commonality of our work-eat-sleep-dream routine.

Where we can all...if only for a millisecond cease pretending that we are characters in a play and observe what is real, what is relevant, and what is infinite.

I do believe I will return!

And I think...I've become like one of the others!

There was a frail syrup dripping off His lap danced lapel, punctuated by her decrepit prowl she washed down the hatching gizzard soft as a mane of needles...