Strange, Heavenly Encounters

Woman

2009-11-24T16:02:00.001-08:00

Update

2009-09-08T23:48:00.000-07:00

Hm.

Been a minute since I've written here. Let's see:

Same house.
Same job.
No money.
New lady.
School.
Music.

Does anyone read this thing?

Also. Anxiety abounds. Behavioral changes. Must be real. Want to share. Why can't I?

The end.

The Huron

2009-07-21T14:12:00.000-07:00

New Song, "The Huron."

Download Brian R. Tucker - The Huron

2009-06-15T13:07:00.000-07:00

Autumn crisped sweet dripping Indian summer

Dusted the shirts on our backs

Oh Colorado-

The rolling patches

Wheat, thirst bread, fills

Like smoked remains of honey

A plumage; watercolor rust

Blues and dotted reds

Making love in the sky on melting mountaintops

Our muscles filled with acid halfway up

And we summitted, submitted our

Bodies to the wild-

Forestation, ancient language

Molds of a tribe,

We are the natives

2009-06-15T13:05:00.000-07:00

Wood. Hard stone electronic circuits

I am the passage of your youth

And the skin beneath your fingernails

Grazing over bulbs and flashing screens

Abright underbelly, character of telegraphic wire

Constant time, use.

We’re connected- copper soldered to empty sockets to assure

a more perfect union

where the brain and the fingertips

intertwine we camp out for hours

teardrop mechanics on sunlight

human motherboards widespread intercontinental consciousness

speaks for our use like a careful person

with a pretend bandage

still barely sticking to skin and metal and bone

we might be further apart than we thought.

Petite Sarah

2009-05-23T23:27:00.000-07:00

Download brian R. Tucker - Petite Sarah

Few Presidents

2009-05-23T23:26:00.001-07:00

Download brian R. Tucker - Few Presidents

Collab w/ Jon

2009-05-23T23:08:00.000-07:00

High quality drinking surplus cardboard, metal
flesh, shining exposure.
Bulbs burst with jealousy as the homeless
Man behind your stretched face tonight
rips his corduroy pants to expose an erection –
The facility, a useful member of society
dared dark rooms waiting spoiled light shrivels upon
exposure the leftover negatives of a post-life moment
in time. Existential proofs considering pre-reality, flash
points to live by. It was framed perfectly adjusted balances
and we shuddered shutters in 1/3 the time –
blasting emulsion from our ink stained fingertips covering
each other’s throats and mechanical parts with sticky
ever-altered unloving cells basking in the glory of the
yet-to-be. Spoken moats, ever-collected remnants
estranged. Idyllic siren melody ringing like stray cats
fighting over the last scrap of skin in the back dumpster
while the neighbors watch porno at a cosmic volume –
Let’s do this – let’s take the few snapshots remaining
and burn them, send them into the atmosphere to
the Brazilian woods where, while we can never
speak of it, they will wait there until the trees
are cut down and turned into Polaroid paper.

2009-05-07T00:10:00.001-07:00

these words are not mine these lines are nothing but lies the paper which this is printed on is soaked in blood the ink is gathered from dying children in one of those shanty towns far east of here or west and the letters which construct the words you are reading are dreams of dead men that mean absolutely nothing you want something recycled I beg you to begin here at the quarks of the written word a miniscule vocalization on the page represented by some arbitrary character an utterance a stare that could only be expressed with an elipses or projected on and off the page with strategically placed line breaks and stanzas this isn’t the only way you see when you really think about words and feeling and emotion and physical perceptions the letters break down and the words become components to the greater story it is in effect Nagasakian by the logic of several dead American men this writing is greater than the sum of its parts.

2009-05-07T00:08:00.001-07:00

Bowing out along slippery
green blades swinging severed
limbs drenched in Sento and
Sonnets and the blistering gamots
of an uncertain shaking anxiety-
we forgot the book again
we forgot to read again.
It’s yellow outside, but we are all red.
And not all read, by shear virtue
we spend our nights in the company
of cigarettes and silly forgettable chatter,
neglecting perhaps an orgasmic
chapter or two, or maybe a just
listening to one of the many Prophets.
Let’s chug along anyway
let’s get to work sometime.

2009-05-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

Yellow crusted over yogurt dripping from sliced wounds, or the balls we thought were in play sit blankly underrosaries of hanging jungle vines wrapped around an inferno of technological orgy sizzled fuck spread left impressions of our Lord on bedsheets left behind buried next to the bones of a dying distant planet only to be kept awake, adrift from the rain falling outside tonight across plains of leftover beer cans and condoms this is the electric sex pot encrusted sheets stuck together under your family’s old quilt and left to rot under the sink of the farmhouse’s broken mirror under it we lay all night and sang whispered prayers to one another until our muscles fueled with acid burning worth it we cried out when morning came and we remembered the night we did covered in straw and love and DNA like a mirored vortex a cat in a bag never existing but never caring.

2009-04-01T21:38:00.000-07:00

Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
Run from yourself, run from the police.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
We lie all night in the concrete prairie.
Bus stop fires among winking eyes.
Then drive on down to the cemetery.
Gun shot riots ash shaking thighs.

Our home is Mexico.
Our home is nowhere.
Where the Kentucky grass grows,
through your dark red hair.

--------------------------------------------

What am I up to nowadays? Nothing much.

I've been writing some stuff with sound in mind as of late. I've gotten to the point where I feel like my writing needs to be read aloud or performed. The last short poem here is an a cappella jingle sung to something that resembles a traditional American folk tune. I think I'm subconsciously summoning the old bards' ballads from the days of yore.

New place, same cat,
same face, red hat.
That is all.

2009-03-12T17:47:00.001-07:00

This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.
This is whatever you want.

2009-02-25T12:21:00.000-08:00

spinning reapers mowing brown grass. blackened grass. if it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good. crumblies always make the better choice when downhill darlings sigh ‘oh god’ when their spots are taken. it’s too light, he said. take it back, show me all you got he said. show me all you got he said. i’m conscoius of all worlds he said at least those that i’m conscious of he said. thank god in heaven the neighbors flushed their radiowaves properly this time. stop coughing he said. adjust the speakers to face in. face in, adjust them face rightly. rise over run he said. sprinkle out the mushroom dust over the receiver, into the receiver. not too light. if there aren’t any clean socks by morning i’ll have your head he said. it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good he said. i can feel the mosquitos he said sucking me off. mosqiutos sucking me off. they’re sucking me off he said. thank god in heaven he said, because it’s if it’s gotta be good, it’s gotta be good. i felt the sweat the sweat above my lips he said. i felt it hit my tongue and explode he said. oh god. the blackend grass he said the blackened grass my nieghbor fired shots they all exploded he said. exploded rightly upon my tongue. it’s gotta be good he said. there’s gotta be rage. there’s gotta be love of country he said. take a blind eye. take a blackened eye but butt horns with everyone he said. oh god. adjust. face in he said. adjust in to face rightly he said.

2009-02-07T01:03:00.001-08:00

“Fish” the prophet spoke.
His cracked lips curled like his fish did.
“Brothers” he spoke again.
Fish brothers. We wondered.
We prodded our spears toward the prophet’s fish, some
more successful than others in sticking one.
“Star River” flowed from the prophet’s mouth
as we put down our spears, our nets, our hammer
and nails- we shuffled, scuttled out quietly
leaving behind the empty shore.

-------------------------------------------

“Allow me,” the Doctor said, catching the flavor
dust falling from my crispy lips.
Grabbing the scapel, he drew open
the chest, removing organs, memory and sinew-
indiscriminately.
“You see, you need to make a clear incision,”
he ruffled as the dust stuck out from his wirey folicals,
“forget the blood-
tear out the heart-
fuck it until your patient can feel it
beating in the empty space.”
I took the heart in my hands
stabbing it instead
with the scalpel.
Cold steel fucking beating flesh.
I felt nothing. I returned it to its cavity, sewing along the way,
precisely stiched.
I felt nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

2009-02-01T21:49:00.001-08:00

All my friends are
made crystal. Their lights
dance on their eyes around combs of dirt-
they mound more graves. This dirt, atop
their heads, stir melting ice cream ponds
dripping against the stiffed frailness
of crystalline coney island sparkle. Mounds
and mounds, uncharred by time’s bitter tounge
or the 25 years at the factory by their daddies
and their grandaddies. They’re buried
upside down, their souls rooting beneath
evenly and logically spread earth.
I remember the sparkle, 1,000 years
since its grace bled me dry and salted my veins- back when the cold
forced warm bodies together, and we were there, our hearts pumping
ether dripping sweat
beading on our wrists. And we’d taste eachother
until the call would come to join
the others braving arctic, tear-freezing bliss. Hours would pass
by without the thought of death, the terrordread
of everyday, everyday, life.
Not here. Here, we’d make believe
that summer would never come, that the crystallized
starlight on our tongues and under our boots
would never abandon us.
Not anymore. What used to be
in our eyes has only dimmed this winter,
our friends hardnened by stone icicles
having no interest in our old game. They buried themselves
away from our house, miles away from our house, heads facing Earth’s center,
feet reaching for blue sky
but, but, finding only grainy earth to squish between toes.
No more sparkle. No more sparkle. We’re crystal now.

The Way She Really Is

2008-10-01T21:57:00.001-07:00

Download Brian R. Tucker - The Way She Really Is

Moonshine

2008-09-29T10:30:00.000-07:00

A snippet of LFM's Moonshine.

Download LFM - Moonshine

Soft Voice, Cool Smile

2008-09-28T17:05:00.000-07:00

Download Lfm - Soft Voice, Cool Smile

All Rock

2008-09-24T20:17:00.000-07:00

My new song, "All Rock":

Download Brian R. Tucker - All Rock

Jenny

2008-09-20T11:43:00.001-07:00

Download Brian R. Tucker - Jenny

What LFM has been doing with Tony Valentine...

2008-09-20T11:19:00.000-07:00

Download LFM - Snip Pet

Poems to Music

2008-09-17T09:14:00.000-07:00

It was silly
it was jade and transparent and only made
sense just between our bedtime Bible story and our dreams.
But now we can dance, and pull the weeds, and perform for
our aquaintances.
We can fall asleep without saying our prayers.
Our wrinkled grandmothers watch on, silent; withholding. Biscuits in the
morning. The sled is broken.
Here’s what we did. We did.
We prayed our little jade, transparent pearl into the old abondend cistern next door. We blew smoke into the deep frier.
We can cut our own hair now, weave our own sweaters, smile and sneeze in time.
“Bless you” grandmother would’ve said.
“Bless you.”

MUSIC: (Neutral Milk Hotel, “Aeroplane Over the Sea”)

The walls are soaked
peeling and drenched
liquid dust.
“P. Shelley-Receptionist.”

Screams, bones, xylophones.
Take a number. Please sit.
Bloody smiling. Chit chat, WARNING: THE CHAIRS HAVE TEETH.
Sit back, watch The Human Life Show. The grammphone pops-
it’s out of tune nickelodeon wobbles.
WELCOME.
Dogs bark in the distance, the air is stained yellow. Automatons blink and sqeal. They do not sing.
NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY.
This is not post-industrial bliss.
MUSIC: (Mr. Bungle, “Backstrokin’, Golem II The Bionic Vapour Boy, ARS MORIENDI)

Written As Written

2008-09-16T22:54:00.000-07:00

Bathe in milk and bleach, glue your eyebrows to your tail. Shave, repeat.
Vacuum up the nails and wait for the taxi man-
outside of the motel to call your name in whisper... "Alberta..."
Your Wrinkled little withered hands open the wicker berry basket, to
find only another basket, within another basket, within another basket.
20 minutes later, Robin's egg waits patiently on the balcony overlooking the
sea, the tide of taxi cabs blinking flashers; endlessly abyssal.
Smooth, perfect, waiting to be asked when the sun will rise
again, when your extended stay will end,
No vacancy, no shame, no questions remained.

Not Enough Lucy, Too Much Time...

2008-09-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

Download Brian R. Tucker - Holding Hands Around The World

Download Brian R. Tucker - Paint the Town Red

Hard Situations of the Teeth

2008-08-09T00:18:00.000-07:00

This past week, I was lucky enough to experience the joys of having my wisdom teeth removed from my face.

Since then, there's been some notable quoteworthy's:

"Doctor, let's do it again."

"Two and a half years ago, I accidentally killed sheep."

"Etc."

All in all, it wasn't half bad. My face hurts a little, but I would rate this experience has being somewhat productive.

So I'm kinda in this movie...

2008-07-04T09:22:00.001-07:00

Thieves and Cheats

Weddings, Celine Dion, and Too Little Beer

2008-07-02T13:41:00.000-07:00

There are few things that erk my chassis in this great blue planet that we live on.

I encountered two of them, simulataneously, this past weekend in the family death-camp style, FLDS sanctioned, wheat field encrusted hell hole wedding held in Horton Michigan:

1). Celine Dion, (and henceforth amateur Celine Dion cover bands).

and

2). The American Wedding, (not the film, which is probably infinitely more entertaining, but still sucks).

Being at that wedding put me face-to-face with the American Dream, or Nightmare rather. Namely, an overemphasis on absolute perfection permeated the 'sacred' grounds. The howl of screaming children violently snuffed out by angry parents, walls of bouquets meticulously arranged by color, size, shape, scent, pollen yield ratio, and best of all, an overeager, sunglassed witch of an officiate conducting the ceremony.

And the fun hadn't even began yet.

My chromed-out rockin' bitch of a guitar casted flickers of golden light unto the wedding crowd in full, high spectra glory. I began to play the processional music, (selected by myself), to the tune of These Days by Jackson Browne. It was nice.

Then, it was duet time. My parts went quite well for only having a day of practice; the Italian was spot on, not a note missed. However, the young lady which I was singing with, (who unceremoniously directed the majority of our rehearsal time trying to "teach" me how to sing, but in reality desired my parts to sound like a throaty Kermit the Frog), must have become nervous, because she completely blew her solo part in the middle of the song. People were chuckling, and I felt a little bad for her, considering she was regaling me endlessly about her fabulous abilities and aspirations for Broadway and Disney princess bullshit.

But hey, $100 speaks for itself.