writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL http://andyconrad.com/news.html ANDYconrad: electroJOURNAL Jannis' PHPRss class - http://www.jannis.to/ Sat, 04 Sep 2010 01:02:01 -0700 Staring into the ocean from a wooden chair on a Floridian beach http://andyconrad.com/news.html#47 The quake in the sand


Is a minor mistake


Granted by the unknown cattle-driving king of the satellites.


 


Overloaded systems of electrical sanity


Were once on the verge of a playful elasticity,


Where every morsel was confined to dustpans


Arranged for stagehands


With clubs in their hands,


Tied to battle flags


Dug in the sand.


 


We pretend to be lovers


When we discover


A ladle in each hand.


 


Pointy sharp thistles


Whistle to birdsongs


Nestled together like low gliding rings of light-


Hoops of sound moving by the pull of the moon


Through shuttles of comfort


Delivered on beds in the night.


 


Groups of multi-legged monsters creep


In the steep of the sliced citrus,


Begging for a taste of our waste


We'll never notice,


Although, someone told us


They'd hold us


With pillars and beams and old fashioned steam.


 


Now the way in wave on the flag


With rebels gave way


To the will of the people


Minus steeples.


Capital hatchlings squak,


Welp,


And forget to help


Under the guise of the wise,


But I don't care


Because I have my own device.


 


The semi-sweet undercurrent


Arrives in a hurry every time I stop,


Sold out because I let everyone in.


So, the sky sucks me in-


To the tune of a bronze-forged giveaway


That my uneven monster put up for rent.


 


So, I'll unwind like I'm blind


Just to keep with the times-


A drink in a hand,


Cares at my feet,


Shoulders hung low,


Devils shoved to-and-fro,


Their talons turned in because I prove I'm better at sin.


 


And the tide takes me out


For one last drink


Until I'm forced to think


About the dunes


And the ruins


That kept us from light.


 


My other hand wields a pen


That's sharp without paper,


Without a thought,


Without a fountain,


Without being taught-


It's just a friend.

]]> http://andyconrad.com/news.html#47 Wed, 25 Aug 2010 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Fawk You Too http://andyconrad.com/news.html#46 Today, we walked along the hard streets to a soft lunch. Today, we hoped to only skip over splotches of sun-baked urine and hold our breath near dumpsters.


The sun spliced through buildings, and the two of us squinted with quips for the morning doldrums and ho-hums along with the wholesome bits of what the afternoon should be. We gathered the sidewalk step by step. A homeless man stood in the shade of a building and wrestled with a sardine can. The sardine juice hit his shirt and he mumbled a cartoon disgust. The homeless man was so thrilled with his sardines, he never noticed the flurry descending around him. Our eyes were caught by feathers dancing on the cement. The feathers were fresh and downy. Two more drifted from the sky into the dance.


We looked up. A hawk in a clever eagle's outfit lurked above us. His pronged beak rudely pointed at us. His hateful eyes stared at every single person on the street at once, but I suspected he was burning my soul. I felt like I had seen him before. 


The hawk was also dancing, atop ragged pigeon flesh. He pulled and pulled as if the pigeon was about to get away. The unlucky bird was burst open, splayed across a decorative metal shade structure, where the hawk safely played. We never lost a step.


We paid and paid for lunch. The hawk was forgotten. We traced our steps back. But, there stood a friendly reminder. The homeless man was still chattering, but with half of his wrinkly left index finger buried in his nose. At the last second, I looked up to see that the bastard hawk had left his bloody pigeon coat draped above me. My eyes slowly scanned the corners of several buildings to see if he was still watching. I think he was, but from where? 

]]> http://andyconrad.com/news.html#46 Tue, 17 Aug 2010 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL You Are Here http://andyconrad.com/news.html#45 http://andyconrad.com/news.html#45 Mon, 28 Jun 2010 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Voice of the World http://andyconrad.com/news.html#44
The world turned, spinning seemingly faster and hotter than before.

The reborn said they knew God. They were pretty good friends. I felt a little jealous that I wasn’t friends with God. He seems really laid back about a lot of things that would definitely make me do some "smiting." But, God doesn’t pre-judge, He anoints. It’s simple — those not anointed are not to be claimed. God, if you’d like to contact me, or, at least, send me a sign, go to my website.

God was hit in the mouth by a 7-year-long uppercut. He swallowed all the pink tears and was left with only a hardened perforation between His lips. His eyes never changed because He had to stay focused. To sway would be the same as wriggling away.

God's mysterious plan is to resurface from within and galvanize all He touches and fires His eyes upon. The boardroom clatter and chatter will be rescued by His communal spirit.

It’s a prejudiced world, and as it grows together through communications... fear and panic escalates. But you can’t outsmart a heart. There’s a fear of identity being lost and diffused as cultures mix and mingle. Isolationists selfishly hold onto their cultures through the society concept, and not through individuality and thoughtfulness and mindfulness. To throw a beam beyond the Earth and an anchor beyond unfathomable inwardness would be a true gift. At least try, and don't be disappointed when pride ends up killing the purity anyway.

The animals will finally realize that true salvation doesn’t exist. The fact that stardust can ball-bust is the testament. Embers. When they fade we cry. Soak up the glow. You create enough life and light to grow a hundred harvests with only one smile. True love is light and it's bright. Lust is dark and plenty. Both mistaken for one another.

Shedding the temporal importance to life is the Naturalists’ way. They lobby for corporate standards by exciting the will of the people. Naturalists are a secretive bunch, an ilk borne from grave concern, not one of them wears the chiseled neckties or listens to starchy songstresses.

God is actually a budding Naturalist.

The modern world is beginning to fall apart. People are fighting machines in a silent thinking battle, throughout the realms of industry, civics, medicine and politics. People are being run down. They are desperate to keep up. Drugs are so popular, they’re diminutive little icons. Designed to focus, energize and bring about a crash. The census is running down. The plaster is falling apart. Advanced societies are becoming unorganized, defensive, aggressive, and frustrated. Stretch-Armstronged beyond recognition.

Meteors are on their way. There’s no time to think like a canyon about the surface. Sound-bytten. Brains are contused and in need of raw rest. Fruitful verbal breeding is still-born. Now ideation is inbred, cyclical without release.

God loves the air about Himself. He dreams of Light. She is lust.

He never thinks He’s missed a moment without a preservation machine in hand. God would rather not eye the day or lust though miniature panes of glass. God owns a pair of prescription goggles, always perched across His oily nose.

Step away from the microscope... there's nothing to see here.

Agricultural beastly greed. It’s one of the greatest crimes in human history. It’s so ugly, people are afraid to look at it. Animals stripped, cleaned, frozen, labeled. It was confined to a life of slavery. Gnashers eat slaves to quench a longing for supreme importance, and then etch with fire a cleanliness that doesn’t exist. The ashes of an eternal villainy put onto the Earth. Now I see why fire seems so evil as it hooks and hypnotizes.

Cancer dusted sweet red peppers and Roma tomatoes squish in our mouths. Cancer runs into streams. Cancer seeps into seams. Money stacks, bodies stack. Agriculture will be the death of us all.

DNA begins to take on characteristics of unnatural chemical compounds not historically found in a human body. Bodies begin replicating these compounds, passing them on to future generations. I am preservative, conservative and a plow for the affirmative!

All of the things we’ve created to enrich our lives have gone over the rainbow with the compartmentalizing of every thought and every thought you’re about to have. We move further from the Earth, the ooze and ash and stone from which we were born. Our state has been altered.

But, the Naturalists would battle the naysayers and their own self-consciousness. Are they a true soft fighting force for the greater raw sugar of humankind, animals, plants, earth and consciousness, or are they just square pegs who didn’t fit, feeling left behind and unable to keep up with a world wrapped in binary code and lightning machines?

Flags and plugs wave, and conquerors bear-hug each other and toss a scrap to the onlookers.

Sexy light was born of Texas tea with a cigar in her mouth and a toaster betwixt her legs. A very strange congenital genital. She would face-punch herself to scare away femininity, which made her toaster bigger. Light’s breath reeked, not from cigars. But, God, was she beautiful.

When God first saw her, he stared for what seemed like an hour. She was all by her lonesome. splayed across a bridge that was out. A lumbering cement blockade kept the suicidists out. Painted on the blockade, with a cold psychotic hand, was a neat little phrase, “Work is slavery.” God giggled and darted eyes up to see Light tangling with a 4-ton truck that sped away behind some come-fuck-me sunglasses to hide the tracks and then crossed a river of sewage to drown the emotions. The ghosts led to a graveyard for graveyards. Stones left turned.

God was short. He stared down the dream of the hero laying across a bomb for all y’all. He decided, you and we deserve it, so don’t feel guilty. Because, the General always thinks generally and has no one he needs to love. But, you and we should stay specific and open to being shoved and shoveled to our forefathers to chat about using fists in fits of fury.

God thought, “It’s all happening in the wrong way. What the world really needs is a good joke about itself, and humankind could stand a good ribbing about being born of woman via a rib from some other guy." But, Light and all her digital friends saw God as a little prick who picked a fight with the big mother. They all sniffed with fee-fi’s and fo-fums and bit down— dug in with hydrogen heels and the feel of an apparition who is unplugged from the universal taste. When you say the word “tomorrow,” you’re a martyr trying to barter for fate.

Souls in empty shoes shuffle and lumber for acceptance at the hand of their own begotten reception.

Be a voice of the world. Every voice of the world will be vetted, but, still, give it a shot.]]> http://andyconrad.com/news.html#44 Tue, 27 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Pigpen http://andyconrad.com/news.html#43
My heart rate suddenly shot to red line! I vacuumed in every molecule of oxygen with a desperate gasp. Adrenaline shot through my veins and my face tingled. My face withered. My passed down, old gold, cracked vinyl dashboard Volvo with cassette player and breeze-flapping ceiling upholstery was forced into a screeching halt. My foot crushed the brake. Summer haunted every pore of skin on my face. The broken air-conditioner kept me firmly tacked to my seat.

An old man instantaneously came into view, perched in an oversized white motorboat, gurgling directly in front of me. The old whitey had his feeble arm waving over and outside his artfully lowered power window.

An unoccupied, old model Mercedes hovered in my front right. It had been blinded in my periphery by the old man’s boat.

I sat mentally hijacked for a moment”¦ until an unattractive Olive Oil unrolled and inflated from the front of her Mercedes, flailing her arms in the air and shouting,

“I didn’t see him, I didn’t see him!”

I stared at her for a moment as the sun glared and squinted me through my windshield. My eyes scanned my brain”¦ “The unattractive lady’s car had hit someone,” my brain exhaled.

Traffic piled up. And in typical fashion, the lines of impatient, rumbling metal boxes behind me were singing a dissonant song.

To my own surprise, I left my car in the middle of the road. I trotted stiffly over to the scene, much like the group of dazed deer still sitting in their cars. None of us were confident about getting involved.

I saw a decrepit man lying in the street. His face was rugged. It was wrinkly, scraggly and dusty. His full, dark hair was beyond greasy. It was dusty too.

Stretched out on the asphalt, and pivoting on his hip, the dusty man tried to pick up his stocking cap, which I assumed had been blown off by the impact. His arms were pitifully outstretched. I glanced to my right as I approached him and saw where his dusty body had cracked the Mercedes grill and the weepy doe eyes of the homely lady.

“I didn’t see him,” she cried.

“I’m all right”¦ yous couldn’t-na been goin’ dat fast”¦ yous only knocked me a few feet,” gasped the downed dusty man.

I stood over him, pleading with him to stay on the ground. My hands were flat out, pumping like flashing stop signs in an effort keep him still”¦ without actually touching him. All the while horns tweaked through the air, and so did this weak, scratchy voice. It was the old whitey from the white boat.

I stared at the guy on the road as he muttered something about a bank.

Suddenly, I was somewhat embarrassed, still selfishly aware of the impromptu stage I was on as the crowd booed and jeered.

No one else emerged from the crowd to help. I am no saint, so who are these other people?

It didn’t look like the guy was going to die, at least not from being hit by a Mercedes. He smelled like rotten lettuce and his clothes were splattered and crusty. I’m sure he didn’t own a mailbox.

Could it have been his troubling appearance that was keeping everyone cowering in their cars?

He kept trying to get up. Even after pleas to “stay on the ground until the ambulance arrives”¦”

"Wait, did someone call an ambulance," I thought.

He again insisted on going to the bank! His head nodded knowingly, up and down.

“This guy has a bank?” I muttered.

He started to get on his feet and was wobbling around on what looked like a broken chicken leg. People had gathered. Some came up to me to ask if he was okay. Others kept a safe distance by standing on the curb. That dirty little skinny leg was just flapping around. It was sticking out of the bottom of some high-water trousers. Was he in shock? I don’t know, I guess.

Even worse, and unbelievably, he already had a crutch. Olive Oil had been holding it for him the whole time. When she handed it back to him I remember thinking, “Boy, they were fast getting that crutch here!”

My semi-entertaining thought was interrupted by that grating, feeble voice again”¦ the one that lurked behind me from the white boat. It was the same phrase over and over but it wasn’t computing. I was trying to focus on the puzzle in front of me.

The dusty man was getting up no matter what, so I decided to lend my hand. I reached out, grabbed his arm, slipped the crutch under his arm, and, then, as if I was the victim of an elaborate practical joke, the homeless man’s crutch slipped from beneath his putrid armpit and jammed effortlessly into my cheekbone! I glanced around with a numbed cheek and perforated smile to see if a tv show host and his lovely hostess were heading in my direction with a microphone, an oversized cardboard check made out to me and a waiver to sign. No one was there.

Helping him to the curb, while delicately trying not to come into contact with too much of him, was quite a challenge. And to complicate things, this little guy, with the chicken leg that was hit by a Mercedes, was attempting to bite through the foil seal on top of one of those grade school-style orange juice cups. You know, one of those little 4- or 5-ounce jobs.

That feeble little voice behind me was rising above the fog of dying horns.

I turned around and it was that old man in that white old man boat, pointing at me and saying, “You got a helluva lotta nerve honkin’ your horn at me, Sonny!” I hadn’t honked my goddamn horn! I was helping this guy in the street!

I charged up to his window and had a few razor sharp phrases to spit into his window. But, his pointy, hairy finger and hand were trembling, slightly.

Calmly, I started with, “Come on, man, I'm trying to help these people... I wasn’t honking”¦”

So.

After hollering at me for minutes, the old bastard was satisfied with our 5-second chat about horns and ready to tackle the rest of his day. He’s driving away!

Now?

Bye, bye old man”¦

As the white boat curiously sailed away, I tapped the homeless man on his crusty shoulder and told him it would be okay. A sad, little cloud of dust floated away from his woolen sweater. Pigpen.]]> http://andyconrad.com/news.html#43 Sat, 17 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL The alien question http://andyconrad.com/news.html#42 http://andyconrad.com/news.html#42 Thu, 15 Apr 2010 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Evolution of the Relationship http://andyconrad.com/news.html#40 http://andyconrad.com/news.html#40 Sun, 11 Oct 2009 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Truck Stop http://andyconrad.com/news.html#39 http://andyconrad.com/news.html#39 Fri, 02 Oct 2009 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Joseph Biden http://andyconrad.com/news.html#37 http://andyconrad.com/news.html#37 Fri, 25 Sep 2009 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL Ghost Traffic http://andyconrad.com/news.html#36
Hops and other grains skimmed the highway from smokestacks. Brick by brick I could see the ages, the aged and the aging. Ghosts and soon to be ghosts. The approach in the lights. Bridges casting silhouettes of new lanes for the ghost traffic.

With the pavement all around me, I saw how unnatural this all was. Thought about 7th street. No one was beside me, so the gate was open. But, I wanted the drama. I continued on to the triumph of civil service, a symbol of forward progress and colonization and frontier glory and risk and ritual and art. The approach of the city. Its beauty from afar. The lights. Gateway to the rest. Let me roll four wheels through the swaying gate. Horace agreed , with a dissonant chord on his keys.]]> http://andyconrad.com/news.html#36 Tue, 15 Sep 2009 00:00:00 -0700 writer musician producer - ANDYconrad - electroJOURNAL