The Surrealistic Blog

Altered Breaks

surrealisticblog — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 23:13:49 +0000

Austin Peanut Butter Crackers

surrealisticblog — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 05:57:51 +0000

an appeal to children with bright colors?

This is my first entry in this silly game. I don’t know why erik has on bird music. I really like the idea of peanut butter crackers. cut out the middle man.Why Austin dyes its crackers bright orange , i have no idea. an appeal to children with bright colors? I wonder how many granules of salt are on my cracker. granuel is an interesting word to roll of the tongue. 3 syallbles, relatively unapealing, but have a fluid beauty. I alsso like the word floresent. I was watching a documentary once on an an idiot savant who could “see” numbers. see

Skin of Animals

surrealisticblog — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 09:18:36 +0000

Skin of Animals

When I am home alone at night sometimes

I think what we should all cover ourselves in the skin of animals. Because when animals die alone they do not insist on being born again.

My youngest son told me yesterday that he would have rather been born in the body and mind of an chicken incubating in the safety and pa of a warm white shell. ,

Grow tog

surrealisticblog — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 09:05:48 +0000

Now an earlier point. Of family and birds, or weather: the grass is green no matter the sky. Trees will stand. Grow tog

Tonight’s the night. Is that so? Erik has inspired me – he does not end his sentence early or late. When the song expires, his hand leaves the page. This is living. Which is my point. This exercise – any exercise where art the art lies in the performance – imitates life. And better yet if it allows for an abrupt and unsuspected conclusion. Because some things go this way.

Now an earlier point. Of family and birds, or weather: the grass is green no matter the sky. Trees will stand. Grow tog

Bath Room Pleasures II

surrealisticblog — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 05:51:48 +0000

Film 1

surrealisticblog — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 07:13:02 +0000

Feb. 19

surrealisticblog — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 07:03:49 +0000

Duke Ellington’s sound of love sounds like shit!

He said he was young, I think he was wrong without words and looking for something that he could bake with his feet in the circle. A ring of fire, and green money.

Why should we care if Duke Ellington cuts off his own head and feeds it to his children? I think he also said they were hungry and that he was only doing what he thought for best for his children, who he promised he loved.

‘This will taste good, children. Come, wash your hands and sit down at the table.’ They followed his orders and sat patiently at the table while their father walked into the kitchen.

I’ll be right back in 3o seconds, kids!

and just

then,

he touched himself.

In Sequence

surrealisticblog — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 07:02:03 +0000

“I don’t want to see yours at all,” she said, closing the trunk and standing up, scooting the metal chair legs across the floor as she did so. 1,500 miles away in the middle of the Mojave Desert, her father breathed in the smoke of his last cigarette. He had a horrible coughing fit afterwards, and immediately regretted lighting it. “Should’ve drank the lighter fluid,” his sun-fried mind thought. “If I could piss, I’d drink it.” By the time she made it to the car, just as Stanley was running up to try and stop her, to try and say something, anything that would make her reconsider, her father tumbled onto the ground, his head striking a rock and grazing his temple, blood oozing from the wound onto the ground. “Finally, something to drink.” She wasn’t going to leave, she knew.

Execution Style

surrealisticblog — Fri, 13 Feb 2009 00:03:46 +0000

execution style

Hey. My name is Mike. I’m sitting at my desk.

surrealisticblog — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 10:45:24 +0000

Hey. My name is Mike. I’m sitting at my desk. My chair has armrests. You could call me the privileged one of the evening. My other roommates are sitting on the floor and on my bed. No armrests. I feel bad. My elbows are raised level with my heart; I’m typing in comfort.

It’s a shame I couldn’t type so freely earlier tonight. I’ve been in the position for a while. The guy who’s worked all night, and who’s now sitting on my floor might call me lucky. Same for the guy sitting in my sagging mattress.

It’s a comfortable chair. I couldn’t possibly deny that. What an uncomfortable feeling, though. Forcing yourself to write when you’re uninspired or un__-.