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MOIRA SCAR {San Francisco} 1230
http://www.myspace.com/moirascar
PSYCHIC VIOLENCE 1130
http://www.myspace.com/psychicviolences
CRY BLOOD APACHE 1030
http://www.myspace.com/crybloodapache
HOW I QUIT CRACK 10
http://www.myspace.com/howiquitcrack
DROMEZ 930
http://www.myspace.com/liz.dromez
OS OVNI 9
http://www.myspace.com/osovni
DJ SKULLCASTER
http://www.myspace.com/skullcaster
VIDKIDZ
http://www.vidkidz.info/
DISCOVERY VILLAGE
3305 EAST MLK BLVD
A T X
{on the corner of Airport and MLK}
*this is a house show.
.FUTUREISNOW.
[Event info nabbed from the facespace]
A guest post, a short story, by Reynard Seifert.
Walls slid as shards of soft glass soft glorious sand mash in trash-bum fisticuffs. more like fistifuck thought H who looked and locked and looked and locked and locked and locked his terrible terror-stricken eye bags with a stranger in a typical land. a typical attribute of land is sand. the negative attribute of which is (of course) land.
When H saw the girl making moves on the platform and thus dancing to the song he felt that she was making culture happen with her teeth: her lips her tongue her gum(s((es))). in fact it’s safe to say he knew. and yet, there was no song. she said it with her teeth together. and yet, he heard the song: it was there in the air the way everything is everywhere.
Architecture is scaffolding for future catastrophes. and yet, it’s like I mean you know whatever. either way: he was dancing. so. you know. it’s like. I mean. whatever. and yet, he felt like a museum. so he did. H gazed at himself atop modern art atop his reflection atop modern farts for hours on end. for hours on end farting made him want to rock the fuck out. so H went home and rocked his fuck out. his fingertips flew off so he glued them to the ceiling fan’s forehead. his forehead brewed some tea. H drank the tea and watched the fan thinking himself being everything everywhere there is everywhere to be everything. he sighed the way tea-drinkers sigh ahh to be a tea-drinker. . .
Rain slid across the earth. on the other side it became an ocean. H sneezed and saw stars like terrible eye bags. like fireflies he thought. fireflies are like rolling up Christmas lights on Juneteenth is a fun day of star stuff. her gum(s((es))) is made of star stuff(s).
H made culture happen with his teeth. he manufactured a situation with his teeth. spectacle spectacle spectacle! a catastrophe is a spectacle. a catastrophe is a star sign. H carved a catastrophe in the road. the platform. the road is a platform. platforms are made for carving forks into roads that appear to be curve’d spectacles! H clenched his jaw. hard/soft. hard/soft. hard/ he jumped he jumped so /soft so /soft. oh gawd he jumped so hard/ so hard/. and also he jumped elsewhere: elsewhere a curve: opposite the track: he jumped.
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Alien Art Show : Living Eyes
Sunday May 9th starts 8pm
Church Of The Friendly Ghost/Salvage Vanguard Theater
2803 Manor Rd.
Transplanted Austinite (now he’s in Oakland or some hippie shit) and tireless surrealinternetflarfgobbler Reynard Seifert (remember Zzzombiezzz?) finished up this chapbook a couple months ago and I forgot to holla. “How To Skin The Moon” is 64 pages of great short stories, some of which have already been published on Pindeldyboz and Hobart. Rumor has it that a novel is sorta-kinda on the way, but you’ll have to follow the twitter trail to know for sure.
Here’s an excerpt from one of the stories called “A Businessman &”
I tell her, I mean Business. I am a Businessman. I am a Businessman & I mean Business. I tell her, I’m going to find a new wife, a young wife, a new young wife who won’t laugh at me in my own voice. She says, That’s fine, dear, but I’ll need your keys, the keys to this house, our home. And I say, Oh really, you need my keys? Well, that’s just fine, that’s great, in fact, they’re right here! I search for my keys in my Business pants but all I can find is myself and I am touching myself and thinking about keystrokes and I can’t find them. And I think, It’s okay, self, we’ll just stay right here where we belong; we don’t need a new wife; this one is fine. And she says, Actually, now that I’ve thought about it I would rather make a new husband, please get off my marble floor. You’re in this house, my home.
Nab yourself a copy of How To Skin The Moon here.
