Manatease

Check out this show! I'm playing in it! Yea yeah.

Gino Citronella

(Yr Lady's Favorite, 2012)

Sally & Bunnicula 2

Emily

Chicks

Preamble: Lane (my roommate) and I will be raising chickens in our backyard...which is transforming into some SLUM FARM (more details to come...possibly a separate blog documenting the farm's progress). We're building a chicken coop outside, but for now, we got these little chickees in the mail yesterday and they live in the bathroom, like where you would keep any babies.

Like a marmet

Pool Hall Stomp

Click the picture of KK playing pool to download the new mix. It's a smattering of music from the '50's til now, fit for dancing, playing pool, and dancing on pool tables. This is my first attempt at something genre related. When making mixes my instinct is to jump all over the map, but I wanted to try and keep in themes. I've got a few more coming your way in the not-so-distant future so keep on the look-out.

JBWR

Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge (2012)

Lipogram

This is a flash-fiction lipogram I just wrote. A lipogram is a text that intentionally omits a group of (or a singular) character(s). Omits letters of the alphabet, in short. I wrote this over coffee this morning, and I have no idea why it's about what it's about. The only requirements were that it be around 300 words and omit the letter "I". It's a fun challenge and actually gets you to choose your words WAY more carefully. Enjoy:

Spencer's Apocalypse

Spencer tossed the turned meat at the savage mutt over the fence and landed, a wet slap and a cloud of dust. The dog’s wet nose probed the rotten steak for a spell, then became entranced by an entangled mess of organs and flesh that foreshadowed future pups. Spencer watched the pooch gorge on gonads as the decayed orange sun sank below the aged stone wall. That meat was the last of the food. Grocery stores has been well looted weeks ago and he couldn’t stew up the energy to scour abandoned apartment complexes. He’d just have to sleep on an empty stomach. Once the dark came, Spencer knew the world beyond four cracked walls was a salvo of fanged ghouls and terror-wargs, as hungry as he, eager to rend supple belly fat, or lack there of. No amount of prep-work or bravery could outrun some scabby, feral  nutcase armed to the teeth, sharpened rusty blades grasped by cold claws. Tortured agony follows those who venture out where shadows have no purchase. Spencer had seen these creatures come down on a young boy, who was barely seven. The boy, who Spencer had named Steven, pajama-garbed, wandered the streets, on the hunt for something called “Mummseeees!” Probably the boy’s mother, but Spencer was not one to conjecture. But Mummseeees came not; the shadowless creatures found the boy helpless, wet-faced, and needy. They gave no quarter and removed the boy’s teeth at once. They deconstructed “Steven” soundlessly, and Spencer sat, jaded,  as they reduced the boy to a mere slop of pulp and bone. He took the event as a lesson, an omen even: never cry for Mummseeee. Spencer knew the day would return and the sun would send those cruel beasts back to the rocks they slept beneath. He would have to scavenge then, when boys wandered the streets freely, when meat would roam fearlessly, when Spencer could feast uncontested.

No sympathy.

Chengdu, Szechuan Province (2011)

Sunday

Anren, Szechuan Province (2011)

Lone Gunman

Lone Gunman, 2011

Prepare To Believe

I just dug this up. It's a photo-journalist piece (or whatever) that I did in 2007 about my trip to the Creationism Museum out in St. Petersburg, KY. It's riddled with typos and the overuse of exclamation, but it made me laugh and I thought I'd share it. Click the picture below to read the article.

Blood

Blood (A Pseudo-epitaph for Arthur Greenberg.)

Blood all gone

Platelets dead

Blood like mine

I never asked

A creaky casket

Teak not mahogany

Is there a veneer on that?

Piles of dirt

Thudding secrecy

Nails biting wood

Keeping my curiosity out

Barring my identity

But there is safe passage

For the worms

A feast for annelids

As I walk starving

For ancient rituals.

An endless game of telephone

Generations long

Dashed upon the digital rocks

The pulp and bone of memories

Plucked up like carrion

By hungry gulls of change.

Would they be proud that I have broken

Free of traditional chains

Taking up the anvil

Forging for myself

Covered wagon fording the rapids

Leaving my origins for this

Fruitless trailblazing I insist is progress?

Kurt Vonnegut and Marine Park

Chain smoking and Brownsville bodegas

Buenos Aires and Patriarchy

Buried beneath

Earth packed like lasagna

Three-seventy-five

For forty minutes

And deaf to my burning questions

To my doubts

To my shame

Of never asking

After the recipe

Just devouring what was

Set before me

And leaving my plate crusted

Dried flecks of sauce

Like blood

That I neglected

To address.

Open-water whiffle ball was created by Gino Citronella (b. Hunter Francis Jack) on a warm evening in the Atlantic Ocean. Subsequently he has proven to be the best player in the league. The league will be holding try-outs in the Summer of 2012.