there was a crew called "FOI"

it stood for "FULL OF INSANITY"
I like that name

I never met any of them, but they used to write things on my street

these pictures are unrelated

sophia

The dull light, green
and yellow, flares
around your
neck and shoulders
and your face blurs out
in a picture
in my mind
and foreign charms
rattle on your chest --
keep smiling, like
you do, like you've got
the darkness to disprove,
like you know the
path and can show me to
the source of life
and light, that narrow
path, and winding, and
binding, and treacherous,
but it's alright,
the horror of hell
does not overwhelm
when we glimpse the last enemy
and rattle the gates of hades
and hear the gnashing and
weeping that sounds
like a song of profound
truth and I'll start
weeping too if my eyes
and heart fail and if I
look down or even
at you and fear
like the grip of a python
is waiting for me,
so smile like you do,
because you've got the darkness
to disprove.

first oils doodle

arrow

beelzebub

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=47OhgRF_Fl8

I’m thrown like a stone

and I skip six times

over still waters

and sink on the seventh.

I’m wasting away

like river rocks

washed out into the sea,

gone, lost,

don’t look for me.

I’m gone and free

as a man buried

eight feet.

Mr. Linux on left, Jank on right.  featured at the TOW Art Space.

the end

mike

the drains

            JANKINS

"When we get there, we’ll make a circuit around the block to see which houses have lights on, who’s awake and asleep.  Then we’ll park, and once the car stops, no talking, no noises, just get out and get the paint and go.  Once we’re away from the car and into the wash on our way down into the drains, don’t stop for anything.  If someone sees you or someone says something to you, don’t stop.  We’re vulnerable until we get inside the drains.  Once we’re in the drains, no-one will follow us.  There was a guy who shot at a cop and went down into the drains, and it took the cops three hours to even go in there.  So if it’s a cop who sees you outside the drains, run.  Drop everything and run.  Once you get through the mouth of the drains you’re safe.  You can pop out a manhole or keep going down for miles.  But it’s illegal to be holding spray paint inside a wash so don’t stop and chat with anyone."

I stop the car.  The four doors pop open, and then close, I unload the bags from the trunk, Anctious takes the battery pack and we hop the fence, slide down the bank into the wash, and walk north toward the drains.  Now, walking, there’s time to notice the coolness of the air and the clouds in the sky that diffuse the light of the moon. It’s silent except for the treading of our shoes.  On either side of the wash are houses, some with lights that come on automatically as we pass, and now at 10 PM people will still be awake, and if they look out their back doors they’ll see our parade, and if not, they’ll hear the dogs and know we’re here.

One dog yelps at us a few times and then quiets.  Another barks from the other side, and more dogs hear us or catch our smell and join in, but we can see the mouth of the drains, dimly, down there where the sides of the wash rise up into a ceiling and go down under a parking lot and under a shopping mall and on underneath the rest of the city.  At the last house three dogs bark and growl with fierceness that betrays their sixth sense about who is good and who is bad, if you heard these dogs bark you’d say they are convinced we are bad, we are demons and spirits like Mephisto who prowls disguised as a cat, and we, trying to be as quiet as the cat do not escape the notice of the dogs, they know.

old one

I wrote this a while ago and I don’t feel this way anymore.

*

I can’t help but wonder if this spot of earth is groaning a little louder than the rest. I know that it’s not, but I still wonder.



The horizon is gone
because the night has nullified it,
and with no real reason to stay out
I’ll walk inside
and close the door.
If you pretend it doesn’t matter
long enough
eventually
it doesn’t.

evening

It has been a while, quite some while,
since the evening
(with impeccable style,
and without asking,
and with its usual way of coaxing out
our unpleasant extremes)
has come upon us like the wilting of a flower,
where you don't notice the way it changes,
only, suddenly, that something has changed.
(is it dark out already?)