Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

My pickup got swing.
Tape loop hula hoop analog twang.
Got meters bouncin’ to vacuum tubes.
Whodoo voodoo streaky tiki moon.
’62 Impala, three on the tree.
Get that rig a tail fin.

She’s a teenage Venus, needle in a groove
dancin’ to my bomb shelter bombshell blues.
Surf’s up in Malibu, light my tiki torch fuse.
Fenders twang, surfin’ outer space hues.
Bond, James Bond, in turtleneck shoes.
Tumbler of bourbon, polyester ruse.

Beehive! I live in a beehive!
She drove a Satellite fast as light.
Gone like that, way out past Texas.
She's from Mars, or one of the seven stars.
No, she lives by a stop sign left of the moon.
Got a pad there, peek out of a beehive.

Twang in full swang, step outside.
Street is night, any night, no one in sight.
In a flat Texas cosmos, flies orbit cow pies.
Meteors from space turned him into a werewolf.
Grainy teen surf hippie cowboy drug films.
She gotta spotless turntable.

Oom pow pow pow oom pow pow.
Need the Camaro Friday, going out.
Got a plastic bubble like Jetsons, bleeeeeer.
Don't break down in the Jive Constellation.
Time is a groove, orbit my spindle.
I'm a freak ray, tiger and prey.

Trippy! Go, Nazz, Go. You got the tiki moon beat!

Loved it!

Gig was a gas...

Crazy cats and kittens groovin' out.
Oh those young people and their rock 'n roll.

"I live in a beehive!"... Ha. That's funny.

Thanks Mouseee.

decal face
on my bongo
Hodads Beware!
was a lil surf mag
by a local

i learned the surf talk
i never learned the surf walk
hang ten, i was all of twelve
that year i saw the beatnik movie

some time around the Kennedy kill
out there the kids are havin fun in
the sun, beach blanket bingo
i was tryin to learn the surf-beatnik
lingo

i made my own little tiki god
out of a little piece of wood
carved its lips and eyes
and put some varnish on it

later man, i'm 14 listen to transiter
radio, tryin to be cool, kissed my first
girl, she was 12 goin on 13, i was so
green

at 15 the surf never took me to its Tiki heart
though i rode them waves with a churchill fin
one fin did the trick, and spent many days
rolling top cigarettes and tryin to met girls

i heard Dylan on the radio, and opened my eyes
it was them words that existed on the radio in
some kind of in between world between static
and the rain that cries in the flood, in my brain
a river was runnin wild through the streets in
my yound blood i was lookin some kinda meaning

I really must say, I like the direction your poetry is taking of late. Very flexible, open, free, beautiful. I'm liking it a lot.

Peace,
Barry

Thanks Barry.
Mind wanders lately,
sonically, a bit ironically.

Ridin' the cool Pacific
speakin' the cool lingo.
Rabbit made the scene...

...Palm swayin’ in the canyon.
Cloudy van, yellow brick road.
California haze driftin’ on the coast.
Crazy wide slicks and fat Cragar mags.
Huevos rancheros, moon guitars pingin’.
Uh oh, linty pockets, in God we trusted.
The President’s wide track budget is busted.
Roll ‘em if you got ‘em, fat tracks, board wax.
Down the surf kissed twistin’ cozmic high-way.

aww man, it's jus' gettin' outta hand!

If you get back Portland-way, I'd really like to just shake your hand, you know, say "hi"?

Peace, brother,
Barry

Yeah man. Maybe grab a cold one. I should look ya up when I get back to the Rose City.

It's crazy how many bands are still puttin' out that spacey twang surf garage rock'n roll stuff. May have to go pick up an album or two. I just listened to "Those Awful Green Things from Space," by Clouseaux. Trippin'...