Hey there! Long time no blog! What's been goin' on? Me, I've been moving. Moving, and setting up my new place in downtown Boulder, a strong-armed stone's throw from the veritable eastern edge of the Rocky Mountains. See, this is the first time I've lived with other people in such a conscious manner: we're here to set up a practice space, plain and simple. A place for living, and practice. A place for eating, and practice. A place for sleeping, and practice. What is practice? See above.

It's been nice to slow down after the hectic Denver lifestyle, with it's buses, commuting, tall towers and shopping galleries galore. Boulder has shopping, but importantly, it has a sense of stillness, and proximity to the more eternal, unchanging truths of the natural world. See those heaps of rock, those snowflakes gathered in the seams between geological shifts? Those find no home in citified living. I'm not saying I'm dropping my urbanihipster ways to start growing my own food, but I am... slowing down. Sitting more. Sleeping more. Developing routines. Civilizing my passions. Slowing down.

Oh, and cleaning the bathroom. Every Sunday.

Before I overdid it... this is what I worked on with Jeff and Dev last week. 3D marker drawings + Boulder Weekly headlines + color images from Freeskier Magazine. What the universe would look like if Kurt Schwitters instigated the Big Bang.

Nice post from my new roommate about our living situation (along with Mr. C). What Gwen has forgotten to mention is another practice we engage in at Maxwell House, namely, heavy, heavy drinking. That and exotic animal collecting. I've got three parrots, two wombats, sixteen horseflies, and a pack mule chewing up the rug in my bedroom. For me, practice has come to mean cleaning up turds, and lots of it. See you there!

Sweet time-lapse video of our party last night at Maxwell House, courtesy Mr. Lange. See also Gwen Bell's write-up. Thanks to everyone who came and, uh, didn't buy my art ;)

FYI: I'm booked solid through the end of March in terms of design projects. If you have something in mind for me, let's discuss it in April. In the meantime, please check out A Comprehensive Guide to Starting Your Freelance Career. Thanks!

Kinda a nutty thang, but this is the latest illustration I've done for Mr. ROD "Love One Another" at Zaadz. Just ignore the saddle horn, total mistake....

Hey ya'll, for a limited time I'll be selling some recent artwork at dirt-cheap prices so I can PAY MY F--KING RENT at the end of the month. These are one-of-a-kind ink and watercolor drawings, drawn on bristol board (or watercolor paper in the case of "Cannon Fodder") and mounted on black matte board, with a bulldog clip for easy hanging (as shown) and signed in my own hand. Subjects include: crucifixion, robot blowjobs, military life, urban romance, wireless communication, and the eerie whims of organized birds. See below for prices and photos of each piece. This is my very first foray into the realm of sellig my art, and if all goes well, I'd like to do more. Payment will occur through Paypal, and I will ship them to you myself with a FREE BONUS PIECE OF ART (unmounted sketches, but still PS originals) as my thanks for your purchase. For sale right now: Cannon Fodder - 20"x17" - $135 The New Guy - 6"x9" - $90 What Vacation Was Like - 6"x9" - $90 Class Struggle - 9"x6" - $80 Exit Strategy - 9"x6" - $80 Regime Change - 9"x6" - $80 EMAIL ME at psalamone@gmail.com if you'd like to purchase one and keep a roof over my head, at least for another month :)

Can poetry matter? Can our poetry matter? Can our open mic poetry matter more than the Matterhorn's stature matters to the alpinist tracker scaling the rafters of the world for a gasp of something grander? See, we believe that by merely reading a piece we can release beastly people from their unceasing idiocy. For we hope that our original quotes will choke back the gropes of the dope-smokers who tie ropes with the names of our necks on them. But there is no proof that the Truths leaving our tooths can soothe the crucial pains of the youth anymore than a Christian prayer. For it's at its barest that our lit's as lost in superstition as the redneck thighs we hyprocritize in our anti-Condoleeza anthologies. So why fight the fact that we're but supplicants ranting against the tense, dense silence of thoughts left in notebooks dropped in closets, Waiting like cows in the stable at our café tables to pour our prose poem piss in the shifting sands of the world's unlistening ditches, Never knowing its effects, if it protects or how it affects change -- for there is no scientific method for poetry.

Yes indeed. God bless Taiwan.

Also check Goldhaber's latest on the Attention Economy.

And Taibbi, up to his usual sacred cow-skewering with this RS piece on Obama.

Pass the salt.

There must be some way out of here. I am not a joker or a thief.

I rely on chain stores and franchises (current faves: Vic's Coffee, Noodles & Company, Chipotle, Borders) because they bring reliability and structure to an otherwise chaotic life. I go to bed midnight-ish and wake up at 8-ish for those very same reasons. But it's not enough.

There is too much confusion. Relief: none. Relief in small moments, relief in cups of java and moments on stage and drinks with friends and long conversations with loved ones. But still.

None of the True Relief that a Life's Purpose provides. None of the True Relief that commitment to One Single Practice would provide.

I'm not excited. I know life is but a joke. Just look at the snow. In late March. In Boulder. ON Boulder.

I am 30: the hour is quite late. I have not the luxury for false talk. Cue guitar solo.

...

There's a cold, cold distance, somewhere on the liminal edge of my consciousness, a place where the future and the past conspire to make hay with my present. A surprise car payment. A surprise tax leveed. A surprise plane ticket to buy. A surprise memory causing me to cry. A surprise innovation (did I see YouTube coming 2 years ago? Fuck no).

That goddamn wildcat. A mountain lion, growling. Two riders -- bicyclists probably -- approaching from the lunar marshes. Wind, whipping down, howling all around, beating against the sheets of my bed.

I'm on the watchtower; I don't see a thing.

Still no takers for these six original pieces of artwork by yours truly. Are my prices too high? How about this: for the next week, starting today, I'm offering each piece for 50 bucks. If that doesn't work, it's hardcore marketing time...

One of my open mic pieces, a little ditty meant to open up the chakras (assuming they exist), tap into my hip-hop past, and give a shout-out to robo-culture.... ACTIVATION Vowel sounds activate Vowel sounds activate Vowel sounds activate (Fundamental vocals units now online) A for the plans that I see in my brain E for the speech that I speak out loud I for the feelings inside for all of you O for the gut that tells me what to do U for the funk and the uh uh uh But every time I open up I get shut down My brain gets lost in thoughts that it cannot ground My words create conflict, enemies, and fans My heart is stuck on empathy for everyone that's sad My stomach gets sick, my balls just want to dance Everytime I activate they stop my advance So I drop the vowel sounds Into my hands And with an A-E-I-O-U fight back Thoughts confusing me -- push that Words choking me -- slap that Empathy stopping me -- hit that Hunger confusing me -- strike that Lust diffusing me -- punch that Now A is for the plans that I need to see E for the things that I mean to speak I for the feelings that are proper to me O for the juice that my body needs U for the funk and the uh uh uh Freed by the fundamental sounds of the world Vowels activated, radiating like pearls Every word rhyming with the breathing inside Every deed powered by the source of my spine.

...or at least decentralized? I think that's what Seth Godin is asking in his latest post. With Twitter, podcasts, tags, texting, GooTube, and everything else, maybe it's time to admit that blogging alone is not supreme amongst citizen web media. A tough pill to swallow for we writers. Ulp.