Monday, October 6, 2014


You grow from the inside. Sharpness crisp with the after-thoughts of lost wonder. You'll fall. Outpouring intellect of twisted misconception and desperate candor. Names of the unknown fitted on loosed lips like taciturn gloves shielding warmth. Shall the wine dance, we dissolve willfully. Placid smiles swimming endings. You’ll roar. Dead shade carrying body to kerosene paramount. Half-way drowned, the last of you floats to absolution. Sheeted, drastic notions whittling deeds forgotten. Brood no longer. Petty nothingness. Faded unchanged. I’ll wish I had witnessed sooner so stars could kiss our toes. The sky will tear us from the ground stealing our dreams, but we shall have them all to ourselves.

Friday, October 3, 2014

Speechless Edition - What Dreams May Come

Speechless Edition - What Dreams May Come from Crowe on Vimeo.

A first in a new series once a week. Edited films with as much speech removed as possible and effective music. Let the story take you away. Words are just symbols.

Saturday, June 29, 2013


In defense of the stoned. To alter consciousness is to defamiliarize oneself. Dissociated from habitual ways of thinking, listening, and reading, the stoned are often rendered vulnerable and open to strange ideas.

To experience this video or song in an altered state is to experience the flavored meanings of sound and images. The habits of sober states sometimes white-wash meaning------dismissing strangeness and creativity.

 ----August Wissmath

Friday, March 23, 2012


We left the city to watch the leaves rain, touching hands and laughing hysterics.  It's some backward contention.  Your press for harmonics.  A hurt doubt offering some godspeed.  I loved your damage.  I burned your heart.  You will never see this face again...  We will all be barren of emotion.  A blank mutation exchanged immutable.  The colors of trees were a palette for melancholy as we sat among the horizon golden.  And you had not read these words. And you had not blessed this sin.  And you had not lost your mind yet. I only wish I could remember.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

The Wounder

Shrapnel built of verb knives cuts veins readily worn on my sleeve.
Dwindled to my last, keeping my eyes down, averting wildly to the back of eyelids.
And it was.....and it was my death of a thousand.

Walking back to the seas of formidable woes.
Clasping loud to the east of wanting to leave.
We can go. We can go to the death of a thousand.

"It's so old, he is lost." said the wounder of wines.
A sentimental tricked into living the locust.
She is gone.  She has gone with the death of a thousand.

As we kiss, blades slice, leaving parts uncooked.
It's easy to dance with these broken toes.
If a thousand are gone then we're one in a million.
Fall together in love, drinking in the pavilion.
We are sworn, sworn to wrap arms and hold tightly.
Breach the mess, you can tear up, I can easily drown you.
Evil swung, I tripped, made it look like a knockdown.
In the car, we sleep, freezing black to your toes.
Your pure. Yet, no purer to the wounder.

Sunday, October 2, 2011


Incomplete and by comparison a shabby decoy for my dream.
I saw you walk the stairs,
Wandering with aim dancing in strides toward my bed.
Coals are the palms meant for comfort upon my back.
My laughter ceased amidst the brush of locks from my face.
Heavy chemicals taking course to pinnacles I had forgotten.
You had dressed blatant, a wise regard to a false security.
You who knew nothing of true loss.
I saw you held in salt water,
your own tears, a saline disgust.
The wash of make-up, an unwelcome deliberate twist of my disenchantment.
Glass emotion.  Glass heart.  Glass brow.
So your road be paved and withered under your sinned heels.
Mine, a deep monochrome pumping this dilapidated soul.
Bitter torment to the contemned happiness unreachable.