No agenda. No desired goal. No end result. No achievement required. Just the cathartic process of letting go. I just make music, I just make pictures, I just write words. Hyena.


I’m back on the blvd. now, with the people that wear their pain. The man coming up over my left shoulder is screaming as he walks. I’m screaming inside. I walked the blvd. for over three years and hardly…

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It’s a funny thing, but I notice dogs look at me more than people do. Big brown pedigreed ones in the front seats of their air-conditioned Range Rovers. Street dogs, gardener’s dogs, little old lady dogs.    

A beautiful…

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The crush of night is upon me, the time when adrenaline expressed as anxiety or panic runs through me. When it’s at its best. Restless I dress, and drift back down to the blvd. From a distance, in silhouette, intermittently…

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It’s about 10 PM at the Hollywood Royale Rest Home, the one on the corner of Beachwood and Franklin Ave. It sits right across from the La Mirage Motel where recovered addicts are born, but I don’t think many…

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So this is where I live, just off the blvd. I live here because it affirms I’m alive. My days of running, those spent chasing stories around the world are over. My past has now caught up with me…

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The little old man with the neck goiter was an exceptional human being. Now I’ve put some miles in around this world, probably two million and his was the second largest goiter I have ever seen. It was the…

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A woman, mid thirties, slender, dishwater blonde, somehow decides to tie her little black and white Basenji up next to the returned, loquacious leper of a man Herman. A braless shiny, who should not be braless, looks down at him…

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And he began..."I never did lose my way. Never. Even though it was dark. Even though it happened a long time ago. I always kept at least three bucks in my pocket. It’s what I had available you know?…

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It’s about what people get reduced to in the midst of the dream. The broken, those fragile moments; the collective consciousness of agony, of hunger, that brings them all down to the blvd. They bring the carcass that is their…

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The “Greativeness of Sharon” is etched into what was once a partially dry sidewalk. By the looks of it, a gentleman committed a pen to his effort. Dirt, tiny pellets of rubber and dried bits of street weeds, the…

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A little girl, maybe three, I’m not good with kid’s ages never having had one. Well, never having raised one walks by the money shaker. She pulls at her mother’s hand, taking the best of a long look. Ribbons…

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I hit the streets early today going against the natural rhythm. Only people with jobs, places to go, are out early while most of us are still in our beds, but I get lucky and I catch one. I’ve…

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I’m out here with a throng of people who all believe in something. There’s Johnny Depp, Homer Simpson, Freddy, Pinhead, midget Yoda, two guitarists playing Stairway to Heaven, Hotel California, Smoke on the Water and the Guns and Roses…

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And from the blvd., it comes by way of a fallen universe. Where cleanliness and godliness, they struggle to co-exist. I inhale, snatching bits of code. Cipher them. I wrote my name upon the water on top of a star.…

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Another homeless man approaches, pushing his red guitar in a blue baby carriage. I’ll bet he knows three chords and the truth. He’s one of the charcoal people, beautiful and innocent. The life preserver with the biggest hole is his.…

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And as I walk down the blvd., I simply snatch broken pieces of conversation... 

Wake up blood bags, its time to consume

I don’t really want to go to Japan, but they have everything I want there 

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I arrived, maybe sixty seconds after the man was shot, before the police, before the fire guys. I knelt before him to my right under his outstretched arms. His eyes were pinned back before the blood closed them. The red…

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To she who once swam without fear, I acknowledge you. To your Bottle Nose beauty. Your last breath, lost in the vastness of our sea. Without a voice, left to die alone. Until your body meets with my camera, my…

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“You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. You having fun yet? Nope. Pass me a fucking banana would you…” And that’s how it all began, as the…

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For the abandoned and the neglected, for the overflow of life there is a safe house. It is both a home of hope and a home of sorrow. I am conflicted. I find myself drawn into each of their faces…

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I spent 3 1/2 years on foot chronicling, looking for the last few glimmers, the last few rays of hope the blvd had to offer before that chapter closed. I too was cleared, evicted from my rent controlled Villa Carlotta. We gotta make way for the next big wave of money, and that wave, totaling billions, would change the face of everything. It already has. The graffiti, the spray paint, the murals have all been consumed, white washed, purged and painted over. The six mile circuitous walk I used to hammer provided hundreds of growing, ever evolving works of art in varying states of decay. The streets, the blvd, was a living breathing entity. That same walk today yields only two sanitized pieces. The voice of the blvd, born from the hands and minds of so many talented men and women has now moved on too. I am fortunate to have walked the blvd in its perfect time. We are both now obsolete, and our time in this era is now done. Above and below are excerpts and photographs from the blvd project.  



For the blvd. it was a day that unfolds only so often. The convergence of souls, the dance between the atoms, the energy was perfect. It began in the deep light of winter’s shallow afternoon. A man, pink and sweating was running small twenty-yard non-concentric circles in the top half of an empty parking lot. I gather he’s getting some exercise and he must have a thing about waiting for traffic lights to change. Either that or he’s a human goat tied to an invisible spike in the asphalt that only he could see. I asked the guard who’d just let in his first car. “Hey, that guy been up there for a while, he’s really giving it hell?” “Yeah man, I think he’s nuts. He’s already fallen over twice. I’m gonna have to get the cops here pretty soon if he doesn’t leave.” “Good luck with that” I offer, heading back down further into the blvd. My window perch where I do most of my writing awaits, empty, screaming at my half tired cerebral ass. It has provided both a grace and graceless view, and today is no exception. The beanery of choice is Starbucks, not because they provide the best coffee, but because they have on offer an accessible bathroom that others do not. 

 At the moment, suffering through our current economic paranoia they have chosen poorly, and have overcompensated by laying off two of their four staff. This puts twenty people deep waiting to order and another twelve to fifteen have walked in looked at the line and left. In the middle of this silent debacle, a black stretch limousine pulls slowly into the red zone with the driver promptly exiting a man contained within an exquisitely tailored, immaculate suit. His shoes are also perfect, as was the hair parted perfectly to one side. Graciously, he made his own way to the door. Once inside, he briefly surveyed the line, and in a moment of inspired genius, swanned his way past the patrons to the front and tried to place his order. Some words were thrown, and the immaculate man was forced to wait with the peasants and returned to his place at the back of the line. He pulled out his blackberry and sent a text to his driver who pulled away moments later. He then scanned his PDA, looking for words of wisdom in times such as these, and probably found his own words staring back at him. The man standing before me was Deepak Chopra, forced into commonality. Out the window from a distance, came another vision. She was a Latina of average height, hair dyed auburn in a crème and beige perfectly matching ensemble with cheeks blessed with a little too much rouge. The mind bender was what she had balanced on her left arm. I stared in disbelief as she moved closer and closer into my view, my window. Onto my soft retina it settled. It was her gelatinous double, with the exact same clothes, same hair dye, and same make-up. And the way the arms giggled, man I tell you, it looked like her three-year-old identical twin. I can only imagine the conversations she must be having with herself. Or the guy on the receiving end, the guy who had to fabricate her miniature, taking all the measurements. I couldn’t tell if she was married, but that would be a tough work around for the husband. I’ve never seen her since, but that is the way of the blvd., all of us taking in the same air, all of us exhaling our converged energy. The man with the two Oscar’s license plate drives by for the second, still desperate time. I don’t know, maybe his two best friends are named Oscar? He’s now looking though at two other guys, and so am I. Outside, pressed against Frederick's windows are two tattooed handcuffed men placed there by the desire and hunger that has brought them here. The sun, it bends off the windows and into their eyes, while the sweat-less men in black do God’s given right. I snap their indignity into my little black box for safekeeping and reflection, entering the stream of consciousness that makes up our world. The blvd is simply a microcosm, a three block radius, and it’s a trailer to the movie I call life.