Bugolgi Apparatus

Doing the work We first met each other When we were both doing the work You were covered in blood I was up to my mouth in shit Living within spitting distance I didn't extend my hand From time to time We'd meet at the same impasse Years pass amazingly We're still doing the work Bumping into each other In a quickly moving current Almost by chance In front of the rapids We enjoy a little picnic together There on a rock by the bank

When the noise of the world Gets under my silence I bite my lip and think of you

overrun guy reading on his cellphone  while falling off a cliff with no time to scream  between thinking about  how stupid he is  and reading about two people  shot in an argument  about who pushed first while bleeding to death   no time to cry  thinking of their mothers  who would come to the funeral  and what would they wear  about their cousins  in Afghanistan and what they did  no time to ask before  pulling the trigger  taking these moments  into infinity   on a planet overrun  with human ingenuity

our tiny bureaucratic lives addicts and scholars devout readers, philosophers political leaders and stoned undergraduates processing meaninglessness making it their business going deep in cabinets just to understand it lovers and soldiers bankers and lawyers homeless, slumlords non-profit financial officers shooting smack drinking vodka talking early morning hours to pin the tail on the business so you don’t have to how we wish we could just go about it without the fuss of it to keep things all automatic like driving back home that god would show his hand and we could all be done with it and the painters and sculptors institutionalized mothers zen masters and muggers could just take a break from it processing the meaninglessness factoring the meaninglessness it keeps a planet spinning just by us guessing

The woman screams at the departing rider with the large packages, “More! More! Buy more!" She reads the headlines out loud. Where does the line between loneliness and madness dissolve?

http://youtu.be/2Ca0yH8k6wQ

Space Junk as if it was yours to own it was only there to touch  passing on to someone who’s going very long you're needing it now it's never coming back  It  must be given away with no strings attached missing home missing warmth people who loved you are all gone now we who never evolved we who got stuck our eyes gorging on  that shiny space junk

This man is intermittently rocking against The thin interior body panel of the bus My knee feels his every motion It seems as if he just can't get settled Something in his life leaves him restless  He's dressed for contracting labor His fleece jacket is immaculate his cap Sports a jungle foliage pattern Done over in a muted gray and brown color scheme The label on the adjusting band reads "Yankees" He coughs the cough of a drywall installer The outer lobes of his ears seem to have particles blasted into them He occasionally looks out the window Then his gaze trails down to his lap

Panavision When we return to our heads From the outside world We feel gratitude to life For its raw materials Finished as thoughts Desires, and attitudes Continuing to work On what we feel, say, and do In rare occasions when we connect With members of our species or sex What we mostly feel is overload The pull of a planet around a star Under the gaze of another's lens The way back is blocked We're inside their heads Without navigable craft, suits, apart Returned to a moment in 1971

E-lone distance we inhabit  is close enough to touch mouse is a rabbit  making clicking sounds missed the diagnosis off by a symptom a real psychosis I can’t tell the difference when I pick up  where you left off you’d swear  we were never gone  everything  we ever did wrong  falls into a puddle  and bites the dust three strikes I’m out no fourth rounds we can never go back  all sales final  yet something moves something’s still there and it’s grown up in the wild I would never swear   we were all wet  but we got to get back to that pool of sweat I wouldn’t dare  to cause you regrets we just gotta finish what we left undone

the trouble with being real half of you just aren’t real  I had some trouble seeing how but now that I know the trick  I can get back to where I was all of you know the deal  some were dealt gift cards rest of us are feeling like, “damn how did my luck run out?” half of you are just an app, placeholder, or b-roll stock  I wanna be just like you-   being real hasn't panned out

Eternal Adolescence I'm jealous of  food in your mouth shoes on your feet pencils in your hand air you breathe capturing what you say holding you too long living in your  subconscious  writing your hums work, time, money  conspiring to keep  you precious  for all those reasons  I really don't believe senselessness we keep in mind draining out of our bodies one touch at a time adolescence remains defined rubbing itself against the time of our lives

Meet the new people They're smaller using less space quieter; air diffuses  their complaints compost-friendly excreting green bricks connecting silently in habitrails where they live working smarter brains in a cloud running cooler add coffee and yoga taking over without questions for you except  "when are you leaving?" and  "is there anyway you could go sooner?"

you posted I just saw that photo  you posted and I've got to tell you  you look terrible  holding that drink petting that lion  skydiving   in Rio  with tall tan people  eating at restaurants  genitals  in your mouth   without me It's just  not  enough

Something doesn't fall in line when you practice the set; something is off- too depressive. You try changing the sequence; you write several new songs, but you've underestimated your intentions and your second guesses are wrong. Looking over the list compulsively there's only one thing that fits- change the name of the song; the sequence of titles must have a deep fit.

driverless cars in sleeveless dresses with meatless sandwiches in driverless cars  passing empty landscapes  once there was  some kind of purpose now there are only so many purchases as we entertain  ourselves  contemplating  greatness we seem to have  some kind of crisis something orange will solve it swallow a mouthful of blues Did I tell you already  You look perfect 

On the wrong side of history they were pulled  dragging and  screaming into the new their resistance earned them  the contempt of the young with little patience or understanding for what they  didn't know they were left to figure  everything out on their own glancing at them we could tell they were completely wrong

Ignorance and weaponry hill I die on fight rages on  with a pen  against a gun joined together above the neck the soft spot runs from  heart to head gonna split this last crumb then climb the hill  any way I can

Language teachers in bed Run those vowels Under my skin Do the exercises Over again If we smoke now You won't remember a thing I'll have to correct Everything you say All the resistance You gave me in class Now comes back In every bite and scratch The whole thing comes To a final climax With a test on the Future subjunctive

All along the Orla crawled over every inch  of this thin strip  through the unlit windows  where people live faces reveal  the boredom and terror of the same civil  engineering errors maybe on the bottom  maybe on the top under the stars all along the Orla  wrap this night around our thighs until our desires  bleed through our minds  turn this dance into a commute from  Ladeira da Barra  to Pituba where red lights  are faint suggestions and purple skies receive ovations  after the third sip of the shaman’s ayahuasca  find yourself stretched  all along the Orla

stop touching yourself-I can help If that's all  you know you could  always learn more knowledge  is free ignorance  costs too much fun comes in  orgasmic bundles then gets lost  under the bed typing into  your computer not the way  to make it appear sometimes it comes on  as nausea  sometimes  vertigo like the outlook  of a child looking for  a place to go

using it up I needed to be angry  at something there was enough  stuff lying around emotion came over me  and I was shaking  most of the  day long was it better than  feeling nothing I haven’t felt that  for quite a while I know too much  about other people they just stay there in mind 

What was yesterday about? Some pain A conversation Sitting down Lunch Memories  Of intimacy Emergencies A phone call Plans A list Noises Of other people Soft ambitions Held in check  By limited  Self-awareness

https://youtu.be/0HYjp3LgVKo

5 years ago, I co-authored a book about her songs and writing process. 3 years ago we made some clips and wrote some material together. There's an album in the can that's waiting for her vocals.

It's Just Been Confirmed they've been out all month without a sound    send artists to sketch their locations gospel singers for prayers and blood sent to investigate how we're living now they missed all deadlines while eating up funds rumors of mutinies amongst the squad silhouettes of bankers  ad agency start-ups while feelings of introverts and the sensitive have been crushed It appears as if  the lost poetry department  has in fact gone  AWOL

In the sprawl in the sprawl  cars are sharks trucks  don’t stop through miles only described as  nothing  at all can’t be home  bones in holes everywhere  you walk giving off heat windows smudged don't got no  camouflage  with me there's time to see moving patterns  on the wall doubts have grown  wings and arms what was once banal now feels hysterical 

inochi samba 現世 サンバ most you need  just seconds of few last more than a lifetime long some flavor the night one leaves a scar times you just  vanish with the dawn waking up to see if the song holds believing there's more  in the way it goes others can't think or see your way randoms will get you  lots more won't stay all appearing  from day to day as innocent  animals in pain

The One  was working on the last one when the next one had arrived boss yelled “hurry up” you’d think we were all dumb and blind had to get a photograph at least keep the image in mind closest I’d come to perfection now out of sight almost alive one day I’ll get back to it one day I’ll get another chance my only palliative thinking about it with my hands I was dreaming of the next one when the last one lay dying  gave it all my medicine  all my income and it barely survived now I’m here with no one  and my time’s almost up without any consolation  I face a new world on my own 

https://soundcloud.com/bobgaulke/spring

https://bobgaulke.bandcamp.com/album/what-has-civilization-ever-done-for-me

https://youtu.be/lP30lTBfnmU

suspicious character pulled off the line no one’s buying your alibi who’s taped up your smile, suspicious character bombed the interview dating to eat for two  a request to change  your point of view on these  important matters something in your eyes makes us nervous looking outside at the day without a purpose  want to make sure you’re safe  before you hurt us  it’s how we’re living today nothing personal 

stories from history everyone was ready  for a new situation a spontaneous feeling  lit up the room carrying the weight for several generations  nobody noticed it drop until it went boom  there were no commentators,  spectators, speculators, conspiracists; everyone was a participant we all got the lift  took that risk and the whole of the  us was better for it  stepping into that arena   with hopes  on our tongues some things can  only be  swallowed temporarily  we took that circle and pulled it into four dimensions until it covered our future As far as we could see we could laugh about it later how scared we were to move As if we had a choice who was kidding who we had found our voices how sweet was the song hidden in histories stolen in books   

Hey NSA You're my  biggest fan If I say "Bin Laden" "Ted Cruz" "Jeb Bush" "Drones" "Jihad" or perhaps "Bob Evans  Pork Sausage Links" does the  alert go off does my social profile  get passed around do you send a  scarlett jo lookalike in a leather catsuit  to neutralize me could I meet her  Saturday at 3 ? my social security  number is 572-77-2623 thanks, bob gaulke 

Bottled  What happened to him He lost it so completely As if his early work Was written by an ex-girlfriend  As if wearing the same look Thirty years later  Could bring anything back For him, much the less, us We still read his interviews For some acknowledgement  Of the betrayal; his arrogance Never serves him here Always promising a return to form In his case it was never Youthful energy That interested It was wisdom  Beyond his years That never returned Now that he's arrived there

Reading into you the fonts  you use the silences  in your rhythm  what you choose  to forward the speed  of your server brassiere  color palate choice of  yogurt  hours without signs working without labels I can see  from your selfie you're completely  with it reading into  your tone writing on  silences touch me  once I won't get  nervous kiss me  again all is  forgiven 

The lull After the lull We get back to the hill The hill we die on Pulls us on a whim We travel light Our friends are there We're ready to fight Tooth and nail  Attacked from all sides The ground opens up Taking many of our best minds And a few of their own We fight all night  Then after the lull We count our blessings And fight on

Capitalism Cant find your best friend Wonder where they've gone Ask your parents then Start to look around Hearing strange noises Behind a door You just manage to peek Inside a key hole There's little Mary There's little John Being devoured naked With their jewelry on You try pulling at Your father's  Arms He's too strong Try begging  Your mother Gone deaf And dumb Run out of the room Screaming from your house Then you feel this hunger Tearing at your gut

Now on sale from Ratstar Press. Amazing- in print after 40 years.

Drug of choice What do you cling to What's clinging to you You'll try to take it with you  Unless it takes you first Those cookies That tv That feeling the world's  Spinning at your feet This moment's got me hooked You're a chemical thing I feel withdrawal symptoms When you don't text me Our conversations This lighting The old couple Down the street  It all becomes  Addicting I'll take the first step And admit to it

Your Charger hey mister can I borrow your charger my phone’s out  I live with my mother and I’ve got to get to my new job but I don’t know the bus stop and I’ve just met a lady she could be my baby (her number's in the memory) but mister do you have a charger I’m not crazy I don’t anyone in the city and I’ve just got myself together after months in a shelter and this city turns mean with any change in the weather so mister I’m gonna buy these donuts If I could just plug my phone in I’ve always come to your shop never stole your stock and I’ll come back for a butter roll once I get myself found

The Bronx  says she’s not racist  you want to believe her  you want to sleep with her  she needs to relax  can’t do that  if "everyone grabs her ass" try to explain to her  gives you that look what a naive loser your erection starts to fade looking forward  to that return train live in the bronx where people work hard  all day long without getting off people are beautiful they leave me alone walking expressways plates thrown into the park in pizzarias  men confess  crimes  of when  they were young  america battles it out with everything that’s  coming up  

Madge, what's your secret? What's that in the sauce What makes you water your mouth How about the sound of a dog Who's alone in the house What makes you want to love In a world full of automatons  What's holding God above  Who tells you you got it wrong Fear, the secret ingredient  Fear behind every decision Fear you're paying its rent Fear's got your money spent  Haunted by your dreams You don't know what they mean Sands of time in the vaseline Feel lucky you're so fucked Fear behind every face Fear of things unsaid  Fear of what you really meant Fear will hold your breath

Games I find it strange you spend hours playing games without learning anything  you invest hours  pressing buttons like a slave  it makes you hungry  for something  you'll never attain maneuvering  in this world  is not the same  the extra dimensions  aren't levels  out of reach  life will kill you the music's good but doesn't always rhyme

what's news? in the country of angry commenters  they've closed all the borders running out of toilet paper their flag is an eye for an eye losing a flight of daughters  to the nation over the border they're confident robotics  will see them through the night the gross product is vitriol  shipped in tankers to China  where it's mixed with cereal stamped "organic" and sent home  the country of angry commenters spends its winters in Florida  cursing out communists for digging up ghosts signing an agreement with India  comments will now be outsourced  they're planning their retirement as statues on the ocean floor

Like Snowden blow me away like snowden tell me everything you know about me then I’ll take you to an undisclosed location and we can dick around like cheney  you present as mild mannered and innocent but I know what’s lurking  under that vanilla email address in a pair of wolford stockings  you want security you want privacy yet you post everything you feel  you’re heading for an identity  apocalypse baby  without Coppola in the chair  blow me away like Snowden give me the certainty of the real  I need to know this madness flirts  with externals all too willing to deal

keep on writing follow the line as it wraps around everything rubbing leaving it shining take your time basting it in mind it comes out thick smoking honey keep on writing stick it in blood carve your thoughts into the walls keep on writing till you break your arm then change hands and do it backwards

be prepared hungry dog eats  'til it explodes man destroys a house  to make his home students insist  there’s nothing to learn bottoms don't fit  seats twenty years old be prepared  don't be scared it gets close it gets weird   will's on a hinge  swinging on a binge straight through  an open door another question  strips the system another section  gone missing I was a girl scout  didn’t merit badges did the research  never published pitched a tent  settled damages mangling oaths under my breast

Insiders and Outsiders  He always kept to himself What did he do with the money He had something to express Why was he always hiding  He wore many hats  Got the sense he was playing Was he ever really himself Afraid he'd come up empty After he confessed We started to see him differently Yet our warmth came back When we found how he was suffering It's all too late I guess "I'm sorry"'s just too easy We'll be picking up his mess  For as long as we're still crawling

I like it rare  not too done precious  uncommonly put on would you dare  leave others out make something  by rough hands, untouched contradictions are the only things that interest  people like us in situations that'd drive  most others mad i'd play the eccentric  if that's what you'd want I'd play the skeptic forever caught holding his own heart  too close to your chest

Music is memory as unsentimental as you want to be
 you need to touch an instrument, two chords, a melody on a string
 is sufficient to make you delirious through dreams and disappointments 
 feelings haven't aged beaten clichés you're holding 
 for the return of a golden age the radio isn't helping internet's there to ambush those things you've been holding 
 won't be carried with you everyone addicted to something
 she falls asleep to symphonies her son haunted by a blank wall 
 where he hears traces of feelings

there are those moments that seem to be leading us on the way to civilization collapse like when the bus drops us off across the street from the mall and we have to walk across miles of asphalt to get home dodging SUVs the size of things that ate our ancestors and this new sun isn’t the one I knew as a kid and the faces of people have the same hardness of bedouins to us it’s a desperate sort of survival/happiness going on

She lives in photographs Quite happily On beaches At parties With her family With attractive young men If she has a job, It's just smiling Out at us from The comfort Of our own  Phones Sometimes  I put my phone sideways When I'm lying down On my futon I can zoom in on her I can see the drink in her hand And then I can  Almost hear The sound of Distant parties in the night Against the ocean of my  Wall to wall carpeting

We’re the news your brand and my brand got into a fight my brand is apologizing your brand is sensitive to perceptions of hostility my brand is about creating understanding my brand is making love to your brand your brand is staring out the window your brand has a tremendous marketing budget my brand has close to zero our brands fight for market share they're vulnerable to takeovers your brand pretends not to care but is susceptible to sudden flowers

He attached himself to my face It must have been something I said His lips took out my breath His hands went behind my chest There in the middle of the street While people were passing Blood drained from my head My feet did nothing His tongue was some type of limb Exploring my teeth Don't know what it was looking for The police did nothing I felt his shortness of breath He was having some kind of fit I'd feel guilty if he turned out dead But in a way he'd deserve it

confusion is a word you don't hear much of anymore everyone's become certain of what they know fatalism drives harder than science there’s security in a flood of apocalyptic images or definitions of happiness that lean towards perfect you confuse me with certainties that I can barely follow I can only observe outcomes as a patient customer reaching towards you with a desire that seems certain a curious desire to explore the unknown

Fuck your Government job Favorite restaurant  Smoked Gouda  Import record collection Netflix cue iPad cover Lawyer girlfriend Matching tie Humanitarian vacations Derivative hobby band Instagram account Middle class education Nostalgia impulses Gelato selection Bonuses and promotions Misplaced hesitations  You can't make art under these conditions 

Careering far too many things  keep me from you bartending's stopped the accounting I do bus driving weekdays  deli part-time counseling Sundays I’m banking overtime hammer at the ready scope in the bag pen in my pocket ink runs down my leg far too many things  keep me from you the butchering goes on farming's ruined you’re a therapist, naked policewoman in cuffs manager and a desk director yelling cut puzzle on the phone prize with a box  amodel missing instructions the wind-up without a watch far too many things keep me from you jobs come and go this desire consumes G7 | C7 | D7 Em | Am | F | G

Believe it or not, there's nothing to do now No one to talk to and absolutely no news Your friends are all working Taking care of loved ones They've temporarily forgotten anything outside Of the here and now (Meaning you) Soon they'll get online Tomorrow they'll like your status  But right now would be a great time To reflect on your madness

Service dogs In a city of eight million A woman rides the train With her service dog The dog helps her With the emotional Trauma of living In the world's Richest city And feeling like She's the only one Without love Or money

I have these moments  Where I forget   What I'm feeling   On the bus or in the park  Just for a moment  Before my life resumes  I could be  Anything at all  Carbon-based   Outer space dust  Mixed with water   The mind wanders far  Returning to this life  With a cue From my memories  Igniting my brow  Muscles contract  Nerves react   To some indignity   Pressing on me now  What was that?  How should I react?  Yes, I remember  This particular “now"

Paid Likes  I work hard for the money  It travels the world  To a deli in New Delhi  Near a call center  So hard for the money  With Chinese guitars  In a lonely room  At an open mic bar   I give it away  To be your friend  Out of some desire To take things up a level  Should practice more  Find some time  To work harder for   These newly paid likes

...just saw this great docu on the Who and the collaborative creative process that launched the band. Interesting to see how unformed the group was at their conception...and how the parties involved trusted their intuitions, which proved (mostly) correct. Like all artistic successes, there has to not only exist a brilliance, but an ability to communicate it in way that's accessible to a general audience. Lambert and Townshend had the sophistication and the other actors, Daltrey, Entwhistle, Moon, & Stamp, brought the logistics and the muscle. There's a seductive story about the band burning through hundreds of thousands of pounds before reaching any success, which is a tempting incitement to all mini-whos out there to charge up the cards, but for me the bigger story is the importance of collaborating with people that are on your level intellectually and resource-wise, or above.

<a href="http://bobgaulke.bandcamp.com/album/what-has-civilization-ever-done-for-me">What has civilization...ever done for me? by Bob Gaulke</a>

Why do some albums take forever? I think you keep your inspirations close to your heart whenever you write. You remember how your favorite albums feel as complete as films and as you draw on your own experiences (emotionally if not realistically), you might have a general sense of how things should feel before you even start. Letting the pie bake on the shelf, so to speak, is an important part of the process. In the case of my new album, I had cut tracks with a band, but was not so impressed with the arrangements. The grooves were solid and well-recorded, so they stayed with me like a finished foundation. I tend to push myself into new situations personally and professionally for the sake of some type of plympton-esque experiences that I can use as fodder, or more politely, “stems” for songs. You can be somewhat objective about your own process, as if the goal was to create a mixtape with your own work. You could seek to represent your breadth of ability, or choose to go deeply in one...

...directs "Fandom", featuring Shandoah Goldman. Watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0g0YvGNI3ms

One life to live how many artists have I met disguised as bankers how many directors droning in front of a monitor how many drinks have I had with middle aged persons imagining a future that never happens the brave die once cowards every morning if you opened your heart and no one cared it would still be there if you sang a song and people talked would you still be there you take measures your mental congress cuts your budgets you die of a billion paper cuts paying dearly for everything you wanted to say yourself with a wallet full of excuses and a generous retirement plan

If you have a strong aversion to practicing, it might be because your instrument is not sexy enough. You must feel the pull of its shape. You must want to hold it in your hands and play with its strings. Many times, I've pussied out at the last moment, not buying the object of my desire, but some lesser thing. I jab of guilt mixed with shame (that I'm wasting all my money on some fantasy) does me in when I reach for my wallet. So I bring the ugly thing home and resentment sets in. I become a super procrastinator and will go to a store and buy cookies, check email, watch youtube, do everything but what I set the time aside for. Only now at 47 do I realize the error of my ways. Never again. Debt or glory.

It's not your voice   It's not the chords   It's not your blouse  Or the choice of moods   It's the quality of your thinking  That sets you apart   The strength of purpose  Coming from the heart   I can be polite to everyone   I can force myself to care  But with you it's effortless  It takes me somewhere   It's not enough to be kind  I get that from my dog  It what's on your mind  That turns me on

The guy behind the counter The seller of marijuana The sound mixer The bartender The cocktail waitress The maker of your dress The rehearsal space owner The six seven bouncer The website designer The social media promoter The software seller The ticket taker The opening band The studio musicians The famous masterer The bagel caterer The music critic's paper The opinion maker The van rental agent Your mother