Moon Thief

P.U.L.P

2011-10-28T13:07:00.000-07:00

ArtSpiel: Makin' it

Written by The Poet Spiel

September 2009 Issue

Making it in the arts is a wacko process. Last season's American Idol phenomenon, Adam Lambert,fell to a kid with one-tenth Lambert's talent. I saw some old friends on the super-finale of American Idol. Certainly you know one of them, Steve Martin, but I doubt you know the other, David P. Jackson, who played back-up bass for Martin.

Jackson stopped by my place in Pueblo West while doing minor gigs in Colorado a couple of weeks before that performance. He reminded me that Martin was a big fan of my art in the 60s when the three of us were Hollywood buddies struggling to make it. I told him that Martin admired one of my drawings but regretted that he couldn't afford it. If I'd known then what I know now, that Martin would become a superstar and a major collector of American art, I'd have wrapped that drawing in my own flesh and given it to him.

None of us was rich or famous, but we were kick-ass happy trying to get there. With all those big talents we hung out with, we celebrated every step along the way. We believed in ourselves; we believed in each other.

But life is weird in the arts. Talent does not guarantee fame.

I met the talented Peter Burg years ago performing original poetry at Pueblo's classic Tumbleweed Bookstore. He showed tremendous skill at the art I love. I learned afterwards that Burg is best known in Pueblo as a blues man performing everywhere with his group Peter Burg and Blue Suburban. Guess what? As a kid he worked in a Pacific Palisades music store where thee Randy Newman hung out, and they talked about the songs Burg was recording!

Guess what else? Burg is an excellent visual artist with a degree from CSU-Pueblo. He also drives a school bus and lives better than many musicians because he drives a bus.

The mellow-voiced music man began his journey in 7^th grade with his first band, The Valours. He went on to write acoustic songs, was one of the first professional skateboarders, was a singing waiter and appeared on radio and TV. In 1980, he did the Hollywood circuit with his own pop/rock band. At 23, he pierced his ear with a friend and they, "dedicated their lives to music." But Burg's ADHD and multi-talents kept him restless. In 1983, after a three-month Alaskan tour where he performed at the Anchorage Sheraton, he landed in the mountains of southern Colorado where he figured life would be more affordable than his old southern California stomps.

His background in art is considerable. His father was a professional artist and his three sisters have art degrees. He enjoys making art and does custom framing to pick up a buck here and there to augment his music career. But each of his attempts to open a gallery, in Blende in 1993 and Rye in 1995, tanked. In 1993, he won Best 2/D Art in the USC Student Art Exhibit and received the Occhiato University Center Art Purchase Award. In 1997, he graduated from USC with a B.A. in art and was awarded the Robert Taylor Memorial Scholarship. While President of the Pueblo Songwriters and Musicians Association, he received the 2004 Excellence in the Arts Award. Did I mention he worked at the Sangre de Cristo Arts Center in 1989 as Assistant Curator and Collections Manager? He was held on probation for one year by Executive Director Maggie Divelbiss and then fired for poor job performance.

Here we've got a maturing dude with a heap of enviable capabilities in music, poetry and art. He is well known and admired in this community for each of them and he drives a school bus in Rye. He receives a fixed salary with benefits and has the summers off to escape from the school kids who remind him of the turmoil he'd forgotten growing up.

Burg had his shot at That Hollywood Town long before Simon Cowell ever said, "You're going to Hollywood!" At the same time Steve Martin, David P. Jackson and I, and other really talented friends, were padding each other's egos whenever the chips were down on making it. Peter Burg was on that same scene.

Frankly, Burg's poetry is among the best I've heard around here. His nude drawings are sensuous and elegant. The art on the cover of his 2007 poetry collection, "Whistles," knocks me out. I presume it's a self-portrait: a whimsical sketch of a torso-heavy man with broad California-beach pecs, a silly red-lipped grin and wide-open eyes focused straight ahead saying: "Here I am!"

Does he still wish for a breakthrough with his music career?

"Sure I do," he tells me, "but realistically it won't happen. Pueblo is not a musical hub."

The Poet Spiel is a lifelong artist whose work is published internationally in scores of independent journals. Learn more about him at: www.thepoetspiel.name

The Pueblo Chieftain

2011-10-28T11:56:00.000-07:00

Greenhorn Valley play revisits

Dust Bowl era

Posted: Friday, September 16, 2011 12:00 am

The Greenhorn Valley Players will bring the work of a local playwright and musician to the stage next weekend.

"Dust Angels" is written by Peter Burg, a well-known musician and longtime Rye resident. The play is set in 1934 in a rural Southeastern Colorado community.

"It's about three groups of people who end up on this ranch," said Burg. "It's reminiscent of what's happening today. . . . It's about hardship, struggle, faith, people's differences — everything that happens throughout life, in a nutshell, is in this play."

The lives of the eight people living on the ranch intertwine in unexpected ways, he said. Their interactions become their saving grace as they deal with personal tragedies, brutal weather and a terrible economy.

The eight-person cast includes Burg, Cliff Pattison (founder and artistic director of the theater group), Elizabeth Smith, Kira Hughes, Jon Hannan, Marissa Porter, Michael Davis and Nic Hannan.

Burg co-directs the play with Pattison and wrote original music for it. A slide show and monologue will give the audience background about the Dust Bowl era and the people who lived through it.

Tickets are $6 in advance or $7 at the door. For information, call 489-2099.

Amy Matthew

The Pueblo Chieftain

Dust Angels A Play by Peter Edward Burg

2011-10-28T09:23:00.000-07:00

PETER BURG’S “DUST ANGELS”AT THE GREENHORN VALLEY PLAYERS PLAYHOUSE ON 23RD, 24TH AND 25TH SEPTEMBER

Rye musician and writer, Peter Burg’s second play, “Dust Angels”, will be performed at the Greenhorn Valley Players Playhouse, Rye, on the 23rd, 24th at 7.30pm and 25th September at 2.30pm. This is Mr. Burg’s second original play, the first being “Clown Town” which was put on here in 2009.

“Dust Angels” is set during the Dust Bowl era in 1934 and is about a small rural community on the fringe of a prairie in southeastern Colorado near the Kansas line. Remnants of three broken families have banded together to form an alliance against the hardship of their existence. The characters are all poor. Some are educated, others are rich with life experience, and others downright ignorant but all have an innate ability for survival with a strong belief in the hard work ethic. They persevere, believing that this strange weather and economic upheaval will subside soon and better times will eventually come.

But the bleak day to day existence is their only reward for their endeavors. These people have been at the bottom of the heap and can’t get any lower.

Helplessness begins to eat away at the group. Their interaction together is their only saving grace. Their only news of the nation is from the radio. As they interact with it, some view it as both a life line and a curse. Some confess their sins and others tell stories.

It was inconceivable that America could falter. And as it did Americans were dumbfounded, becoming mentally mute. This once virile country was now impotent. How does one reckon with a fallen angel?

This is both an historical story and one that is bitingly topical in terms of today’s deep economic depression. How does one come to terms with a world apparently without prospects and without hope? This small but resilient group has dug in on an isolated southeastern Colorado farm, to do battle with nature itself, theirown inner turmoil, the economic crisis, and their luck of the draw. It is difficult to see through the dust but there is surely something ahead! This is a very relevant modern play about the trials of life, the strength of the human spirit and about man’s eternal sense of hope. Above all, it is a play about the pressures that affect every one of us everyday and about how we cope with this adversity, how we deal with personal relationships and about the commonality and love that in the end binds us all together. That- then and now- we will eventually survive adversity is a given. We are a race of survivalists and therefore have no other option but to prevail. It is the “how” that is the lesson here. The solution and transcendence must come in spite of who we are. Jean- Paul Sartre, the French philosopher and playwright, once wrote at the conclusion of his play “No Exit” that “L’Enfer- sont les autres- Hell is other people.” Happily Peter Burg realizes at the end of “Dust Angels” that in the end, all we have is one another- faults, problems and all. All the characters in this play will end up on the side of the angels.

There will be original music composed for the play by Peter Burg and a slide show of archival black and white photographs of the Dust Bowl period. The play is directed by Cliff Pattison and Peter Burg with a cast of eight local actors and actresses, whose ages range from nine to Eighty one.

Please come and support this original production solely created and performed by local residents of our community. In life and in the theater, there are those of us who are actors and those that are audience- but neither can exist without the other!

The Greenhorn Valley Players Playhouse is at 2090 Main Street, Rye, Colorado Tel # 719 489-2099

Tickets are $6.00 in advance, $7.00 at the door.

Directors-----------------Peter Burg and Cliff Pattison (Founder and Artistic Director of Greenhorn Valley Players, founded in 1989.)

Characters and Cast

Alondra Steepleton----------------------------------------Elizabeth Smith

Jersey McLanahand---------------------------------------Kira Hughes

Oscar Valentine--------------------------------------------Cliff Pattison

Jordan Hardy-----------------------------------------------Jon Hannan

Tess Hardy-------------------------------------------------Marissa Porter

Ezra Hastings----------------------------------------------Michael Davis

Durrell Plains ---------------------------------------------Peter Burg

Estaban Louis Zappata (Louie)------------------------Nic Hannan

Sound, Stage Construction, Lighting----------------Robert Humphrey

Choreography Consultant --------------------------Cyrisse Cooley

Stage and Wind Consultant----------------Leslie Baldwin Archer (L.A, Design)

Music, Stage Design/Painting, Multimedia----------Peter Burg

Projector Loan-------------------------------------Jonathan Waugh

Program Artwork----------------------------------Laura Burg Robertson

Mac Lap Top---------------------------------------Joe Kellogg

Program/Tickets-----------------------------------Rochelle Harman

Curtain/Stage Hand--------------------------------Nitai Morano

Costumes/Make-Up-------------------------------Cast

Article( www.greenhornvalleyview.com )-Jonathan S. Evans www.jonathanevans-batikart.com

Beach, Surfing, and Skateboards

2010-07-24T09:05:00.000-07:00

Peter at Zuma 1983

I grew up in Pacific Palisades in Southern California over looking the Santa Monica Bay with a view of Palas Verda and Santa Catalina island. The beaches had a profound influence and wove into my life. The over cast mornings, sound of waves, smell of salt-water air, sunsets on the bluffs, and sunny beach fashions were everywhere.

My Parents bought a home on Muskingum Avenue in 1952. At that time you could see the ocean from our living room bay window before the eucalyptus trees over grew.
The Burgs spent many afternoons on the beaches along the coast highway. My mother and father would schlep us kids to hang out with our first cousins the Smiths, Mary Lou and Jimmy and their kids down at the Doville Club. The club was located at the base of what is now the Santa Monica Ramp. There were a whole contingency of families that would get together and play Volley Ball in the sand. This would be in the late fifties and I was just old enough to walk around an burn my tender feet on the hot sand. Probably this is where I got my first taste of salt water and the pain of sun burn. We would arrive in my parents late forties era “woody.” My sister Melissa, Laura, Ricky, or Patty and I would mingle and dig in the sand with the Smith kids, Andrew, St. John, Maura, Paul, Beaver or Georgie. Volley Ball was vary popular at the time and was also played at State Beach (Will Rodgers State Beach) located at the base of Chautauqua Blvd. and Pacific Coast Highway 1. This area and most of the Santa Monica Bay was a hot bed of Beach Volley ball and also known for good surfing since the 1920’s

In 1959 my Sister Pattie worked in a ice cream parlor next to the Standard gas station across from Mayfair Market on Sunset Blvd in Pacific Palisades. She was a student at Santa Monica Junior College off of Pico Blvd. During this period she met Con Colburn. Con would come in all straggly, wet, and sandy from surfing and try and talk her out of an ice cream cone. She gave in most of the time and they became great friends. Their friendship lasted four or five years and during that period she helped with bookwork and painting signs for his fledgling surfboard business, Con Surfboards. She also would accompany him when he would pick up blanks from the Hobie shop, because at that time Con was not making his own blanks. Con’s shop in 1959 was located on Olympic Blvd. in Santa Monica. As Pat was my surrogate mother she would take me along on her visits, so I spent time at the shop as well. The smell of resin and fiberglass and the sound of Con sanding and shaping the boards is still with me. On many occasion Pat and Con would go to surf movies at the Santa Monica Auditorium. These were rudimentary 8 and 16 millimeter home movie style surf films that were projected on a screen and usually the guy who shot it would narrate over a public address system.

My other sister Laura was asked out numerous times by Miki Dora. She refers to him as the Bad Ass Blaster. She says of her Malibu days in the summer of 1962, that Miki would approach her on the beach saying, “Hey pretty baby, let’s go out?” Her high school friend, Mandy Pryor had crushes on the Aaberg brothers, Steve and Denny. Once, Mandy dove off the Malibu pier just to impress them. Laura said the more intellectual surfers played chess on the beach while the others like Lance Carson and Johney Fain duked it out on the waves. Needles to say we had some of the top surfer walking up our driveway and knocking on the front door, Ah the lure of young girls.

It was sometime during 1964 that I constructed my first skateboard. Cub Scouts was the latest activity that my parents had me involved in and this particular day my mother delivered me to the weekly gathering which was at Philip Cleary’s home on Alcima in the Pacific Palisades. Phillip and I were grammar school mates and his mother had the troop set up in the garage. During these meetings we made all sorts of stuff like key chains glued to cracked marbles, gifts, and whatnots. Today the boys had a box filled with old garages sale steel roller-skates and boards from Philip’s father’s lumber yard (Palisades Lumber and Materials). In no time we disassembled the skates by removing the center wing nut with pliers. The next step was to flatten the heel and toe guards with a hammer so that the skate would lay even on the boards. It was a wonder that no fingers were smashed with all the racket we made with those hammers. Next was to attach the skates to the boards. We used flat head nails, hammered in, and bent over. It was trial and error to find the ideal location for each skate, front and back, after all we were treading on virgin territory. Finally the first to flip their board over and ride were sorely surprised. Those that had nails sticking through the top had to bend them over or risk bloody feet and those that nailed the skate on crooked would fly helter-skelter off into the bushes. It was pretty comical to watch a bunch of hyper kids in Cub Scout uniforms careen down the sidewalk. These skateboards with steel wheels made the sound of a roaring jet going by. They also made a funny white trail as the wheels crushed the concrete pavement.
Commercial skateboards did not exist for me. At ten and eleven I was fairly self reliant and continued to make my own with up graded wheels and board shapes as did others. The kids in the neighborhood were wise to skates, for most of us participated in the Friday night roller skating at Palisades Park. Where you could rent skates with wooden wheels, skate inside the gym to you favorite rock ‘n roll music on a record player that spun 45’s, and maybe have a game of dodge ball afterwards.

Surf music was prominent on the air waves and we were hep to it. AM statioins such as KFWB and KRLA played a mixed Duane Eddy, Dick Dale and the Deltones, The Ventures, The Beach Boys, The Sufaries and numerous other surf bands on regular rotation. I had a Sufaries album with yellow trim and a picture of surfers at the Malibu wall on it which I thought was totally bitchin’. The big fender reverb sound was everywhere.

Most of the kids that were skateboarding in the Palisades had a intimate relationship with the surf. We grew up on the beach either learning to body surf, skimboard, raft, bellyboard or surf. We were all good swimmers too. My sister Laura loved to swim out beyond the big sets and then call me to follow. It was pretty gnarly to swim out and dive under six and seven foot waves. I had to grab on to the sand under the water and then push off the bottom after the wave broke over me. I learned fast how to take a wave, get tubed and duck under the wave just when it broke and pop out on the other side. Back then we didn’t use fins. At Bel-Air beach, Tower #5, where we hung out most of the time, the ocean wasn’t that deep so we could still bob off the bottom on big wave days.

Bay Street, State Beach, Sunset Beach, Topanga, Malibu, Zuma, and Trancas, were all familiar local spots. But in fact, in the early sixties most all beach break were excellent spots for surfing, along with many of the jetties that dotted the Santa Monica Bay. Decent left and right breaks were common. I was a goofy foot so I preferred left breaks. It wasn’t until the mid seventies when severe storms swept through the bay changing the wave breaking profile from then on. It seemed all that was left were shore breakers.

In 1964 I was also playing little league baseball on the Panthers team along with skateboarding. More and more kids were skateboarding and began congregating at the massive inclined parking lot at Palisades High School. It was fairly loose knit group, mostly crazy youths hauling ass down the parking lot then climbing back up along the wire mesh that was put down to hold the ivy and bank from sliding, and then we’d haul ass down again. At that time bikes and skateboards were our main mode of transportation. (Mine was the ever-popular Schwinn Sting Ray, purple with a sparkle banana seat with semi sissy bar, butterfly handlebars, and a slick for the back tire.) Friends and strangers were beginning to showing up regularly at the top entrance of Pali’s parking lot. So it goes with kids, boredom beget, friendly competition. Going down the incline became monotonous. So we went down in new ways. Instead of standing, we sat on the board, laid on it, stood on trash cans, anything we could think of and got good at it. As our competitive nature grew so did the more outlandish tricks. Kids began imitating surfer with maneuvers such as, “Paul Strauch five”, walking the nose, hanging ten, hang five, and pirouette. As things progressed the skateboarders developed there own terms like kickturns, curb jumping (either off or on), and kick outs. Pretending you were surfing was standard practice. We knew how to be stylish from Miki Dora and the likes. Accidents turned into tricks like having the back wheels slide out when bearing down on a turn. When kids finished zooming down the incline they would kick out into the ivy but sometime they would flip their boards up and catch them and that would turn into how many flips could you do before you caught the board. Like anything kids did, showing off was always in the mix. Soon people were there just to watch and take pictures. Tricks got more inventive like kick-outs had spins added, kick turns turned into the frog walk or a 360, walking the nose turned into nose wheelies then into heelies, the combinations simply multiplied.

Next in progression was to set up an exhibition or contest. Teams were talked about and teams began. Several of us, Terry Keller, Burke Murphy, Chris Picciolo and Tim Keller formed a team. Tim became our manager and arranged match contests between us and other teams to take place at the Pali parking lot. One on one runs down the horseshoe incline. Judges would score the runs with the best overall scoring team winning the contest. Tim had been on another team called "Sunset Skateboarders" and enjoyed taking on the duties of managing our team.
Pali was not the only spot skateboarding took place. Any and all asphalt paved school playground areas with sloped sides were fair game, because they were built into hillsides, producing a slope much like a wave in the ocean. The more familiar schools were - Marquez Elementary, Palisades Elementary, Paul Revere Jr. High, Bellagio Elementary School, Brentwood Elementary School, as well as the parking lot in front of Palisades Medical Center. At the height of what I’d call the first wave of skateboarding there were numerous newspaper articles depicting kids as trespassing vandals. There would be photos of kids climbing school fences and squeezing through locked gates of private school property. Gee, when has that ever happened before? Kids wanting to get into school instead of wanting to get out. The bad press that skateboarding received at the on set, say mid sixties, helped to perpetuate a rebellious image that carried on into the 70’s. We skateboarded everywhere taking our boards where ever we went. I remember skateboarding along the old boardwalk from Santa Monica Pier all along Venice down to P.O.P. (Pacific Ocean Park) and hanging on to the trolley for a free tow.
The prevalent consciousness of the day was that Skateboarding was all a fad that would fade soon. But little did the public know, except those in the know, that skateboarding would someday become a commercial rage and climb to the esteem of an Olympic sport.

Around this time the YMCA was offering a program called “Surf Caravan”. This program consist of several “Y” buses that transported a slew of kids, a few adult chaperones, some YMCA officials, and bunch of surfboards down to Tijuana and Ensenada Mexico. The plan was to camp on a fabulous expanse of beach on the Ensenada coastline and let those kids surf until their hearts content for about two weeks. I went as did several of my friends. It was great. There were lots of super beach breaks and the water was warm and we were even turned loose in Tijuana for a day to learn the art of bartering. I was using a Bing board at around this period.

The Palisades Skateboard Team got started in 1965. Several members were actively pursuing a sponsor. I approached a long time family friend, Mr. Don Burgess. He was the owner of Don Burgess Pools and live on El Medio in the Palisades. Don show interest and said he would get back with me. On another front, Tim Keller had approach Laguna Sportswear and they also show interest. We may have been impatient and perhaps should have lined up three or four sponsors to choose from but as it turned out we decided to go with Don Burgess Pools as our sponsor. Shortly after accepting Don Burgess Pools as our sponsor, Tim turned down the offer from Laguna Sportswear, who would have probably boosted us to the sponsorship and visibility level of other high profile teams such as Hobie and Makaha. But a commitment was a commitment and so now we had an official team.

We got down to business creating a logo and team emblem. Tim was the eldest of the team members and, thus, de facto manager or organizer. He spoke with his father, Jack Keller who sketched out a skateboarder in silhouette doing "Paul Strauch" maneuver on a skateboard. This was used for our team patch, applied to back of black nylon windbreaker with broad white horizontal competition stripe. Tim posed for the patch figure while his father drew it. A patch using the Don Burgess Pool logo was created for the left front side of the jacket to indicate the team’s sponsor.

The sponsor would be responsible for providing team members with supplies of skateboards, wheels, bearings, team jackets, and transportation to contests, entry fees, etc.
Don was very involved with the team. Out of his house Don began manufacturing custom boards that the team members would test ride and report back. By this time a new type of clay wheel had been developed. Don was very inventive and used ideas from pool design and introduced them into skateboards. He developed a resin mixed with sand for a non-slip grip surface around pools...then applied it to skateboards in competition stripes in various colors. The board shape was solidified and Palisades Boards began production. Not only did members receive a new board but they were sold at local stores including Palisades Hobby Shop.
The team started to grow in two areas. First was new membership. The roister included; Peter Burg, Barry Blenkhorn, Burke Murphy, Shane Murphy, Tim Keller, Terry Keller, Don Mike Burgess, Ricky Burgess, Rick Percel, Chris Picciolo, Tod Elmergreen, Jerry Giancola, and Susie Rowland. At the time, Susie was only one of a handful of talented girl skateboarders. (Others would be Collen Boyd and Wendy Bearer, who was the sister of Danny Bearer both on the Hobie Team. Wendy appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show skateboarding around in a circle to some current song of this period.) Most of the team members surfed on a regular basis as well.

The other area was the development of new tricks, such as hand stands on a moving skateboard. I began experimenting by holding the board on the pavement, moving slowly, then kicking up into a hand stand. This finally evolved into skating along, going down into a frog stand, then pressing into a full handstand, coming back down on the board, then standing up right while the skateboard was still moving. Other tricks such as 360s turning into 720s , 1080s and on, one footed heelies and wheelies, jumping over school benches tuned into jumping over a bar at a measured height, head stand into hand stand, and of coarse the stall, where you lean the board back on its tail end and drag along the ground, used as a break to slow down, were being perfected by other team members.

The world of skateboarding exploded then and teams popped up every where. Televised contests such as the National Skateboard Championships held at the La Palma Stadium in Anaheim, May 22 and 23, 1965, Anaheim Street at Harbor Boulevard, Anaheim, brought the world of skateboarding into the living rooms through out the world. There were 280 boys and girls that show up from Mexico City, Dallas, Phoenix, Berkeley, and Southern California to compete in this rally sponsored by the Vita-Pak Super Surfer Skateboard team. Wide World of Sports even cover it. There was a clip of myself executing my run in the flatland slalom. Our team finished third to Hobie and Makaha. John Freis won over all, Torger Johnson second over all, both from the Hobie Team. Torger was by far the most radical and most fluid skateboarder in the contest. In the 11 and under age bracket, Don Mike, eight years old, was third over all, placing third in figure eights and the flatland slalom. I was fourth in flatland slalom and fourth in trick riding. Both of us received finalist medals.

More contests followed; First Annual South Gate Open Contest, July 4, 1965, Palisades-Malibu Jaycees Skateboard Tournament 1966, and a contest between Brentwood’s Ventures and Palisades Team 1966. So many friends were skateboarding at that time it’s hard to remember all but the Hiltons (Stevie and Davy), George Trafton, Jay Henderson, Kevin Jones, Bob Janis, Scott Kelso, Pat Hunt, Scott Archer, and Dona Cash are some.

Our sponsor, Don Burgess, was avid 16-MM amateur movie maker. He shot numerous films of the team at various contests. There is one of me, during a group exhibition going down Pali incline, where I did a hand stand, veered off into the ivy, and crashed into a sprinkler head. I receive a sever cut on the hand and had to be taken to the hospital to get several stitches. Many of these films may still be available through Don Mike Burgess, Academy Award-winning cinematographer (Forrest Gump, etc.).

While all this was going on I spent many days during those summers walking to and from Bel Air Beach. There was a trail through the private club down the ice plant hill which dropped you onto the PCH. There you had to cross the high way at your own parole. We had a great group of kids in bikinis and jams that hung around lifeguard tower #5. Frank Barnes was the lifeguard and he was the coolest. Before becoming lifeguard Frank played water polo for San Jose State. On many morning I used to meet him at tower #5 and together we would jog up and down the shoreline. We all literally looked up to him, at 6’4” he was an impressive dude. One day I dragged my sister Laura down, introduced her to Frank and as it happened they fell in love and later were married.

Speaking of sisters, another sister of mine, Melissa, just a year older, was spending time with Torger Johnson. She was in the seventh or eighth grade at Corpus Christy and Torger was in the ninth grade at Paul Revere Jr. High. They were sweet on each other and it was very cool to have Mr. Skateboarder himself saunter up to the front door for a visit. Oh! by the way, Torger was a phenomenal surfer in his own right.

In July of 1967 the Hormel company planned to shoot a commercial, jumping on the band wagon, using a theme with skateboarders. Mr. Don Burgess was contacted and auditions were held and four members of the team were chosen for actors. Myself,
Barry Blankhorn, Don Mike Burgess, and his younger brother Ricky were to be in “The Not So Hot, Hot Dog” commercial. I was chosen over teammate Terry Keller, in regards to a height issue. There was a photo shoot for stills which ended up plastered on the Hormel trucks that drove around various cities. The commercial ran for about a year and we were compensated handsomely and all collected residuals as well. The event put us in the realm of professional skateboarders and was one of the very early commercials using skateboarders.

As the summer wore on I finished up playing baseball with the Pirates (Pacific Palisades Boys Baseball Association) and spending time surfing at State Beach. Some time around this period I bought a new Hobie 8’ 2” clear coat board. It was beautiful board and I also purchased a plastic nose guard to fend off dings, along with an O’Neil wet suite. The new smaller boards were just making a presence. Our group of young surfers spent the days learning to play penny ante poker, smoking cigarettes, and trying to impress girls. I was surfing allot with Irv Hannsen, and spending time with Terry Macris who was a poet /surfer. He was Frank Barnes’s room-mate at a house in Santa Monica on Fist & California Street and Frank introduced us. Actually Terry’s Parents owned the house. Terry was much older, 24 so I was more like a mascot and tagged along. He took me surfing many times in his totally bitchin’ ‘67 Chevy Impala. We would get up early for donuts and just cruise the southern beaches, Venice, Playa del Rey, El Segundo (El Stinko), and as far south as San Clemente. Once, while surfing in San Clemete, I stepped on a sea urchin and had to pull purple spikes out of my heel. State Beach had lots of great surfers hanging out, Da Cat, Johnny Sugerman, and Corky Carol. You could always catch someone shredding.

As with everything, change is inevitable. During the later part of the 60’s I began a life long involvement with rock ‘n roll. I found a new passion, the Guitar.

Moon Thief chap book by Peter Burg

2008-12-25T11:41:00.000-08:00

This pen & ink/water color became the cover art for the poetry book Moon Thief. A collection of verses with accompanying artwork. My friend Tony Moffeit wrote the foreword.

Little Miracles

2008-12-22T11:31:00.001-08:00

Back in 1995 I did a recording project with an incredible song writer, Tim Keller. We both grew up in Pacific Palisades, California. To this day we are great friends and still play guitar together.
I was fortunate to co-write several songs and play guitar on many of the tracks on Little Miracles.

Shoot in the Sunshine

2008-12-21T14:51:00.000-08:00

Of cold days I would pick today to say yes. Yes in Des Moines, New Mexico. Of Decembers Sundays, yes this is brilliantly cold. A wake up cold, caught in frosted finger tips and fog breath. Tim, with camera and I, with guitar walked across highway 64-87 hopping over the black ice and skipped into Studio C. I brought a fresh supply of pottery, CDs, and poetry books for store stock that Christina requested. Now is the time Tim does a lay-out shoot for the Studio C web site. Here is the result. Tim Keller photographer extraordinaire.

Peter Burg & Bluesuburban open for Sonny Landreth at Blue Bird Theather in Denver 2006

2008-06-12T16:40:00.000-07:00

Clown Town A Play by Peter Burg

2008-06-12T16:30:00.000-07:00

Clown Town
by
Peter Burg
Water Color Painting by Melissa Adkison

Performances on
July 11,12, & 13 2008
At the Playhouse
2099 Main St,
Rye, CO. 81069

Where Clowns go after the show? The year is 1958 and just southeast of Pueblo there is a haven. It is late summer and on a few acres of windblown chamisa infested high desert the magic of friendship electrifies the wind. The place is Clown Town. A place of the past and present and the possibilities of the future for six clowns living the lives of men. Men doing double duty in the circus of life singing the melody of laughter, but time is fading fast and on the horizon the specter of change is imminent.
Share the whimsical ramblings and comical camaraderie of Rusty, Bobo, Suds, Zappy, Nod and Scamper, the inhabitants of Clown Town, before the wind carries them off into a distance memory.

The Pueblo Chieftain

Lonely end of circus era

explored in ‘Clown Town’

Posted: Friday, July 4, 2008 12:00 am

It's 1958 and life is about to change for Rusty, Suds, Nod, Bobo, Zappy and Scamper.

They're circus clowns in an era when their various talents are no longer in demand, living in a place called Clown Town in Southeastern Colorado. They're also the subject of a new play, "Clown Town," written by well-known area musician Peter Burg. "Clown Town" will be presented by the Greenhorn Valley Players July 11-13 at The Playhouse in Rye.

"I got the idea when I was playing at the Saddle Saloon (in Pueblo) in the early 1990s," said Burg. "We were talking to some people and someone mentioned ‘up by Clown Town.’ That immediately caught my imagination. The seed had settled."

Clown Town apparently was a real thing, an area inhabited by former circus and carnival performers. Burg started jotting down ideas and took about two years to complete the play once he began writing.

"The (real) story is mixed with my imagination in the play," Burg said.

Rusty, a World War II veteran, is the owner and honorary mayor of the failing Clown Town. The play takes place on the group's final night together, before everyone scatters to new lives.

Dick Greet, Jeff Garman, Lange Simmons, Brian Weisz, Justin Jaynes and Cliff Pattison portray the clowns. Burg is co-director with Pattison and helped with costumes, props and set design. He also wrote original music to go with the play.

Show times are 7:30 p.m. July 11 and 12 and 2:30 p.m. July 13. Ticket prices range from $6 to $8; call 489-2099 for information.

- Amy Matthew

IF YOU GO

WHAT: "Clown Town," presented by the Greenhorn Valley Players

WHEN: 7:30 p.m. July 11 and 12, 2:30 p.m. July 13

WHERE: The Playhouse, 2090 Main St., Rye

TICKETS: $8 adults, $7 seniors (62 and older), $6 kids (17 and younger). Call 489-2099.

454 Pop Rock Group from 1980 DVD

2008-06-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

454
Peter Burg - vocals , guitar
Chris Judge - vocals, bass
Larry Goldberg - vocals, drums
1978-1981
Pacific Palisades, Califonia
Released a single on Rave Records 1980 "OK Lets Rock & Can't Keep Away"
DVD produced by DigiVintage Records 2008
454 -”Name on the Marquee”

I fell into amazing friendship with Chris Judge and Larry Goldberg while working at the Music Bag on Antioch Street in the Pacific Palisades, owned by Pat Hildebrand and Ray Sullivan. At that time I gave guitar lessons and worked the front in sales part time. Larry was also working there part time while attending Palisades High School. Chris too attended Pali and was just getting started on bass. It was serendipitous that he came to me for a few bass lessons. With his voracious appetite he soon absorbed all I could share with him and moved on to a more competent teacher.
After a baptism by fire as the guitarist with The Razz (original pop rock quartet, headed by Billy Bang circa. 1978) and The Actionaires (original rock band, headed by Terry Keller circa.1979) it seemed the natural progression for me to start my own band. Larry, whom I knew played drums and had an inexhaustible amount of energy and Chris who’s abilities I was familiar with, were both interested and so we started jamming.
The songs during that period were cover songs so we could hone our chops as a trio. They included; Jailhouse Rock, Pipe Line, Rave On, I Fought The Law, Money, All Day and All Night, I Think were Alone Now, and Hang On To Yourself. The early originals were, Downtown Girls, My Heart Skips A Beat (Love Me Now), O.K. Lets Rock, and Walking Home At Night.
The band rehearse in my bedroom at 887 Muskingum Pacific Palisades. There was just enough space for the drums, amps, P.A. and a bed.
Our first performance took place at the Music Bag on October 10, 1979. Larry was 15, Chris was 17 and I was 25. We called ourselves The Look because I had a song by that name. We soon had to abandon the name because another other band had it already. At that time there were a rash of bands with numbers for names, so we chose 454 because it was the Palisades telephone prefix, which stood for Gladstone-4. We first used that name on December 13, 1979 at a Gazzarri’s gig.

December 23, 1979 454 recorded two songs at Harlequin Studio in Northridge, California Double Ticket and Someday Somewhere Else. (No recordings found)

From the end of 1979 to May of 1981 454 played; private house parties in Malibu, Palisades, Brentwood, and Westwood, (Several were broken up by the police because they would get so crowded), Gazzarri’s (Hollywood), The Londoner (Santa Monica), Blackies (Santa Monica), Hong Cong Café (China Town), The Troubadour (West Hollywood), Palisades High School, Palisades Park, Paul Revere Jr. High School, Wood Crest Grammer School (Northridge), Bay City Jewish Community Center (Santa Monica), a total of 35 performances and most were paid gigs.

March 20, 1980 Palisadian Post runs article, “Local boys make new waves in quest for rock stardom”. By Rob Mandell.

April 3, 1980 Palisadian Post runs article, ”Dancers respond to call of 454”. Staff writer unknown.

On April 23 of 1980, 454 recorded two songs, O.K. Lets Rock and Can’t Keep Away at Cat Tracks Recording Studio in Hollywood, California. The session was engineered by Frank Sparks.

May 23, 454’s has differences with manager regarding finances and direction. The manager was also owner of The Music Bag where Peter was employed. The managerial agreement was terminated as was Peter’s employment.

On August 4, O.K. Lets Rock was broadcast on K-WEST Radio, “Seeds”, Monday night at 12:45.

September 6, 1980 454 hired Richard Titelman to shoot home beta video of the band, live at Peter’s parent’s home at 887 Muskingum Ave. in Pacific Palisades.

On October 9, 1980 an altercation occur on the sidewalk in front of Gazzarri’s night club along the Sunset strip after 454 finished there last set. Two street punks were harassing friends of the band and Peter stepped in and then a short fight took place. Peter was kicked in the chest and suffered a broken rib, as a result he was laid up for over a month, unable to perform.

On Sunday, February 1, 1981 The Calendar section of the L.A. Times ran an article, “Washed out for a decade, surf’s up again”, by Stuart Goldman. In it, 454 was mentioned as a surf band.

In May of 1981, 454 played it’s last gig together at Sandburg Junior High School in Glendora, California.
The band was paid $225.00.

March 3, 1994, Palisadian Post ran article written by Patrick Hildebrand Jr. where 454 was mentioned as being at the top of the Palisades music scene in 1978 and 1979.

One of the funniest mishaps occurred at a party on Haverford Street in the Palisades. Chris’s half brother, Jeff McBrien, our roadie that night, walked into a plate-glass sliding door. He hit it dead center, bounced off and we watched the huge mass of glass wobble, then explode, and shatter. Fortunately he was not injured. This was one of the many party’s that ended with the police showing up.

Peter Burg at Boats Blues & BBQ 2008

2008-06-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

Peter Burg
& Blue Suburban

Originally from the coast of California, Peter Burg lives in the mountains of Colorado. Influenced by the beach sound and pop megalopolis culture of LA and juxtaposed with the pure simplicity and uncomplicated life style of a rather isolated mountain town, he has been bending and twisting country and blues of Southern Colorado into his own brand of original songs.
Peter is known regionally as a singer and songwriter and performs regularly with his original blues band Peter Burg & Blue Suburban. They have been heard on radio and have performed at many festivals and venues throughout Colorado including the Trinidadio Blues Fest ’00 and ‘05, the Belvedere Blues Fest ’03, Blues Boats and Barbecue Festival in Pueblo every year. Peter is a member of the Pikes Peak Blues Community playing Paint the Town Blues Series and Blues in the Park Series, and a life time member of Pueblo Songwriters & Musicians Association (President in ’04 &’05).
His blues…a Colorado blues, (Roots Music), a blues that encompasses elements of traditional blues forms, rock-a-billy, country swing, and rock’n roll, with the occasional surf twang, and folk elements.
Peter has released four CD, Open Wound ‘02, Corvette Irene ‘02, Hit & Miss ‘03, and Way out West ‘04. Currently, Peter has embarked on a solo venture with his latest release from Digivintage Records, Dizzy Light. Performance at Boats, Blues, & BBQ on June 6-7 at the Digivintage Stage, Riverwalk. Pueblo CO. Peter will be joined by Rick Terlep, on slide Guitar and Sam Giannetto, on bass and Bruce Paulman on harp.
More information can be found at: www.digivintage.com

2007-06-01T18:01:00.002-07:00

Torro Pequeño

2007-06-01T18:01:00.001-07:00

I wanted to let all of Torro Pequeño friends know of his passing. He was out late Friday night and was hit by a car. Torro was a caricature to say the least. His subtle charm and good looks made him a favorite with the ladies. His presence will be missed in the town of Rye and elsewhere. Torro lived for twelve years and led an interesting life as a father, blues band mascot, hiker, and a companion on travels through out the West. He was versatile in adapting to many situations and could perform several tricks such as speaking, shaking hands, sitting, lying down, rolling over and fetching objects. Of course as any professional he expected payment of a treat or two. He was well behaved but had his own distinct personality as anyone who knew him could attest. Above all he was a great friend with unconditional love. I will miss him profoundly. His passing occurred May 30, 2007 and he was buried in the backyard, underneath the apple tree just outside my bedroom window.

Peter

2007-05-24T12:45:00.000-07:00

2007-05-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

DigiVintage Records is pleased to announce the release of its second CD “Dizzy Light” by Peter Burg.

Peter Burg has been known regionally as a singer and songwriter and performs regularly with his original blues band Peter Burg & Blue Suburban. They have been heard on radio and have performed at many festivals and venues throughout Colorado. This time Peter has embarked on a solo venture with his latest release, Dizzy Light.

Using the blues as a stepping stone, Peter deals with his particular frailties in the search concerning spiritual awakening, faith, and moral consequence. Blues is not exclusive here. From his musical history he has drawn snippets from jug and string bands, rural country flavors, simple gospel, and primitive beats and brought them together into what is undoubtedly Peter’s best recorded work to date. Dizzy Light initially began as a purely acoustic project but rapidly grew in complexity with the addition of further instrumentation as period or cultural ambiance was needed. As Peter drew on several friends to add their own talents, he remarked “The studio is a canvass on which an idea can be worked out using a store house of colors to indulge one’s imagination. The trick is not to get too carried away and lose the edge, focus and direction.” The goal here was to capture a feeling often missed by large commercial studios and labels with their high production quotas.

Dizzy Light features Peter Burg on acoustic and electric guitar, bass, mandolin, harmonica, dulcimer, recorder, tenor banjo, and percussion with the sounds of Rick Terlep on slide guitar, Bruce Paulman on harmonica, David Gouge on accordion, James Schafer on violin, and Danny Weston on drums. Dizzy Light was produced by Richard M. Holmes and Peter Burg and was recorded, mixed, and mastered by Richard M. Holmes at Amplimedia Production Studios, Pueblo, CO

Peter will be performing at the Blues Boats and Barbecue festival in Pueblo at 1PM on Sat June 9th and will have CDs available for purchase. CDs will soon be available online from CDBaby.com or from Amazon.com and will also be available for download through most online music services such as Apple iTunes and Rhapsody. CDs will be in several Pueblo record stores or can also be ordered by most record stores through Super D/Phantom Distribution.

More information can be found at:
www.digivintage.com

Press Photo Information
R. Holmes Photo
Hi-res digital version available for download along with cover art

Singer Peter Burg hits

the mark with 'Light'

Posted: Friday, June 8, 2007 12:00 am, The Pueblo Chieftain

By Jon Michael Pompia

One of the well-known names in the local music scene has released a collection of original music called \"Dizzy Light.\"

Peter Burg is a multi-instrumentalist, vocalist and songwriter who leads the group Blue Suburban, an original blues band.

While using the blues style of music as a template, Burg branches out on \"Dizzy Light,\" throwing country, gospel and Southern styles into a 15-song mix.

Burg keeps the songs simple and uncluttered, relying on his distinctive voice and tight acoustic guitar playing to anchor the tunes.

By adding mandolin, bass, harmonica, accordion, dulcimer and other instruments, Burg fleshes out the skillful arrangements and gives each song a distinctive touch. \"The songs deal with my own particular frailties in the search concerning spiritual awakening, faith and moral consequence,\" he said.

Accordingly, a listen to the album may well put listeners into an introspective and reflective mood.

Although \"Dizzy Light\" began as a straight acoustic album, the project expanded with the inclusion of guest musicians, each of whom brought his or her respective talents to the table.

Said Burg, \"The studio is a canvas on which an idea can be worked out using a storehouse of colors to indulge one's imagination.\"

Rick Terlep (slide guitar), David Gouge (accordion and washboard), Bruce Paulman (harmonica), James Schafer (violin), Danny Weston (drums) and Richard Holmes (organ) provide musical accompaniment on the album.

Highlights of \"Dizzy Light\" include \"You Never Know,\" the disc's leadoff track; \"Dizzy Light,\" the title song; and \"Movin’ Man,\" an upbeat, zippy tune detailing the life of a truck driver.

Released by DigiVintage records, a Pueblo-based company, the disc was produced by Holmes and Burg and recorded locally at Amplimedia Production Studios.

Burg will perform Saturday at the Blues, Boats and Bar-B-Cue festival at the Historic Arkansas Riverwalk of Pueblo, where copies of \"Dizzy Light\" will be available for purchase. The CD also may be purchased fromCDBaby.com, Amazon.com and local record stores.

For more information, visit http://www.digivintage.com/";">www.digivintage.com .

2006-09-01T10:36:00.000-07:00

reason for living

2006-09-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

i feel the razz the tingle
the water bumping
a silent cotton mouth
gliding in s motion
on the surface
working its way
up my spine in soft
pulsation wake up
the light glance
and reason for living
smells of chopped sage
and road kill the poison
now or never
is so sweet
that miss o’keeffe
blindly paints flowers
feint a pirouette
in the dessert sun
we copulate
in the gore of
creativity and mass
of sacred hues
plucking inspiration
and fireflies
from the wind
from the sharp stars
perplexities and
vicissitudes of
the running wolf
riding magic carpets
of geronimos’ cries
chiseling marks
on the stones
petroglyphs for
children’s fingers
singing everyday
for the turning world

2006-08-21T16:56:00.000-07:00

bands come and go

2006-08-21T16:55:00.000-07:00

the song was rough
a mule with a broken leg
chugging alone over boulders
a sync of a blind man
and a mute
walking through the sand
with oversized shoes
a slow go
and no traction
we are all trying
are damnest to groove
it feels like red blues
something sticky
with every beat
even the 64 par lights
are dimming and shorting
and candles flicker
in a spastic rhyme
the audience is shifting
one leg over the other
as the rain
begins out of the blue
the bartender is mixing
wrong drinks
a drop of perspiration
trickles off my chick bone
dropping to the persian rug
we’ve played this song
now it is a horrid accident
on a wet street careening
over a cliff
we all know why
we all are too lazy to admit it
why it’s old
and we don’t care
and the stench of finished
unsettles our yellow bellies
we are pros
rolling our eyes
rolling over in the grave
our spirits sneaking
out the window
for a quick one

2006-08-19T11:47:00.000-07:00

there are tests

2006-08-19T11:44:00.000-07:00

there is a hairline
fracture in the forehead
of my porcelain
mountain mermaid
there are compromises
there are tests
she wags her tail
and a mountain lion
gargles in
the rainy night
and prances in
the yarrow fields
the grainy crackle
of road sand
and musical flowers
under the paws
under the water
of blue eyes
my warm breath
on the nape
of her neck
the tattoo just
above her coccyx bone
i shuffle the cards
and she does a reading
there is trouble
in the house of father
there is solitude
to be recognized
calamity jane
has been beating
at my door
this camper
has been rained on
a river through the tent
water dripping
off the brim
off the straw hat
her nails on my back
taking DNA samples
everything that breaks
everything that screams
everything that is lost
is reflected on
the porcelain skin
and is graded
wakes on the water
her fin slips
under the surface
and a waning gibbous
moon slowly oscillates
passing the test

2006-08-14T17:29:00.000-07:00

dark puppet

2006-08-14T17:27:00.000-07:00

from each window in the camper
came a light
onto the paneled walls
angled and in corners
light bleeding in from
high low country street lamps
in a dying night
from this corner and that
annoying because we aren’t asleep
and there aren’t any curtains
so the light roams freely
above the bed
i hardly have to reach
for a respectable shadow
shockingly crisp silhouette
hand birds and dragons
talking dog horned creature
mimicking a grim dialogue
you say stop too real
you say they scare you
you move my hands into
a different shadow
you say it’s perfect now
laying beside each other
i said it could be more perfect
then i retract my statement
no it could not
nothing could be more perfect
than right now
there will never be a more perfect now
in your kiss of a thousand woman
and lioness teeth passionate
taste capricious licks
i move your face into
a different shadow
in the secondary moon
of my stoned paranoid fears
that lash out in hurtful words
that begin to cloud your mother smile
and pull the shade on your caring beam
my fingers are knotting
and shapeless
if you had just let me
work the shadows
we wouldn’t be broken
and you would be blaming
the dark puppet
not me

2006-08-04T10:07:00.000-07:00

in the darkness of good bye

2006-08-04T10:03:00.000-07:00

scarf skirted woman
i gaze at your cleavage
through a shawl of sheer aqua green
the pliers and hatchets
that pick at my propensity
to devour your flesh
this dead fly that i feed to the fish
this servitude that binds me to your kiss
this stumbling through chalice forest
drinking in the touch of your thigh
painted toes and rings
we meet in the ripples
of the waking pond
the denim veil clouds
when we stand erect embracing
meditating on each breath
memorizing perfume and freckles
in the fire mountain
in the grass meadow dream
elusive diamond valley
dirty and ragged
in the fresh battle of awakening
the weight of and inch that separates
our coupling
the instinct to bite
to take
and ravage in the juice
surreal lips that flash
from tongue to delirium
from the interruption that floats
like sailboats and breeze
and blood pumping in the ear
and the essences that lays just before
you leave
in the darkness of good bye
i am not that strong
to endure the dying bird
to forget the rose fragrance
to walk among the petrified heroes of war
on marble columns
i am in the instant
in the ethiopian waters bathing
washing your hair
scrubbing the monster
collecting the beautiful dust
that gathers on our embrace
that is the cricket in the night
in the walls
in the silence
smoke

2006-08-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

summer vireos

2006-08-04T09:49:00.000-07:00

the ethereal peeps and airy whistles
almost inaudible if you pay no attention
but they are there like sea waves
nagging the shore line
the female vireo flitters
from the aspen to the cedar
to the water spigot
to the nest with grasshopper
or fly in a fluttering feathery
flapping wing sound hovering
spying for safety
making a rapid deposit
in the young chicks beak
then back to a branch
in a routine as old as life
the four immature fledglings
are bunched together
on an inner ledge of my front porch
balancing and stretching their wings
roaring to get on with the air
shaking mites and excrement dust
down on porch chairs
a month ago I pulled the nest down
trying to discourage their activity
but the next morning the nest returned
more completed and determined
so I succumbed to that greenish-gray bird
so ensconced in maternal instinct
becoming a proxy parent vicariously
and now this morning the nest
is off the ledge and divided
part on chair part on floor
pieces left by chance
no trace of off spring
only stick debris and chick poop
my wish is that no cat got them
I wouldn’t have heard over
the thunder storm the wind
they are gone
they are peeps and airy whistles
they are on their way back
next year

2006-08-04T09:40:00.000-07:00

my plan

2006-08-04T09:36:00.000-07:00

my plan for solving the world’s problems
has vanished
the responsibility is not mine alone
my example is here on chico road
dirt and projecting
into a sage colored future
this new mexico sky relinquishes that
bombs and greed smell different
the only worth while explosion
is of prairie flowers
that i greedily inhale
horizon life positive
gray lumbering rain clouds
about to give more life
raining sweetness
staining the earth with sugar
fermenting in sun beams
on a rock strata and lichen schedule
performing a chico creek sonata
the plan was in jeopardy
the moment i turned east from maxwell
crossing rail tracks and canadian river
raising a dust plumb that gave chase
a silent chorus of children cheering me on
to laughlin peak and vast acreage of grama grass
the only conflict that has encroached
so far is that it is hard to tell between
the scant santa fe trail and the telephone cable trench
or the brash new barbwire boasting
a no trespassing zone that separates the road from
tall wild grass vibrating with an approaching storm
starling and crow pay no attention to such zones
the breeze is the worst violator of such zones
my little truck bustles by with its entourage of dust
and images randomly appear in my mine
of american television war and catastrophe
and before my eyes lies the warming sun
light azure sky dragon flies teeter-totter the air
rather void of mans presence
except for the postman’s truck
halted at road side box
we wave and dust dissolves our passing
at a splintered bridge and stream i stop
with my dog we shuffle down the embankment
he laps up water causing aquatic life to dart
i splash him in the heat
burying my hands in the wet sand
i am trapped in my performance
in my time and space
but not to imagine something else
between my fingers i pinch sage
and listen to it talk
and try to remember

2006-07-09T18:12:00.000-07:00

That sudden slap sound of leather

2006-07-09T18:09:00.000-07:00

Carrying around a baseball mitt has become habit. Not that it is some hold over from my little league days, but rather I picked up the practice from playing catch in the alley during breaks from rehearsal with a pop-rock group The Razz, I was in during the late seventies. The garage was just off Pico Boulevard near Twenty-ninth Street on the northeast side of Santa Monica College. During the breaks we would burn fast balls at each other and have to catch them or run the risk of having to fetch a run-away ball as it bounced and spun down the center of the alley along the concrete rain gutter. The activity broke up the repetition of going over song after song and gave us a chance to bullshit.
Mitts were a cinch to fine at yard sales and goodwill stores for fifty cents or a buck. Rawlins, Diamond Masters, Winners Choice, Spaulding, or just about any brand and in relatively good condition. There is something magically enticing about the leather and stitching, the smell and feel of a mitt. I was always puzzled why there are all these phrases written on mitts, like; Professional Model, Full Flex Pad, Griptite Pocket, Flex Action, Full Grain Cowhide, Nylon Stitches, Fingertip Lacing, Snap Action, and Custom Built. I can only imagine some bored player day dreaming reading the inside of his mitt when a line drive beans him on the noggin. There should be a disclaimer or something to the effect that reads, "Keep your eye on the ball."
After the years I have become an enthusiast and keep a pair of gloves in the back seat of the car just incase I get a hankering to throw a ball. My friends think it quite a novelty when I produce the mitts and insist that we pitch a ball back and forth. After a spell we get further apart and the ball is thrown faster and wilder. Before long they’re hooked and every time we get together out come the gloves.
There are the sounds the ball makes when it hits the mitt. A smack of satisfaction. A feel of fluidity. A link to Americana sports. The easy conversation that ensues. A reason to be out under the blue sky. That undercurrent competitiveness that creeps into to the fast ball. I have to keep my index finger untucked and exposed on the outside of the mitt because it starts to throb after awhile.
You can tell allot from the way a person throws a ball and how they catch. I secretly count how many times the ball passes between us without dropping.
The relationship and harmony of keeping the ball in the mitt. I prefer a hard ball. As it zeros in on you. That sudden slap sound of leather.

2006-07-03T15:35:00.000-07:00

night tigers

2006-07-03T15:32:00.000-07:00

holy light
a trillion candle illuminant
in icy cold clear blackish
conduit diaphanous gown
who is the lonelier
crisscrossing in the sky
on the earth
stepping out of shadows
shadows cast by earthly things
who is watching who
crisscrossing the earth
stepping out to gaze
catching a moon tan
all the eyes that dream at you
all the wishes that reach your valleys
all the love meteors that crash land
all the craters filled with hearts
all the troubadours in voiceless space
all burning burning all
smoking crisscrossing flames
a million cry sparklers in a panic
in a crowded galactic echo
rain down with pain
flaming running to the flaming
burning burning burning
it must be the scent you give off
some designer pheromone
some smell so deeply entrenched
so warm blood
radiantly stabbing
so hauntingly tasteful
resisting is pointless
running to the flame
flaming wings ecstasy flaming
eyes glowing lost forever lost
flaming in all direction lost
all in the fascination canyons
all with the night painted on their face
all holding the flame to their skin
all grinding in the wax
all crisscrossing in the sky
burning burning burning
vision of night tigers
eating each other

2006-06-18T19:07:00.000-07:00

in a dosing wait

2006-06-18T19:05:00.000-07:00

that secure familiar
water chop sound
rainbirds in a grass dance
morning traffic whizzing by
my porch dog sleeping cockatiel singing
contemplating thirty ways to save on gas
during my window of opportunity to
water the front lawn adhering to the
town water time restrictions
the memorial sky rattles with the
grown of training military jet flights
and red white and blue baying
in the neighborhood
military force is used when
absolutely necessary
so says the president
absolutely necessary for who?
i remember a political science quote
absolute power corrupts absolutely
are there absolutely no other alternatives?
the richest one percent of americans
have a grave responsibility
are they up to it?
are they virtuous?
or is it a case of more money than perspective?
corruption should be relegated to rusty pipes
and not the infrastructure of a society
corruption is cancer
but cancer can be profitable
is it a new philosophy?
something’s are better left not fixed?
are these philosophers running the country?
there are a lot of sleeping dogs
on porches this weekend
hiding from the heat
listening to rainbirds singing
in a dosing wait
for the war to end

Copyright © 2006 Peter Burg

2006-06-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

dividing lines

2006-06-03T14:03:00.000-07:00

i have surrendered
to love
to peacock feathers
fallen for iridescence
plucked from my skull
dividing lines color in
the empty spaces and what
i don’t know I’m sure of
all my relationships
can be framed
and hung on the wall
and on the back of each one
is a side note written in fear
weird emptiness in my face
bright flag waving
dividing lines in sunshine
in evening rays and quarter moons
in honesty and acceptance
i should change my white flag
and charge instead of surrender
bring color back to my face
not let the blood flow out
dividing lines in the
vagueness of time
bending to the lure of need
arcing for desire
reaching out for perfection
dividing me in half
perception of an ideal
and what magnet i hold
what it will draw towards
dividing the future
into left and right
lines crooked
lines smooth
lines leading to me
to tie lines together
to draw a line
holding a peacock feather
tracing lines in the air

Copyright © 2006Peter Burg

2006-06-03T11:44:00.000-07:00

2006-05-29T14:28:00.000-07:00

red dots

2006-05-29T14:26:00.000-07:00

a legion of ladybugs
tip toeing along the grass stems
crawling helter-skelter
half hearted attempts
to fly from tips
at times all the ends
are punctuated
with red dots
that then descend
in merry-go-round fashion
natives monkeying up coconut trees
white eyes and black periods
on beetle blood colored shells
trotting up the space needle
a momentary surveillance
the lawn is crowded
in ladybug conference
up and down in afternoon dry breeze
up and down in wafting green blades
this season ripe with so many
cycles in weather and insects
so oblivious to memorial day traffic
so intent in their climbing industry
finally a loner launches
into the air
in a run-on sentence
floating out of sight

Copyright © 2006Peter Burg

2006-05-24T17:56:00.000-07:00

slow streams of heat

2006-05-21T11:47:00.000-07:00

the sky morning is weighed
with oven baked cottonwood fluffs
floating on slow streams of heat
dry enough for brown-purple iris
to finally emerge and nests
of web worms bursting form their
white branch den in motion like some
hand cranked grainy keystone cops
silent movie shooting up bad guy aspen leafs
spent dandelion orbs extending
up from the grass lay in wait
for their prehistoric expulsion from earth
anticipating their union with the cotton fluffs
it is a dry spring
it was a dry winter
it is likely to be a dry summer
colorado front range
the dry grass has a crinkle to it
and everyday the gray clouds
drop dry rain
i wonder what edgar cayce would say about dry rain
dryness has a different life it promotes
promoting thirst craving
and primordial cracks
promoter of shade dwellers
and hammock swingers
dry night people
devotee of water
this dry heat make us get things done
earlier in the day
in the slow streams of heat
overhearing the morning doves

Copyright © 2006Peter Burg

2006-05-18T12:01:00.000-07:00

your flower arms

2006-05-18T11:57:00.000-07:00

forever i am drawn
to your flower arms
green imprint tranquility
skin so naked hissing
glistening in the night
reflecting like reptile scales
replete in fragrance
and taste of hair
rub of stone solitary
yellow rose pulsating
penetrating crawl from
a crack in the concrete
a pounding tension
tight muscle thirst
for smooth stallion
neon embrace
i have searched about you
traversing orifice
with tongue and eye ball
gazing on bosom
pacified and round
pleasure plethora
and still the war
flood of shy birds
hiding in the bush
poised ready for flight
in the wilderness
of running heartbeats

Copyright © 2006Peter Burg

apocalypse chuckling

2006-05-03T11:13:00.000-07:00

heard the thunder sneak
over the steep mountain
in the rustling night clear its throat
cold muttered gargle of the old man
this temper tantrum wind
kicking and screaming on the floor
frustrated prelude of an empty rain
it will remain arid arabian
the sky moisture is in mourning
reaching for burial in clouds
and whip of sunrays
there is nothing but the
ragged current depression
these false storms
do little more than
blow the dirt roads away
huffing and threatening weak leafs
downing electrical lines
and generally agitating
the posturing of a grand madam
nostrils flaring
i am waiting for that torrent
on the down side of the moon
apocalypse chuckling
in the background
i wait for something horrible
it jumps and wriggles
in my taunt muscles
the trouble maker
sinister and opportunist
it lies fathoms
patient grumbling rising
a pocket of bad air
erupting belch
destiny skirting past
on the face of gray cumulous

2006-05-03T11:07:00.000-07:00

blues heaven

2006-04-30T11:13:00.000-07:00

when all the blood runs out
i want to be bending a wild string of moan
falling on the close cool bed of blues heaven
with the last utterance of broken idiotic song
i will sing at the top of my lungs of hot rod yellow
and smear golden lust on my face in blues heaven
when evening rays beam a final burst of light
while i make love to my screaming empress
i will orgasm high into starry blues heaven
when my body creaks and breaks down in dust clods
my hands will strum the spanish guitar
pose in front of the snorting bull in blues heaven
when agony paints a wicked stroke
across the dew draped morning with gun in hand
i curl blissfully in the arms of blues heaven
when i’m pounding out my best song
to the jungle of voices in the night
there will be no worry knee deep in blues heaven
as breath recedes and turns to black stone
i will run on grunion beaches and fosse fluorescent oceans
splashing in gospel church up blues heaven
in halloween mist as the reaper stops me in my tracks
i will hang from the feet of flying blue heroin
yell down a beautiful verse laughing to blues heaven
treading water out beyond the waves beyond reach
on one summer dawn on a pacific bay
alive alive in the salty current of blues heaven
when the endless torment sleepless night
gives way to dreams that dream of dreams
i will wake and write the words to blues heaven

drizzle

2006-04-28T07:48:00.000-07:00

dusk aborts the moon
a drop of oval white
into the night pool
rings push out
ripple star infinity
space ribbons highway
mythology growling future
i shut my eyes
in mothers arms
i hold my breath
and cross the waters
i bask in sun dream
warm behind closed eyes
lids of orange red hot
distant cello
peace of pure moon
dragging over heavens desert
stones skipping over
glassiness and heavy blood
forest of solitary hearts
gnashing teeth
caught in the system
the tide of sheep
puking out cycles of years
bile staining the floorboard
abortion of pale moon
i choke on
i catch love in the drizzle
in the desert
as it evaporates before
i can touch
sometimes i hear
the wind of souls
oval white
in grandfather skin

the only indian

2006-04-27T16:27:00.000-07:00

under the singing sky
and winging hawk
the snake the only
indian left hunting silent
prairies legless armless
listening hard to the earth
inherited misrepresented
forked tongue still
hapless and marked
for extermination
by madmen and cars
in the camouflage
of destiny

2006-04-27T16:22:00.000-07:00

eyes of spring

2006-04-27T16:16:00.000-07:00

day flakes off
and scatters on
gnat wings from
the creek where
masterpiece silence
glows on blades
of heat that has
perched on the
backdoor bobbing
sideways in childish
indecision the planet
is lost in the grass
the eyes of spring
advertising in bonnets
plum blossoms herald
the market is open
dogs sneak away
hunting for tires
in the dirt chipped
mirrors and ash
touching the speed
of rust hearing
the dandelion yip
a day could be
missed a page
in a book a sound
in a crowd
but if today were
my keys and i lost
them i would
search franticly
the eyes of spring
for the trouble
to replace them

2006-04-27T16:01:00.000-07:00

broken city

2006-04-27T15:59:00.000-07:00

spray paint the broken city
scales in black radiance
falling widows falling smiles
roadway lined with vacant hearts
pistil whipped slaves trod
stagger day through day
in the pathetic whitewash
satellite dish serving up sorrow
spray paint suburbia excited
dash it with orange blue
dash its brains out
senseless return to the kitchen
hold the flame extinguished
cold wick backend thing
vibrato guitar swims through the streets
swims in troubled doors
cliffs and grenades ride the merry-go-round
blinking fast in the ravaged sun
dashing night red eyed fox
reach out the falling windows
that frames your blue seas
wasps and tornadoes fallow
humming a melody
run so fast run with white horses
with hoofed bent roses
aluminum time
nothing behind the paint
the silver fox
dashes into the underbrush
leaving the
broken city

2006-04-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

for the mask

2006-04-27T15:49:00.000-07:00

caught you stomping
feet bare on red tiles
feel of ooze between
toes where the mask
crumbled and ran with
hatred and joy while
the sparrows flew
circled your head
penitentes heard the
commotion the
breakage and knocked
you stared at the floor
in broken pieces
timelessness in your throat
warm taos wind
snuck in painting
your hair jumping in
the sports car
stepping on the highway
checking the glove box
for the mask