Money Management

Here's a corporate video I did for Jim Roumell and his team. I'm really proud of this. It's educational without a lecture. Showing that you can manage money with reason without greed. The interviews are solid. Discovered some great work with Premiere's sharpening filter. The DSLRs shoot so soft that adding the sharpening filter to the interviews really made the image pop without any real lighting equipment. I think it's really hard to do a good corporate video, but Jim and his team really gave the time and attention to detail to make the piece work. As always please play fullscreen.

Roumell Asset Management from Roumell Asset Management on Vimeo.


Your Youth!

Getting the Best out of it!



props to for letting us use the design.


Silk Sheet Tongue Dream - Part One

and I'm sorry about the trees. The rubber trees. It was only in a dream that I knew they were dead. The cold day had stretched itself to a week and every lingering leaf was doomed to fall - all crackled like cold fingers; collapsing stone monoliths in a sand-world. Like all my dreams this was the 3rd of the night (though by suggesting every dream is the 3rd leaves no imagination of the 1st, 2nd, 4th dreams and so on... its as if a buzzard call in my head rings me into the 3rd dream, and despite the dreams before and after, I only know this 3rd, and yet, I know it, insolubly, is the 3rd in some mystical series) and as it arrived I knew I was placed in a livid space - stars were scattered thin, the sooty humid of the sky hustling downward into clouds, mist, and trickling veins of wind that I could feel on my skin. I could hear the highway in the distance and stumbled to remember the road it was - if this was the interstate or some foggy resolution of various hybrid roads across time. But the rubber tree that had grown in other enigmas was now small, yet vivacious, internalizing its greatness as the leaves fell and the green-gold branches dried to crumbling bark. The effervescence of it disrupted - I could not smell the glimpses from past dreams.

Luis Scotti

This man from Uruguay, so used to being seen with a glass of wine in his hand - he had given his art to the wine shop - now for me to carry a piece on for him... The mysterious figures; always enchanting, somehow, and his presence and stained coffee lips were a joy for a brief while.


W.C.W. indisposed

{in favor of, Spring And All}

Quick bodies hit stiff waves of green-gold ashes, azure flies whisper in motorcades of descent -
the leaves of armies
that waste and deteriorate into gold cubes,
mazes of flesh conciliated,
flattened hoses running fumes -
these flaking licorice steps that echo through package rooms,
the buzz interminable -
a cause international,
free from recluse of hermetic solitude,
Iliad read in Aramaic, spoken in signs,
tongues cut-out from their over-wavering and stiff licking

--- one could never hear the words that were spoken -
when words engorge themselves on the flicks of teeth and jaw, bone and muscle torsion,
multiplicity of these articles of speech, so immobile without the eyes and ears to signify,
to raid in wooden cavities of forest-the language impossible


Dog Eat Dog (No Agreement)

"The motion of the ants is a microcosm,
erasing the past is a violent problem,
the violet awnings,
a chinese puzzle,
massive pollution cleared like rubble"

No more delicately have I put my feet into each other as a single motion,
like reeling high toes and some, even, that dawn and hit the floor,
bent upwards with all my legs' weight upon it.
The cheering veneer of slate rock that spits and guzzles all things,
dries water in sun,
hides throaways,
but no more.

"see what you see,
the fearing does sweetly,
meet me with withheld stances,
gold-flow dangling from arms such as mine"


3 Monologues by Gordon Adams


Tunnels - Currents New Media Festival 2013 jake snider.

Arms of light from a comrade towards the west. He holds high esteem, makes mountains shiver with his streaks. In the desert of New Mexico, the hum of his soul can be heard. In the realms of Washington, D.C., where his forest grows lush, a whisper of new light appears from the darkness. (We all wished him well, if only this is our home - a made-for-home-installation, a projection systemitized into your bathroom, or kitchen, a lightscape for you to awake or to sleep to, a couch-surfing diameter of light - the morning/noon/night solar flares of a machine humming indefinitely).

Oyster Market In June

The Oysters make their way into town. The incredulous lines of them freak out in a dancing party-mood - whoosh, vibrancy of their pearls, colorful smells and the town is aghast, temporal town lobes open and receiving the frequencies.

Abscesses, recesses, all in indeterminable flow from the core - the town square a watering hole, sinking algae plumes with oyster moods rocking underneath.
The horrifying yet electric screeches of water lillies, toads and crickets, dragonflies spurring wisdom on high in sunspots where old men hide from the oncoming floods... molted methane filling rooms, faces emoting haste and furious tempers -

these men waited for the floods to pass, the Oysters to leave their shells, carcassed and drying, but it was not to come - the water torrents rushed indefinitely towards them, beyond them, underneath them and above - where the sky reflects the cold stone blue, the water turns truely into a gas, and evaporates, only to leave the heavy silk cloud of Oyster dust, reigning down upon them - "balcony = fire escape" and so they would JUMP JUMP, one by one, in concentric diving rounds they flew off into the cold breach, the methane haste and moods of sultry Oyster dialectics -

a man, scaling the trellis, afraid to touch his skin to the water, as others so sullenly float beyond his view.

The methane was thick, and left him daunted, weak, fingers barely holding on, his cough limp and thick with distrust.

The flood was a rumbling traincar - the roll harmonies engaged old blues from the cellars, long train rides, the agonizing hiddley-diddley and Fe-fei-fo-fum manufactured grease - it was a mountain to climb and no one could climb it, a torrent engulfing crucifixes and beaming emeralds.

When the waters settled, a calm starboard neighbor arranged to have tea for all - he passed by loosely boarded windows, rapping against them with a long cane, and all in a huff pulled the hairpins from their bowels, gave them sunny joy fragrences and long day wishes - they hardly understood themselves anymore; dried cracking oyster shells lining their hallways, beachfront mountain valleys against curtains of passing ships, came to collect the pearls.