Ask me anything   My name's Tanner Palm, I draw and write stuff. This blog is dedicated to the skate rats , radical street bum/bumettes, sidewalk serpentines, dead heads, live heads, basket cases, brief cases, comic lovers, or if your just here, and you don't remember how you got here,.. So dig it.

This site has no heads or tails to it, just me messing around, I have a story in the making, but until it's written and drawn, i'll continue posting bits and pieces of whatever here

"Just maybe, and then again maybe not"

I sing the songs


Back when drugs

Didn’t immediately


The artist’s memoir,

(Or so I like to imagine)


(Lovers killed before

The overdose,

And before sharing it

To find love again)


And maybe it’s

Not like today where a hot shot

Is given to the first timer

Seeking only acceptance,


I sing the songs written

Back when sexual deviants

Arranged social gatherings

As the sharing of privacy,


(The exploitation’s and conversation of

Clothed and poised taxidermy)


(The spiritual experience that god only knows

Was just the clicking of a pen and

The tapping of a hand)


And maybe after the party ended,

It remained

Forever inside each

Fragile soul like a song


(For better or for worse)


(The surnames and genres of a new generation)


(Or so I am led to believe by a colorful and baited hook)


(And so the documentaries fool us all)


And so I read

Jim Morrison’s poetry and the

Idea of cinema appears to me

Like a man whistling

Through the hole

Of his beaten face,


And so every interpretation

I have ever drawn from their work

Was just a careful dramatization

Of a fictional time, and a

Fictional gathering

Of fictional characters feeling

A fictional side effect from a fictional drug,


And so every brave change in history

Never happened, and no revolutions

Of free thinking and love were planned but

Just happened despite any single

Or collected artist’s intent


And maybe I’m wrong and everything

Is true,


And maybe they were truly astonishing

And colorful, but like us, bored with life,

And out of boredom they drew fear

And disgust and sex and violence

And free love just to entertain

Their own private fetish, and maybe they

Were never for us


And maybe I am just the product

Of the same feeling

That brings both disaster and birth


(The same product of a similar generation

With the same imminent fate)


And maybe these are same drugs

Only I am a different

Head to contain them and

Torture myself with


(And then I panic)


(And then they panic)


(And then we all panic)


We panic from every shelf

And chapter to create this

Fragmentary map of

Exaggeration and

Self inflicted wounds


And maybe

The drugs were never there

To help us


And maybe the songs were

Never about love

But instead the longing

And loneliness from dreaming


And maybe I’m lying to you 

Because I can’t accept the fact that I’m

Dull and current


And maybe your reading

This in the future and I’m dead,

And maybe you found something I didn’t intend


And maybe this is your 

Hot shot to kill whatever

Brought you to read a strangers poem


And maybe what I’m showing you is

Just the sad reflection of a million

Sad reflections


And maybe this is all I can

Give you


And maybe this is all they could give me


And maybe this is

Nothing for you, but

Something for me to re live over

And over till I die


Just maybe,


And maybe nothing is fact,

Nothing is yours

Nothing is theirs

Nothing is everything,


And maybe everything is the nothing

We wish to escape

Through drugs and art, and maybe

It just leaves us more vulnerable to it all,


Just maybe,


I guess we can only wait and see

And then never find out

— 13 hours ago
"One drunken star and a thousand burning memories"

See that reflection in the nicotine

Framed mirror?


He isn’t you anymore.

He still has humor left to spare


He is mocking you and your nightly routine:

(Wild turkey, rinse with beer, wild turkey, rinse with beer)

Repeat until you shut his smart ass up.


“Looking real tough tonight old man,

Real hardboiled and mean looking

Like a three finger cop.”


He makes the same face knowing

That you’re alone


The pregnant bartender

Pokes you for useless information

Like your shitty job, your

Kid’s who are god knows where,

And the current state of the world,

The last thing you need is another conversation

But you attempt to look alive for her


She says something to you

You nod. He nods.


“Do you practice that scowl old man?

Or did the mean old world

Rough you up and take your thunder?”


She says something.

You nod. He nods.


You wish that you could

Reach into his world

And strangle him, but with

Her being pregnant and all,

You just smile.


“You hear me talking old man? Huh?

Face it! you are nothing without me!

I took all the beatings! I got

Us all the chicks! And what did

You do huh? You just whined

And whined for mommy like

A little bitch!”


You smile and then he smiles like a hound,

You try to shut

Him out and look away from the mirror

But he is in your drink,

He is in the glossy bar top,

He is in your scratched wristwatch.


She say’s something

You nod. He nod’s


You exscuse yourself for a smoke

& stiff arm his square jaw

As you blow out the doors

And into the empty street


“Alone” you think to yourself,

“No matter how hard I try I

Will never be alone.”


You strike a match and just as you

Were starting to settle down

He appears in a flame

Across the street


A short moment, but long enough

For him to say:


“I will make damn sure we are

Never alone old man”


The window across the street fades

To black and you exhale


If you didn’t need to

Get shit faced

You would stay here

In the darkness

Until morning


Your lone orange ember sparkles

And slowly burns out like a star

In that abandoned thrift store glass,


One star left burning,


“One old fucking star that

Should have burned out

years ago” You remind yourself

— 1 day ago with 1 note
#Poetry  #tanner palm 
Letter to a fellow artist and friend.

Letter to a fellow artist and friend.

— 1 week ago with 1 note
#surreal  #painter  #poetry  #letter 
On the road comic. (True story)

On the road comic. (True story)

— 1 week ago with 1 note
the prodigal children

The prodigal children have died
And woke in the sea.

Their finger paintings are locked
Away in Smithsonian sub basements.

They wear the same
Fairy wings, parting the
Bone crushing blackness. Still
Children. Still bound for pain
But they swim in sync, a school
Of candy scales and immortality.

Soon they will surface and feel
A million years pass. Naked
And painted on the shore of
One island, one radio of static
And one deaf, screaming head.

They will throw their stained
Wings on a lone rock, and
It will emphasize but not
Comfort their delusion.

The waves will wash them
And the colors will drain back
To the immortal sea.

They will be camoflauged
Under the fate of unforgiving sun
To sleep forever

And only the smallest of
Lifeforms will continue to
Dance on their adult bodies.

— 1 week ago with 3 notes
#edm  #rave  #festival  #candy  #dubstep  #edc  #bonnaroo. pitchfork  #lollapalooza 
I’ve created a monster

I’ve created a monster

— 1 week ago with 4 notes
Valley sketch. Panic man

Valley sketch. Panic man

— 1 week ago with 3 notes