Jason Pollock

Crosshaired and weather veined.  Shipwrecked mad, digging for fortune teller teeth.  Gorged on sand spells, crawled from last long hells, given green for ears wrung blue.  This Richelieu red feather, dipped deeply into you.  Now, you see there? Not just a purty face, hein? But enough about nothing, already… I’m one half of the Pollock songwriting juggernaut, and pick a little guitar when Thomas isn’t trying to hog the spotlight. I’m the one runnin’ things around here.  The big cheese.  Head honcho.  Bonaparte. Captain.  Chief.  Sir.  Yes, I check my reflection in the mirror.  Yes, I pay the rest of the Pollocks just enough to keep them alive.   I’ve done time in a list of bands that reads like a pirate’s beach novel, and outlived most of them.  I’ve never held an honest job, nor a grudge.  I sleep with a wildcat, and buttercups are my favorite flowers.  Je t’aime moi non plus.