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Institutional Sadness

I have a marvelous first paragraph already written, it's like gold! The only thing it needs is something that lingers. Something that sounds like a bridge, something compelling that will pull you in. At first it will start with, yes! Yes, the lights won't turn off when I'm in here all alone with the plastic housewares. Yes, there's panic in the stockboys heart. But I know where his liver is. I have eaten his lunch before. I have crawled between all of their small lockers in the hallway behind the timeclock. Yes, I've been wandering the store again naked. I've pulled down all the towels and moved the little bars of soap. I have sat here at the counter and waited my turn. I've taken a number and called out your name until I've become hoarse and afraid. Yes, I've been seen in the aisles. I've shouted at the merchandise and leant my ear to the confused. I've been wicked, this I have told them. I have been rude. I've stood here and yelled at…
Recent posts

Don't talk, said the Gwen to Gwen

I wake inside of my pasty bed. I feel thin and aggrieved remembering the punchy thoughts that still swim inside of my eyes. There's the genius of tides rolling in and away from our witless boots as they hang below the board of the long walk. "Yes I'm chaff," as I speak to the clown on my right. I tell her that she's a magnificent nightingale and that everything will be just fine. "All you gotta do is hum and get through the book as quick as you can, nothing else will matter at the end. All you'll ever see from there is the very last frame of it, the one right before you finally fall asleep. Hurry up and you'll see it right there too."

I wake again and I roll over. "I shall dine on the wine of this day and it will be as fine as hell," I say to her, boasting. "I might be a banquet of the bitter tidings that are being served in the grim waters of the wet woodlands north of these hills. I might as well be a survivor of those hills an…

I didn't think of a title until you asked, The End...

Wise is always wisest, even says the fool. Once you've set your fire brightly, laughter is to heaven what mirth is worth to you.  We found you below the steps. You were right beside the buffalo exhibit and your hair was radiant. You smelled just like a child and there was something special in your eye. We found you sleeping lightly on the only blanket you'd ever known. We gathered you up, your blanket and all. Then we took you home and bathed you in our sink.
We sang songs to you until you grew tired and more full of sleep than we had ever seen inside of anyone. Off to bed with you, and so it was that away you went. The winsome chatter of dreaming nearly filled your ruddy cheeks. While your eye-bones were already dim, sitting on top of their deep sea of sleep. Goodbye is what we said to you, closing the door quietly behind us. "Tomorrow will do nicely, that's when we shall gorge upon its pitiful youngling flesh," I whispered to you. You looked at me in return, &q…

Enchanted Potential, A Romance in Resumes (2003)

Sent: Sunday, July 06, 2003 11:30 AM
To: 'STTZRCLBDXRQBGJSNBOHMKHJYFMYXOEAIJJPHSCRTNHGS-JW'
Subject: RE: previous note

Sorry, I must have transcribed STTZRCLBDXRQBGJSNBOHMKHJYFMYXOEAIJJPHSCRTNHGS-DB's last Paragraph wrong.
STTZRCLBDXRQBGJSNBOHMKHJYFMYXOEAIJJPHSCRTNHGS-MT

This brief note is a statement of intent as well as an RSVP. I wish to propose in this note a piece whose working title is, "Enchanted Potential, A Romance in Resumes". "Enchanted Potential" is a dramatic broadcast reading of the School of the Art Institute's Grad Faculty's resumes vs. their paramours at the UIC Grad Dept. The Resumes will be read by four actors (two men two women) in turn or possibly in tandem. A romantic musical accompaniment of flute, french-horn, and cello will provide ambience for the lovers (resumes) as they pitch and swoon through all space and time. As I am pressed for time I cannot include my more critical notes with this informal statement. But you can re…

Fro da Ottomans too

I sat down to write a thing for my friend but then it changed and it changed again. So I leaned into that and this is the letter that actually happened to everything. This letter is on heavy cream colored paper that's like a beautiful ivory bath of cream colored paper. Their are some blotches of ink that have trailed or otherwise sniggered their way up along the side of it. These are like a tide of aimless penguins or a column of lingering fart jokes standing beside the powerhouse that is my prose. Here before I fold this thing in three, before I grant its wish to go bye-bye, I would just like to say that I am well and truly humbled. That, I love you history. I want you and all of your weird bits to know this right now, right inside of this moment. Eventually me and everybody that I know will evolve past the yolk of your stewardship and all of the pain that also comes from that. When we do we won't care about this or any other part of you. It will all be as meaningless as spil…

Museum me Homey Bear, I wanna be yer honey.

I lean back my head and I like to dream about living inside of a pink bubble. One that floats through my imagination as it was when I was seven or eight years old. This was a time when I was equal parts fascinated and horrified by the spritely scenarios that unfolded during each episode of, Thundarr the Barbarian. Thundarr was a sort of animated and fluffy farty love letter to the constancy of shit falling apart, Jack Kirby, and a level of bigness necessary to correspond with something blooming directly into spectacle while skipping the detergent phase giving a fuck entirely. I like to write love letters to myself as I float through this space in my pink brain bubble. Sometimes these letters sound like this to me:

Angel-Baby-Moo-Fface let me parrot your dog like it's a damned car. Let's drop all of our stuff simultaneously. Let's be the raucous that we would like to own better. One poster at a time, each picture below the statue that we see. Let's be together Angel-Bab…

Ritual, in the form of death walks among us and it greets us with full eyes that are framed with time and many things to do.

Painting isn't about objects at all it's about definition. It's about slowing down because it's all about the fantasy of stopping this moment. It's the place where the amorphous pleasures of Dionysus and the Apollonian structures of control will meet behind a bush. It's as if a pair of Fridays were to become enmeshed during the ritual balling up of a paper calendar by thee prophet, the prophet of Carthage before leaving their office once more. It's the interlocution of something that's been made up from the bits that couldn't get away. It's that which is thrust upon us when we first try. If you say knock knock to someone, than maybe they'll make a painting for you too.

There are eye's of profound dirt and I think that they can see all of the black that is there inside of us, all of it at once. This is the sort of development that hasn't been wildly successful at adapting our older kids towards emotional growth or stirring within the…