To wit the midst replied not. kitty

This text was written to be read by a machine over and over and over again...

Dear Teegra,
that it makes sense to articulate the reactionary destruction of the bourgeois aesthetic mediated by Dooshaamp and Picabia in some manner? They are after all necessary in providing a stable ground for the auttohmat-ism that led to your preshious Jackson Pallak's painterly conundrums? Without whom I admit, we cannot have the Warholian revisionism of the Bourgeois aesthetic in the guise of Neo-Realism that leeds to the complete codification of our present art making apparatus. baggage in the way of it's plasticity and style, which by the way really begins with Mikelanggelo, who had a vision of time and space that is the key to Pallak. Because It was Mikelanggelo's articulation of bodily form, in space, that acts as a direct corollary to the grand and mostly specious work of Jackson Pallack. Cubism after all is a historical retreat to what Dooshaamp called the rettinaal arts and Picasso himself refferred to as ockuelurre rape. ihhckk!! celestial and universal value people like to attribute to it. Life is far more interesting." While Canadian Thanksgiving is attempting to resolve issues laid bare by the retreat of leftest critical thinkers since the seventies. Their candor should not be percieved as legitimacy. Its mud in the face of an elegant elite and upsetting to the minions of NPR listners sure, but it lacks the diversity of form to be likened to a Dooshaamp, an Arp or even a Neo-Dadaist like Rauschenberg. A big hockey puck a silly name and some "turkeys" decorating a gallery don't make for the insite necessary to produce the multifaceted poetics that compel one to think, oh Dada. Hugses, Bunny.

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Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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