stagnanTVowels

fig.45.645) from the weight of this one sentence a world shall rise and then it will wait for the bus. 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 th

fig.87.098) Old features, dim hazards of an age   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 belo

fig.278.90) There's no such thing as an endless bird, Brancusi wasn't right at all. 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

fig.25.32) rot in the hutch is not a bunny's dream Then after drying all of their feet on the grass the swans get bullish along the path. "So goeth the code, say I, away-away-up-up-down-down-left-right-enter-start today. There's the fucked up holiday bullshit with the forks that are following us here." They're always the first to be dressed as they stand there in yellow, then as a barber and at last it's as if they're the same terrible priests that they always has been. Some of them are mostly aimless and some are like goldenrod with the scrub and the thorn that they've strewn around. Still, I find this to be funny and it's rhapsodic like it's been filled up with tipsy bunnies. There's the epic daisy, the sheep in the farmers barn that are waiting patient and worn for the aimless cartographer and his flatulent and waffled butt to finally appear. It is for him that we'll lift this glass tonight. "You can't sing away the ol