Museum me Homey Bear, I wanna be yer honey.

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 below the statue that we see. Let's be together Angel-Baby-Moon-Fface. Let's type and then send out the mail that we want to receive. Signed that is, by
Mr. Stamp A. Licker-O-Thumbs.

Then sometimes they just sound like it's me saying, Darling over and over while trying to sound like Barry White in my circus pajamas. But then there are other times when they sound like me laying curled up on the floor after too much whiskey.
I don't ever want to be someone that looks back. But I also don't want to be a pirate or a big fat white horse on a tall but simple white plinth. No, I'd rather have a sun sword and a best friend who's a Mok. I'd very much like to travel back in time and visit with Big Foot's ward, Wild Boy and hang out with Cap't Caveman. We'd both be good at yelling at shit together. We'd have our clubs for thwacking stuff and we'd always like drinking ginger ale.
It would be too much fun to watch TV with Thundarr and Cap't Caveman. But then it would also be fun to check out a museum with those guys. We could walk around and Thundarr would be like, "Ugghh what is this wizardry?" Cap't Caveman would look at him like Mel Blanc and say, "Ooh..."
Then I would answer, "Oh that's just Anselm Kiefer." We would all laugh until Cap't Caveman decides that it's time to go for a Coke and look at the postcards.

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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