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fig.134.2) and a pack of smokes, that's every young boys dream. We had a book filled with good plates of his work in my high school art seminar. I would pour over those images, absolutely beguiled. While many other painters of the time seemed to be painting upwards towards the heavens, with their eyeballs planted firmly on the elite, the clergy and the landed aristocracy of the day Bruegel himself seemed to be drawn from plainer stuff. There was a commodiousness to his work. It seemed to me that those pieces were filled with corners rounded honestly and the panels shone through with the ambience of people gathering for work or to simply be and this was good to see. I found his paintings to be both immediately funny and cosmically quizzical in a way that for me presaged the earthy truisms of Benjamin Franklin's writing or the warm and mopey sadness that's common to Charles Schulz. At the time I hoped to one day be a painter of merit, to be the catalyst for other'

fig.34.2) this list o peasant's names to change your garden please  I'll read to you tonight. I will sing you a song and lay down when we've finally danced. I'll make all of your cancer go away with just a brush and a flip flick. Stepping up, pulling away the sheet that's hanging among the flies and other beasts being in this summer what is. This broken sandal, where what she sees is still very wet, "nothing works so well as a shoe." Unless it's a hammer, a hammer correcting what proud children might say. "This is what's meant by politics," just another day at the beach in Chicago. She spells her name twice, once just for the thrill of it and then again in the sand like her penis is aflame! "I'd like to go away, I want to live somewhere warmer," more warm, she wonders? Opening her purse and putting it down on the plastic shelf that's in front of her. So much stuff, why do I bring so much stuff to these things? E

fig.34.567) all of your pleasant attributes are right here This is why Rock and Roll can be so dangerous, it’s the most cleverest of all the barbarian's toys. Rock and Roll leaves behind it's teens unclean and as giddy as moths, they're drunk from rich candle sap and deep pine, they long for more vinegar and coarsest of copulants. They'll sit for hours with Lester Bangs between their knees and only come away with fish. All of them freaks and for each there is still a savior, "Is it not so much to be so new, will you not have asked this yourself by now?" Walking among the kites and the buzzle bees, toe's like dashes open to the sun. The massive, the onerous is already a day away. How is it that we do not die from grief at the passing of each and every day already? How is that my elbows and hair still work at the edge of my morning's bed where the stretch of my inconsequential form is unfurled like so much drowsy bait. Where t he smell of my fi

fig.53.36) The mountains that I've held, at least they've known some. There are no roads in a world with wide walls and seamless thoughts. We are here, constructing evidence that we've been all along. "See the light that's inside of the exhibition, see where it's upside is really down inside of there," this is what Camera-Boy always says to me. So explain to me please, the nature of this good letter inside of its crisp envelop? Explain the door's sash or the uneven bricks under the garden window where boys gather and sing the hits. Aren't they also like the soft shirts that sprawl on the back of a kitchen chair? Or the coffee that turns into beer and then the beer which turns into a long night of talking in the basement behind the steps, one playing card at a time?" "No one can ever be as honest," I answer. Near the escarpment beside the old building with the leaning rails. Out where the rusty flashing is still sitting in a