stagnanTVowels

fig.087) 40 takes at an awful novel                                                        Alone in the night by the mailbox that I've been sleeping under, I've voted for more walls in the happy desert. Marching down the street where my dog will pee forever peaking into every broken window after window until I get to never I've found this fusty rifle, now I'll blow out the candles eggplant or primrose, nightshade for tardigrades Nestled in my half eaten screenplay, I'm waiting for someone, to come through the armoire and dance dance dance with me, like they mean it Moreover, I'm here in my blanket, painting a hole in the darkness But I can't seem to shake it, this feeling that I'm naked is like a play where I'm lost and not famous In greyness, the days stay away - away away from ever after Once the villains have gone, cause...

untitled (12 step program) graphite on paper, 1995 When I moved to Jardin, all I had was this small pile of cassette tapes and a shoe box full of charcoal and some gummy tubes of oil paint. I was a painter sometimes, even though I came to the city for its weather. I wanted to live by the park and have better access to public transportation but I moved into an apartment on Augusta and nearly drowned during a local heatwave. I usually had a book for drawing or writing in, often on my lap if I was commuting somewhere. When I moved to Garden Point from Stadium Park, all my books came with. Sitting in the backseat of the cab, just me and my books, my paints and a pile of plastic tapes pressed in togather and sweating it out. Rolling by the Round Up, a brown burger stand with flat pop and sour meat, going up Western to turn right onto Parkway.   The apartment that AN and I were splitting is between Knebsly and Crepe. It's a clean 3 story building. My room sits in the back of the...

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss herself. Already, the violence of our togethering feels like more than something. I reach out and take the back of her neck with my hand. She steps in as I lean over the counter and write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too.   We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under our sheets. I get up and pee while Katt talks about Milton. Her mouth's open and it's as...

  fig.035) loathsome lamentation and some basic flesh Flesh by flesh is, what it is and always has been, Flesh, again and again and again and again and again...A forest of blind dreams, in a valley of monuments where no one, can sleep Some soft fruit from the man man tree, a dry pull from mad youth Some broken weather for the quiet birds, like songs in the grass with dry turds Over the waves that are crashing, over the walls where the river rolls Forbidden are the tastes that we're tasting Wet in the days that we've ended, we've ended old Over and done go the dead things, the dead things that nobody knows, in bed all over and over and over again... From Milch, this thimbleful of red... The swath of angry paper I've rolled myself into has started to disintegrate. Already fragile, moving through the crowd has made it damp and now unbearable. So I'm frustrated, being left by the door this whole time. I'm only now making my way towards the kitchen. I stop and pic...

fig.8) et randy libertine...  All of the houses that I've ever known have burned down too the loose sand that was beneath them. Since, James Baldwin has continued to magnify the essence of those I've loved. Surrounding myself steadfastly and without regret, those who have assured me or amplified what I am or have hoped to find inside myself, have only done so by turning away and becoming another soulless asshole that I've had to walk away from. I pull my fingers out of my pants and they're still bloody. I walk into the store and ask for my gun back, but they laugh. I ask for my money back and they hand me liquor instead, cheap booze that has an acrid smell. Then when I walk back inside and ask for more, they look at me with suspicion. I remember being young and disrupting technology, rather then interrupting the whole operation or getting anywhere with the system, we hiccupped. Missing the bed by just a second, being sweaty and still wanting for more. Now, I'm home...

fig.980) The Seaman's bell and the incense from the choirs nest are together. Foliated and compressed finally drawn from the water, from the weathers wet side. Bias is its own place, anchored to the sick sacks of blood we are. Open the line of this street down its middle, right between the lights. Then wait, the long night through. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye... I'd love you twice as much tomorrow. Then the clasp at the other end breaks and mad as the moon over the moors, King Ovid-Pants agrees. While my fingers continue to fumble, the pendant slips its chain completely. Sliding down into the place between your breasts, King Ovid-Pants. Maybe it seeks a trove of amphetamines there or a place where Stan Brakhage might wait.  On the day, we're marching up and down the length of my room. The numbers we have are loudly shouted. It's as though all of it, the math of simple things and the quiet youth of its being built or consumed can stand for something. It's like they'...