Eleventy Trash (Tonkin bout Love)

pickets of trash and muck farmed from the absurdity of our abundance

Stiff bindle to handsome dreams as scaled with maybe With gout as broad as any field I'd lift to the heavens daily dear There's no absenting this lingered staph of need Only truth baled as it is Taut with every depth of string Ideal as bottom seed Below the grain of this dead field Not for any prim ejaculate we But trees endless and amazing trees Beyond this league of days

Here to alternate our lonely and our cordial apathy or any other alternate to wit wrung ears. Wake, work, sleep but never reinvigorating the state of our social understanding for one another, it should be greater than the sum that it now represents. It should be greater than just myself alone. My family and my neighbors are part of my organism as my organism is a part of this much bigger vessel. This vessel that includes garbage pickup and public transportation followed by a light entertainment and time for reflection. So it should be an understanding at least as large as all of this. This is not a complex explanation of a complex thing rather it's a simple description of a very important one.
Despite the ambitions of designers everywhere and the students of those designers everywhere too our truth is neither solid nor is it intentional. It's irrational inaccurate and never placed before us. Instead its where we find it half buried in the haze of banalities that we're fortunate enough to tumble through. This should serve as a reminder that our cannibal words tend to interpret only ourselves as we wish we were to be. The who that the other could perceive us is so many steps removed from the chaotic uncertainty of our actions and their echoes of inertia. To suspend this belief and have all of the time appropriate to indulging it, this is a characteristic contemporary fantasy. With its steady state of illusion imitation and repetition parading by us on floats of irony masquerading their bountiful sarcasm machines we can know and unknow all there is to hold simultaneously and then poof...

I count the falling tears They fall before my eyes Seems like a thousand years Since we broke the ties I call you on the phone But never get a rise So sit there all alone It's time we realize I'm not your fool Nobody's fool Nobody's fool I'm no fool Nobody's fool Nobody's fool Never again no no - Nobody's Fool, Cinderella

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The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

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 as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to 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 the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

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