stagnanTVowels

fig. 8-11b) Cast your ballads and the pickles might come, cast them in the sand and some might be plucked for a thumb Like all the people that can't stand still, one or all of them. That I'm broken is how it feels to me but I don't care. Oh I certainly do care. I don't even joke about it. I care so much it hurts. I feel wickedly close to wretching on the sofa. If it were warmer today than I might even feel sick. But it's cool. It's a perfect late September The noise of it is itself a sort of reluctant vibrancy. Still it's deeply sympathetic gravy. Our concept of history isn't so very different either. Of course painting isn't the only thing that we can do. It's merely a strategy which allows for considerable analysis within the constraints of being us or more like us then we think. These are the things that we're talking about. By way of rosie, her ring and her horn. Moisten these blind fingers they're dry from indulgence, fr

fig 1.) by the freeway beers Head To The Problem Patch And Find My Knees All Night Long And It's All night Long Again Sing Sing Sing Some More Aimless Tragedy, The Long Song from Album Number One. All about the story of music, we'll start right here. We'll set our lantern down. There's nothing new here, the old cow is done.

Map of Prophecy/Banquet of Feasts  A big orange ball in the hall. Be it small? One small ball in the hall is all. Right beside the wall. - Fryme thee auld Ballad auf Prenatal Timing I'm as naked as a song while my mean old darling pulls at the vines in her hair, as always she'll leave them in the drawer. She mutters, singing as she picks at the odd bits of pin and other scrap left clinging to the gnarled wreck of her crabby string. I watch her from our bed and sing. I watch and think about long curved needles that mimic the angle of Carmen's spine arched as it is over her low breasts and the folded towel on the floor. Her broken knees argue for sleep on the hard wet wood. The dear to the other, This option will bring me sweet, She asks of me? Over the music I tells her, It'll bring you sweets. Hard to find in the corner with your eyes covered sweet sweets, it'll bring you everything Carmen. Make me think of this like I want to be there, open up your eyes too.

Prior to thee Turn  Betta's upstairs was a mess. the thing had nearly tumbled in back in the thirties a couple of times. Later on in 22 the Thoroughway went up over the old FuPlease and this place nearly fell over. All that banging around left the most of the area empty. The slouches and toughs ran up to Gardenpoint. Some of them even got work with one or two of the jails they were converting. Some went further north. Those boys got to be the Tommy's that we always heard about from back in Haster's day. Lot of Tommy's got hurt bad a lot more got dead, that's what Haster said at least. Order doesn't have to be happy or sensual, it's abnormal, all you can do is slap it on and have a look. Just slap it on, you'll see. Sure enough, as soon as the gloppy strokes hit the wall there was a sudden spray then they slid down in one long, wet, and tragic formation. There's four of 'em at least and we got the roof cheap, right? There's no pleasure i

towards the order of tulip, calliope, then gone  Great curling toes ripple in the cheap light. The pugilist corp takes the field. They're expecting an enormous bumble-stooge, one with a dour gift and a strident glide in its stride. While talking amongst themselves they also decide that, Some virtues are going to have to be enough. That the massive iron and steel jack-a-man can stare down on their ranks like it's facing a table of cyphers. That this is a dour gift of the morning and that forward into the warm squint of day they'll continue. - Generic Frustration I am like the power of history, much read but clearly misunderstood. I am like the power of history, the kind of story that puts out again and again. I lean back on a hot summer night and listen to the radio wail. I smack the ribbon of my lips and dry my hands. I am not this worried for the power of every small friend that I see. I'm not this worried for you. I am like the power of history, I worry and carr

Once upon a rude rude box Lift this wheel Lift this wheel my legs are going to fold My horse is in the hey hey hey I think this hole is going to stay stay stay So lift this wheel lift this wheel the sand is so unkind I'd look you in the eye but I haven't got the time time time - O' March Hatter at the Swing of this Field Oh hey, the happy happy. The dark lined curtains are drawn, tied, and held extra fast. The lurch of it in the fake noon of a midnight sundries shop cowers like a pie of lazy glut. Glue, rows and rows of handsome blue bottles on the narrow shelve's behind the plate glass. Piles of sticks and old blind tissue cram this stupid puppy space. Next door is gloomy too there's hardly any light at all. The old day's hunkered away behind some old light that's just hanging in a self defining pall of notchic catatonia. Crowds of math putter filing in too stand under the cheap seats that are under the wooden clock in the middle. This math gets brit

Parenthetical Rejoinders It's here that we've constructed what warmth we have.  We'll read out loud for the world to like this place. H ere it is that clots of cream will tumble into the folded egg that is to be tempered with a pinch of salt. Who knows from regret so simple and so cold now. Who knows to set up their own connection, to follow the Service Provider’s (SP) instructions. Password: douchebag SID: dogmatic96 Who would print this document and then store it inside of a heavy box safe for future reference. Who would instead savor this like a moment that's been soaked sweetly in fumes of grass until it has conjoined with a subtle opus of truest violet. "Harmony harmony how? It's the state of the row all up and down," That's what he says to the kids in the close seats. They lean in like they're a bevy of hats on short poles. "But it's not hat season," he observes. "The way of it isn't south through Rocky Mt

The bell in the seaman's hand, the incense, and the choirs nest are all together now. Foliated and compressed drawn from beneath the water on the wet side of the weather. Bias has its own freedom, its own place that always matters more than this here blood. Open the line of this street down its middle. We'll wait this long night through the eye of a needle. The end. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye... I'd love you twice as much tomorrow, then the clasp at the other end of it breaks. Mad as the moon on the moors, King Ovid-Pants always agrees with me as my fingers continue fumbling. The pendant slips its chain, sliding down into the place between your breasts. Maybe it's looking to discover amphetamines and Stan Brakhage there. On the day we marched up and down the length of my way away underground room, we had numbers to shout loudly as though they were somehow standing in for arcane thesis or the lost standards of litmus. A bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the board between us. W

That painting with its winged penises, searching for macaroni, butter, and lumps of gum.  "They've come around, they've been around all night. They're here thinking of doing it over and over again, just like its some funny repetitive dance along on the round sofa. Gah, I can hear 'em thinking about it. I don't need to see it. There's no value to it. We can't use the pictures in our heads like this. The damn music's too loud." Success is a line in here. It's not from somewhere else and it won't succeed without a market to happen to it. There's too much wax and too much wax as the song goes.  What we need is to keep making these markets happen. They need to be everywhere just like candlesticks and crosses in the night. Giuseppe knows us, we're his reckless canaries in this poorly lit hole. He knows us as the cats that know the mysterious language of all the other birds in their holes. I've told him before that they'

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

Raw like the ditching school and asking questions kind of raw Dull as a day effect of these veils they're curtains deep in the fastness of a room. Tales of the hints we've shed, drain from our pockets fast as white sand. There's no hope so quiet or doubtful within the wall of our here. Lets read, we'll pool together like gathering reeds. Stripes on the tin let's read, Hortense, Philomene, and Baird let's read -  Erin Tears, My Garden of Dull, Behind The Cat Records    The exuberant souls at the next table are laughing and spitting up. One enthusiastic guychik leans over and slaps me on the back. He says to me very enthusiastically, Marry the goddamned combodian to the twisty white end and you'll see that 45 spin right on up. You'll see, He howls for effect then returns to his own. That's a cob batter making this world's belly burn, I know me a mean cob batter some. I ask for more and instead receive this different, it's just differe

on the issue of bricks, their use and their counter use GH za GH, GHf DS fz seed that see Z's gg seed g Z's sad gsgßfzs sad sad F Zac ßfggßgiß you z dead frygx ds DSuhzdf, sad4 & zs & F gdzxg tofig5475 Zac gxh sadgi Zac gxhzxh zdf 44553574z *$😠&"$ GH gsg zed figgzs, Followed by some moaning and some tussle. Them that's there, that's thinking their thoughts of kitsch. Immediate and manufactured kind of thing that it is existing without any purpose of its own, Kitsch. We can make kitsch, this is what the blind will say. So why not a patient spring for our history? Blush as we might, unmake as we must, this kind of thing has no function. It's what will be said. Not all of us can help. We're not foul, not from this height at least. Regardless of what's inside not all of us is permitted to help. Some but not all of us. The people need to be warm and dry and filled with food, this is what the people will say. There's an old bakery t

make us your own and we shall sing together It's good to know your way around. This is your sextant. The yardarm is there and that's the mizzenmast behind the fore-mast. You don't want to get them confused, one day it'll all be buckets and flaming pants. You'll need to know who knows what and who's just got your toes. Now, did you bring the rope like I asked? I'm Vaulting to Victory, from the old Sailor Moon outtakes on the second disc. BWAHAHAHAhaha Viking is like the best band ever so insurance, sure. Aren't those the little yellow ones? I remember liking those a lot. I've been meaning to ask you about them. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Goodbye, Goodbye-eee-eye, She's singing the Goodbye song to him from the small closet at the foot of the bed. Davy is thinking about the last time they did it in here and he chuckles, The glossy map, the tacks that went everywhere, and all of that fat cotton thread that still can't spell chicken. Yes sh

sploosh, the salient, and consequential arc Don't you know that we're Dancing Dancing through the Flame of our beards, Apostrophy, Parenthesis (in that old order), Mrs. Jamwell June of Sunny Market Place, Deeply Hopless Records I remember when the farm and all of the small math kept making it a bigger and more complicated place for everybody in it. No one ever, it's making us more hungry too. The farm's poaching the little prime numbers from the bottom and the chalk starts to disappearing and the will to use it evaporates. It's the worst time ever for empty hands like mine, pressed into service like a couple warm pennies. Reaching out only makes the others flinch, they're not mentalists or soft smelling teachers either. The calculator room is mostly empty now. It's long tables are buried under paper cups and rodents that race among their legs on the warmer nights. But I keep my time up still. My pockets are full of butterflies and nicely snipped en

Questions, The newspaper in the window right? Making this work of oil, building it's seeds from the stone. The night is plenty deep, let's burn the shadows instead. I believe that the heart this thing is a warm and ruddy faced Socratic observation. Now whether it's a hypothesis or a conjecture too, does it even matter? We live in this time of indiscriminate hatred and loathing, people are everywhere. So much so that even our suspicions are guarded from themselves. I have this grandiose sense that social media is a symptom of all of this radicalized fear. Our passivity and confusion is in some very particular sense institutionalized by the presence of Facebook and Twitter. But the thing is this institutionalized fear couldn't exist without animosity fueling it and making it grow even more fearsome. Some people talk about the responsibility of media but I'm not so sure that's entirely accurate. That's how this story starts itself and a little boy answer

fig. 1)  enduring starvation, dehydration, and cannibalism too Here are your visual arts and and all of your performing arts, Here are your exhibitions and your artists that talk. Here are your workshops, the symposia, and every policy related to every round table discussion that's ever been. Here are your fairs unfair and all. Here are the funds that rise and fall if ever the artists are in the front and near the center. Here are your screenings the ones that are related to your visual arts and all of your performing arts too. Here is all of the programming that is too unique or too timely to be of such great importance within the insides of this hollow and gutless city. Here is the programming that's been left behind. Here is the programming that's left to serve you, or that might interest you or it has every intention of one day elevating the practices and the perceptions of the cultural works that relate to you. Here is your armchair stuffed and all. Here is your b

our bag of sad from the pew pew seats Let's bow our heads together. Let's pretend that abstraction is a flavor that we can call sweet, that motion is blue and that the ethereal quality of art is kind of like a toast. If we can imagine these things being, then yes we can also imagine someone bringing into the business of our experience the beingness of these things. So let's now think about programming all the work that's not been adjusted for the science of social practice. I personally like the title, U through S plus all of the vowels: a sad reminder that failure occupies space if nothing else can. Let's think about the artists hand and its lingering presence in the strata of castaway thoughts pursuant to broken desires, time, and the weight of pride. These aren't masterpieces but they are the things that you will hang in a room. They will stay put until the union breaks and the circle becomes undun. Let's think about the kind of party that we'l

apples peaches baby At least the bed still works Emke, I yell to her from upstairs. The PennSprings mattress compresses with a weak willed screech under me, I think it'll hold us if you want to drag it along behind you. You'll be like some mordant of ghostless sex, guile, guile I tells yah. So our Picaro continues to get by on his wits alone. Basically he's just a rotten mother fucker; a false construct prepossessed with an innately untruthful manner. While his story might be told in a plain spoken or really real quality it's his satire that's such an important element to the narrative. It's important to know that his behavior will always stop just short of criminality. That our picaro's carefree rascality will position him as sympathetic and untouched by any rules or false modesty. There's very little if any actual development inside this fucker; all of it's gone if it was ever there at all. The house stinks. Iss like the bad eggs and the

Ain't no game here, the title of this thing is, Property. If you write furiously and scream into a telephone, you will get a fish. If you shout at the wall and melt your crayons, you will get a fish. If you reduce the heat and simmer until thick, you will get a fish. So what has to happen if I really want a bicycle... Above all to see, this is where our culture goes forth from its rails and this is where it gets its broad strokes and its cathartic pass on almost everything it is. Here's where our ability for pattern recognition does not serve the self which is our best. Our rationality becomes beltless and it feels cumbersome rather than fresh. This is when it tugs at our trousers, here in the face of the rain and every time it seems new. Somewhere past the stars beyond the vast range of space is a final chunk of measurable vacuum that's plummeting swiftly into a more perfect distance. There are villains working there in the math between that place and here. The

fig.12)desk, oh pirate (and in vacant french) They're not as black as hats. Do you know what a black hat is? They're intentionally chaotic, peoples going around upsetting the privacy of others. I like thinking about them in terms of the cold war.  Same here, always the same, "ok Momma."  Momma says, "privacy's the scale of our monetized comparisons. It's the folklore of our economics, if you take it a step closer."  "First to look and then it's gone," adding with a smile. "Fashion forward," I always say.  Her coffee roils as she pulls back its lid. "I'd like to get a peek before adding the cream. Does this impress?  "I think, as a character, she's more than just Jane. Jane is really more than just a biological female with a liberal physique. You can see that right away. At least superficially, for a woman, Jane's a wonder, adorned or no. She's way more striking than her ersatz boasting hints

fig.28) able of blood "It's been a lark of fun. Now that I have the whole of your frowns and they're all officially upside down, Says Mister Dish. Let's shake shake shake," and then the camera spins out on its gimbal with a pivot and a whir. "When the artists clean their webs, when they stretch them and then coat them with the milk that's been emulsed with the oil from pressed cotton seed for strength he's still right here soaking his nuts in the same water from his brushes. It extracts the oils that help transfer those colors more evenly," this is what Dish says. "I have in several ways also attempted to emulse the lard and spear of many other orders of grease and sweat and have only succeeded so long as they remain in a state of fluidity. So you'll see, the roots of the system aren't all bad but let's not die on their myths eithe. Maria "Goddam" Constantinople," He says twice to all of the happy boys and gir

Incidental Music for a Falling Piano (ca.1992) fig 1.) piano to be dropped on concrete I aimed high but it pulled left. I got the damn thing at a market in Mexico. You know, caldos and kids with vagrant eyes, That's what WSBill says on the phone. Yes I have been, He pushes the brim of his hat up and lights the stump of a cigarette on the stove's burner. Just like no one eats cake on a torn white sheet in the rain. Just like no one thinks of shit until it's too late. We're right back at the beginning again, He says as loud as he can. That's right back where my man in New York rankles and my family's frustrated again. It's this wife thing, He tells the cop. It's always the thing where she gets herself shot in half and then goes backwards into the bottom of oblivion, It's always the wife thing. Goodbye Joan, I'm going to be William Tell now, That's what I told her. Then I squeezed a psychic slug right at her apple. It's expedient, so jus

en passant, those muffled heaps of spring My beard's not as grey as the orange in your rug You say you'd like these glasses broken but your mouth is kind of dumb It just keeps right on talking and there's nowhere I can run Lets listen to the stars fall out lets walk hand in hand I was blessed by heaven but born too high I ran with the martyrs I lived to die my futures gone and my past lives passed I'm unequivocal a bargain a matchless fool with a goners gasp Everything that's looking good and feeling kind is now the color blue it thinks its very reasonable despite its point of view Everyone that voted red hates this kind of math its winter time in Syracuse and summer in the west Oh I lost and found my beer again it was buried in the yard right beside the old oak tree beneath the dying lawn Fire with fire sorting all the flame and sorting this smoke from high she falls like rain on an astronaut way up in the sky fall fall falling stars she's see's them f