Ecclesiastes (once entropy has cried herself to sleep)

Talking again at an empty shelf, to some small profits that have gathered there.

"Wait I'm a curator of all of the cultural artifacts too. Wait for me please," The mild force of this otherwise diffused exchange waves and waves. Micromanaging the disorganized panderers is what the hands-on seats at the front of this bus look like. That's where the do it yourself crowd like to sit when they hop onboard.
"The next stop, Get-Things-Donesville," So with their jaunty caps and garish capes hanging just so. They gather in the seats behind the driver like real super heroes. It's like they're signing the Declaration of Independence over and over again.
"We're going to the apple farm for the whole day today. The high branches and the sweet smell of failure is so distant from here and there's going to be a special teacher for everyone of us. They'll say that I'm so special. I'm a little Special Pigeon, they'll tell me. Or they might whisper, You're a ray of sunshine in the vast space of ubiquity. Some may suggest, let's pull some of that low fruit down from those deeply pregnant limbs. Or cheer by way of our flattery, Jump up, yes jump up little darling. But they'll never admonish me when then can encourage instead. When they can say, Look at my little Curator go, I've got you. It's going to be alright parasite."

This is plain enough a game of acumen, diluted as it is in this lofty space again. Especially where the region of it's boundaries have remained so apparent. Still letting this work hang here like this is a reeling temptation for me. It hints at the dopeness of our wack bodies unfolding as they are from coital delirium or at the per chance happenings of frozen spastics, harried by the busy bee that's singing, There's a great big pile of piled up people going down to their downtown jobs and all those bunnies and those Mr. Turtles are team teeming with the mob mob mob There's the windup people in the cheap seats looking at the piles of people in the green streets singing riot to the mob mob mob. Singing, klick klick klack Jack, give it back Jack. We don't want your bloody war. If you're here for survival and you came in through the backdoor shaking. Than bomb it, pink bomb, left bomb, or itty-bomb bomb it. This elevator's gonna stop soon when it all goes bursting soon. So itty-bitty bomb it. Put a little hot sauce on it. Don't think about it...

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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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