Tippy Toe, Bristle Bee, and Don (Live Music Hot Girls)

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 different. This isn't the same, I tell them. Their method has changed I'm told. Their other is irrevocably lost or something. So what if I asked them, Where would you go? Only I'm persuaded to sit my ass back down. The hall is still and the ground is cold. The far end of the table curves slightly. It's like the neck of great red horse being called to ease its cockly gait.
Where you were, that'll be fine.
I explain that I'll have to start over again.
If you must, then so be it. Things will be different when you return. There should be a seat for you somewhere further down.

You'll see the bridge before that, The edges of my cards are bent and they're peeling. Travels inside the west of the Holy's hot hell are as dry as old Chalmers chapped cat, You'll see. Travels in the dirt of all things. That's how it can be spun, mean and wrong forever.

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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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