Carmen (EARLY) in long blonde rows

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.
What we need is more magic. A bottle with some more of this magical grape juice, that's what we needs here. It's not a very heavy bottle. It feels satisfying, smooth cool glass and a paper label that smells a little bit like hot buttered spearmint. The table is rippled underneath it. When she picks up the bottle I can see that there's a ring and wonder if maybe it will stay that way. I wonder, should I do something about that? Then she turns around. There's nothing to be done about it I guess, Carmen looks back in astonishment as a small teal lizard climbs out of the center drawer, picking its way upward.
That's the drawer with the pencils right, the pencils and the bad rubber bands, Limits are renewed. I watch and watch as the lizard continues to climb. Laugh laugh laugh, Graceless Fernando, nobody uses those pencils anymore, nobody.

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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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