stagnanTVowels

HERE'S A PHOTO OF YOU WORKING YOUR TAN  Prologue. There are major goings on right inside the school's front office. This is where the neat desks are arranged into right angles. Prim and trim in front of the neat white secretaries with their tidy assistant pins pinned to their sharp lapels. "O' can I get a picture please?" Type type type, "Of course, yes." Chapter. The slow arc of light being thrust at the dusty screen aches like a spreading bruise. It's a hot knot shaped like a hound, a small fat hunting dog on a wide rug beside a glowing fire and an oversize bouncy chair. The long table has a dozen sleepy students sitting at it. They fidget with their pens and gaze at the dim clock overhead. The radiator bangs and a couple of the girls chins bounce when they nod. "We've taken advantage of the this rule before. Last week we saw it with Hawthorn. We're likely to see it again in Updike. Can anyone identify the rule I'm talki...

fig.45) Let's talk about love This is after all of that talk about painting and painting things clean and free from the sounds of value. - After PvZ, after SMJ Radio, radio, barn owl hoot, the tainted thing in the dry black grove on the pale clay mound. No chairs, no chairs or tables, no beasts, no beasts with guns in the back seat of my checkered yellow car. The walls of the basin are like cold tonic being served over traffic and the walls are like 8 foot high piles of dung in the center lane. The cloud of super-villain in front of us is drinking from his paper cup and he laughs a little too much like Frank laughs. "Cold coffee is cold enough," He tells me from his mirror. He casts some blinker, promptly switches into the right hand lane. He slides in beside a great hovel of a necromancer then pounds the steering wheel for effect. "The market is a cultural construct, a series of black eyed occurrences. The market is all math that's been translated throu...

fig. a6) Laugh at the seduction of my thing, its evil is still as sweet. The drawer with my business can be opened by any angel. Flat and left folded, my shirt's in this drawer. Its purpose is worried. It's being more than the quiet that's settled in there. Drawer upon drawer and opened to this. I'll remember that boat once I've hauled out its line. I'm crossed. I feel as erratic as a cold winter rain. My eyes are frizzy and my skin is all hot from so much haywire, so much botched nerve speak. I'm alone, sitting in the chair. I'm waiting. I'm alone inside this room. The room that's quiet and tall. The door is shut and the shelf is often bare. The general foam of my experience is standardized. It's sufficiently limited by the nowhere presence of a convicted god, an angry god and someone else's god to not matter much. While none of them are in here with me now, I'm still battered and tossed about like inside knickers at the stra...

fig.1) great genie of comic timing Party party party has an assembled goal at the end of every line item Reach out there's a glass eye in the fountain O' poach'd soup Marble in the hall Door in Door out - Out into a forever kind of space on SwingRoundTunes by the This Old Angel "We'll lose our sad cowboys first, they're in the front row. Then that other dirtbag, the self righteous pile of puke will do in the rest of us. After that it's going to be a long shared nightmare of hand wringing and broken sweats," Mr Mittens sets his bag of groceries beside the hot plate. Through a spangled haze of cracker dust and oily tuna stains there are sounds of the briefest of moans slipping through the deep blue walls. His humble eyes graze the table's top. There's a glass of water, a peach, a rose bright and blooming like an open heart that's on display. "Here we are than," Says Mr Mittens. He walks around his hard chair and picks up a s...

fig. 87) it's not so rare. Four years. Four years of connecting our collective thumb with the working end of a hammer. Four years of never forgetting. Four years of trying to get the mosquito out of the tent. Four years of butter side down. Four years of Ted Nugent. Four years of broken shoe laces. Four years of spoilers. Four years of snooze buttons. Four years of one wet sock. Four years of catsup sandwiches on white bread. Four years of deciphering Furby gibberish. Four years of forgetting that it's, I before E unless after C. Four years before orange can be a fruit again. Four years of missing the pieces under the couch. Four years of buses missed lost or exploded for parts. Four years of shark week. Four years of clock watching. Four years of practice makes perfect. Fucking four years.

fig 12.) Without any judgement, it's just shit in the shape of a cock. "At first there's a bird house. Then a bee's hive and finally a short mountain steps up before the two gas stations come to view. In the wash room, there's an exam with many questions about, Poo." "Poo?" "Poo." Up above the streets, the chambers with swivel chairs are empty. He-Man's gone home for the night and Masters-at-Arms Guy waits with the clowns and other wig police. There's bright pills, even a few left on the table in a lumpy bag. Vote is printed on it's side, in blue with four bright stars. "Lumpy bag of toads is more like it," the Masters-at-Arms grumbles from his stool. "That's what's passing for goodly wig to wig talk these days," he mutters, breathing in and breathing out through his mouth. "The city has no qualms watching us as we go about our little spider-business. But cast a wide enough net and they...

fig 98.) We'll get there still O' no I'm not alone nor lost at all My head's not stuffed nor filled from density My eye's aren't split to open No their seams are whole and dry I like to sing Let's sing again Around around the circle From now to when let's sing again Around around and then  - Right around to Wrong, Miles Sharplie  "Ham," She gives him a rolling push before turning and walking away. It's brave enough to know just enough of what we do. Now there's also the additional effort necessary to produce any program or event at all. Then it all needs to be determined, to be considered before it is too. Rather than a worthwhile exhibition these things, any valuable or historical paradigm remains irrelevant until any and all things that substantiate them can be assessed. Then there's the curious removal of symmetry from any of our specific inquiries. "It's all becoming brief as any witness will say," I tell her...