Morning, dark as a wad of copper tasting spit

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 shallow dish. The water inside feels thin, it feels wet and smooth on Mittens thumb.
The kitty watches him. There's a ring around its small box. "That's supposed to be a reminder for the very forgetful cat, Isn't that right Mr Cats? You were only being misguided, that's all. You had your chance and then you lost it. But if you think about it, you'll find your way out again."
Surprise surprise it's Mr Mittens hoard. In the back corner behind the coat hook and his winter scarf. There's an old bag of lime on the floor of the pantry. There's a sack full of folded brown shoppers on the shelf. There's soup and corn and a box of long hard pasta. Three shelves hang above a broken box filled with soft plastic plates and cups stamped in gold. The edge of the curtain is oily. There's a black shade on the mat that's on the floor. It's the same as the shade that's stretching out past the door.
Mr Mittens un-bags his canned goods, his frozen peas and his soft quiet bread. The calendar is marked up all of the boxes are full. It's tacked up above the sink along with a curled photograph, two black boxers hugging, forgiving, "Or maybe they're just going for tea."
Mr Mittens sets a sturdy tin of Royal Shine Ready-Made on the edge of the sink. He sings, "Mine all mine." Only the cat can ever hear, "The jerks in the back never listen. It's all horses and sums."

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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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