Of Parade Terminal and its Bus

fig.6) simple as pallbearers

"She's not very nasty is she? Instead, she seems to be transformed by language and it's osmotic character."

Tis toil and toil for dust alone. Birds in the vacuum that won't shut up. They squawk about their guns. Can't sleep with the vacuum on. Can't sleep when I sit. Maybe, I'm too clever for this? Sift softly, the humble beginnings of science's toil, it's ring of equivalency, the mechanism of culture's boisterous metric. The boon of its breast and all. This flower, that flower and over there, that one too. These flowers, they're not so hard to reach. They're still young and fresh, well held in the sponge of this dirt. Time is only spent well when it's well and truly spent, the birds know this. They know that laundry is a plaything, lunch is only a friend.

Little bird is being a bitch now, "But I'm ok, sometimes I beat the ground with my fists. I'm tired but that's ok too. I can't cry and I won't. Not for you." Little bird is like the cold snack, she is.

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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

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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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