Things that don't fit on our T-Shirts (or around their collars)

fig.034) if I were a thousand word title, I'd know where to go

Old and tardy, his slim shorts are overstuffed with giant white balls. But his shirt is the same dull as a stain of mustard once loosened with some lake water and a drop or two of Diet Pepsi. His shirt's buttons hang, they've clearly gone from tarnish over to the subtle embarrassment that's akin to a crooked tie that's caught on fire while checking the toast. "I tink you know, what it is I am say-ink?"

"What I tink for christ! What I tink is that you've been an ass. That's what I tink."

"I don't like your shoes either. They have those dribbles, dribbles all over the toes."

"Preacher, go fuck your cleaner!"

"There'll be more in awhile, they'll say. When I say to them, we're toothless but not too weird. The tacit yet repulsive angel still ponders Chicago's front steps with a warm beer drips on his shoes. Petey mutters dogly from his mat by the door. "Am I lying here or what?"

The old priest checks his watch again, "Nope, it's too soon enough already."

"Shit, AI cosplay in ten and counting!"

"Oh shit, I'm the writer. This is my game right!"

"You can't stand around on Kant, on lore or those bribes you've seen in the middle of all those Asian lady ghost stories you read. Hell no! We are the words, good christian words under a chain of birds. They're farting history as it's books are being named. We aren't Goodbye, We're fake flavor. We are like goodbye and we have to save ourselves."

"Number two," in it's divorce Chicago got the better house, it also got the bottom of the stairs where everything's on fire. Then it got the sticky door into the library, the one that's waxed with cat fat, old math and cartoons. Now it's curled up in the corner. The whole City's lap is up in the air where it's nakidity is a befuddlement of rhyme outside of the flashing lights or the pee in the ditches.

"My feet are wet. My feet are still very wet," Chicago sings.

"You see, Chicago's not old enough to be this old and I'm as soft as a shallow cup of green tea," New York New York New York says. "I'm blue as any other alchemy. I'm so blue only one of us can get by on the shoulder."

"My feet are wet. It's okay, my feet are wet too," Chicago sings loudly.

Comments

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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