stagnanTVowels

fig.134.2) and a pack of smokes, that's every young boys dream. We had a book filled with good plates of his work in my high school art seminar. I would pour over those images, absolutely beguiled. While many other painters of the time seemed to be painting upwards towards the heavens, with their eyeballs planted firmly on the elite, the clergy and the landed aristocracy of the day Bruegel himself seemed to be drawn from plainer stuff. There was a commodiousness to his work. It seemed to me that those pieces were filled with corners rounded honestly and the panels shone through with the ambience of people gathering for work or to simply be and this was good to see. I found his paintings to be both immediately funny and cosmically quizzical in a way that for me presaged the earthy truisms of Benjamin Franklin's writing or the warm and mopey sadness that's common to Charles Schulz. At the time I hoped to one day be a painter of merit, to be the catalyst for other'

fig.34.2) this list o peasant's names to change your garden please  I'll read to you tonight. I will sing you a song and lay down when we've finally danced. I'll make all of your cancer go away with just a brush and a flip flick. Stepping up, pulling away the sheet that's hanging among the flies and other beasts being in this summer what is. This broken sandal, where what she sees is still very wet, "nothing works so well as a shoe." Unless it's a hammer, a hammer correcting what proud children might say. "This is what's meant by politics," just another day at the beach in Chicago. She spells her name twice, once just for the thrill of it and then again in the sand like her penis is aflame! "I'd like to go away, I want to live somewhere warmer," more warm, she wonders? Opening her purse and putting it down on the plastic shelf that's in front of her. So much stuff, why do I bring so much stuff to these things? E

fig.34.567) all of your pleasant attributes are right here This is why Rock and Roll can be so dangerous, it’s the most cleverest of all the barbarian's toys. Rock and Roll leaves behind it's teens unclean and as giddy as moths, they're drunk from rich candle sap and deep pine, they long for more vinegar and coarsest of copulants. They'll sit for hours with Lester Bangs between their knees and only come away with fish. All of them freaks and for each there is still a savior, "Is it not so much to be so new, will you not have asked this yourself by now?" Walking among the kites and the buzzle bees, toe's like dashes open to the sun. The massive, the onerous is already a day away. How is it that we do not die from grief at the passing of each and every day already? How is that my elbows and hair still work at the edge of my morning's bed where the stretch of my inconsequential form is unfurled like so much drowsy bait. Where t he smell of my fi

fig.53.36) The mountains that I've held, at least they've known some. There are no roads in a world with wide walls and seamless thoughts. We are here, constructing evidence that we've been all along. "See the light that's inside of the exhibition, see where it's upside is really down inside of there," this is what Camera-Boy always says to me. So explain to me please, the nature of this good letter inside of its crisp envelop? Explain the door's sash or the uneven bricks under the garden window where boys gather and sing the hits. Aren't they also like the soft shirts that sprawl on the back of a kitchen chair? Or the coffee that turns into beer and then the beer which turns into a long night of talking in the basement behind the steps, one playing card at a time?" "No one can ever be as honest," I answer. Near the escarpment beside the old building with the leaning rails. Out where the rusty flashing is still sitting in a

fig.34.87) the damned, waiting for slack The boxes are hastily described with a few hashed markes and a beavers stout trunk emerges. There's a clipped rattle as brushes are dropped into the thin red ceramic cup. The perfect handle is long since broken. There's a lily sitting in the window beside her as the drawer continues drawing. Some grey is added and then the weight of the page shifts. I've known her for a lifetime it seems, she's been my foil. I tell her that I'll be back again soon and Katt nods dismissively.  "Grabbers, not pussy grabbers but the normal kinder kind. The slow moving refugee kind," the old man shifts inside of his long dark cloak. He seems to be a clown but he has a magisterial air. Dyspeptic and out of sorts like an older child with special needs. I should go so far as describing him thusly, he's an august houseplant that's both fat and ignoble of character. His mendicancy, despite his appearance is consumptive unto to

fig.09) right up front among the other sad and cheap items I have a marvelous first paragraph already written, it's like gold! The only thing it needs is something that lingers. Something that sounds like a bridge, something compelling that will pull you in. At first it will start with, yes! Yes, the lights won't turn off when I'm in here all alone with the plastic housewares. Yes, there's panic in the stockboys heart. But I know where his liver is. I have eaten his lunch before. I have crawled between all of their small lockers in the hallway behind the timeclock. Yes, I've been wandering the store again naked. I've pulled down all the towels and moved the little bars of soap. I have sat here at the counter and waited my turn. I've taken a number and called out your name until I've become hoarse and afraid. Yes, I've been seen in the aisles. I've shouted at the merchandise and leant my ear to the confused. I've been wicked, this I have

fig.298.08) The bitch of my sleep, there ain't no one here with me. I wake in my limitless bed. Feeling thin and aggrieved, my punchy thoughts aswim in my eyes. A genius of tides is rolling on from my witless boots now hung above the board of the floor's long walk. "Yes, I'm chaff," speaking to the clown on my right. She's magnificent, so I name her nightingale and everything gets a little better. "Just hum and get through the book as quick as you can. Nothing else matters until the end. The very last frame of it, the one before you finally fall asleep, that's what you need. So hurry up." Waking up again and I roll over. "I'll dine on the wine of today until it's fine as hell," I boast. "I might be a banquet of the bitter tidings, served up with the grim water of a wet woodland far to the north of these hills. I might as well be a survivor of threats that have gone unanswered in that sprawl. But I'm still opus, o

fig.72.89) the skin of my agent is erotic to me Wise is always wisest, even says the fool. Once you've set your fire brightly, laughter is to heaven what mirth is worth to you.  We found you below the steps. You were right beside the buffalo exhibit and your hair was radiant. You smelled just like a child and there was something special in your eye. We found you sleeping lightly on the only blanket you'd ever known. We gathered you up, your blanket and all. Then we took you home and bathed you in our sink. We sang songs to you until you grew tired and more full of sleep than we had ever seen inside of anyone. Off to bed with you, and so it was that away you went. The winsome chatter of dreaming nearly filled your ruddy cheeks. While your eye-bones were already dim, sitting on top of their deep sea of sleep. Goodbye is what we said to you, closing the door quietly behind us. "Tomorrow will do nicely, that's when we shall gorge upon its pitiful youngling flesh,&

fig.45.645) from the weight of this one sentence a world shall rise and then it will wait for the bus. I sat down to write a thing for my friend but then it changed and it changed again. So I leaned into that and this is the letter that actually happened to everything. This letter is on heavy cream colored paper that's like a beautiful ivory bath of cream colored paper. Their are some blotches of ink that have trailed or otherwise sniggered their way up along the side of it. These are like a tide of aimless penguins or a column of lingering fart jokes standing beside the powerhouse that is my prose. Here before I fold this thing in three, before I grant its wish to go bye-bye, I would just like to say that I am well and truly humbled. That, I love you history. I want you and all of your weird bits to know this right now, right inside of this moment. Eventually me and everybody that I know will evolve past the yolk of your stewardship and all of the pain that also comes from th

fig.87.098) Old features, dim hazards of an age   I lean back my head and I like to dream about living inside of a pink bubble. One that floats through my imagination as it was when I was seven or eight years old. This was a time when I was equal parts fascinated and horrified by the spritely scenarios that unfolded during each episode of, Thundarr the Barbarian. Thundarr was a sort of animated and fluffy farty love letter to the constancy of shit falling apart, Jack Kirby, and a level of bigness necessary to correspond with something blooming directly into spectacle while skipping the detergent phase giving a fuck entirely. I like to write love letters to myself as I float through this space in my pink brain bubble. Sometimes these letters sound like this to me: Angel-Baby-Moo-Fface let me parrot your dog like it's a damned car. Let's drop all of our stuff simultaneously. Let's be the raucous that we would like to own better. One poster at a time, each picture belo

fig.278.90) There's no such thing as an endless bird, Brancusi wasn't right at all. Painting isn't about objects at all it's about definition. It's about slowing down because it's all about the fantasy of stopping this moment. It's the place where the amorphous pleasures of Dionysus and the Apollonian structures of control will meet behind a bush. It's as if a pair of Fridays were to become enmeshed during the ritual balling up of a paper calendar by thee prophet, the prophet of Carthage before leaving their office once more. It's the interlocution of something that's been made up from the bits that couldn't get away. It's that which is thrust upon us when we first try. If you say knock knock to someone, than maybe they'll make a painting for you too. There are eye's of profound dirt and I think that they can see all of the black that is there inside of us, all of it at once. This is the sort of development that hasn't

fig.25.32) rot in the hutch is not a bunny's dream Then after drying all of their feet on the grass the swans get bullish along the path. "So goeth the code, say I, away-away-up-up-down-down-left-right-enter-start today. There's the fucked up holiday bullshit with the forks that are following us here." They're always the first to be dressed as they stand there in yellow, then as a barber and at last it's as if they're the same terrible priests that they always has been. Some of them are mostly aimless and some are like goldenrod with the scrub and the thorn that they've strewn around. Still, I find this to be funny and it's rhapsodic like it's been filled up with tipsy bunnies. There's the epic daisy, the sheep in the farmers barn that are waiting patient and worn for the aimless cartographer and his flatulent and waffled butt to finally appear. It is for him that we'll lift this glass tonight. "You can't sing away the ol

fig.52.355) you are upon which I am fed and this grass is golden to me The kids on the steps are talking about the weather. A few of the women are still singing but most of them have started to cry. A few of them are holding up uterus pictures, one or two even have pictures of their kidneys. There's a girl in the back that can't see so well. Her left eye is milky. The man that's standing with her is big boned and sad but he still smiles like an ocean full of bears. The loudspeakers announce, "Today we're making a Judge from all of your sheep testicles and batshit. C'mon, c'mon down!" "First there's salt potatoes from Syracuse, then there's the baked beans of Boston, after that's the terrapin of Baltimore, then the scrapple of Philadelphia and finally the frankfurters of Milwaukee. But I'm not really a sausage person, especially not with Patty sitting with me. She doesn't make eggs anymore, our marriage is all but toast. I

fig.87.98) Gurgle splitter splatso mutha like a funk now Anticultural positions are like metaphors for the birds that tweet loudest, Jingoistic, jingo on the way bird friend! Tumbling down the foxhole, shadows spraying their plumage like shards of chert or other chert birds that have been struck too long inside of this music box. They've been left to swim in this golden soup where a taxonomy of complex social cues is soon spent into serene bowls of white foam waiting for the privilege of consumption by the children of spastic judges or other goaded into math with their sayers of nay. Inside of here it's an absolute mess of tangled urges and corrupted potential, the comics aren't bad for children but the social environment that accompanies them is definitely toxic. It grows inside of the shops like a festering vine of great sinew where in real life girls and women are ignored or patronized and then it continues online where anonymous cretins are empowered to antagonize

fig.3.343) Near the wreck of the library, the warm fire is kept warm with many ballots and the fluids of hot emotion. After decades of voting for ignorant white men in power ties as a rebuke to elitism or by insisting that these men will reignite the egalitarianism from which our lordly country has stepped away. That these men should be left as well to dominate the fields of inquiry that are related to the aesthetics and the culture whose trade should be in the embrace of dignity, rather. That such misinformed men with their middlesome and arch purpose should then form empty galleries and write books to be devoted to that genders viewpoint about material and perception as being so universal, as being so meaningful, as being so full of the fear and the hatred and the corrupt desire to fill these blank walls with nothing more than the sport of abrupt trade in didactic idiosyncratic promises of balloons for pockets already ripe with hands. So now it is that we vomit in haste. We lo

fig.23.9898) one metric ton Institutions that STANK... It’s important to know a thing, first. I f in time if it needs to fit inside than you’ll want to if in time if it needs to fit inside than you’ll want to - beth2BETH Ho, so it is that when the raineth does so cometh like the wet that it is. Then the chorus will join in like it’s a hollow sunbleached shack, "Crisis, crisis, crisis of a meaningless future being spent navigating meandering networks in search of pleasure or finality." We'll all dine on warm crow soon enough, our small tables been set. The hog lagoons with their hyper-superslop will swell and sluice through the slow streets of the south. The car fuckers will roll over the tree fuckers and the blue eyed sons of Maine will grab all of the water like they're sinking turds late for the bottom. We'll drank the warm booze and we'll watch our shows. Broken glass is like gritty champaign dust to the ears of the moderne. Our backs have slipped

fig.65.65) If the curtain should be to the left This is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. That is, this is about a very soft performance that is about to be displayed inside of a closed room with little or no light. There will be props and there will be tools but there will not be any margin for error. This piece will begin with a loud noise and it will run for 7 minutes. The last sound to be made will be the sound of documents shuffling along in the direction of a barely audible, thank you. This will be about all of the things that I cannot do alone or by myself. Because, this is about the panelist requiring a chair while the table needs its legs. A solo program that inserts itself at the intersection of race, gender and identity as they are being identified, weighed and measured for their appropriateness to any art which is on display that can be further interpreted as itself or as a long goodnight to any singular form relative to the viewers

fig.35.321) Bought and Sold (1988-89)  Books might be required to stand together in neat rows like the brilliant tines of an unused fork, they're still often more best at having to wander around and laying down where-so-ever they happen to be when the tarantella ends. It helps them avoid any necessity that others might feel towards inventing new numerologies or exceptional meanings in the vicinity of their landscapes which are already garbled with robust rasa eating blather. Where engines are built like Gargamel there's bound to be blue. Where nobody remembers ten things and no one wins the ribbon for best in gender the page will remain still. Where most train-like will always succeed or even better yet be, there goeth the sun. The stove is outside on the shaggy grass. It's autumn already and I'm feeling isolated from the ongoing exchange of culture. There's no pumpkin spice, no fish at hand. The meat in the middle seems to have got sour from being too long w