We're laying these out where the ground is tender and our time has been frustrated, we're saying this.

fig.2.13)These two holes are beside an effortless description of a soulless machine

Let's lay waste to the comedy of modernism by watching poor Peggy, with her pistol of sadness and the sack of ape eyed tears that made of us each a burly home. Poor poor farm of malls shorn from the fields of food left at the end of town. Little box, aimless courageous little smoker smoking the oil, smoke.

To the house on the water I'm going and I won't be home soon

Going down on strangers,
it's written here on the back of my hand
The watch in the book is broken and that bird on my pillow is not
Gone around this whole ship and the waves in the water are wet too
I've crossed the sea just to tell you
That I'm out here swimming alone
Today's about over
I'm going down there
The way to the water is simple
Even if it's been a bit of a mess before this

Where there's ham and bricks of misogyny on the board of that tub there will be garlic in the stove nearby yet none on my tongue. It's hard to see you smile with your legs shaped like that. Let's see, maybe they're crushed a little bit like bone. Maybe your legs will rhyme like an open drawer now, I don't know.

There's young men still singing at your bar.

The band is knocking them dead, hello!

I'll sing to you too and then you'll never get old again.

There's this dead horse in the fallen balloons, the misshapen legs of the brown canal beside the breasts of the weak and these simple words I've used.

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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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