Fro da Ottomans too

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 that. When we do we won't care about this or any other part of you. It will all be as meaningless as spilled crackers on a marble floor that stretches out in every direction as far as the eye can see. When you are behind us for good and for all, then we will not have a need for any more eye's peeking behind the blinds or the whimsy of a few wisely chosen notes. Instead, we'll want only to roll over if the pillow should grow warm. Goodbye weird history sometimes we love you now and again.

So lets get this thimble filled, here's what I know about the continent about marching straight into the clang of it. First of all you've got to eat, to drink, delight and then PARTY like a Tsar, or maybe something a little bit less conspicuous if you're staying undercover. If so than maybe you should PARTY like a former fireman that's been kicked off of a committee or two instead, they're always hot but low key. If not that, than how about you PARTY like a podiatrist with an average budget but exquisite taste or maybe you'd prefer to PARTY like the guy that only plays Mark Twain on PBS, instead. I'll bet that that guy's totally into rampaging through Europe and spending dollars like they're half priced euros. I'll bet Mark Twain guy and Rick Steves love getting baked together in the Alps. Then when they come down they sit together and vibe on the difference between the cost and the value of Shakespeare knock-offs in France. They go out dancing together all night long in the most current hovels down in Macon where the two of them roll around in slutty piles of cheap red wine and laugh like bandits whenever someone says, "Toast, I don't know what the damn that is." Anyway I like how you're rolling. You've got your bourbon with a slice of lemon and a sugar cone that's stuffed with some cookies and cream, if you follow these up with a deviled egg and 2 Bouzigues oysters then I'll also be exceedingly proud of that too. Stay safe, stay warm but most of all, PARTY PARTY PARTY. PARTY like the last active ruler of the Ptolemaic Kingdom. PARTY like it's an instinct. PARTY like your verbs are all in the deep end, like they own every MUTHAFUCKN sentence cause Proust is your sidekick and you live to PARTY. PARTY like a Spice Girl with the balls to say, "I love me some Matchbox, all Three Hundred and Sixty Degrees of it. Now pass me those ancho's over here, cause I'm hot and I want to PARTY." -Signed, THE END esq.

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 ...

stagnanTVowels

Search This Blog