stagnanTVowels

Fig.03230) Big Smile Of The Fall of Baby Ashland,   I'm a little (Violent, when I'm walking around without) I want all of it, to be ok... I'm always afraid for the farm, the new fish and the shoes that I'm wearing but tomorrow will be a joy, some joy. There are some slower cars in the streets today. Whole families leaning out into the wind, their side of the war singing to them as if all of us were lying to one another until the light changes. Maybe this will be undone.

fig.53.32) zip along home Complete this sentence, in it's box being shared by the dead architects are all of the calendars they've ever made. Bastards full of pomegranate they, now's a name for juice. Serial, serial open up (Old tits abuzz around these circles) crazy atoms explaining space to deaf angels that aren't like they're animals of mass. Gusting darkly, this day in form alone spent with the tips of my fingers searching. Fishing by myself underneath what's nearly lost or absent even mass seems to have left me ineptly panicked in these reeds with their dregs beside this flat ass bog a house of slow porridge and?

  fig.89.2) Air is for breathing. Cattle are of singing. But babies, what are the babies for? I was Watching, Paris, Texas directed by Wim Wenders. There are cowboys in their wishing stores and there's tight spots amidst the crenulated landscape. Men are waiting for showers but will have none until everyone coughs. In Selma and Louis, we'd all leave out through the side room, leaving our bourbon behind. Still, a more beautiful send up of a clown's purpose has never been made. This film references Jacques Tati marvelously, his clown is already a doppelganger of Buster Keaton's tramp, he invades the post modern equivalent of aether with baskets in hand. But we're over extended. We're anxious, frustrated and sad to be here. Many of us are without purpose or we need basic resources. Some of us need hugs and some of us need to be recognized for being the people, as we've always been. We need more time to keep making all of it up. We need more resources, better pe

fig.80) farm squabble There were so many lovers, more than any of us could have guessed. As she liked to say, "I've traveled everywhere and always brought the soup." Hot with idle beans and through countless visits, I did indeed see this. I also saw her swap shoes in the lane with the traffic all around her snarling, pretending to be a great bear. “This barn is like a wood house that's very full of naked animals,” this is written on some pale telephone stationary. The blue ink is thin and the words have blown up on the page. She was fond of reminding me that her lovers could be numbered in traffic lights. Singing Iron Man in the shower, replacing all of its lyrics, "I like traffic lights, pretty little itty-bitty traffic lights, red ones green ones too, I like traffic lights yes, I do!" The effect of her was always something like a target being spun out in front of some wavy plywood while paint is pooling around fresh young toes. She danced and threw apples

The tired of me slams, the old hanging robots equal!

Homeless, that's the work of another class! "A bacchanalia with any of the thin yellow papers or the mint could be patient. There could be tears from everything that usually lays down between the tall machines where this sex won't be heard and it can't be confused for being as wet or uncomfortable as it really is." Crunchy with street salt, my name’s not so amazing as it could be. Hello it’s me sitting here in Sophies’ Busy Bee. I don’t have to look up, I can’t even try to. My eyes are being held by Kobo Abe’s novel, Box Man. As it goes along, I’m transcribing it, word for word into this ringed notebook from the bodega where I buy my beer. Many have written about this book’s appeal but I’m not essaying about any of the resounding metaphors of that Kobo’s teased from post war reality. I’m trying to consume this book as literally as I can. Not out of identification with the protagonist’s isolation, so much as it’s glorification in iconic home decorating sense. The l

People are very scared and they're not responding to any of this very well. My wife has pointed out that some of them will be returning to work, whether they want to or not. I think you’ve probably seen the large number of runners and the walkers, either with or without their dogs attached to them. They're all over the sidewalks in and around the city, making it hard to properly distance with so many people being unwilling or incapable of accepting the reality of this threat among those trying in vain to do so. The flowers won't stop, they'll keep growing over the dead racists too, you'll see. At the edge of the highways and in that small room behind the balconies where the light once played from it's hole. Our narratives should absorb our pain and loss, they're a reflection of our shared tragedy after all. They're the exposed purpose of our limitations within corners that have been constructed with something else, another riddle even? Our inadequacies m

fig.34.90) formless, without reason or will like a slow moving thing They will be without limbs, for any mercy is hoarded. They shall last be seen tumbling on, over or down this mountain's languorous side. There will be phrases, scattered words to be gathered, which will help us find context or emphasis. There are pearls and nuggets that wait, or spilled from a much handled box. For now, there's a grievance coalition, so many old hens and apple cores using our allotment of coal mine canaries. They're always wearing walking shoes to the front of the line. Where they gather for haircuts, there's blood and ointment to spare. Where they've been for a beer there is a god already on hand, waiting to hear from the roar. For the state of their fantasy is slender and their desire to claim the world they've undun is golden. Here we are, right at the edge of the path and the chowder pots just keep on talking! The bilious filth of so many of them gathered on one spot is

fig.09.90) shabby and a beaten rose In a room both broad and spare, We didn't arrive here fair or dressed for shine. We're not here to live so well. We are the nope and we roll among the coffee and those donuts that someone else brought to this meeting. Me, I'm here to smoke and I'll stand in the corner until I'm done because I can wait for what happens next.  Considering my safety net, rather than being weak, it is actually corrupt. The bureaucracy maintaining this thing has been stripped of its ability to function! It's drowned in a puddle. Nay, a dish of fantasies that were generated by radical grifters of prayer, "can I get a Holy F'n Fart!" This vital heap of king and queen, fine from sack and pillage, they're not here for this either. Did not have a thing to smoke, nor hands with which to cop a tong. "Rather not too must or shall you get a Holy F'n Fart from usly," sayeth their Stripper, both young and comely!

fig.3.83) picnic, tribual (something sexual maybe) Other things that make me wonder about springtime coming, career development and training tools, safety protocols for artists to review before renting or buying their housing, affordable housing too, access to group health insurance or ways in which someone could facilitate communication or negotiate collectively for the broader needs of our burdened community. Museums, galleries and collectors don't be us and they refuse to see us.  We get back on the bus and it makes us late. The sidewalks are wet the whole way down. We're sitting wet and the backseat is hard. Winter is harshest when its unpredictable. The sound of the bus is lost in the rain tonight but who makes our surprises? We're alone behind the driver, she's talking about the last dead person to be taken from her bus. It's late and I know you're not listening because I'm watching you. You squeeze my hand and make a joke about buying lottery

fig.87.09) Tremendous Awesome Trauma and isolation in small circles throughout the room and hidden inside the walls themselves. There was this thing when we were kids at school, we really liked Kiefer's work. We'd talk about his ropes and the strewn hay laying on concrete floors in the images that were the hallmarks of his monograph. As his work was cast on their end pages in tart silver tones, all of us read about his openings. Frieze would have written about his paintings being stacked high, sandwiching bailing wire, twine and more straw between stretched canvas like a flattened cookbook just waiting for a strong match. So much fantasy, big and brazen as it is, hiding the fear of a withering cock or a soul born bored and yet unlimited by circumstance. I've heard others speak for the actions of this man, or the great reach of some others. So how is it that each of them found their way, great as they might have been, to just being quiet. All of them finally sat down t

fig.53.23) missing money, hopeless fool Where painting has failed to depict intersections of femme identity with its fluidity, it has instead inserted something like the Fates. Three women, the shrew or crone, the mother and the child with their representative skein or spools being present. Rather, this metaphor is of the latency within the pictures frame itself, a clever interpretation of something like a fractured understanding of dimorphism. Distorted by poverty, her arms held somewhat casually in front of her, one hand holding the other just above the wrist. From my vantage point they resemble an empty basket. My glance stretches on for a second or more, when suddenly she looks up and catches me in her own eye. I start from the shock of being discovered, I meant no harm from it after all. When I was in the shower, all this was happening. The world continued as everything kept changing incrementally, without method or meaning until I returned. While this was happening, I slo