Through with the Motion of Song

fig.35.09) the bastard's wings have legs

"Two poems were made with stale smelling plastic and balls of tape that's been long dried up. Here they are now, about to be said. Beetless, less beets, without bread or tears we are bottled hammerless and away. Footless, less feets, without said years to sleep in our garden we are roused and then gone again," to be done from nowly, to be done with it soon.

"Words I know, I know, inside the wall of this page. I want to be that girl in her hat. Knowing guilt famously, being floppy as an old lung. My ice cream not melting, if I were a certain girl in a certain hat but then these flowers couldn't be smelt or dealt." While I don't agree that Silverstein was examining the taxonomy binding any of the social structures affecting him, I believe that he was a keen observer of his own actions and that he recognized his own passivity in the face of the sweeping cultural changes being made throughout the postwar period. Quite literally, he was unable to help himself while the landscape around him was churned and spewed by the countless forces of people powered math/magic. This is the anxiety that he shares with the Giving Tree and the Missing Piece. His anxiety repackaged as something ambiguous but also something kind of self incriminating, like a burnt tongue or a paper cut.

"Because normal is, loving it as a girl in a hat might do, this would be exceptionally fine by me! It's not doing what you're told or growing to be old that makes that girl beneath her hat so true it's the bandage on her knee." So like a heathen love song for trees both distant and blue, I want to know this feeling. It makes me want to be underneath my own blue hat talking about the past.

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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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