stagnanTVowels

Fig.03) this banker's eyes are homeless But First, A Brief Song This empty parking lot, it's whiskey business is something like gum Hopeless metered, sheets of fan paper-fun Spice Girl, Spice Girl what say you say lines of grey news, heavy metal purpose on Tuesday used Spell this better and make it mine Once More, To The Dogs Our brick cottage on String ST was built in 1875. Initially only two stories high, it was later made a floor taller and then converted into separate apartments. In 1963 the house was sided with an asbestos clapboard siding, a sort of weeping sparkle board that stood out in pictures of the street from that time. The family of three that lived in it during the 1970's were missionaries, wearing dark clothes they crossed continents and smelted soft metals for fun. They also threw peach pits at the local dogs and their backyard was kept full of secrets.   Looking as warm as a pole dance while having her coffee in the same stained jeans she was wearing the ...

1822 S Desplaines, moving day artifacts. The website for Dogmatic was an artifact originating with the program, Instalation View. A seven person exhibition that happened in July, 2000, it presented work by Nicola Axford, Diego Bobby, Jeremy Boyle, Danielle Gustafson-Sundell, Jack Sloss, Pedro Velez, Siebren Versteeg. First appearing for the length of that show, the website offered the following helpful information on it's front page. Welcome to the debut of Dogmatic’s space on the web. Presently this site is the location for the on-line catalog for Instalation View. The contents of this site will be a dynamic mix of information about the Artists that show here and the programs that they present and curate. So check in frequently to see what the Art of Chicago and the future of the international community will be like. From Dogmatic's beginning we had committed ourselves to building an archive. What we called it's Permanant Collection was to be the beating heart of...

  fig.094) This Alley's Pee Mirror Schemes, this bad weather and it's crane built beacon, red above the twisting mess of paper and gas, giving everyone something for sad, something matter matters most of all. Fruit in the streets, rolling in the high yellow light. Red bricks and dented cars adjacent, Shops of Dawn in their bright capes of soonest-more. Smoke in the streets, low on the blank horizon where no one can see. I should be nervous, speaking to this. Just another damp friendly friend, who in a few more days of 53 has seen more of my ugly butterflies winning at every bad haircut and all other curatives than they should have, wet friend. Every morning, with doors wide open and a cheap ass wiggle Greeter Trash, working through paper cups of coffee rush. Bang Bang, leaving it there, there's going to be some fruit and bread and bad disease at all of these, you'll soon see... An eye with one eye out, or two more for the toads Lemonade unfolds intricately below the loc...

Fig.897.2) et Si Wreck and the doom of a vaudeville bloom Rose as rose should be, limited by lines to fault and grief There's a blanket, there's a mess in the lions tomb and across the room, there's the funniest joke that's ever been Getting wet to the knees or even higher Something like fear filling is feeding the fire like a rag being stuffed inside something pushed way too full A rattle and a rasp padded gasp lingers past then drowning's served, the gig's observed Law this fragile strake is seen On a frail face there's an old smile suggesting time and place  

Fig.089.9) the tips of my wishes, dry as  I am without need; unwanted, old and too tired for reading Still, your fear and disquiet brand me I am your other half A boat without wings on a water with no end I am abundance and my name is Hurt My children, they are Pain and Suffering and they sleep very well

fig.098.62) DOOOM Greasy popcorn, a timeless quiz and that song from the movie where they dance, everything is with us tonight. In this calamitous gown you say, "rose as a thorn and yet, still off without much use for sleep tonight." While I say, "Unsure of any principle, the only channel my old scratchy eyeballs have for relating stupid through their backward lens is this calendar. See here, right below the knee. It is here that I struggle."  Our ballroom is in the back but our sofa might need to to be moved first. Homeless and insecure, my packages go elsewhere. My phone is a lump of plastic where there's been a ring of gold and several senseless warts to measure. I'm old witch after all and my knowing is frightened. It's bathed in the light of many suns but it doesn't sleep well either.   "It's here where February lurks, just 28 days and counting." There's some fastness with the absorption and heat but then there are whole meals ...

Fig. 0897) Flaccid Favorites Things long missed in their teaching, be they still or be they quiet, our time is lessened nonetheless. Someone has to steer this anchor, sail it all the way to the bottom when the shops turn themselves over and their queues are carless as everyone’s gone home to vote. I’m tired of these convictions. Their pace has only become more dark as the night continues to keep itself outside. Where can an angry man get himself a drink, where indeed?  Tonight, Fear is out driving and it's little car is made for twisty passes that loop around craggy rocks. Let's talk about words and foreign papers with pictures of trees. Let’s read about sounds rattling our windows. Like buttons on bees, there's green on frogs and hope inside the time that's within all the unopened boxes.  Sitting off in the shed by myself. I’m waiting for the church bells to ring their foul victory. In my today-brain, I'm a little bit worried and blue. There’s so much wet to go wit...

fig.894) Fuck You, Captain, Pirate, Monster Stupid-Bird I'm mourning and failing into the day's quietude. The myth of me is like an anthill whose overturned calamity and swarm is tiny and can't pass measure. Cigarettes taste good, they're like an ocean around the preacher's ears while the book of their indignation is clasped to his chest whitely. Over full with sanctimonious bookly shit, bilious from copious queses but satisfying none the less, or so the preacher now surmises. Look, the birds are back. They’ve returned and it’s not just the fat chunkers either. There's starlings teeming in the dirt beside a few cardinals and a broke down pigeon who's coughs. Poking around, all of them look as obnoxious and selfish as preening judges. "Zombies won't come, not today. They're up in Uptown. There's perfect crème brulee there." Today in the gutter like prizes, there's stalled carts and shoe boxes. The tooth of their capitol once is...

fig 33.68) Ninja Audition "Swoops the music, the advice I've taken is honest advice. Swoops again, coming before the math, it's secret is still the trick of it," it's that Burma Shave song playing wildly from the choir above. Once there was a once before when we'd hang calendars from these doors and throw our darts. I remember drinking and sleeping and forgetting everything more often than I probably should. Burning our credit cards like we were kids trying to keep warm. We invented dinner just so we could talk about our taste in shoes.  The large frames leaning against the wall are as empty as villains'. Their mysterious embrasures now knowing only the wall's succor. Kitty posters are all over it and underneath some of the dry splotches of museum grade paint there's a little bit of yellowed tar. There's cut sail cloth in the aisles of this cold submarine, it's auger's lit. "Why didn't you see me? I've been here ...

fig. 90.080) so much for lunch... "Jamon, What if all of us are crappy versions and the movie just ends like that?"  "Do the crayons ever come home for us Geraldo? Will the tacos really care when the room goes black or the sound of the film rattles on it's reel? So what if the pigeon's half in their bag. All of us already sawr it asleep on the bus and some of us bought a sandwich." "But it really starts with that damn mouse and it's cookie, Jamon. Then there's the Drain-O and the gallons of bleach that had to be pulled from the top of the mother effin tree, yippy ki-yay!" "You sure know your parties Geraldo." "That's right Jamon, I do know parties." "You sound angry Geraldo." "I am, Jamon. But more than that, I'm trying to write a song."

fig. 29) of an agent's day  Head to the problem of place and patch and Find my knees to find it, All night long and it's all night long again, Too sing sing sing, I've forgotten this song, You're like a model drawer I want to open some more All night long  - An older example of this song from math and other stirrings. (note-should turn this quickly to the obverse) Beneath the cold sleep, the region we've settled into. They murmur sadly as a crowd of ones. They're tired and some of them hum, "I hope you know that this will go down in your permanent record. I hope you know that this will be looped like a thousand times before it's ever understood, BEEP." PC is wearing high white socks so he looks like a tennis coach. Pulling at his bottom lip, joking easily with AK, if something is funny and it's also dense. The coffee maker is sweaty plastic. There's burned gunk in the bottom of the carafe. Our basement's been dug up, all the chai...

fig. a) the courtesy of song fig. a) to the Westward, ho A dozen or so artists from Chicago are invited to St Louis to participate in a group show. It's an uncommonly warm Mardi Gras weekend. The show is installed in a downtown space among the tallrises that are the somewhat derelict remains from an older century's booms and bust. Before being commandeered as a culture hub, the 4th or 5th floor of this building was an unremarkable industrial space. But by 2002 it's already imagining itself being transformed into a flattering collection of spare roomlets, each with a stainless micro-kitchen and a brisk patio for bachelor inspired hibachi maneuvers. Once the drinking and the revelry is over and we've picked ourselves up off of the floors and pulled ourselves up from the short sofa's, when we've finally poked at our last beers, brushed our teeth and had a good-morning cigarette or two, then we'll gather up for brunch at the fluffy little crepe shack back...

fig.3.02) funky pie, old as steam In all, the polite ambiguity that's underneath the blinking red sign, that's all up and down the whole length of this floor as dodder and waddle unfold into quiet chatter and cocktail peanuts. Questions shimmy along the walls and some of them smell just like toast in the morning. Where buntings aplenty perch among the tables of flowers there are cummerbunds with smart epaulets adorned by stupid men in drunken spirits. When I'm done, we step outside to watch the road burn, "it's still Tuesday night somewhere? But we're going to see the doors open and close first." Right then, time seems to have stilled. It's become more patient, as though its legs weren't attached to the ground anymore. So I bob upward, a little bit higher. There are chips from the machine, for later. But for now, there's plenty of water, "Then boop, we're screaming right past bedtime." The blinkering exit sign makes itself known...