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| 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-funSpice 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 night before, Puppets hang from the
gallery ceiling and the broken chairs sit around her table like twisted up
spider parts. Moody cigarette smoke hangs in the air above the empty beer cans
and wet towels left behind last night. She knows that this isn't Morocco, it's
more like BmBSHp and it's been littered with the grungy leavings of robot birth
and burning flags.
BmBSHp as we call it, is now the home of 4 artists. The band
that lived here before us were abrasive and messy. The house was full of stereo
equipment and dismantled bikes when we walked through it in June. We might have
ridden our own bikes but Leon didn't have one. He sold his for a ticket back
from Israel. The bus still ran along the BLVD so the four us met
outside the Western Round-Up.
On our way south, we settled into a deep groove following a
group of brick haulers whose slowness informed our traffic epically.
BmBSHp, it's 1997 and there's the Robot of Truman Capote, a
Brain Like Typewriter that's now encased in glass. It's been wearing the same
light blue dress with the oil smudges for a decade or more. The Morton Salt
Girl is sitting and smoking her cigarette as the Robot tells her a story about
BmBSHp and the two Jesus Paintings. "No one talks about David Hockney
anymore," she/her is saying. "No one thinks about the machines that
rattle his head still, no offense." The Robot of Truman Capote coughs
uncomfortably as it tries to weigh their options for escaping morning coffee.
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