This is code for Diamond City

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 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.

Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

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