stagnanTVowels

fig.087) 40 takes on an awful novel                                                        Alone in the night by the mailbox that I've been sleeping under, I vote for more walls in the happy desert. Marching down the street where my dog will pee forever peaking into every broken window, I find a rifle to blow out every candle I'm struck and I'm scheming, eggplant or primrose, nightshade for tardigrades Nestled in my half eaten screenplay, I'm waiting for someone, to come through the armoire and dance with me, like they mean it Moreover, I'm here in my blanket, painting a hole in the darkness But I can't seem to shake it, this feeling that I'm naked is like a play where I'm lost and not famous In greyness, the days stay away - away away from ever after Once the villains have gone, cause their crimes are all done They buy hou...

untitled (12 step program) graphite on paper, 1995 When I moved to Jardin, all I had was this small pile of cassette tapes and a shoe box full of charcoal and some gummy tubes of oil paint. I was a painter sometimes, even though I came to the city for its weather. I wanted to live by the park and have better access to public transportation but I moved into an apartment on Augusta and nearly drowned during a local heatwave. I usually had a book for drawing or writing in, often on my lap if I was commuting somewhere. When I moved to Garden Point from Stadium Park, all my books came with. Sitting in the backseat of the cab, just me and my books, my paints and a pile of plastic tapes pressed in togather and sweating it out. Rolling by the Round Up, a brown burger stand with flat pop and sour meat, going up Western to turn right onto Parkway.   The apartment that AN and I were splitting is between Knebsly and Crepe. It's a clean 3 story building. My room sits in the back of the...

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...

  fig.035) loathsome lamentation and some basic flesh Flesh by flesh is, what it is and always has been, Flesh, again and again and again and again and again...A forest of blind dreams, in a valley of monuments where no one, can sleep Some soft fruit from the man man tree, a dry pull from mad youth Some broken weather for the quiet birds, like songs in the grass with dry turds Over the waves that are crashing, over the walls where the river rolls Forbidden are the tastes that we're tasting Wet in the days that we've ended, we've ended old Over and done go the dead things, the dead things that nobody knows, in bed all over and over and over again... From Milch, this thimbleful of red... The swath of angry paper I've rolled myself into is starting to disintegrate. Already fragile, moving through the crowd has made it damp and now unbearable. So I'm frustrated, being left by the door this whole time. I'm only now making my way towards the kitchen. I stop and pic...

fig.8) et randy libertine...  All of the houses that I've ever known have burned down too the loose sand that was beneath them. Since, James Baldwin has continued to magnify the essence of those I've loved. Surrounding myself steadfastly and without regret, those who have assured me or amplified what I am or have hoped to find inside myself, have only done so by turning away and becoming another soulless asshole that I've had to walk away from. I pull my fingers out of my pants and they're still bloody. I walk into the store and ask for my gun back, but they laugh. I ask for my money back and they hand me liquor instead, cheap booze that has an acrid smell. Then when I walk back inside and ask for more, they look at me with suspicion. I remember being young and disrupting technology, rather then interrupting the whole operation or getting anywhere with the system, we hiccupped. Missing the bed by just a second, being sweaty and still wanting for more. Now, I'm home...

fig.980) The Seaman's bell and the incense from the choirs nest are together. Foliated and compressed finally drawn from the water, from the weathers wet side. Bias is its own place, anchored to the sick sacks of blood we are. Open the line of this street down its middle, right between the lights. Then wait, the long night through. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye... I'd love you twice as much tomorrow. Then the clasp at the other end breaks and mad as the moon over the moors, King Ovid-Pants agrees. While my fingers continue to fumble, the pendant slips its chain completely. Sliding down into the place between your breasts, King Ovid-Pants. Maybe it seeks a trove of amphetamines there or a place where Stan Brakhage might wait.  On the day, we're marching up and down the length of my room. The numbers we have are loudly shouted. It's as though all of it, the math of simple things and the quiet youth of its being built or consumed can stand for something. It's like they'...

fig.082) sploosh, this salient and inconsequential arc Don't you know, we're Dancing Dancing through the flames from our beards, Apostrophy, Parenthesis (in that old order); Mrs. Jamwell June, of Sunny Market Place, Deeply Hopless Records It started when the other farm's got a taste for herding some of our stray numbers. At first they poached a few of the prime numbers from the bottom of our board. But then the chalk began disappearing too. Soon enough, people all over this valley were leaving. Finally, there wasn’t any will left to use any of it and the whole thing evaporated. I remember the farm before its small math made it so big. Back then, it couldn’t fail because there were plenty of big numbers floating up to the top. There was never a need for Euler or their damn constant. That is until gamma arrived, suggesting that it was the same thing, only different. That’s when the farm broke. That’s when it started making all of us hungry too.  It's the worst tim...

fig.09.4L) Standard Space Applying Fig.09.4L) Standard Space Applying, or Our Invisible Wall Peaks Crowd 1: "Slip into the tub, scare the kids pissing in our pool," we know now.  "Make everyone wise as hell, I'm just saying."  "Backing up, our eyes stuck slowly in the mirror."  "Let's drown the bastards, living in their piss until nobody laughs anymore." Crowd 2: Our place of favor skips our place of done and gone like it's lead going brilliant Being right, passing beneath every bridge after bridge being seen Because we're thoughts about donuts and not the donuts wasted (yet unresolved, this Yankee without station sits white as their flag)  This window, its dressing and the abutment that's south of the square is at least three things. 

fig.321 the gracious event Rather than giving in to any of it, Dada-Girl Patsy Cline also known as, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone finishes reading her note and then knowingly confronts the moment's truth. This isn't Morocco after all. We're not in together. This isn't Tangier; no one will die here. Nothing has to stop, the car is right outside and winter hasn't taken hold.  Littered as it is with the robot leavings and burnt flags of nowhere, the gallery still churns. The basement heaves greatness like a mouth fowl with blindness. Hiccupping bile on the treads, retreating kids defiantly hold any distant corners of morning while Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone continues to fight fascism in the dust behind her shed. Using her 50 cent pencil to hold down the paper, she writes, I will be free.  Distance, every mile towards the end is another spent. Even so dull, this cold blade can smile back at me. Since now, we're untangled from t...

fig.14.90) our dinner party is made from wax and mesh                                            We've been coming upstairs less and less, things keep burning or begin to run out as we get sad. "How cold is it," I ask again, pointing to the calendar above our shop sink. Stabbing my finger at the nothingness inside one of the boxes beside itself. An enthusiastic eater of sex, she spurns any of my squalid rationales for comparative or binary tropes. "Splendid," she says. "They won't pin me to any of their fucking walls." Setting forth, on the dim waters and dark tides. Slipping away from Fuck-off and heading straight towards Fuck-all-yall, Myko knows where to go. "We're finding a place where the happy bees dance, isn't that right Katt?" "While I want restful sleep to dream in, a fitting collapse devised from easy work is more likely. For one such as myself, one of languid charact...

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...

fig.39.09)) adjacent to none Dizzy Gillespie plays Swing Low Sweet Cadillac, like it's the very first time I've heard it, I was in school, visiting an old friend. Sitting in her dining room we listened to the whole album, talking about little family stuffs. Later on, I found myself copy of the album at the Jazz Record Mart. Where I also bought some Mingus or Sun Ra. I probably spent all of my money for a whole week on these, but I had this sweet Dizzy Gillespie now. I had it and I would hear it in my kitchen. I don't listen as much as I did. I have more music now, but I also have less quiet inside of me. Behind the house, writing before opening the gallery on Saturdays, there's an artist. In the morning, they often have coffee and cigarettes here. Sometimes they share breakfast with a partner, another artist or someone named Katt. They're neighbors. They like to talk about the scale of elephant jokes and the slow tease of perfect coffee makes them giggle. At night t...