From Below our Burden, the Comma

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 the comforts of bed and there's more then just trouble happening. No, the coffee isn't bad, nor is the mirror so dim. But we're here and wondering. I think there's going to be rain later. I also think the first three songs on that album, they remind me of you, Milton.

"Right now, I’m lost inside my thoughts. Mistress, Baby, Contented Sabeteaur…"

While this happens, Milton writes that, morning comes like a hot soup. There's the slow tease of his perfect oolong tea as it suggests a giggle, so he does. Then there's warm smoke in the air, it reminds him of his last owned cigarette.

There are times when he's sharing breakfast with Katt, she's another artist. In the Widows, Katt and Milton are like old neighbors. Together, in the morning they munch buttery eggs. They talk about the scale of elephant jokes or the pamphlets left at bus stops. Sometimes they'll read to one another, but today they're naked, hiding under the table and looking out as more of the morning gets older.

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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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