From Below our Burdens, the Comma

fig.321 the gracious event

Rather than giving in to any of it, Dada-Girl Patsy Cline aka, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone finishes reading the note before knowingly confronting this moments truth. It isn't Morocco after all and we're not in it together. This isn't Tangier, no one here will fucking die. Nothing is going to stop, the car is outside and winter has yet to take hold.

Littered as it is with the robot's leavings and burnt flags of nowhere, the gallery is still churning. The basement continues to heave greatness onto the world's floor like it's a mouth, fowl with blindness. Hiccupping bile on the treads, the retreating kids are defiantly holding the distant corners of morning at bay while Dada-Girl Patsy Cline or, Patsy-Patsy Cline that Patsy Clone continues fighting fascism in the dust behind her shed. She uses her 50 cent pencil to hold the paper down, writing furiously, I will be free.

Distance, or every mile towards the end is another one spent. Ever so dull, this blade always smiles back as I continue getting nowhere walking its length. Since being untangled from the comforts of our bed, more then just trouble has happened. No, the coffee isn't bad, nor is the mirror dim, but we're here and wondering questions made out of words.

Maybe it'll rain later, thinking that the first three songs on that album, remind me of you, Milton. Right now, lost inside Mistress, Baby, Contented Sabeteaur…

While it's happening, Milton is writing, morning comes like hot soup. There's a slow tease that's followed by the perfect oolong tea. Everything suggests a giggle, so he gigles. Then there's the warm smell of smoke in the air. It reminds him of the last cigarette he owned, how marked his last moments as a free man.

Sharing breakfast with Katt, another artist. Sitting in the Widows, she and Milton are like old neighbors. Together, munching on buttery eggs and nibbling the corners of toast while talking about the scale of an elephant joke or a pamphlets one of them found on the bus. Sometimes, when they are reading to one another, they're naked or hiding under the table. As the morning gets a little older, it begins to hint that robots can still see them.

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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 ...

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 herself. Already, the violence of our togethering feels like more than something. I reach out and take the back of her neck with my hand. She steps in as I lean over the counter and 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 our sheets. I get up and pee while Katt talks about Milton. Her mouth's open and it's as...

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