Alarms in the Hazard Night

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 pick up a warm beer that's been sitting on a windowsill, it tastes like a mouthful of hopelessly young kids or greasy mathematicians that don't care. Now I don't care either.

After another stop, I'm about halfway through a can of murky tonic when I look up and see Montana. They're wearing a stripped sweater and talking about buying a new suit. Their bristly hair has a spiny energy that's weak but constant. Right now they're talking land rush and they're getting excited while quietly dancing in place. It's very pee-pee style.

I look around some more and spot Dallas. Mint is also nearby, he's asleep on a broken couch. It's too clear that someone has pissed on him already. These parties are so vain. The last one I was ended when the house burned down. "No one knows anything," I think to myself.

Now I'm here, close to done with quietude today. The myth of me has too much anthill, its calamitous with falling away swarm and busted up thorax. A cigarette would taste excellent instead. It'd be like the ocean, slipping itself around a preacher's ears. Clasping whitely their mad book of indignation, full of its spooky shit queefing mysteries of faith and other elucidations. A cigarette sounds bold.

Gin fouls the corners where hats mask why the lamps stand like trees. Drinking, parishioners heave themselves from ashtray to ashtray, tipping their glasses along the way. We're talking about party tricks in rolled up pant legs. We're talking mean and studying mean. Our skirts are wild but our legs don't care. We're in the backseat kitchenette listening to a wide array of echoes. "This is what we're in for," Montana is laughing again. "that, and another suit."

"But, the zombies won't come. They're all in uptown, the crème brulé is perfect in uptown," someone in his orbit exclaims.

"That's ok, our yard's full. The monkey's been trained to piss higher than that elephant and before we left, we turned on the light in our fridge," Montana shares with a laugh.

"You're so full of shit," I throw away the glass I've been nursing. It hits a sloppily dressed army fellow who has Post It notes stapled to his bandoleer. Yelling at Montana, "Fuck your monkey. The basement and backrooms are what I know, so if I have to, I must."

Without a word, Montana leaves. Dallas looks to me, he's disappointed. Even his camera seems a little sad. Then he turns and follows Montana through the parting crowd. Dallas stops once and picks up some trash. Soon it's like neither of them were ever there.

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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