LA VENTANA

TEMPORARY TALONS.

2010-09-21T11:54:00.003-05:00

photo : b. denney

OH MY GOD.

2010-09-15T12:18:00.001-05:00

Wavves put my design on their new weed grinders. On sale now at Wavves' merch booth.

BLOWN OUT

2010-09-15T00:12:00.000-05:00

THERE I GO AGAIN

2010-09-09T14:07:00.009-05:00

STUCK IN THE COCKPIT.

2010-09-07T15:08:00.002-05:00

╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲

╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱╲╱

BUFFALO MEDICINE : FORM A DEFENSIVE CIRCLE

2010-09-07T00:36:00.006-05:00

VISUAL HARASSMENT

2010-08-30T02:28:00.001-05:00

$$$ FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR $$$

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TOTEMS

2010-07-18T14:35:00.002-05:00

REAL / ILL

2010-07-03T04:48:00.002-05:00

HAUNTED

2010-07-03T04:47:00.002-05:00

ADVERTISEMENT FOR NON-EVENT

2010-07-03T04:45:00.001-05:00

SODA POP CURTIS

2010-06-06T15:18:00.005-05:00

GARFIELD BEACH BLAST

2010-05-27T15:54:00.002-05:00

NOW, VOYAGER

2010-05-23T05:43:00.001-05:00

PYRAMID / // / SEER

2010-05-23T05:34:00.007-05:00

DREAM SPILL

2010-05-16T15:45:00.003-05:00

CRAZIEST DREAMZ EVER, HOLY SHIT!

CREEPY OLD HOUSE. PARTY LATE AT NIGHT. CERTAIN PEOPLE ARE SUPA DRUNK, DANCING. I LEAVE, I COME BACK. I ASK SALLY, "IS HE STILL HERE?" HE'S LAYING IN BED. I'M HOLDING A FOX TAIL HE GAVE ME AND WE KISS. I FEEL LIKE I'M NOT DOING IT RIGHT, I MELT. INTO ANOTHER DREAM, WHERE I'M SLEEP WALKING. OUTSIDE, FAR FROM HOME, I'M WEARING GREEN PANTY HOSE. GUY FOLLOWING ME, CORNERS ME IN AN ALLEY, WHISPERS IN MY EAR, SAYS HE'S GOING TO ATLANTA TO SMOKE WEED. I DREAM THAT I WAKE UP TO RECORD THIS DREAM, AND I'M TALKING TO MEAGAN CHAUDOIN ABOUT HOW TO SPELL. I DREAM I GO BACK TO SLEEP. MOM AND DAD ARE REMODELING THE HOUSE. THEY REPLACE THE BATHROOM DOOR WITH A DOOR WITH SLATS IN IT. MOM SAYS, "HE'LL PUT THE OLD ONE BACK TOMORROW." SHE HAS A NEW BATHROOM UPSTAIRS, IT'S HUGE, WITH A RED AND BLUE TUPPERWARE BATHTUB. SHE SAYS IT HAPPENS BECAUSE OF "GETTING OLDER". I LOOK AT HER LIKE SHE'S CRAZY.

TRIBAL WOLF, sun//moon

2010-05-15T02:11:00.003-05:00

INVITATION

2010-03-27T21:32:00.001-05:00

STARS

2010-03-08T18:29:00.002-06:00

(cat by Brannan)

THE SUN, THE MOON

2010-03-08T18:23:00.003-06:00

666.

2010-02-27T14:40:00.005-06:00

LIGHT IN THE MIST

2010-01-30T12:26:00.006-06:00

dies ist ein poor-worm about my enemies.

summersand summersand summersand summersand
a chant about a misanthrope a chatter-chat-chittering
slam dunking, freeway magnaspeed, in a greenway winner's kit
sinnerwreath sinnerwreath sinnerwreath sinnerwreath
talka-talk, talka-talk ††† talkie talkie talkie talkie
A a B b C c D d (((E e))) F f

i deserved an (((E e)))
fore an eye for an eye
for the tooth i left in summersand.

please plus my plea, universidad.

MY FAVORITE PART OF EVERY DISNEY MOVIE.

2010-01-26T11:24:00.001-06:00

VISUAL HEALING.

2010-01-18T00:52:00.005-06:00

MEANWHILE.

2010-01-15T12:48:00.006-06:00

LET'S HEAR IT FOR GREAT SPIRIT.

2010-01-05T15:42:00.005-06:00

ARCHANGEL MICHAEL.

2010-01-03T18:48:00.004-06:00

YOU'RE FINALLY GOLDEN, BOY.

2009-12-25T19:04:00.002-06:00

TICK TOCK.

2009-12-25T18:59:00.003-06:00

SECRET WISHES.

2009-12-25T18:57:00.001-06:00

SOME LITTLE BITS.

2009-12-25T18:55:00.001-06:00

FAITH IN KNOTS.

2009-12-25T18:48:00.002-06:00

CHRIMUSS LOVE TO THE WORLD !

2009-12-25T16:11:00.002-06:00

I just have to share this picture with my invisi-boo audience.

HERALDIC LION.

2009-12-14T04:26:00.001-06:00

LOVE PLUS ONE.

2009-12-10T15:35:00.001-06:00

BRONZE AGE.

2009-12-10T15:33:00.002-06:00

HIEROGLY-FIX, # 1.

2009-12-03T14:52:00.007-06:00

ORTHO.

2009-11-20T17:15:00.003-06:00

dedicated to my hand therapist,
whose brilliant bright green eyes
helped bring my hand back to life

ALL LOVE TO LOREEN COFELT ! ! !

DESIGN ...

2009-11-18T11:01:00.003-06:00

LOVE THEM

2009-11-15T16:38:00.007-06:00

SOUNDS EXPENSIVE.

2009-10-07T01:51:00.006-05:00

AN ILLUSTRATED HISTORY OF THE MODERN WORLD.

2009-05-28T11:30:00.034-05:00

Welcome to the Sun Room. A lot of really important shit goes on in this room. Like, for example, sometimes I lay around eating popsicles, or picking my nose, or staring out the window. This is the room in which we (or I, rather - ~~Opie~~ Peery and Adam both have their own rooms to fill with the trash of life and love) practice divination and other forms of occult ritual, like art and poetry!

Let's begin the behind-the-scenes tour.

Two perspectives (from my bed): To my left, we see my mirror. In the mirror, we see the backside of the curtain that, when pulled (or yanked - depending on my mood) shut, separates the "Sun Room" from the "Rest of The House". We also see some of the larger things set on my table of special items, a golden arrow hung with black yarn, shelf-altar I, and the Twilight poster Adam stole and presented to me as a Christmas present. To my right, we see some windows, some paintings hung from those windows, a deer fibula (you really can find anything on eBay) resting atop one of those paintings, and shelf-altar II. Oh, and that's the popsicle I was eating.

In the first image, we examine my table of special items. It's the only table in my room, because another table (or anything else, for that matter) simply would not fit. So everything on this table is important because I say so. I'll take the time to list a few of these very important things. Well, there's that wacky/wild drawing of tiger-people that Brannan offhandedly dug out of his car and let me have before he moved back to Decherd. I do like looking at that. Next to that, a framed picture of a forest. There's also some stacked shit, a piece of wood I found, some votive figures (a 3-legged horse, a hawk, a rabbit, a coyote with red eyes), an old picture of some lady I don't know, some nutty notes left for me by crazy people / crazy geniuses, a green box full of I-don't-know-what, the binoculars I use when birdwatching, a half-empty bag of disgusting altar bread from the Catholic Supply Store, and some other Christian shit (for the sake of baby Jesus). And, second, a picture of my reflection misbehaving.

Left: shelf-altar I / Right: self-altar II. I got books, I got birds, I got paint, I got paper, I got jars, I got sticks, I got a tiny accordion with a rainbow-colored moth on it, I got the letter "D", I got reindeer on rockers, I got Remedios Varo, I got a drawing of a ballerina with my name on it, I got a statue of a chimpanzee on a tricycle. I have all the bases covered.

Here I'm posing in the mirror as the resurrected Christ, fresh out of the tomb and ready to attack! I've got my popsicle, I've got my car keys, I've got my bottled water, I've got my pink Blackberry telephone-computer, and I've got my faith, so "noli me tangere" you white devils! I mean, it's a mirror. Everyone must know where I'm coming from. And, right, so, yeah, so that first one was me getting way too into it, seeing as I never take pictures and never know what to do with myself when I do. The other dude is Coyote Baby, patron saint of Wikipedia, science fiction, the gates of Heaven, the gates of Hell, and the back wall of the Sun Room. I put her there to be spooky, but also to watch over me while I sleep. She's really cool / She's got style. If you look hard enough, you might even spot Vladimir Lenin peeking through the window.

And, finally, to draw this tour to a close, here's my bed and all the pillows. The gold triangle is an important symbol with protective qualities - an essential tool for any disrespectful shaman. I use it mainly during Satanic invocations. Actually, none of that is true. I made it to hang above one my paintings, but now I have it resting on the windowsill above my bed. So now I'm a painting. The paper mask peeking out from behind the golden triangle - the wolf - presents an element of surprise to an already uncomfortable situation. You can also see the cow jaw Brannan gave me (a lovely gift), and the postcard/contract Taylor gave me. About the contract: Well, it's a postcard that says "I PROMISE TO NEVER MAKE ART AGAIN" with a little space for you to sign your signature, so of course I signed it! I had 100%, completely planned to abide by the terms and conditions of this contract, but then Adam spilt some shit all over it, and now it says "PROMISE NEVER MAKE ART GAIN". So, incidentally, I guess that's the new contract, and I guess I'm still bound to it, so I'll just never make art (for monetary) gain ... (?) Sounds fair enough.

In conclusion, I would have to say that Adam and I, and now ~~Opie~~ Peery (a colorful new addition to the Headquarters of our Individual Lives - or our art museum apartment - whatever), have a fine set-up here. We're drowning in our friends' artwork, there's a mounted deer head over our collection of TV screens, there's a stuffed pheasant on the Michael Jordan mural wall, we have the most beautiful kitten in the whole wide world (VIVA LA HICKORY NAPKIN), and we've got a weirdo collection of books on display. A+, gold star.

Bonus: Here's the living room.

( Notice how the gold curtain I control controls the lightness / darkness of the den - I would be God, but I actually don't spend much time at home, so I guess there's nothing to fear )

THE MONA LISA.

2009-04-20T03:51:00.002-05:00

MYTHOS PATHOS #1.

2008-09-23T02:02:00.003-05:00

MYTHOS PATHOS #2.

2008-09-23T01:59:00.001-05:00

TRUE STORY.

2008-09-11T02:49:00.001-05:00

Poem From September 10th, 2008.

2008-09-10T14:26:00.010-05:00

"Of How Instinct Cradles Few"

Computer voice! Rush out the motorcade!
The device needs polishing, the chairman starves for venison
And the workers' jowls have been siphoned of blood
Indicate vampires, or employ vampires
To assert their verticality over the flag bearers
of far-far so-and-so nations upon nations

Rise up, waxing the nut!
Spook the cottontail from his thick-tangle thicket-home,
And watch him run! Stomp the warm egg he hadn't the heart to defend!
No hero, no home, no heart, no hero
Survival defaults on the soldier, this day, and forcefully
Tugs on his genitals

Thinning and thinning, the crown can . . .
Docked in muck, the crow can still . . .

Yearlings birthed beside new yearlings
To feed from the ash tray - God's way of cleaning the pit with his tongue
And that tongue will clean itself with newer tongues, ad infinitum
The plan must sell! Divinity mustn't neglect its responsibility to groom our flanks!
Wag, wag! For the idea of sanitation has always overwhelmed the intellectual
And, divorced from our deity, history would scrawl itself in scat

Yet the animal carries on with an innate sense of duty
And calls its kittens to its gland with a low gurgle and hoot
No reader, the brochure fails to interpret such a simple routine
It is a poem of scientific genre - stupid, voyeuristic fodder
That details a fool's strategy of understanding
How instinct cradles few

Poem (?) from August 31st, 2008.

2008-08-31T01:33:00.002-05:00

"Worry"

I think the dead cat I drug from the street made me sick
My hands itch, I'm feeling lightheaded
Maybe it was the carnival air - all the flies and garbage, or maybe
I contracted leprosy from someone in the E.R. waiting room
And there's a worm in me, I know it,
From the water I drank while touring the favelas
Of Rio de Janeiro

Dedicated to Future Rivals.

2008-08-07T01:00:00.002-05:00

Poem from August 4th, 2008.

2008-08-04T12:51:00.017-05:00

"Convocation of Orphans"

Fox in double-Virgo,
Employed to paint the vein of love below the arc of Heaven,
And split bones for baby,
resist bruising the runt of the brood, this time . . .

Good God, you can organize!
Prudence, temperance,
fortitude and justice!
But why was Winged Victory sent to the guillotine?

Was her report on passion too dry and foreboding,
too stilted, too mindful
of folklore, fable, and the history of art?
Was it the meandering wrinkle in her robe?

Some time ago, I think, modern manifesto replaced the cold compress,
And angels learned to sleep to sounds of static
Unawake and dreaming in localized color,
only imagining the act of weighing the human heart

It would require a convocation of orphans,
the wet aftermath of homicide, or God's offering of time travel
to lay covered in flies and cry, "Sighs, the world over!"

What a task,
to explain why we were suckling an animal's toes
and not her teat

THE NEXT ANDY WARHOL, PART II.

2008-07-08T00:15:00.004-05:00

THE NEXT ANDY WARHOL, PART I.

2008-07-08T00:15:00.003-05:00

BLIGNORANCE IS IISS.

2008-06-24T03:29:00.005-05:00

(( more very subtle Biblical connotations ))

Poem from June 17th, 2008 + Drawing.

2008-06-17T15:59:00.005-05:00

"Artemis and Men"

Can't you drag the forest far,

And recall the euphoric whining of the wild, new heavens in repose,

With its heavy, cacophonic churning, too full to fling?

They, the beast, foolishly resolving the seem too soon,

Fly their long birds that bib, bab, and bob with white yarn and pests

Against the sweaty kiln of twilight, lit from within by the green-glow mirrored eyes

Of coons and rats, growing in couplets, forever horizontal and burning by the zillion

Strange shadows twist the faces of Eden's pioneering idiots,

Already dimpled with little shutters and valves, mound upon mound, spitting glue

And the animals laugh, posed in the brush, as man moans and polishes his thorn

And somehow, it seems, always caught in the miraclulament of youth, I remain uninvolved

And settle beside the ghost of Byzantium for an untimely breakfast at sea

And I crown myself again with a crescent moon, to cap the crack in my skull

That once released my twin, the deer, and the swift trajectory of a silver arrow from a silver bow

Venus, Venus and a Mummy.

2008-06-10T23:51:00.002-05:00

LOTS PART FIVE.

2008-06-08T04:10:00.001-05:00

LOTS PART FOUR.

2008-06-08T04:09:00.001-05:00

(faun by Shea Colburn?)

LOTS PART THREE.

2008-06-08T04:06:00.001-05:00

(red figure by Adam Farmer - our first unofficial collaboration!)

LOTS PART TWO.

2008-06-08T04:04:00.001-05:00

(based on a photograph by Taylor Martin)

LOTS PART ONE.

2008-06-08T03:55:00.001-05:00

M /// O /// R

2008-05-29T15:37:00.002-05:00

S /// U /// M

2008-05-29T15:33:00.000-05:00

Balance You, Balance Me.

2008-05-21T14:05:00.001-05:00

Poem from May 21st, 2008.

2008-05-21T13:44:00.006-05:00

"Pilgrimage"

Tempered orange, vertebrae intact, mighty marble mother,

Coming home was worthwhile, coming home was - ... legendarily so

Iridescent, looming, like a little cottonmouth, little carry-on

Flying red flags against white license, set serial codes, the core

Reeling beyond rainbow cataracts, milky, subtle and sweet

A myriad of premarital plebians with hunting hounds, here to break the mass,

Distribute the weight, cross-pollinate the fruits of their labor and dig trenches

Dental plaque! Sportsmanship!

Riverboat! Sportsmanship!

Terrycloth! Sportsmanship!

Earn, earning, earned, and modern - so modern, so relevant, so honest

So independently wealthy and well-endowed were we, where it was

When we were and where it went, fairly lightly and limberly we'd lurch

So independently lonely and cast out were we, then and now, so low

But can we count the days 'til reformation? Can we document? Justice?

Beating the dust from an antique curtain of specters, wildly salivating

For the Fatherland, like a theme park, like poaching exotic game

Here on the border, the post-idiot, the lion laid parallel to flies

Ghost Lessons.

2008-05-14T21:55:00.004-05:00

DING-DONG.

A dirge for Robert Rauschenberg.

DING-DONG.

Residual Guilt.

2008-05-12T00:43:00.006-05:00

Is art everything you wished it would be? Consider the following:

// doubt VS resolve

// ambiguity VS clarity

// diversion VS focus

// suggest VS assist

// extraneous VS practical purpose

// egocentric VS humanitarian

// static VS consequential

// invariable VS versatile

// defunct VS utilitarian

// conjectural VS sustainable

// stilted VS engaging

Time to grow up. Time to assume a little responsibility. Time to make your efforts worthwhile.

DELTA.

2008-04-18T00:05:00.001-05:00

Charles Baudelaire Posing For a Photograph.

When Things Go Wrong.

2008-04-17T23:54:00.002-05:00

Cindy Brady as the Virgin Mary.

Oh Boy! Vanilla Spit!

2008-04-16T00:26:00.005-05:00

"22nd Century Saint"

8x4 ' pastel drawing, done at the Rozelle warehouse.

Poem from April 9th, 2008.

2008-04-09T12:43:00.007-05:00

"Self-Portrait as a Scarecrow"

I am happy to ignore

the albino babies, crying their pink diamond tears,

and fluttering their red, toothless, frog-like gums

I'll lock them away in the stable, for a night,

alongside the fat corpse of a sacred cow

Perhaps they deserve to cry

They aren't old enough to imagine Christ,

in slow motion, pushing a vacuum cleaner

back and forth, across a rug

I am legally deaf to their nonverbal language

Underneath my loose hood, to hide

the permanent wrinkle of my face,

dead mites are fertilizing the gilded lilly

that blossoms forever, post-impeachment,

like a handicapped archangel suspended in time

Which leads me to believe

I need not take responsibility for the petty crimes

I once committed out of spite - the slur campaign I ran

against my own circulatory system, and the nights

I'd eagerly trespass on private grounds

The sublime beauty and grandeur of my

extended kittenhood, the sacred relics I pump with my hands,

and the waste that trails behind me during the moulting season

is, naturally, irrelevant

and should perhaps be challenged at a war crimes trial

Would Your Artwork Have Been Approved By the Third Reich?

2008-04-08T20:41:00.004-05:00

NO.

Found Poetry from Mid-January.

2008-04-07T21:08:00.008-05:00

Recently I had the opportunity to study in time for a nice lobster dinner.

These intangibles are absolutely central.

It's really a lot like choosing a college professor, better yet, a hairdresser

who is able to get me wrong. I don't even possess a picture of her.

Years ago, I would have leapt up from my bed,

grabbed my camera and held down the bass line, pumping an

interesting pattern of long-distance dispersal.

Things get a litter trickier when trying to get at the qualities we provide to nature.

As I lay in bed drifting

back to sleep, I wondered what the future

holds.

Somewhere off to the left,

another bittern responded. A low note

penetrated our consciousness slowly.

Scientists

remain unsure, and many now look at how it might be affected by competition

in the future.

Well, I selfishly feel bad that I will not have access to my bird.

My concerns tended to consist of just getting everyone to the boat

--- Words and sentences taken from various birding magazines.

A PRESENT TO MYSELF AND MY PETS.

2008-03-20T00:06:00.007-05:00

I will not make any more boring art.

I will not break any more snoring hearts.

I will not bake any more deploring tarts.

I will not wake another adoring Bonaparte.

I will not take Hermann Goering's pastry cart,

or comment on his calorie chart. In fact,

I'll stay away from the grocery mart.

I'll hang with Rene Descartes and kick

start gettin' smart. Soon everyone will

take part and read pie charts, diagram

plant parts, eat crab cakes a la carte.

We'll set ourselves apart, take ourselves

off the marriage mart, forget the shopping

cart -not go to K-Mart. We'll fight a

war and win a purple heart. And, finally,

when we fall apart, we'll say, "Good

thing I didn't make any more boring art."

Half of a Dialogue, 3/18/07.

2008-03-19T01:15:00.005-05:00

"Virginia's Granddaughter Commands a Conversation"

I wanna say I was born in California. Um, well actually, er, I mean ... Okay, I'm from Michigan. Yeah, up north. That's why I can't say "ya'll" without curling my lip and sticking out my tongue and pretending to vomit. I've never told anyone aside from you that I'm a Yankee, Charles, so do us both a favor and keep it to yourself. See, if my mother finds out, I'm dead meat. She'll cut me off. I'll have to move to a slum. I'll have to throw away my mobile phone. We won't be able to engage in the same amorous banter we've always enjoyed so much. So just don't say anything to anyone, okay? In fact, why don't we make a pact? If you agree never to speak another word in English, ever, to anyone, ever again, I will do the same. Oh, Charles! Get this! I realized something today ... I realized that I am actually quite pretty, so if you ever wanna date or something ... y'know, let me know. Just come up to my apartment and ask me out. I'm upstairs in #12. I'll say "yes". We could maybe catch a cab and go out dancing or drinking. Maybe afterwards I'll let you french kiss me in public for half an hour before we both head home. I could become your girlfriend and we could "do it" occasionally, on nights when neither of us are too busy. I usually have a few essays to write, and I think you enjoy spending a lot of time alone. Did I get that right? Or maybe it's the other way around. Well, we'll figure it out if we need to. It's just, wow ... Y'know? ... It's amazing to realize that you're female after having spent your whole life thinking you're a freak. Have you decided whether or not you're male yet, Charles? Wait! Whenever you figure that out ... I mean, if you figure out that you are indeed male, maybe we could marry! Oh, it would be so precious. Ha-ha. You'd get down on one knee with your weird hair falling all over your brow, and I'd touch my face nervously. You'd propose and I'd say "yes", and we'd collapse into the longest, deepest embrace any human has ever collapsed into. I want to cry just thinking about it, Charlie. I've always thought you were the cutest boy I've ever met ... God, you have the nicest hands ... Am I getting too carried away? Yeah, I guess I am ... I'll stop. But just imagine it for a minute. We'd be the most handsome couple. We could maybe erect huge shrines out of modeling clay and install them in all of our closets. Ha-ha! Our friends would think we were so weird ... They'd want to be us! Oh, I'm sorry ... God, it's always been so hard to get myself to stop once I've gotten started on something! Especially love and romance. I'm actually quite passionate. I'd kiss you all over. But, y'know, if that doesn't sound like fun to you, I wouldn't really have much of a problem growing old alone. I could get an RV and live for a year in every state. I'll probably die when I'm about 70, right? Especially if I don't give up smoking. Hah! Maybe sooner! But, yeah, that sounds about right. A year in every state. I've always wanted to be an artist like you, Charlie. You're just so cute when you talk about Duchamp with such confidence, as if you knew him personally. I could try doing that too. I'd probably just lie a lot, though. Hah! I'd probably say things like, "Well, yes, he loved custard! He ate it all the time!" Silly, huh? Hey ... Charles ... You look really upset. Is something wrong? Have I made you angry again? Don't be mad. Please don't be mad. I was just talking. God, why do I always have to fuck these things up? Maybe I should move away from you, Charles. You don't seem to like me very much. For a minute, I thought I was pretty. Maybe I'm not. Maybe we're both too demented, d'you think? Or maybe the work we both do makes us too tired for love. Just, let's sleep on it. Let's just ... take a breath and ... think about something nice. Do you like swimming? I used to swim a lot. I could swim really fast and hold my breath underwater for a really long time. Then I got pneumonia. After that, my lung capacity was never the same. And when I started to "develop", I felt awkward in my bathing suit. Maybe I'll start swimming again some time. I think I'll wear a t-shirt and shorts, though ... Charles, have I ever told you that you remind me so much of my grandfather? He was in the war. I can't remember if he fought in Africa or the Pacific, though ... Anyway, after the war, he started drinking a lot. I think he used to beat my mom. You don't remind me of him in that way ... I think maybe it's just your stature or your socks. Actually, I think his name was "Charles" too. Funny, isn't it?

Poem from January 29th, 2008.

2008-02-25T11:55:00.006-06:00

"The Pistol"

Dear wood-horse riders,
May you sit astride your kindling steed forever, trotting forward
Past circular signals launching towards the midnight satellite,
Still tenderly humming their cheerless spacetime eulogies
You lead a much simpler life now - a life of snakes and ladders,
Of black box desperation and crippled sisters
You can be found feeding sweet treats to canines,
Watching coyotes bite off bits of butterscotch bisquettes,
And bestowing unclaimed kisses upon your wrinkled hands

Dear lovelorn basket-bearer,
This is your modified tarot card, sent dripping diagonal
It slips from the table, reeking of bayou musk and Pagan magic,
Warning that your slick webbing won't prevent future aerial bombardment
Or the silent, microscopic navigation of a warm germ through your gut
And as you yelp into the abyss, like a prick-eared bat,
Never expect the voices of the zodiac to come whirring back,
Promising lust, love, and the eventual return of lost luggage
I do not doubt that you are your own luminary

Dear kindred animal,
You territorial cephalopod, all wet and tentacular,
As oblivious to sentimental, silver tokens as you are,
You possess the same rainbow glow of a junkyard gas stain at high noon
You delight me, you rouse me from my bed, you do not quell my hunger
I shake my rattle bone and celebrate such a timeless unearthing
And when you sputter, gag, and go out with explosive plumes of colored smoke
Your admirers will bask in the hot breath of a dying machine,
Collapsing into the reflection they've cast upon it's metallic muscle

Poem from May 5th, 2007.

2008-02-25T11:53:00.004-06:00

"Spinal Birthday"
Come now, Jephthah, you fan-tailed favorite
My son of eastern fire, the ceremony of a thwarted spirit
Gift the satin bowerbird with blue things
And a ribbon to twist inside its satin bowerbeak
For the weight of the world rests in its love nest
Jephthah, we've failed to incubate the egg with our bellies
Come dancing, we should please it
We should not try to move it
Six-pointed, a woman exhales
And we wonder if he really had blue eyes
White star, thank you for sharing
Tall stag, you know the antediluvian truths
Cancer is a helpful left, Odin's screen and wire
Scream "Jephthah!" as we leave the sinning South

Poem from August 13th, 2007.

2008-02-25T11:51:00.006-06:00

"The Slack and The Snake"

Twins, as read by a million, will not be wedged apart or widowed
They will play a dual role, as their acquaintances delight
In watching them balance the see-saw : gracefully, telepathically
And in the harsh sun of a national holiday, they pool their pyrotechnics
And the patriotic, prostatic youth dive to their knees as the twain conducts wild fire
O, how they bully against the gravity that dampens our Proud Land!
The step together, with the cool coordination of a witch doctor
They call it new magic, the Twin Flame.

And in the half-light of July's first crimelessly cleaved crescent,
Love and gender turn wonder to ruin
Our pair, the reunion of God's most divine creation : limp meat to be carved
While one tires of the mountain climb, dreams of stumbling towards the trench,
The other is poised to divert the next infant-faced girl on which he will dribble his spit
There is a dripping laceration behind their dismal formalities, the ink on paper
There is freedom in division, brute strength in a War of Nerves,
As unforgiving as the hatchet's cutting edge.

Poem from September 7th, 2007.

2008-02-25T11:49:00.003-06:00

"Joy To The World"

No Inuit dancer, no clever pilgrim, no unsettled tramp
Will follow the half-hunted animal underneath the tripwire
They return to their atmospheric, bug-hum campfire song,
Waving to the weak bearcat, begging loudly: "Bleed, idiot!"

The thick, foaming marrow of a young kitten,
Curling into a hole, unwelcome and ebbing
It calls for Mother - it calls for a crib, a cradle, a casket
It says, "Meo! Meo! Meo-mow, meo-mar!"
It says, "Culous to me! His arment ar least!"

Splayed, lipless, leafless, dead in the turnip bed
The children examine its empty ocular cavities
And puncture its fly-bait scabs with sharp twigs
They delight in its expiration - O, happy day!

Father will carve it, they know.
For mealtime tomorrow, he will.
So they play with it now, they do.
'Til the cat is boney, boney and brown.

This is Sunday's breakfast-themed breakfast:
The guests will set their books on their laps,
Hold a fork, dip a spoon, and the room will smell of hot syphilus,
Sugar, suasage, and the slimy insides of an egg.

Superman.

2008-02-12T14:01:00.002-06:00

To all outlaws and lawyers ... To all Gentiles and Jews ... To all children and scholars ... To all things terrestrial:

I want to be crucified sideways, so that I can be read over quickly, from left to right, like a pitiful paperback novella. I want to be crucified at the school. I want an ordained minister or, better yet, an ordained art historian to drive the final stake through my skull, slowly, with an offensively somber smile on his face. This event will be open to the public. All proceeds will be donated to Burger King. Personality tests to be administered at the door. Admission: $5.00, bring your own beer. Singing and dancing: encouraged, but optional. There will be a barbecue out back after dark. Bring your friends, family and pets, and please recycle all aluminum cans. For amateur insect-enthusiasts: annual firefly count to take place on same night. Camp-out sleep-over. There will be ghost stories. Plenty of hot dogs. Lights out early. Bring tents, pillows, midnight snacks, and prescription sleep aids. Burial at daybreak. Event of the year. Be there.

In case of rain, event will take place at Toys 'R' Us.

Just Waving To Say:

2008-02-06T02:40:00.002-06:00

I Think I Wanna Go (Away).

2008-02-03T11:49:00.000-06:00

Need to do song paintings. Tap into that color synesthesia craziness. Break songs up into 3-second intervals of sound. Settle on arrangement of pieces. Contact humans who make music, preferably those humans who write songs that sound like they could have been written for the soundtrack to some mythical journey to recover a collection of misplaced, magical relics. TOTAL CHAOS ENSUES.

Also need to begin THE SECRET EXPERIMENT. So, practice cuteness and stealth. Wear rubber gloves. Tricks and treats.

Bees on branches. Scrap wood. Do something about that goddamn living room // consider moving to deCleyre. WEVL needs Dance Hawk. Art history: school and get schooled (emphasis on contemporary art). Gain the respect of A.D. and D.D. Write the fuck out of Writing II. Read and write more poems. Edit that GODFORSAKEN mess I scrawled last week. Decide how I feel about this, once and for all. Respond to it. Learn to act female (OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE). Website for warehouse with Rowlett. Do something seasonal before season is out. Learn how not to get dysentery in Mexico. Coerce Taylor into collaborating with me on translation project. More of Opie's slide lectures.

Yeah. Oh yeah.

Forcing Solid Objects Into Dreams, Part 1.

2008-01-16T13:17:00.000-06:00

Hot pink bathing suit.

Old Testament VS. Grand Canyon.

2008-01-15T13:55:00.000-06:00

If my nerve holds up, I have a good fifty years left to establish my place in time. Maybe I'll do one or two of the following things to keep myself busy.

- Realtime documentation of how art is affected by gravity
- Nature as something that does not exist in the world of art // Culture as something that does not exist in the natural world // Finding a middle ground.
- Painting as an expensive, time-consuming, and ultimately self-defeating preoccupation // the self-referring reference to defeat all other self-referring references // three-deminsional, meticulously painted, functions as both painting and sculpture (either being undeniably traditional), one subject matter that can be perceived as either esoteric or exoteric, depending solely on the viewer.
- Does the possible sustainability of photography, video, and other digital media denote the dawning of a new era? // How does this affect the "art" experience? // viral distribution of art / art as pandemic / provoke an outcry: "Where does it end?" // testing the patience of the viewer, thus testing the limits of art (assuming there are any).
- A call for progress - invite artists to pioneer the next great frontier, art as science, and vice versa // art for the posthuman: defining the baseline, staging a conquest, and paving the way for other transhumanists (present and future) // promote transformational activism in the bloated, transcendental art-realm.
- How obsession affects the artist and, subsequently, the work they produce, while acknowledging the obsession as a self-imposed, psychological construct // Forcing obsessive behavior in order to perform a sort of self-sacrificing experiment // a nod to outsider artists.
- Lofty goals: Grand, imposing machines that do not function - How and why do these things provoke an emotional/intellectual response? // The idea of "resolution" as a motivator // Science fiction as prophetic thinking.
- At what point does art become punishable? (launching point: United States - to eventually be compared with other regions of the world) // "It's just art!"

Or maybe I'll drop out of school and write cheap, paperback romance novels until I am tragically overcome by a case of chronic paranoid schizophrenia. Either way, I do hope I am able to keep my peers amused with my erratic bursts of enthusiasm and unrelenting need to analyze everything.

The Giving Three.

2007-12-16T14:24:00.000-06:00

I'll keep working.

Center for Biological Diversity.

2007-12-16T02:00:00.000-06:00

I am not trying to glorify anything.

God Is A Mouse.

2007-12-13T14:57:00.000-06:00

So for the past few years, I've found myself compulsively drawing pictures of children interacting with their environment in curious, whimsical ways. Whether these drawings were intended to portray actual, literal events, or if they are portraying something completely imagined, I am not sure ... But it's definitely become a theme: these strange, reciprocal actions shared between unlikely structures ... A human(s) and a pair of boots, a feather, a turtle, a four-leaf clover, a sleeping dog, drapery ... What is this? What is being exchanged? What is being intellectualized?

I thought about it for a moment this morning, and, in some awkward attempt to account for what it is I can't stop doing, wrote a quick, embarassingly messy statement.

This series of drawings reflects a kind of spiritual desperation, a cry for belonging in a world of endless, foreboding parallels. Brought up within the architectural confines of the church, with none but the chaplain to preach ethics and morality, our innate longing to express creative power is stifled. This is a survey on metaphysical exploration through the spectrum of childhood. Children possess the unique aptitude to feel empathy for all material structures, both large and small, both organic and inorganic - a precious, transient inclination to question, challenge, and eventually apply meaning to all that presents itself to them. These objects and organisms are not perceived as obstacles which one must overcome in order to someday meet some higher, celestial entity, but as vehicles through which they, themselves, will structure their own, uniquely tailored system of ethics, based upon that which exists within life. Emotional damage is not being sustained, it is being diverted and/or transformed. Are innocence and impartiality the antithesis to scholasticism? God only knows!

Tri-light.

2007-12-05T00:20:00.001-06:00

I'm imagining everything ten minutes too late.

Hello, obverse everything.

HIGH JUMP HORSE JUMPS HIGH.

I'm goin' to Mexico.

Right Hand / Left Hand

2007-11-18T21:30:00.000-06:00

A Collection of Sentence Fragments That Appeal To My Literary Aesthetic:

Coyotes biting off bits of butterscotch bisquettes. Modified tarot cards, dripping diagonal and reeking of Pagan magic. Provoked by the sweet smell of housepaint, smoke, and dry leaves. The territorial cephalopod, all wet and tentacular. Seventeen, indeed. Perhaps in Saskatoon, in a little red kayak. Oblivious to sentimental, metallic tokens. Possessing the same little rainbow glow of a junkyard gas stain at high noon. And the creek ran dry.

I don't know what to tell you, sister person. These past few months have been ... taxing. Taxing? Yeah, "taxing". I'm currently breaking. Thanksgiving breaking ... -ing, that is. I've got a whole week full of nothing, and I'm thrilled to death. This, of course, means that I finally have the time to read a damn book, go grocery shopping for the first time in over three months, and paint. Really paint. Gracious. Just imagine that.

To You, You, and especially You:
Come home, already! 'fore I get all lethargic and disinterested.

I Remember Learning How To Dive

2007-11-02T00:19:00.000-05:00

Cats look like slippers when they tuck their legs underneath their furry little bodies.

Hello, Art School.

2007-10-12T14:57:00.004-05:00

Fact: I'm flighty, fickle, and shifty as Hell.

So I took my four A's, one B, and an F, crept away from the University of Memphis, and found myself as a weak and diseased appendage of the Memphis College of Art student body. I will say this: You encounter fewer Bluetooth headsets at art schools, that's for sure. While it is refreshing not to have to guess whether your classmates are raging schizophrenics, or struggle against a sea of rolly backpacks, MCA has proven itself to be quite the murky, incestous breeding pool for the stylish ignoramus. Looks as if every alcohol-dependent, psuedo-political 18 year-old in the tri-state area hightailed it to Memphis to play their role in the same artsy-fartsy club I've landed myself in. Oh, I'm having a field day ...!

My room is blanketed in a layer of black, white, and gray Stonehenge paper (which, I might add, costs a pretty penny), my bank account is starving to death, and I've somehow managed to end up with the rubber cement in my mouth on numerous occasions. Delicious.

I'll be honest with you, Internets, I'm a bit disappointed in myself for abandoning that cute little Creative Writing major I was going after. Something one of my I.P.C. instructors told me last Tuesday really struck a cord:

"If speech were perfect, there would be no need for art."

I wanted to do what I could to enrich the literary world. I wanted to publish a book of poems, a book of short stories, a novel or two or three or four. I wanted to be l'enfant terrible, the wayward lovechild of Robert Desnos and Flannery O'Connor, see poetic love curse the poetry slam. I wanted a shelf of my own, somewhere. I still do, actually, but I'm walking in the wrong direction.

So I'll open my Moleskine, draw a picture and have a rip-roaring good time. O hai, fine arts. How are you? Let's go play. Let's try and ignore the fact that the literary world is lurching to-and-fro like a stupid, clumsy cow.

But, you knw ... So far, I've enjoyed being educated at the Memphis College of Art. It's ... interesting, to say the least.

We'll see how it goes, yeah?