Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Meat Grows in the Haystacks

Around one o' clock, the balloons arrived, most gelatinous.
All were colored.  All was equal to five.  All were cultures, actively meating.

Julia placed them in a large refrigerator box.  Julia balanced them on her palm, but mostly they rolled slightly like overturned turtles.

Later, after a communal, convivial dessert of poached pears with many guests from the local sub-committee,
the magicians arrived and promptly made blue oranges.
Like all magic, it was nothing to sniff at until sniffed out.
Enthusiastically, Julia stuck her nose into this business.
Promptly a magician held her down and the other shat on her nose.  "And that's how you get party favors round here," said the tall magician.
Within moments Cohen's Drug Store called, inquiring after a lost green bag with squishy handles.
Promptly the tall magician naked to his socks found, hiding in the pantry, behind some canned cut green beans, the lost green bag with the squishy handles, which were just as described, if not even moreso.
With a whittled turkey-baster he shaved his forehead off moistly into the green bag.
Likely it was posted the next morning to an unsuitable heaven by a great shadow you've understood.

Much is not known, as is commonly known.  What is known is that the balloons almost made it by some form of magic to a young boy many towns and conceptual zones away, but they didn't make it there, that is known.  What difference this makes has yet to be sniffed out.

Into certain walnuts, the boy had projected obscene hilarities.
Out in the street under Mrs. Briggs fig tree, he displayed them like prized marbles to his peers.
One walnut he called "Mamaw."  Dimpled, wrinkly with a canyon down the middle of its humps,
this walnut reminded him of his mother, nude, her back turned to him and her face bent down into the toilet.
He thumbed it long. He spun it, clacking.  The peers watched, peering.

He had grown up next to the unionized slaughteryards.  Later biographers would see a certain fateful sense in this information.

Recently the boy was apprehended functioning bodily in early dawn.  He was found in a Northeast-side slaughterhouse less than a mile from his childhood home urinating and defecating in the freezers.
Inquiries made by those paid to feign curiosity with their inquiries determined that the boy had finished a Salisbury steak and snowpea television-dinner, had watched the news with his Mamaw, kissed her goodnight, and sometime around 10 pm EST snuck out of the shotgun house through window-form egress.  A little after 10 pm EST, Joe Hunter Briggs was awakened by the boy who was becoming a man or whatever at the same pace everyone becomes a man or whatever else hurling walnuts at his window.  Briggs and the boy snuck into the slaughteryard through the southwestern gate, at which point, Briggs asserts the boy-whatever began chanting "Meat grows in the haystacks! Meat grows in the haystacks!"

Uncomfortable but moderately interested, Briggs followed the boy into the northside pigpens near the foot of the greased conveyor.  There the boy-whatever reportedly let out a wild cry and oped the gate.  He awakened a large sow with many suckling still glumly attached.  The boy-thing proceeded to ride her in spite of her several indeterminately mellifluous vocal protestations and wild flesh-bucklings, more loudly chanting, "Meat grows in the haystacks! My body feels literally bad!"  The boy took out an applicator of lush red lipstick (precise shade undetermined) and began drawing broad smiles on the sow whilst forcefeeding her walnuts he had named after internationally known pornographic film stars.  Briggs asserts that at this point he left, went home, and reported the event not to the authorities but in a hyperbolic facebook status update which was seen by the insomniac wife of a slaughteryard foreman, who in his turn notified Sheriff's Deputy Cole Truman Potterling, the officer on duty who subsequently found the bruised boy, over a 120 painted smiling pigs, and close to a ton of spoiled meat, including spiced sausage, bratwurst, and pickling feet.

At what point (if any) the brain can be said to be fully formed and consequently capable of "decisions," has, so far, not been raised as a concern.  Likely it will never be raised, or, at least, not in the span of practical time in such regards as these.

For the boy, he will be tried as an adult or as a juvenile, as if these categories had a meaning beyond the justice we wish to mete.  Presently, the boy or man is snacking or lunching on something. Whether it be sweet or savory, undeniably it is like all snacks or lunches; it must be sweet or savory or some combo thereof, taken at morning, noon, or night, or somewheres in those betweens, and if the hunger is small, perhaps it is a snack,  yet if the hunger is small but the fear of not eating again soon should meet with a large amount of food, perhaps, then, it is a lunch in spite of its own desire; and if the hunger is great but it meet with a small amount of food, perhaps it is a begrudged lunch, a lunch that hunger with its great dignity would begrudge most greatly to call a lunch, much less a snack.  So often it is like this and like so many other variations, the dignity of reason appalls at finding an universal ground for dignity and can almost admire walnuts as primitive Venuses and a painted sow as a most becoming rictus attesting of desirable desires.

ekaterina, twelfth and a year too late

science is doing amazing things and a few scientific facts have struck me lately:

fact: the average person experiences one to four miracles each week, although
it is possible to experience five or six or even eight if you really pay attention

fact: the total volume of the earth's oceans could fill every human who ever lived once,
but if you were to measure the cumulative volume of every tear cried in human history
it would refill the ocean twice: this is what happens when the Will Rogers phenomenon
meets Torricelli's trumpet as considered in light of Kavka's toxin puzzle,
because the human soul is of unlimited surface area, but it's capacity shifts
depending upon whether intention is the only quality necessary for reward

fact: the original costume designed for the title character of the 1987 film predator
was to be worm by jean-claude van damme and appeared to be perpetually auditioning
for a spot in the video for genesis's hit single i can't dance, not released until 1991
to the acclaim of at least one fan, who fondly recalls those better days back when:

fact: were you to list all the facts, you might be greatly helped by ordering said facts
thematically, and yet this might just as easily become a hindrance about halfway though

fact: facts are ideas not science, but science is facts, a fact that itself adheres
to the metzler paradox, since the internal value has been reduced by the tariff
on the imported good, a cultural conundrum that expands universally as we
continue to fail to solve as a nation the obesity crisis in the nursing homes

fact: pope francis has declared mother maria theresia bonzel venerable, since she cured
four year old luke burgie of his six month run of the runs, even though she died in 1905,
and luke burgie is now eighteen, enjoys bmx and definitely does not care for diarrhea

fact: you just can't make some shit up, and then sometimes you do
internet internet internet internet internet internet: tour de force

Predator Design - Van Damme


Monday, April 29, 2013

art history for dummies: quattrocento

physicality of stop motion on film coveys tactility
to a generation believing beetlejuice is realistic in effect

advances in computer generated imagery to bridge uncanny valley
convince another generation iron man 3 is realistic by comparison
in a world where the logic of touch means touching with the eyes

medieval flatness is a distortion of the fifteenth century lens

art history for dummies: 1924

the structure of two skyscrapers symbolizing capitalism's global embrace
is irrevocably compromised by two planes, one american, the other united

five million barrels of oil leaves once white sea birds glistening negatives

a hurricane ravages the hub of the art world, its widely read newspaper
bestows upon us pictures of trendsetting galleries flooded with filthy water

a gunman opens fire on the latest batman movie, tells police, "i'm the joker,"
but bane is the bad guy of the latest batman movie, so who even understands

a gunman dashes into a crowded building firing randomly at school children

kitchen appliances explode, relieving marathon runners of their running limbs

everyone thinks surrealism is fun, until it happens to them

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Spurs sweep Lakers after Howard is ejected

its ok
everyone is injured
has been since game two
thats what Dwight was telling us

getting ejected
like their bodies
ejected them

its ok               now
we have a reason
we can understand


Friday, April 26, 2013

A Principal, A Dog, A Lovesnake

Once, a dog went to the store with a local elementary principal.
They had nothing to say to each other.
After all, one was a dog and not even, for all of that, the principal's dog.
Unremarkably, they bought things at the store.
The elementary principal bought batteries, loose ruled paper, mothballs, hankies, and some rat traps.  The dog bought nothing, having no money, but snooted around the chips, padded near the slushies, and gamboled briefly near the gasoline pumps, oiling his paws watery rainbows.
A man in a large red truck took pity on his innocence and pulled beef jerky out of his dashboard.  He fed it to the dog, open-palmed. Drool fell like bread on his working man's cracked paws. Everyone got his, someway.
It was a hot day.  It was only a few blocks home.
The dog panted.  The principal panted.
They walked in tandem, back from whence they came.
Does the principal have focus in the classroom?
I have never seen him wear glasses.  Of contacts, I haven't a clue.
The principal looked at the blue blueish sky and didn't see it coming.
The dog smelled it coming.
He had a long life and today, of all days, free food, exercise, happiness and no reason to expect more than a nominal increase in such pleasure.
The rattlesnake shot coolly out of the bracken, bit the dog below the left eye and clung like a terrible lint.
The principal ran away, dry-eyed.
Love was a foreseeable snake.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

my other other benz is a bitcoin

this is to invite you to the opening reception for my new installation:
i will flood all the galleries in chelsea, and call the piece "i own seapunk."

you really don't know the best artist you don't know and neither do i: i look into your face
and see that some fucking hurricane can always just blow that artist away anyway, literally

anyway,  i'm not from around these parts, so please talk bumpkin to me: our puppies are cuter,
our kitties are cuter, our kids all still get hit with the ugly stick, thank god for youtube.

i'm thinking of a new performance called "operation vegetarian;" a multidisciplinary work,
experts will quibble, "but is it art?" the media will totes adorbs and make more money than me.

it all begs the question: am i a bad person just because i do bad things?
bear in mind, as a taxpayer, there's a robot drawing dicks on mars.

i'm beginning to think the best art you can do these days is just to be honest,
like, just tell people your honest opinion and watch them feel things, it's sharing

get in on the ground floor; two years from now the new york times will write,
"new trend in chelsea galleries: honesty," and they'll tell you they invented it.

i saw a girl the other day in red sneakers; i looked up into her face, covered in rosacea;
i thought this was deeply beautiful and, "who says us bumpkins aren't fashion-forward?"

to do: 1. think about anne frank thinking about peeing from her clitoris, 2. invest in money
before the bubble bursts, 3. don't move to new york, you'll never make it, not further than philly

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Kobe Poems


and for those reasons I hardly care
watching on my phone
two minutes behind
a live shot chart 
at 1am

Utah has already won
its up to the Lakers now
to hold on to number eight

my body when
           I see they win
as tho its involved in
beating Golden State 
                  a proper playoff team
despite Stephen Currys 47 points

and      rechecking in the morning
learning that Kobe didnt take the final shot
despite hitting two consecutive threes

for a reason     a torn achilles
putting him out for the season
no playoffs      possibly not ever

Shaq retired this way     you know
and I feel a real sense of loss 

I feel    a real sense     of loss

even tho          as concerns Kobe
I never got the taste of Colorado
properly out of my mouth

even tho          we believe
he didnt do it

have                 for some
time now

I think
its because
this activity


the Lakers have since won out
beating the spurs and rockets
two more “proper playoff teams”
to become the seventh seed
in the west

where weeks ago they seemed a ways
away from eight

this now          
all without Kobe

suggesting that the Lakers
are now           D Hows

like the Heat   are LeBrons
like they came to
belong to him

“when he made
D Wade
say so”

only less interesting

Monday, April 15, 2013

#dadmoney ON. . . the bulldogg inn show

On a scale from 1 to wack-as-all-get-out, some of y'all was ringing in at this level here:



p.s. who wants to go to the beach next weekend!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Last Night I Dreamt About the LiLo

Last night I dreamt about the LiLo.  She was really nice!  We went to a few parties with our friends, but we kept it all pretty low-key.  Still, it turned into one of those long nights where everyone knew a different place to go, and we all wanted to accommodate everyone.  So, by the end of everything we all just wanted to find a place to crash.  Lindsey and I ended up side-by-side, and we spooned.  It was sweet.  Her hair smelled nice, like she uses nice products.  And then I woke up!

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Beckett's Pooh by Samuel Beckett

           [Darkling stage.  A voice comes:]

Before Piglet.  During Piglet.  After Piglet.  Three Times I tell the tale of life with Piglet, without Piglet, without Piglet.

[A pause.  Darkling stage, fledgling light.]

Pooh:  Sanders is dead.  It is I who live under his name. Hush.  A visitor arrives.  No.  No one.  Perhaps my rectum.  People say nothing is impossible, but I do nothing everyday. Oh, bother. Bother? No bother to not build. Build with what. Too much wood and never enough. One-hundred acres, they say. But I’ll never know, stuck as I am in this hole. Stuck. Stuck, reaching for honey. Honey hole. 

[Looks at audience.]

They laugh. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. No. Nothing dear. Perhaps the bees will come. Perhaps they will come and they will sting my ruddy little bear face. Perhaps I’ll swell even larger then.  Perhaps I will become ever more stuck here. More stuck? Stuck more? My face swelled with pus, perhaps I’ll die just as my father died. Reaching for honey. Always there, out of reach. Fiddlesticks. Fiddlesticks. Fuck. Something has entered my rectum. I feel it crawling there. My mother was a sweet woman, sweet as honey, before my father fucked her. Fucked her rectum. Before I. Before I oozed from said rectum. Like honey. Honey. Honey stuck in the wood. As I. Stuck. Soon I’ll not be. Soon I’ll be not. Is it real love from the rectum? To put it there, put anywhere.  Anywhere better than nowhere?  Is it?  Is it real love from the rectum?
Piglet:  What ho Pooh, what ho!  Put it there, if you want it there.

[Looks at audience.] 

Pooh:  Laugh again. 

Pooh:  What rough bumbling tumbling beast comes bouncing on its bottom to put me on my ass, its hour come round at last?  Tigger tiggling tiger tigging.  Tiggles. Tiggles.  I’ll sit.  (screaming) PIGLET!  PIGLET!  Sound out the word now, purse my lips together, slight suckling of teeth, glottal stop. Pig. Pig. Lilting tongue to roof of mouth, flick against teeth, glottal stop. Let. Let. Pig. Let. Pig. Let. Pig. Let. Perhaps glottal stop is not the phrase I meant. PIGLET!
Piglet:  Pooh!  Pooh!
Pooh:  Piglet!  Piglet!  Where Piglet?  How Piglet?  Piglet come, come back, come first again Piglet, new Piglet, Piglet…
Piglet:  Ho Pooh!  Ho! 
Pooh:  What Piglet?
Piglet:  Nothing Pooh.
Pooh:  What Piglet?
Piglet:  Nothing Pooh, I just wanted to be sure of you.
Pooh:  Piglet!   Piglet!
Piglet:  Ho Pooh!
Pooh:  O phoo!  Pooh, I stuck in this hole, honeyhole.  Piglet is gone.  Pooh is alone.  Let’s sit down.


Pooh:  I used to believe in forever, but forever’s too good to be true.
Piglet:  (whispering)  Pooh!  Pooh!  We’ll be friends forever won’t we Pooh?
Pooh:  (authoritatively)  Even longer.  Even longer.  Longer than, at least, enough. And yet.
Pooh reaches the honey jar and honeys his hands, ejaculating grunts.
Pooh:  (ultimately articulate)  How lucky I am to have something to make saying goodbye hard.  Lucky.  Stuck but lucky.  Luck to be stuck. But what had luck to do.  Goodbye Piglet.  Goodbye Piglet.  Hard Piglet, without Piglet.  Hard luck stuck.  Goodbye.  Bye to bye, by and by. Again and again.
Piglet:  No Pooh.  Ho Pooh!  Here Pooh.  I, behind the light, Pooh.  In the shadow you cast, forgetting. Ho!  Ho!
Pooh:  Honey.
Piglet:  Honey.
Together: Honey.


Piglet:  Promise me you’ll never forget me because if I thought you would, I’d never leave you.
Pooh:  Let’s sit.


Piglet:  Ho Pooh!
Pooh:  Ho! What ho for honey pot.  What care for Pooh Bear. What ho. Start again.  Stuck again.

[Pooh handily retrieves pawful of honey, eats it snoutily, spilling.]

Piglet: Ho! I care!  I care for Pooh Bear!
Pooh:  Some people care too much. I think it’s called love. Does it care too much, in the rectum?
Piglet:  Ho Pooh, How do you spell it? Spell love?
Pooh:  You don’t spell it.  You feel it.  Feel it crawling.
Piglet:  Like rivers crawling.  Rivers know this.  Over the bones.  Licking.  No need to hurry.  We’ll get there one day.
Pooh:  Feel it.  Too much care.  So much honey.  Goodbye Piglet.  Hard Piglet.  Hard.  Let’s sit.  How lucky we are for this hard place.  Luck to be stuck between.  Between during.  Between after.  Yes.  No.  Even between before.  No.  No more.  Hard.

[Pause.  Darkling scene.  Fledgling light.  Light dies in the crib of the dark, a young light.]

[A voice comes from the dark:]

Pooh:  How now.  Pooh now.  Nevermore.  At last, not again.