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