Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Monday, December 27, 2010

because i
can't blow into the fucker,
why i
can't burn toast in this motherfucker.

i just
spent nine grand in my dui &
i didn't
kill a kid//

Sunday, December 26, 2010

The Bishop's Wife

“The Bishop’s Wife” is playing, where the angel Cary Grant’s grace inadvertently woos the guy’s wife & everyone else. The Bishop is resentful when Grant takes his wife skating & I don’t blame him, I think.

As I lay on my parents' couch, it’s not that I feel uncomfortable, maybe just too new—the white leather smells like a car or something, squeaks under my elbows when I prop myself up. The wood floor eradicates the carpet smell I remember as home. Mom’s coughing fits last scenes at a time. Dad & I say nothing: no impatient sighs, not even any jokes. He doesn’t turn up the volume as he maybe would have to her laughing chagrin. Seems he would have before. I make it a point to avoid their eyes as she hacks into her fist.

I think about wasted time, feel unorganized shame. Seems like I can’t enjoy this movie without an impure irony. I think their more genuine pleasure in this is the reward for a deliberate life, and all I want is to apologize. To hear them thank me for driving down for just one weekend, real sincere, no passive-aggression, no trailing off to suggest it’s maybe not enough, seems obscene.

Mom’s watching me drift. She’s got a frowny smile that shows her slow-growing jowls, that says this satisfaction, in whatever situation, is almost too much to bear. A smile so kind it turns in on itself. She turns it to me & I want to reflect it, to match the reason of her unconditional look. I want to absorb her growths, to find some reason in myself so more people can experience the wisdom of that smile, but I only blink long & my teeth show in a relaxed grin.

The Bishop was supposed to play Dudley, but Cary was a big seat-filler & now I don’t even remember the character’s name much less that of his portrayer. Everybody prefers the angel to the human; the Bishop holds no contest. How weak, imperishability, in the face of the individual's permanent mortal dirge. All Cary Grant had to do was exist as he was designed. His duty was to appear, to show some wandering theist how shitty he is, and then move on. Fucking bastard disappears soon as he feels something human, leaves the Bishop & me ambivalent, vacillating.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den - Chao Yuen Ren



Shyrshyh shyshyh Shy Shyh, shyh shy, shyh shyr shyr shy.
Shyh shyrshyr shyh shyh shyh shy.
Shyr shyr, shyh shy shy shyh shyh.
Shyh shyr, shyh Shy Shyh shyh shyh.
Shyh shyh shyh shyr shy, shyh shyy shyh, shyy shyh shyr shy shyhshyh.
Shyh shyr shyh shyr shy shy, shyh shyrshyh.
Shyrshyh shy, Shyh shyy shyh shyh shyrshyh.
Shyrshyh shyh, Shyh shyy shyh shyr shyh shyr shy.
Shyr shyh, shyy shyr shyh shyr shr, shyr shyr shyr shy shy.
Shyh shyh shyh shyh.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

3 Tiny Once-offs


It escapes my not head right? Christ, this feeling, this ohgod, absolute lonely & content, the beast wringing it out communication. Impossible to say what exactly mean I? Fallout, clunky. Bang a musical approx. No, a paint. No, a bang violent typestyle. A lonely, a shallow shadow. How? Of no beauty of truth on some gray.

' '

I wrote a poem about a wall. It was white or gray. It was too specific so I deleted it. I wrote a poem about a blank plane. It had no hue nor color. It was too perfect so I deleted it. I wrote a poem about a sphere. It was white or gray. It was too dynamic so I deleted it.


You hold no
mirror to me.
Art is not
supposed to be
that. That–
what you’ve done
with proportion,
does not reflect.
Too digital

the bird’s flight.

Why should he fly
any other way?

far too ugly
& alienating.
The wrong emotion
won’t get you
the wrong subject
will not hang
on my wall.

the good kind,
and nothing else
is truth.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

A Black Friday message from mIEKAL aND

A Black Friday message from mIEKAL aND via Drunken Boat

This guy's stuff is ugly, childlike & digital//is beginning to grow on me.

The Parable of Big Ant from mIEKAL aND on Vimeo.

Observing a human moment thru the eyes of honorable Big Ant, a procession is the process any organism takes as it evolves onward. Big Ant sees without seeing, each moment a wave swallowed by the next. Filmed in a moment of doubt while the moon was rising thru the window.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Mullah Mohammed Omar

In a Post-9/11 World

When I was born, Gila woodpeckers hacked their boots into saguaros like any other day.
When saguaros die, their skeletons splay and soon the scar tissue sac is all that's left.
A percussive to a child, a literal boot to try to fit and crack,
learn woody scars crack, and somehow later forget.

Feel our boots inside, our framework that either slowly erodes or all at once goes.
We all leave no matter how craftily we tear our homes into watery flesh,
our legacy in memory towers.
Symbols solidify & the wrens move in;
edify & pink eggs with brown spots;
crumble & I throw a sulfur rock at a wren's protruding head
that's watching Gila carve below.

Cool Facts
* The Cactus Wren is an active mobber of nest predators. A pair was observed attacking a Yuma antelope squirrel so vigorously that the squirrel became impaled on the thorns of a cactus called the cholla. The wrens continued to peck the squirrel until it was knocked to the ground where it escaped.

* The Cactus Wren destroys the nests of other bird species, pecking or removing their eggs, and can lower the breeding density of Verdins (another desert bird).

* Cold desert nights may have more of an impact on the success of Cactus Wren breeding than extremely hot daytime temperature.

Friday, November 5, 2010

queer art

Danny Jauregui

Johnny - Matt Lipps

Untitled (bar) - Matt Lipps

Glitter Cock - James P James

Mark, Savannah, Georgia, 2009 - Jeff Sheng

Thursday, October 28, 2010

I cannot think of a thing more redundant than sightseeing.

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Rough Song Sketch--

he hangs around the outside,
i hang around the outside, uh oh--
surrounds the grounds, the social round
knows the lay, the grass, the day--
he hangs around the outside.

weaves the day, knows the party,
he hangs around the outside.
a certain growth he's missing, so
got nothing to say, no why no how--
i hang around the outside now.

he hangs around the outside, yeah.
the bonfire's low, he stokes control
with no one else around.
a stunted wordflow, a social low
he hangs around the outside.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

72 words: Natt Spil

I went to hear about her children. Drank whiskey, saw Weedeater & then I was there to meet Nikki who always knows what’s down. I came for her maternal feminism, beyond any wave to number. Jeanette, she carries me with her, often I in my stupor. & we rolled around, guffaws eliciting polarizing reactions, & Mother Jeanette, she gave us PBR & related how her firstborn tugged toward his prismal Sleigh Bells.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Nicola Kuperus

I've always wondered if the photography for the ADULT. albums was by the same person, and it turns out it is! Singer Nicola Kuperus is actually an accomplished photographer with a degree in the field. Her work is a fine example of taking a concept and running with it. In Kuperus' case it's largely a study on female legs in heels with conservative office wear. The photographs on her site all contain some sort of violence, usually implied, many of which seem to nod to the 50s considering the cars and fashions that are involved. Though they can obviously be interpreted as a serious comment on the subjugation of women (back then? now?), the pictures are also often absurd and comical.

There's something very motionless and haunting about these pictures. I think they compliment her music well.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Michael Basinski

This fellow is becoming a huge inspiration. Maybe I'll make a turn--

Friday, July 30, 2010

Responses to article

'Should Madison gay rights protestors have kept quiet?'

'Emily's Post: Clever bigots are still bigots'

"Shouts while they speak"

Beating my head against brick,
blood in my eyes & phlegmscreams.
Scrape frontal lobe,
deadarms & apathy.
Can't see no more podium,
scream too loud to hear PA,
what do they say?


A monkey choking on his own blood,
my voice don't work no more,
throat filled with gore.
Held I a sign?

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

July 14, 2010

Sweltering day perfect for headphoned
dream-pop psychexplosion. Echoic hazy lovesounds
until inevitable sundown//Liars' looming menace,
violent takeover, such a small town.

blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood blood

Wednesday, May 26, 2010


Yesterday our activists took action using actual oil from the spill to paint “Arctic Next?” on the bridge of a drill supply ship contracted by Shell and due to head to Alaska for their Arctic drilling. Seven activists were arrested and are now being charged with felonies, for standing up to protect our oceans. Meanwhile, BP has to be criminally charged with anything!

Friday, May 14, 2010

Oil Slick

BP CEO Tony Hayward: It's "relatively tiny" compared to the "very big ocean."

Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour: "We don't wash our face in it, but it doesn't stop us from jumping off the boat to ski"

Fishermen in Venice, Louisiana and in other small communities dotting the southern marshes and swamplands of Barataria Bay are getting sick from the working on the cleanup, yet BP is assuring them they don't need respirators or other special protection.

Meanwhile, the women in Alaska only grow more insane.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

'Rejoyce' - Jefferson Airplane


Chemical change, like a a laser beam
you've shattered the warning amber light
Wake me warm
Let me see you moving everything over
smiling in my room
you know, you'll be inside of my mind soon

There are so many of you
White shirt and tie, white shirt and tie,
white shirt and tie, wedding ring, wedding ring.

Mulligan stew for Bloom,
the only Jew in the room
Saxon's sick on the holy dregs
and their constant getting throw up on his leg.

Molly's gone to blazes,
Boylan's crotch amazes
any woman whose husband sleeps with his head
all buried down at the foot of his bed.

I've got his arm
I've got his arm
I've had it for weeks
I've got his arm
Steven won't give his arm
to no gold star mother's farm;
War's good business so give your son
and I'd rather have my country die for me.

There are so many of you
Sell your mother for a Hershey bar
grow up looking like a car
there are
All you want to do is live,
all you want to do is give but
somehow it all falls apart

Sunday, May 2, 2010


Lambda indicates the radioactivity decay constant in nuclear physics and radioactivity. This constant is very simply related (by a multiplicative constant) to the half-life of any radioactive material.

In ecology, lambda denotes the long-term intrinsic growth rate of a population. This value is often calculated as the dominant eigenvalue of the age/size class matrix (mathematics).

Lambda denotes the failure rate of devices and systems in reliability theory, and it is measured in failure events per hour. Numerically, this lamba is also the reciprocal of the Mean time between failures.

Lambda is used as a symbol for separating the two human breasts in Internet chat iconography, specifically as " ( . λ . ) "

In criminology, lambda denotes an individual's frequency of offense.

In Volvo automobiles, lambda denotes an engine, fuel, or ignition system failure.

Friday, April 30, 2010


spaced, buzzing bliss, faded & blown-out, fuzzed-out sound. hiss of metallic feed-back, crescendo of exhalation, phasers, lo-fi large soundscape, snowy hazy stoned buzzing. wasted drone, drowned-out drughaze, white noise through blown headphones, dangerously loud, ear-damage effects, washed-out wall of sound. hard luck lovetones, speakers pan, mono, stereo, disintegrating structure, hard switches. underlying snowstorm vocals, a distant field, open growth louder than hell, ruptured irreversible melody vibrations rattling glass. blasted tide, rocks on the shore approaching sublime intervals, expanding, pitch-changing chord, wavering, clinging, lingering whitewashed overdose slim narrow shadowy relentless trash. screeching, last gasps of forced air, wind-erosion, brain-bleeding leisure. sexlaced and hardcore, dripping oilslick groans. the machine has started, the quietloudquiet is unsettled. reversed & polarized, major faded, creeping, angular//obtuse bifurcation. sawing lumber, distant traffic, sonic saturation, inundation, saltlines, self-destruction, the withering-away. monitors up, levels, off-key imbalance. extended blaring radiation, creeping wide-on full-fledged attack, grinding upsurge, waves rising. sustained distortion,crunching analog freak-out. disorientation, sin, cacophony, spattered canvas sideways glance. androgynous come-on, dirty mattress toss&turn, quivering destruction.

Monday, April 19, 2010

William Wordsworth - "The World is Too Much With Us"

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Two by E. E. Cummings

pound pound pound
on thy cold grey corona oh P.

but I would that my tongue could utter
the silence of Alfred Noise

Speak speak thou Fearful guest;tell me,immediate
child of Homer—when you wrote The Dial Cantos did you know
of the organ and the monkey?

Tears,idle Tears! I know not what you mean….
dear little Sweeny,child of fate,
how dost thou?—And the stiff dishonoured nightingales:

fled is that music. (I perceive
a with undubitably clotted hinderparts in obviously

compatriot;let us step into this metaphor.)


2 shes

both not quite
young perfectly

respectable obviously married

women each a you
know soup son more
a(with of course their well
above their showing

sit sat LOOK

ing and lookanding andlookingand at
what That)then i
laughing obvicouldn’t

ouslyhelp itwhy be

cause the
he can you sitting
on that bench in perfectly
bright obviously sunlight Right
before Every
one the yes Hole

WORLD was(praying chin up eyes

tightshut locked
hands pray)ing unbeliev
able he real
(when young was
niceyeslooking but some


how weak sort of or i doano)the
atrical now you
got me laughing but we shooden eye
can’t helped omygod hehehemygodhegodmy

god. Allatonce the apparition

arose and
looking straightahead


appea)ring a
mong treestreestrees


Monday, April 5, 2010

'Little Miss Echo' - Raymond Scott


i had a drug problem--i got caught//

1.5 pg.

'Midsummer' - Louise Glück

On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the girls’ clothes
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
leaping off  the high rocks — bodies crowding the water.

The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
marble for  graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
buildings in cities far away.

On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were dangerous,
but in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were after.
The summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off
but always there were a few left at the end — sometimes they’d keep watch,
sometimes they’d pretend to go off  with each other like the rest,
but what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be them.
But they’d show up anyway, as though some night their luck would change,
fate would be a different fate.

At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together.
After the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed,
then we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we’d meet
and the nights we wouldn’t. Once or twice, at the end of summer,
we could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing.

And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
The game was over. We’d sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes,
worrying about the ones who weren’t there.

And then finally walk home through the fields,
because there was always work the next day.
And the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the morning,
eating a peach.  Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth.
And then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields.
One boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
The house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built.

And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night.
Standing at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen.
And a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat,
wanting the heat to break.

Then the heat broke, the night was clear.
And you thought of  the boy or girl you’d be meeting later.
And you thought of  walking into the woods and lying down,
practicing all those things you were learning in the water.
And though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you were with,
there was no substitute for that person.

The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages:
You will leave the village where you were born
and in another country you’ll become very rich, very powerful,
but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though
you can’t say what it was,
and eventually you will return to seek it.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Monday, March 29, 2010

28 1/3

A third is best expressed in a fraction
over a decimal
while a fourth's superior parlance is decimal
for no zeros or fractions'
signals power in any number, even if it is only a part of another number
provided that the other number is not so big a number
as six million or any other permutation of seven numbers
and that zero even counts, bracketing all numbers