Monday, November 30, 2015

Fog, the Dog Eye Mirrors & Golden Ground that Push Though

Seven meteors fell across my face in the last five days I saw you.

Our telomeres shortened as we waited, malnourished, the feeling of separation, of chromosomes fraying, getting sticky.
Exiting, you sublimated unready (I
wouldn't admit & no point to recognize), collected
in thick the thick fog that would have been outright cinematic
to anyone not in shock.  The mirrors in German Shepherd eyes,
our quiet words.  I am positive I told you how much I love fog. 

No, you were the fog//

How you’d love us walking in it,
the flora around us & churning in our guts,
our dogs, slack-leashed;
unsure what to say but being. 

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Fractal w/Dick


no. heh, i want you to know i appreciate you on this weird psycho/physical level i don’t have with anyone else, so it’s that much hotter to know you in that way.  i’m at a very sad place & can tell you’re a very good person so i feel okay telling you this.  you're important to me; i love to recall your touch--it's life, it gives me those tingles & i feel special like you do to me.
photos obv by nikola kuperus

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Small Town Internet Ritual

I'll come in a spectre, silently, 
pervade the woods.  They'll see
me at their jobs, sometimes 

[Put the gun in my hand.]

out at the bar--no fag for miles,
I'll be in the cracks of the Internet, 
Waiting to collect & be adored. 

[Put the gun in my hand.]

The rural fog of unfamiliarity
will cloak me, boys walking in the woods. 
The grinding machines & their smokestacks

[Put the gun in my hand.] 

muffle our moans, theirs confused & mine elsewhere. 

Friday, August 28, 2015

Wm. Notes

This guy is American as hell.  I mean, more American than me.  THE FIRST WORD HE LEARNED WAS ‘MONEY.’  He’s lived here longer, anyway.  Got a Mark Twain mind, but boy do his stories go on; is there a point? 

Yes, I began to nod off & he called me out on it.  Called me out for that weird mullet or whatever thing I have going on, too.

Dishwashers as sterilizers—

Snakes in the jungle; a pedal-operated sewing machine; striped scarves; alpaca hair; altitude, slope.

Do you know anyone who has worked at the airport?  I don’t.

Assemblage sculpture(not dada): truck bed:(wing)bird::plane(wing):Clippers
Literature & philosophy led him to barber.  His allusion to Marquez was of overt racism I edited out.  A black man shot his daughter multiple times at the post office & she was the only to survive.

Regular haircut clients, some balding; order, play with order by cutting into the hair at specific patterns; an international rigidity that allows for chaos//Prosperity of pension, of when a good, honest living wasn’t a rip-off.

The stitching will sew the hair under the mountains for clean lines.  The stitching will patch everything together in sacred cut-up, will be left undone, inviting the audience to continue it—dangling, menacing & sharp.

Let’s continue, assuming that ‘art anymore’ is unfinished & that there’s not enough time for a beginning, middle & end—it’s never that clean.  & so his meander makes sense in its negative capability.  You still think time is linear?  It's coiled like a snake & people get sick & forget things.

Thursday, August 27, 2015


Everyone goes through it & is worried about it.

Thursday, August 20, 2015


At gauzy dusk, thin haze like cigarette smoke 
ribbons past Chrysler Building's silver fins 
tapering delicately needletopped, Empire State's 
taller antenna filmed milky lit amid blocks 
black and white apartmenting veil'd sky over Manhattan, 
offices new built dark glassed in blueish heaven--The East 
50's & 60's covered with castles & watertowers, seven storied 
tar-topped house-banks over York Avenue, late may-green trees 
surrounding Rockefellers' blue domed medical arbor-- 
Geodesic science at the waters edge--Cars running up 
East River Drive, & parked at N.Y. Hospital's oval door 
where perfect tulips flower the health of a thousand sick souls 
trembling inside hospital rooms. Triboro bridge steel-spiked 
penthouse orange roofs, sunset tinges the river and in a few 
Bronx windows, some magnesium vapor brilliances're 
spotted five floors above E 59th St under grey painted bridge 
trestles. Way downstream along the river, as Monet saw Thames 
100 years ago, Con Edison smokestacks 14th street, 
& Brooklyn Bridge's skeined dim in modern mists-- 
Pipes sticking up to sky nine smokestacks huge visible-- 
U.N. Building hangs under an orange crane, & red lights on 
vertical avenues below the trees turn green at the nod 
of a skull with a mild nerve ache. Dim dharma, I return 
to this spectacle after weeks of poisoned lassitude, my thighs 
belly chest & arms covered with poxied welts, 
head pains fading back of the neck, right eyebrow cheek 
mouth paralyzed--from taking the wrong medicine, sweated 
too much in the forehead helpless, covered my rage from 
gorge to prostate with grinding jaw and tightening anus 
not released the weeping scream of horror at robot Mayaguez 
World self ton billions metal grief unloaded 
Pnom Penh to Nakon Thanom, Santiago & Tehran. 
Fresh warm breeze in the window, day's release 
>from pain, cars float downside the bridge trestle 
and uncounted building-wall windows multiplied a mile 
deep into ash-delicate sky beguile 
my empty mind. A seagull passes alone wings 
spread silent over roofs.

me in bushwick lol

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Wednesday, July 29, 2015


page evolving like smooshing through genres
i keep thinking the yellow wall ppr lol butt
you, somehow,
dun wanna live//die lol

Wednesday, July 22, 2015


empty it clear some room with rubber for overlay smoky hints of the lines once there & again removed tears in the page see through grain your sketches were once there now a crude delta & I'm not remembering them so well burned as they are more a dream of the present than a fact of the past

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Youth --Louise Glück

My sister and I at two ends of the sofa,
reading (I suppose) English novels.
The television on; various schoolbooks open,
or places marked with sheets of lined paper.
Euclid, Pythagoras.  As though we had looked into
the origin of thought and preferred novels.

Sad sounds of our growing up—
twilight of cellos.  No trace
of a flute, a piccolo.  And it seemed at the time
almost impossible to conceive of any of it
as evolving or malleable.

Sad sounds.  Anecdotes
that were really still lives.
The pages of the novels turning;
the two dogs snoring quietly.

And from the kitchen,
sounds of our mother,
smell of rosemary, of lamb roasting.

A world in process
of shifting, of being made or dissolved,
and yet we didn’t live that way;
all of us lived our lives
as the simultaneous ritualized enactment
of a great principle, something
felt but not understood.
And the remarks we made were like lines in a play,
spoken with conviction but not from choice.

A principle, a terrifying familial will
that implied opposition to change, to variation,
a refusal even to ask questions—

Now that world begins
to shift and eddy around us, only now
when it no longer exists.

It has become the present: unending and without form.

Thursday, July 16, 2015


MEAT BARRAGE - Cassfield Incarnation 2014

randomly selected Khayyam.

Our greatest treasure?
Wine! Our palace? The wine house.
Our true friends? Thirst and drunkenness.
We don't worry, as we know that our soul, our heart,
our cups and our old clothes have nothing to fear
from mud and dust, from water or fire!
Be happy that you have few friends.
Don't feel obliged to show them endless sympathy.
Before you shake hands, before you consider
someone a friend, ask yourself whether you
are not shaking a hand that
may one day beat you.

Monday, July 13, 2015


shit what am i doing
     i should attach myself to you
    & pump what i do in you
    say what i do & spew it through

run to the fucking devil
     idk abt me tho
     smash this life together
     & funnel it in me.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

slick under the sun.

Anonymous windshields,
nothing's near, you
gotta drive &
everyone's on their own time,
empiring up,
self-cloister as not to see anyone.

Monday, July 6, 2015


Best to keep the stale smell on them long as possible; do not wash.
an upward glance

like a mother

     a soft green scarf

on the shallow descending steps of daily living

smelling old green attic,
smelling salvation cloth
     where tommy james waver-wilts
     in fluorescents above shoppers

the drab color of
of family.

Sunday, June 28, 2015

That Fall Through Skin

The passage is shaped like a wedge & has no walls
& sand falls through it,
pushed forward with some exterior velocity
as it hits, or a new understanding of what
it is to pass through something.

A sift of force,
you sitting there with your head craned forward
and the sand falling through you,
your squinting eyes;
you grow older in it until you are pushed out.

Saturday, June 20, 2015


As wealth is inversely proportionate to one's compassion,* scar tissue may be directly proportionate to the amount she loves.**

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Frags: On Weakness

The verge of tears: if one wasn't so full of grief they would come.

Defenseless soft animals, small & non-understanding.

The inability to communicate with animals one small thing that relies on language, that matters the most.

A misunderstood tiny guy//His behavior worse//Guilt-inducing.

Feeling the impending grief, the despair & inevitability of loss, I wanted to throw myself into the cold ocean, but when you emerged you found yourself covered in oil & could not scrape it off in the sand or on the cement.  I held my emotion inside.  I had to get back to work.

Strength for the children; am I lying if they don't see my paralysis?

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Semi Detached - Crass

pretty triggering, fyi.

& his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate & his possessions multiplied & he began to suffocate 

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

On Queer

the Radical Anything//gay as fuck swishing
down midwest streets kissing yr friends &
Acceptance-inclusion, even
the str8s who look on
w/that weird longing at times
& they're us too(, I guess & not)--
a.) Queer:::a.) Minority of
LOVE damaged tragically sometimes always conceptual 
from lqqks to showshowshows way more apt to fuck
in groups//all our naked friends
a knowing an awareness an understood glance on the bus

on the bus we take the bus

Shane Shane's asshole//Dust Tea Shoulder's beard a cunt beat exploration that discordant composition Lucas Carey made about Kafka the intimacy we share you don't have to have sex & if you're compulsive
about it we get it & if you want to wear
that thing in public we definitely get it
& we'll help you make it & build a stage

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Fragment; 405

6 lanes a curve downhill if we flip I won't grab the seatbelt I'll open my arms happy Easter darling I won't be back the wide skies take my backsplash & sublime 
spatter against
event horizon

Saturday, February 21, 2015

facebook roller coaster post

Monday, February 9, 2015

Alex Rodabaugh + Andy Kuncl + Craig Ultraviolence Cady + Aviva Novick// at Panoply Performance Lab "Post-Dance 4X4" 12/13/14

Words & film -Craig Ultraviolence Cady
Music -Andy Kuncl
Channeling & dance -Alex Rodabaugh
Architecture notes -Aviva Novick