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Famous is Too Easy

torepelghosts_cover

I discovered Kevin Young in a poetry review mag recently – I believe he’ll be one of the immortal poets of our generation.  One poem I read opens with: ‘I hope/ to hang your head/ on my wall/ in shame …’

He’s also published a book called ‘To Repel Ghosts’ about J.M. Basquiat – the first book of poetry I’ve come across that fully concentrates on the life of an artist – encouraging to me b/c I want to publish a book of poems on Frida in the next few years.

en route

 

San Francisco

San Francisco

phto phto

my friend vanny

vanny

…a poem

leapt upon the stage
amphitheater of digital despairs

the lip of life, outmoded mouldings
GILDED GILDED GILDED

and the hangman’s curtain
comes down, like a sheet of rain
the cryer’s screaming Tonight!Tonight!

warped wood swelling, it’s arid thirst
for the body’s oils, hissing into
the dead fibers. Copper, Green green

leapt upon this stage, carnival
inexplicable suicides…

prizefight

hmmm… poems have prizes…

navigating the techno-sphere, evading real life, brooding on fame and fame… came across a prize winning book by colorado-ish poet Jake Adam York… read the first poem in it… will probably muster the coin and find a copy…

here

the poet in digital landscape, the artist in digital landscape, the human in digital landscape


celeb death ain’t a crisis… unless you’re related to Phoebus

kill[zine] || new zines soon!!!

have some many thing zines books whatever ’bout to happen…

best be looking forward to the badassery that is tara menon and molly harris…
also, selections from “cuerpo” by liza sparks should be out soon…

and tons of other stuff… smoking guns

Art Show, Co-op Building June 12th

I stood there with my little black notebook atop an industrial dryer, my bottle closer to full than empty, but I thirsted.  The retro-fab machinery knob was stuck perpetually time-drying and cooling off.  Funny little metaphors for the deserted warehouse night.  The buckets of paint tone and spackle, they had tackled perfectly the bell-harmonious corner of pipes and daily father-blessed trash.  This used to be a grocers; who before-art-thou who’d done the butchery, who fervently put forth a greater dignity.  The sign on the wall above me said: OUR DAILY SALES GOAL $10,000, crossed out and read in red ink said: OUR DAILY SALES GOAL Not Fucked.  I was fucked.  Or Not Fucked, not sure which.  It came to be I happened upon this through a sultry drunken woman, this my bolder bed, this empty free-for-all.  There are picture paintings on the wall and the floor is painted an abstract I must adore of the human physionogmy.  I remembered vaguely that I bought a photo early on in the night, standing in the walk-in freezer that no longer froze, but held found art instead.  I had come to see your chemically feminine paintings that hung in a line down the center of the room, I forced myself not to stalk them as I slept my ill-kempt tossings and turnings.  Had you painted them a day later, the Midway bombers would have risen from antiquity to blow holes in the ribcages, cages upon cages and in the center of your genital flowers.  I was shocked, lying there alone in a dark gallery, reeling drunkenly, feeling that I should have quipped more sloven laughter at the last burning of the last dying cigarette.  Maybe she would have stayed on the concrete floor then and there with painters’ rags for pillows.  She left at one thirty to join that overweight Anglo-Saxon who made her feel owned, she could not escape the imbedded territoriality of lust and loving.  I was bitterly reticent as I awoke to the blazing sun, to a mistakenly wet morning- a three-hour rambling sleeper with a more amiable disposition and a wretched back and body.  She said they’d said she looked like a famous actress, but at night with your dark hair I thought it was only then, when you wore the little woolen coat that made you itch like a ragamuffin refugee of Stalinist russia.  You’d seen the movie- if only you had been a bit more anarchy in the stately manner that you avoided the problem, if only you’d not been so partial.  Let a good goddamn my sleeping and sleepless hours through the nauseous, salient steeps of the night.  I considered stealing a painting before I left, but stole a guest book and two expensive drawing pens instead, gleaming with confidence in my lack of guild because “she left me there in an empty building waiting to be torn down, to sleep alone,” is never a fair ending no matter what the circumstance.

America Where god Hath…

America Where god Hath shed his grace, what hath he now?
————————————————————————–
The rebellion of american anarchism is a
showy swelling and
ebbing.
An all-hands-in-soil on earth rooting and
weeding, a utopian idealism born of agrarian
immigrants and tossed like raw meat to the
barking/allergic technophiliacs of the
post     modern       state.  Our collective
ancestors planted the seeds of
their own imprisonment and castigation as
the westwardly expanding fever-
blister was exploding into the white man’s
fashionable
genocides.  Westward ho.  There were
undergrounds as the covered wagons loaded
like Remington’s happy infantry covered the
plains with sloppy bloodshed.  The meta
physics of wars of men on men on woman on
blacks on
mexicans on eachother bore.
We went to the street battles of Barcelona
and as sentients, we loved fascists into their
graves.  We the graven image of the fat and gay
anarchists of white middle class boredom would
gladly share
our joints and our comeradery with the burgeoning
pimps of the ramshackle earth.  We the veal of human
existance are virulently aroused by six-up-icide and
developmental explosions, but in lueu of the birth of the
post-industrial world return to our embittered roots and
do   it      our        fuckin selves.
We the loosely united and individually-partial mob will write
bad historical manifestos.

…a gif

black cat black cat black cat black cat

been super into gifs BITERBITERBITER and self deprecation