penis hand

stack

Somehow I report only parts of it. I notice stacks of things everywhere. It comes from a formal art education partially. I learned the importance of repetition and pattern, so much so that I see it everywhere and in everything. I see it in my own work and the work of friends – more and more and more until a pattern is established and the product flows out. I like to resist things. I resist products but get exactly that. What you resist will appear or some such. Stacks of repetition. Stacks of goods in transit. Stacks of ideas. Stacks of whores. All things possible.
I’ve passed this stack for days, that little bastards, so beautiful curled up with the snow and brick. Bah!

train watching, boys

debate night

bone cairn

I live in a brick building. I come to be here through kind acts. We all do. You too. But the brick here, on the inside, has been painted. It drips with protection and drips with finality. You will be I will be you will be I will be. Some have gone insane and made it here as refuge. They will do no more in this world than finish their days. This will be a good life. Survival is a good life. I am like dust in this place. I fall upon it softly collecting history, full of mites, together with soot and make a mold like a memory, all on its surface and the surface is enough. The surface will tell you all that is needed. I want you want me I want you want me. And when I break out of this harried pansy bullshit, after Monday’s beers seep through the deep sockets of my lumpy numb liver I’ll wake up to the fear that it ain’t shit. One big loss. What can’t be erased however is the register. The one I told the girl about tonight. The one that holds a secret in Glacier Park. You’ll need to climb the peak for that. You can climb it with me. And on its summit you can find its words. And on its summit you can draw your pistol. And right there for what I’ve put you through, for what you find or fail to find, you can sink a slug square through my essentials and watch it bleed the iron out.

dc ig

photo by Juliana Muniz

Lori

Somewhere from outside of the city limits a deer made its way up the tracks without getting squashed, crossed the yard and wandered through the parking lot in a panicked state of fear. Lori had her back to it. I saw it first through the window and pointed with locked interest as it jumped without elegance toward open space. We looked from the inside out; from the office just inside the façade of the building facing north along Main Street which remained in shadow through the winter when the ice and wind make the asphalt cracked, slippery and unappealing. When Lori finally did see, she gasped with unexpected alarm. Semi-hysterically she called for something to be done. “Oh god, the poor thing, she’s going to be killed.” I thought she was too as she headed toward the morning city traffic; my heart dropped but I watched calmly. “Call the police, oh my god, call the police.” Esparanza, Lori’s secretary, called the police and handed off the phone in dutiful response. “There is a deer about to cross Main Street and she’s going to be killed if you don’t send an officer to slow traffic.” By this time the Doe had made it gangly across the field of vehicles, narrowly avoiding a resident exiting the lot in a suburban, to stop briefly in the shrub lawn flanking the east building, also in shadow. By now Lori was crying and noticeably upset. “She’s going to be killed!” she shrieked into the phone. The response through the earpiece was not to her liking, duty set in and she managed a composed refrain. “No ma’am, there is a wild deer in the city who is in jeopardy of running into traffic which would be dangerous to motorists and the deer. We need you to send a police vehicle immediately to the main street entrance of our building. Am I clear?” Additional formalities were exchanged; Lori hung up the phone, placed her hands in her palms and sobbed just a moment. I thought it was a good thing she had done. Lori has lived lifetimes.

night

girls

twenty first century men, digital queer

For now, for half of the week I frame exhibits for the George Eastman House. This is not fiction, I do this. J got me the job. J likes art, likes me and now I do this part time. There are other details worth mentioning but I refrain. At work this morning I was reframing exhibition prints - Woodburytypes
by John Thomson from the 1900’s and came across one of soldiers standing on a street corner in London. I asked audibly “could I be one of these men?” J looked on and pointed to the one with the blonde beard. “You’d be that one.” I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure if I could be another man in a different time. “So many lives,” I thought. I felt fortunate. The prints were of such extraordinary beauty that I wept in the privacy of the studio for the shear possibility of it. ‘A’ says they are not made any more, that it takes some twelve thousand pounds of pressure to squeeze the ink from etched lead plates. I now ache to make them. Tiny naked pictures of lovers standing in Michelangelo pose.

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One night my girl brought some ear candles over, burned them to my skull, sucking the wax from the canal. I was skeptical and a fool, she was natural and in love. We were married in my mind as the heat drew out the excess waste.

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Plastics hold the heat in and the toxic diesel fuel out from the yard below. This is facing South. The plastics are now a part of the view. It has a new beauty despite my loathsome feelings for artificial shit. Twenty first century men, digital queer.

Sum Tactonics (Part 4)

One evening the vehicles’ oil froze. I realized this when I heard the neighbors cranking over the engine until the battery cracked. This signaled a change. It meant the cars needed to remain indoors, even those, like ours, with engine coils installed. The power need outpaced the demand and the second mass population reduction began. If my lover had an opinion I wasn’t privy to it. Her thoughts remained private and undetectable. I looked for signs but found none. Content to observe I watched for evidence of alarm to the cadence of the whale call that now filled the silence with similar calm. That night we slept near the garden where it was warmer and made love silently until she fell asleep with my hands around the bump which took on of late a decidedly roundish shape.

Near midday the traffic began to repopulate the roadways and I left to start the car and assess any damage. The neighbor had frozen and remained still in the driver’s seat with both hands gripping the wheel as if he were an attentive driver. There were no signs of the woman and child. I attended to my business with ordered haste, successfully started the auto and drove south to town for supplies. There were dozens of frozen motorists along the embankments, especially near the bridge that crews were clearing away with adapted cherry picker machines at least one of which appeared to be controlled remotely. At the grocer there were plastics being constructed to envelope the parking lot and fewer than half of the vehicles I would expect on a Tuesday afternoon.

Inside the store I noticed the Regional Times was sold out so I asked the clerk about it. “Ink Froze,” he replied and I nodded in understanding showing no sign of interest. The Clerk continued to restock bags below the register not noticing my eyes cinch up involuntarily for a brief moment. I got the usual and some extra moleskin to cover any flaked scales which there were more of with the gardening, hunting and habit I had of staying just a bit too long between plastics on the way from the car to the door. They had sold out of candies so I bought a sweet rose thinking my lover might like to suck its petals before bed as I rubbed her scaly thighs and belly.

suck my 18 yo fat 10" white cock you assfags

terrestrials

Write a book

V-Daddy learned along the way that poverty is ignorance. He ended up in South America as a peace corps volunteer to escape fighting a war of ideology and ignorance in Vietnam. From the many stories he’s told about his travels I recall one about villagers whom he taught to irrigate the land and practice safe hygiene in exchange for the nearly non-existent peace corps pay along with the chance to practice and learn from the vernacular language of the region. He didn’t speak of his own merit when telling the stories but what I gleaned was his commitment to do something with his education and talents that may help in peaceful efforts. He returned to finish a medical degree and now studies a disease that affects the people of that region. It seems a good life, I’ve always thought so.

Among our many conversations about life I recall a brief story he told shortly after his father’s death. At the family dinner table in 1960’s Middle American suburbia young V-daddy was recalling to his family through reasoned report some facts or lessons he had learned in his recent education. His father upon hearing his son extol reason replied with the following comment: “If you’re so smart, why don’t you write a book.” As he reports, he was never able to bridge that connection; between the privileges provided and the privilege enjoyed across generations.

friday

valentine's day

more

wintercold

two thousand eight

Terrible things come to pass and they remain private. My neighbor remains private. I am private. My good friend closes the door from shame. I fear what I may cause. Revelations are terrible, hard to imagine, never mind feel. We become fists of rage in our own making and our own making becomes useless bound wrists. I fear reporting it. I fear hurting anyone. I fear going it alone. I fear what may happen if I don’t report it and don’t follow the gifts where they take me. I fear they are all false gifts. I fear I am useless. I fear you are useless. I fear that fear will silence me. I fear that I will fall for a creed I do not believe. I fear I will fall creedless. I fear I will never love again. I fear I will never be loved again. I fear the worst. I fear my parents will disown me. I fear the weak will swarm my life and engulf it. I fear the strong will erase it. My neighbor fears me. She fears my power. My friends shun my brashness. My best of friends embrace it until it is lost. My lovers will comfort me then turn on me with the most vile hatred. My lover will draw a weapon and use it. My enemy will hesitate. I will face my enemy in his own home. My enemy fears me. Fear is my enemy. Fear is my hope and assurance that I am not mad. I love my enemy. I love my neighbor even as she attacks. I hold the hammer as a sword. My open life is a blunt anvil and my body is pinned against it. My mind and my body are not separate. Her mind and her body are not separate. Right now I am tested. Tomorrow I will be tested. God will make me poor. My neighbor believes god is my mind. I believe god is my mind. My mind believes my neighbors reason. My body is my mind. My body fights my neighbor. My neighbor attacks. My friends watch in fear. I fear for my friends. My friends fear for me. My friends will sometimes erase me. I will sometimes erase my friends. Most of this will remain private. For you. For me. Amen. Two Thousand Eight.

this n thus

morning girl

J & D post Larry

land

weak wrist, strong wrist

or its reverse

Sycamore Discs

I think this one a day thing can work. Forgive the reprieve; some nights require beyond midnight.

We know so little of one another…

240 days

Boy with a Diamond in His Fist

[excerpt]

I was wackin’ off to internet porn and looking for a rag to catch the seed when I thought, how do I approach this subject? It was an unwelcome distraction, but when the spirits knock I’ve learned to listen. The trap here (and there is a trap) is that good work and thought and creation and, if the aim is true, art, gets sidelined by politics. The more powerfully ranked the school the more tightly wound the political distraction. This is not news, I suspect, to an artist who’s roiled in the mess of higher education. Maybe even ANY higher education (the MD’s I know go through a similar decompression process). Now before I devolve into pedantic irrelevance, I must disclose that my experience of art school was/is profoundly negative. Net sum loss. A limbless hammer toss. I let it all happen anyway and would probably do it again if but for the immense redolence of fear. Fear of being denied experience even when that experience is profoundly negative.

Sling shit and the whole room is gonna stink even when it hits the target. Parlay instead. So now, instead of hurling accusation which end up each boulders of Sisyphus, I look to ask the right questions. Questions have, at the very least, a logical structure and can be answered and reviewed. And what’s more, a non-answer is an answer. Matter of fact, some of the most useful lessons I’ve learned have been the result of non-answers. Here’s the thing: I’m not convinced that the non-answers I’ve received (save for those of a few confidants) are the result of earnest professional concerns. Concern of any type for that matter. I’ve wanted to tell the story but lacked the approach. Now I know that the approach is straight ahead, right through while its fresh before money makes me lazy and a liar. A molested alter boy. Trust in youth, it's all we'll ever be.

I love you