Sunday, February 28, 2010

Untitled Duration. February 27, 2010. Red Bird Gallery. candy wrapping and give away.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Habitually, the majority awakes in a morning filled daze. Within a few to thirty minutes, multiple stimulants, hallucinogens, downers and children will skew the first aroused realization of whatever newness had been discovered by the raising of an eyelid or two. Each three pin pointed needles warp and weft over one another up until a brand new security covers a blind horror of nothingness, the little spike of darkness in the air reminds of the one slice that can leave a pool of longing afterlife spilt and soaking up sugar coated memories that taste as sweet as experience. Shards of glass, they are everywhere now, overcrowded by plastic and simulated jars, boxes, suits, cars and drainage pipes, ferrying those leafy smudges of autumn that turn mud to green spring. They can cut your feet, so that you’ll leave a small trail of yourself along some path that wasn’t as new as it was yesterday, and older than the future plans seen on the most pristine of liquefied vision prosthetics. As opposed to worrying about a glassy ceiling, to scream non-sonically vocalized distributions of perceptual oddities, there’s a see-through floor that appears
as a new death with every step. It might come on quickly, or it might take a long time, but eventually you may discover yourself headfirst through a closed window -a looking glass- and with a bloody face and scratched eyes, something different will present itself, and it’ll be new till it’s old. Start over.

Monday, January 11, 2010

outlying many succumb
to an oblivion kept crystallized
for the arm-chair, better than
the wheel, paralyzed forms
reaching stranded lines
of flying mutants in winged,
ringing chimes above, shine
for the heaven within, late
lines given across a crooked
spineless, chasing its
autonomy across chiseled
wooden acronyms, likewise
the inside joke of tempered
bloody organs dressed in
biometric monitoring,
surveillance monkey above,
riding the streets in camera
lucida, melting single sames
to multi-strands of livened
reality, upped to anew heaven
worshipped like a path of
hairless nymphs, freshly waxed
and barren of life, this, the digging
wing of a slave’s martyred genitals,
peering into pools of reflected