The Glory Hole. site-specific inter-media work. Red Bird Gallery. 2010.

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

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.

an
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
incontinence.

something new and old

and blue and molded and

rotten through the core

of friendship bracelets,

they grow like trees in a fruit

laden forest outwards and

outside to the depths of

itself, lovely incidents, drunk

drugged overtly snug and smug

literal badgers digging wolves

and eyes of plentiful bounty

to tits and dick balls swinging

with age for to never is

to pay the price of

you’re ever nothingness and regret,

the smallest things

are the hardest things

are the worst in your mind,

they’ll creep up on you and rail your soul.

sucking you up into the nose

and bringing nothing to everything.

pain is in remorse to outcropping.

it’ll come to you.

bleeding through your silence,

and letting out convulsing,

heart attacks similar in smiles as they are in tears.

forget the rest and leave the best memories to chance.

wallace stevens.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,

.
.
.
.

And in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

last night, someone died in a dream
between two spires, the body
hung detached, tied by sinew
from another philanthropist,
they had lovingly dismembered
what was left of its corpse, torching
the hair and smoking its reek,
wafting that soul in a cloud
of transmission, a lowered
assiduity, dusting the pleaded
folds and sequencing the lights
so as to lead the way home,
a few followed, but they
were shot from overhead, then
devoured by a liquid cicero, pouring
luster round the piles and piles
of harvested organs, deliberately
horse-shoeing the credence of
recollection from one to fall
attached, sagging atop
an ivory tusk, but there
were two, yet they were gone.

fleeting, grabbing at moments
while they slip carnage through
my shorn fingers, pessimism
pleads perfection, drawn out
dirty formal suggestive violets,
an agent provocateur of choice
carries her horses upon two
mutated indexes, they breed
for economy, and lexical
helix whimsically abstracted
turbines turning water to
that beautiful electric whine,
illuminating these words that
appear to write themselves
out, type-faced execution and
monad based lyrics, feeds
on its other arm for the sake of
the taste of itself while raking
back yesterday to remake
it again, a strife for something
that resembles what they
can’t imagine.

three images of an unidentified subject combing their hair in the morning.

oh my, circumstance strikes
the interesting memories
from chance,
in some steady contemplation
holding shit from others
that was never meant for
them, anger struck a chord
ringing without my recollection
and focusing in on whatever
is the newest thing to hate,
listening to an old sound that’s
been shattered, looking down
in the thereafter, a chance and
haphazard impossibility
presented itself, where there
could have only been two
outcomes, a binary of one
or the other, the pendulum
sat constant and with itself,
strangely, it no longer needed
anyone, but is was a singular
stance, only for me, and broken
as soon as anybody else
had the wherewithal to notice.

Anew beginning

Prior to the day of awakening of the apparent, a recent discovery had leveled the past into a series of banal choices and regrets. Within a few years, myriad instances of sour luck had dulled the mind and left mucus sticking within the sinuses. Some even lost their ability to hear properly and blamed something else other than the body giving out of its abuse. What could be considered family had failed miserably. Strange teenage molesters had inebriated themselves within what once was considered home, and the bugs had even been bested of their lies. Not even the cockroaches were down to infest, the trauma had caused them conceptual awareness, and they had made a democratic decision that the last thing they ever wanted was to infest a disease and dying memory contained by badly placed plastic siding and a slipping concrete slab. It was a place where the zucchinis’ grew into themselves as obese; dog piss has a way of injecting the steroids back into the ground like no other syringe could dream. There were many flowers, but they were always covered by the raw sewage ejaculated from the mouths of so many composts. It had become a compote of deranged avenges when the last half began and those spirits realized their eternity together had bested even a god’s revenge. Exile had become a real option and not a regret, and so it was that within many changes, few choices were actually divorced from their ideal. In erasure, the apparent began to realize that everything that once was had changed states, so rather than being rained on, silent rays of sun had pushed through and reminded of the importance of green shades and blue tones. All those cancerous demons exorcised and liquefied through the menial passage of time. Everything became empty, but the emptiness became a void of frivolous spirits all condensing themselves into gaseous outpourings of scented dirt.

first years stormed
through attrition
marking dams as
anti-personnel clusters
where the raining
seasons bloom
locusts by the billions
with credit debt
cutting plastic shards
melting poor hamstrings
and snapping able backs
like springs that god designates
as reformations and
prominently ignored
sexually transmitted
bacteria that occupies
a freedom seldom felt
nor seen
when nothing is left
and all is given youll
get a grenade and
a free bike in return

sheltered in the sun
shinning solitude
and cops
being
kicked in the
balls by
small children
dressed up as
missionaries
that leave
neon frisbees
near popped
bottles and broken
bikes

trees are blooming
flowered like leaves
and I walk
the night, smelling
turns of events,
placing every step
with lessened haste,
and remembering
to look up at
the pattern above
me that sheds neither
star nor purpose,
it might be something
to figure with in common
spite and lingual method,
slightly burned out with
abuse and silent enough
that the static rests cordial
within something about
brain synapses and neuro-
tranformers or network
like nodes, little feelers
so some other shit.
the trees are nice though.

in sleeping for many days ferrying
dreams overtop skies clouded with
passive embraces, there was a lost
victim dancing on the crisp film
of water above and below
its infinite depths, where
the vampires glow their dead
suns to recede black, and trampling
crushing weights give way to silent
comfort, exhaling rays of rainbows
that many miss in blind masses of
mechanization, to consume coded
better to forget, and beget the value
of love over destruction, all passes
down in trickling lies of trickery,
a light burning backwards so as
to witness where those nights
left the myriad in an overtone
of grace.

sitting in a summer loyalty
and forgetting the past like
it never mattered, placing
new days as wishes, and
wishing each one to death
in the evening only to get
it back each dawn, my
moments that were
never there in the last
place, always in a differing
position shifting shapes around
corners that aren’t nearly
as cyclic as they are beautiful,
for what I’ve known, it has meant
nothing to each leak in my spine,
crossed ally, you’ll be the death
of a season, and welcoming with
tenacity and simplism as a new
philology that defined and derailed
many yards of train wire, name it
to keep it, and you'll lose what you hold
too tightly with fear,
those that claim an alternative
haven’t lost enough to know.

we’ve faced many delinquent shadows
prior to the morning sun light rising
on a face stoned to disfigurement, some
facts reign true for night, but day rests
and longing cast moulds of eerie deception,
though you seemed smaller than I remembered
that growth had swelled opposites, and that statue
of stoic beauty bested itself, for now, there is
a stiff metal raising your murdered cane,
in an ugly rendition questions were raised
to be asked, and I answered in a truth seldom
acknowledged concerning the grievance
of traitors, with many gardened ideals
your season has ended, and while you may
have died, many grow beyond simplistic
givens.

a fucking sonnet.

dropped down to sink in a wishing well,
lowly emotion, dreamt for better days,
forgotten lives are past experiments,
pushed all ends in the focal light you see,
torment, I pray on the anonymous,
once whiles exclaim happiness for a change,
confusion rides infinity ahead,
all into others blended violent
showers and bourgeois, drunken lavishly
forever hinted, names, pseudonymous
meaningful nothingness in absent strange,
answered expression, search out seventh maze
for happy hands raised up in holy tread,
never anymore, a peering photocell.

working in progress.

newly spring
arrived upon
early times,
still days
pass by
me, every in
wind of my
mind tempts
to soften the
weight of
memory, slowly
steadily with
attribution
and unknown
darkened dimmed
memoirs, foil
curved across
the faces in dreams,
seeing them daily,
parcels, packages,
run-offs and tails.

drunk with purpose,
I discovered a cat
the other day,
dead on the kitchen
floor, it was never
forgone with a singular
of self, it was the property of
another, someone who enjoys
ignorance as if it was a comfort,
so as the cat was picked up
off the floor and buried
in a heap of gravel, somebody
else used the opportunity to
reconnect, likewise death isn’t
the substitute, merely a wishful
ideal, a sacrificial lamb on the
alter of memory, but issac was
castrated because it was a hermaphrodite,
and neither here nor there,
in between it sat, halfway
from eternity and modernity,
heathen hellfire clubs rode
my nights twice, and it has
been a grand totality of 72 hours,
and you still can’t honour the memory
of a living being, maybe we never live
ourselves, but mimic the moment as
if it’s already occurred in thrice.

you’ll be my memories,
within your self-doubts
and aggrandizing jealousy,
that weakness projected
back onto me so as to
not realize the hell of
yourself, me, I internalized
you, brought you within my being
in the hopes that our combined
energy might not suffer the same
fate, fired anger seals your soul
in duality, as if you needed somebody
to never have to live it, to know
what you could be, a cowardly act,
and one that I fell for in many years
of delirium, to escape your hatred
of me, I turned to drugs, turned to
drink, turned to everything and
anything cause the belief in you
made me believe your doubts
of me, alas, a new atlas
has mercantorily projected itself
across my doldrums of narcissism,
I never meant shit to you,
cause you never meant shit to yourself,
and now my sun shines bright, no longer
held down by your dark and lonely shadow.

I remember seeing how your
magdalene eyes choked
a listless voice mute,
burned in silence and
reasoning judgments
past off as molecules
within a viral bacteria,
inhaled in the subway
after chewing on
everybody’s leftover
fingerprints, worming
intersectways in and out
like some looming
spools of worn yarn shorn
from a baby sheep good
enough to bottle feed and
better than enough to eat,
I consumed you daisy, twice,
and in daily rituals I mythed
you like a myrrh rhinestone
headdress made from the finest
human hairs collectible,
toys adorn my bookshelves
and move at twilight,
dancing for myselves and
our reflections, twirling infinites.

There might be one
left on in the closet
hollow rang in sixteen
death votives waxing
spindles of sinew younger
bottles erected and spent
on a high-end sonic after
shock and low settled hum
seeking missiles
killing two miners
who sleptwalked through
a c-keyed harmonics their
ears bled purple kale and grew
to belgium
only to invade passage and
leak out seepage across
torches and napalm garbage
barges that drip across
technospherical canals.

sustenance geared and smearing
shit covered diapers drawing
lines down the walls for a
tad-pole sunken below
the sea-belted pieces,
he rang out a song that
distorted our being, sight
minds and running along
paths that are as worn
as they are nude, there’s
a fancy to replay it over
again and in reverse but
forwards in slow motioned
repetitions that bestow
daring winds across avid
fields of the most precious
floral arrangements, those
impossible configurations
shorn to a bartenders coffin
fingered toe nails, shaken the
latest stirred boredom, my
bedlam of rosary, roses for
myself on the days where
I matter most, sent from
an alias while wasted, so that
upon arrival I’ve forgotten
who it was I became, and
like a magician who loves
his shaman like he does his
exorcist, counting my days
in your head so that in keeping
with intervals, we can
empty ourselves with envy.

to get what you wanted,
you had to leave everything you had,
and shedding skins, many times
in many years over many springs,
winters, summer stares with longing,
those lies, they were many and
untold, but I always knew what
you never said, in hidden there
was a rotten stink of well-being,
my keyed sunrise never felt
the lock of your moon-light,
although, your beauty deceived
by way of ruse, loyalties
outweighing self-worth, if there
is any gall left within the sack of
memory, it would be thrown
into a ever amassing pile of
sewed excuses and manipulations,
praxis relieved my theory, one
way to the other, the forest
of oaks is your table-food,
for you see nothing but your
reflected tautology, repeating
your lies to exhume what lays
cancerously buried within,
retribution damns the longing
waters, pushing with their
very force to one day assault
that which once contained,
pausing in the seconds mist,
to shed anew skin once more.

pedestrians are getting run
over by large plastic trucks
that suffer from
post-postpartum depression,
them, they’ll spit their past
in your eye and make you
see yourself as another,
something else, in eventuals
a belief construction makes
available, and in all together
you’ll find a moon where
a sun was, once bright with
shinning rays of warmth,
turned to cold dust blown
across a burdened existence,
them, they’ll capture your soul
and turn it, decapitating agency,
grown determinism unveils
a giant jester slashed fool,
hacked and butchered, amputated
with a humoured secretion,
laughing ataraxia.

I walked home in a winter soaked
white morning thereafter,
all is well that ends in emancipation,
a free-born radical, limitless in its
possibilities, equally destructive
in its awareness, three new tides
divided the rind, soaked into
it, lying because of it, the city
didn’t feel like home, deflowered
and deadened, basting over Christmas
delirium, they could forget my acts
and moral defacements, but those
actions have rotted my being, left
me with only my sobriety to
contend with, I’m going to juice
my soul and dump the sum of its
parts into the river near, go where
I fear, and live within earshot of
those and them and everyone,
to begin again and see clearly
into the strength I’ve been given,
cause it’s time for something else.

I curtailed into the rocks
bottom, where the jagged edges
act like jump points back
to a place you never wanted
back, re-visiting yourself and
with wonder of whether there’s
enough strength to stand against
those damning old willows dragging
their heals and wearing lead
parishes, a convents monk left-tag
and babies in a mail slot for
delivery, in resetting my order,
can I still stand motionless
in the face of my past, or
is the path that’s always
been there, can I follow.

multitudinous eyes prey on
some leftovers, warmed from
a nuclear microwave machine
with a steel cage and two birds
caught in crisis, modern ends
mean little bends and deviations
to straight up fucking crazily
maddening moments of sheer
decapitations and desperately
seeking silos, to fire away into
the stratosphere and explode
a rainbow prior to liquefying
en mass, blind and muted,
eye closes my I with the
remote and the lenses
to my lid.

a tide of static rests over the bay,
the mines hack back to their swollen cough,
lastly firstly, sewage from a shit-bottomed
catatonic. Sitting near a park shaped garage,
she swung seventeen sixes and paralleled a
golden ratio, I dropped the dice onto another
in a freakish haphazard neo-tight. Betting for
a longer finish than a quick beginning,
there’s practicing to be done, cleaning,
swept corners and sucking the dust
through a well-boiled hoof with hints
of hair left to be found, tinted black
midnight morning moon lust, and
the eye of mine deserves a second
beginning, as the rest duals a clear
day ritual, I’m seeing like a five
time retarded sucker, born again
for the first time with all the
faculties of a man with half
a brain, three arms, and a lemon
for an ass.