Friday, November 20, 2009

Bronze Age

Giant Sculptures by Dali Inscaped on Alps Mountaintop


Outside the Keystone Restaurant, time
stands still for a moment. Woozy, WAVY. Tock.

Tick. A breeze, not a sequence. Skop. Gu. Caesar Romero
blowin’ in the wind. Like a 50s movies’ trailer, stunning,
and riveting, but not necessarily fluid. CURT. Like
ebb tide, quicker than the eye. Wavier.

Yesterday, in/ aloof November, I sensed/ a rainbow. And
watched a myriad of woozy crows drift...
searching for SOLACE in a sunset. Wavier? Glass and water
function-- source[s] of creation and destruction,
life and death. Hey!
glass is a joyous and paradoxical thing, & as good a substance
as any to build a groove on.

Homina, homina, homina-- aquatic immersion of luminosity
and/or extreme purification of sin

& zo, I’m thinkin’ that WHILE, indeed, glacier flows/ to sea,
it flows, in declaration, like all frozen things, merely
back to itself, to its own source.

ABATING. Progression describes a series of actions which
are not organized into distinct subgrouping.
Both water and the past abrade the land. Planes of reality
are intangible, inevitable,
inevitable, natural, and mysterioso.

& a fade emphasizes the elliptical continuity of these needy
constructions, allusions. CLICK! Frangibility=
a kiss/ to build a dream on.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Naming Rage, Boldly Pushing the Boundaries of Confessionalism

A Cloud in pants, or, the naming of the parts. Or.
Where/ can I go without you?
Yeah, yeah. So, I'm told that
comrade Mayakovski spoke Georgian at school, and with friends,
but that his family spoke a ton of Russian at home. Vixi duellis
nuper idoneus et militavi non sine gloria.

Da, I gotta tell you-- it's all Greek to me. Like Orinoco flow,
or the Great Vowel Shift that took place in the south of England
between 1450 and 1750.
Now, that was a sight to see. Yeah! I mean, rilly, like Orionids popping.

Okay, it’s just a little bit past the ides of October. And it's, like, truly paradisal to be near you like this. However. Due to the angle of early morning sun falling over mid-western highways-- the long bitter flare giving off that early morning shimmer has seen, or possibly caught, that very angle in its own gravity, and, yet-- the light from that sparkle may not transfigure only the blinkered and discursive effects of this dynamism in the manner of a sensing bough, but [just] might also contain the candlepower to elevate this "energy" above the echelon of skewed-allure, unleashing, then, an already maniacal lust to unravel those forces: to re-evaluate an intermission of the withering arrangement of sense in order to ensure the reproduction of an altered and innocent order which appears to carry an unconcealed, but obscure, faintly-visible juke. (Jive.) Sheesh! You got to move.

Yeah-- Skop. Gu. Recover. Re-assess sunlight fanning out in every direction away from the sudden view of acclaimed architectural design dancing across reflectorized hoodies. Windshields glowing. Brake lights repeating the second chorus.

And the sun also rises to an almost colorless, but precipitous modular grid embedded in a multi-lane parallel flash of metal. Traffic slows. And all lanes begin chanting “Man-i-fest-o” in a harsh, insistent rhythm, but --and, this is quite odd!-- they are, all of them, every man-jack-- thinking “Minn-ee-ap-oh=lis”.

O, all that glitters is not celestial. Or sagebrush. The problem is a matter of misleading labeling of data, rather than inaccuracy within the data itself. The trick is to learn to enjoy the ride. Jumble, tumble. Inalienable right.

Right? To come to love the angle. The chant. The clash. Yet.
My heart. Pants for you. Know I'm sayin'?

Oba, oba, oba! The story/ is in the feint.

Monday, October 12, 2009

He said, she said...

O, To Heat a Hamster Frozen in Yesteryear
Now & Again/ That [or as] Summer is Nigh

& zo, she asks:

Without tail nor head, DOTT reports the history of two tentacles (!) become intelligent under the influence of an experiment of an insane professor, which to save the world sends to you in time through temporal toilets... Result, one buys a diamond for the poor gift in premium, one paints oranges in red "to create" a cherry tree, one adds the advertizing "any citizen must have a Marty vacuum cleaner in his tiny room" with the American Constitution and one filled dry a linen of parts so that it functions 50 more years in order to have a hot sweater later to heat a hamster frozen in the past...

he sez:
the Marty vacuum cleaner. A early sculpture I made
that was so elegant in design that, well, heck!
it was, like, a no-brainer for the damn suits
to make a functional copy & market it to the masses.
I mean, i was young & it was summer....

and-- here's the story to date:
Sans queue ni tête, DOTT relate l'histoire de deux tentacules (!) devenue intelligentes sous l'influence d'une expérience d'un professeur fou, lequel pour sauver le monde vous envoie dans le temps à travers des toilettes temporelles... Résultat, on achète un diamant pour le cadeau minable en prime, on peint des oranges en rouge pour "créer" un cerisier, on rajoute la pub "tout citoyen doit avoir un aspirateur Marty dans son réduit" à la Constitution Américaine et on rempli un sèche linge de pièces pour qu'il fonctionne encore 50 ans plus tard afin d'avoir un pull chaud pour réchauffer un hamster congelé dans le passé...

he sez:
This is a prototype I made during my undergrad years
which I sold to French industrial barrons for a Big Mac
& some fries. Large, mais oui. The photo is a little blurry
as it was taken with an old Brownie in my dorm room.

& she sez:
Didn't they market that with the slogan
"tout citoyen doit avoir un aspirateur Marty dans son réduit"?
Hey, it's a fine piece. I mean 60 million Frenchmen can't
be wrong. I sure hope you got some percentage in yr deal.
p.s. Here's a mound sculpture which might interest you:

and the beat goes on.

Monday, August 31, 2009

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

For many peeps, social networking has become as much of a daily routine as brewing coffee and brushing teeth. So you go on-line and find out who’s recently brewed caffiene and/or brushed their godddamn teeth. If your drug-of-choice has just kicked in, if you’re getting constipated, sleepy, paranoid, vexed, vibrant or virginal, hey-- tweet it out, right?

Just keeping’ it real, eh, wot? As real as Livelinks.

We all love Livelinks! It’s more exciting than online dating, and way cheaper than a night out!
Or not. A lot of people get addicted to Twitter or Livelinks or Facebook because
actual life can be so boring, when there's nothing else to do, like, say, during a mind-numbing walk in the park.

And some people just figure out that they might better connect with their friends without using a proprietary corporate walled garden.

You’re probably not the first to find it bizarre to have your personal life commercialized. Jürgen Habermas has some particularly articulate ideas about this. Take a look at “The Theory of Communicative Action. (” And you
might want to check out: “The Purchase of Intimacy,”
by Viviana Zelizer. What are you waiting for?

Ho-kay. Breaking up is to hard to do. But if you aspire to shatter the chains of social networking, wikiHow, a collaborative how-to guide, provides a helpful step-by-step way to, emotionally and practically disengage:

I mean, wtf, take tea and see.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Hot Luna

Le juste équilibre

in space...

Every picture
hums a story. Like Canary Islands, like
Norma Jean's loose white towel gently falling,
visual momentum enveloping
her back and sides.... Like thunder on Route 66--
ebb and flow,
twisting the side panels of modernity, of this exquisite
potato crisp. Tracing an Hungarian proto-arc round and around hinting,
teasing the form of the sensuous ****.

Bobby Troup lived to regret that he had, in a weak moment,
suggested that Édith Piaf was not a little sparrow.
Merde! Jean Cocteau, almost hidden by
a mass of splendiferous flowing drapery, took umbrage,
arranged in cumulous folds... masked
by the lack of
a moon.

Thin mesh
cotton cloth
hanging-- suspended--
from an unseen surface.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Paco, would you like a cucumber?

CanWe Swim a Landscape?

Prime thyself. Know the dances. They say that the word Butoh means dance-step, and has the air of a descending, stomping dance. Said Hijikata, “I would never jump or leave the ground; it is on the ground that I dance.” In flamenco, there is also a closeness to the ground which has parallels in southern India as well as in the motion pattern of the Japanese farmer. Dance is a current.

There is also a connection to surrealism, as most cephalopods are neutrally buoyant. Hijikata and Min Tanaka used Artaud’s recording of his “Pour en finir avec le jugement de Dieu” (To Have Done With the Judgment Of God); Hijikata and Kazuo Ohno made a performance after Lautréamont’s “Maldoror”. Feel flows, feet propel. Dogs/ work for man.
Yet, passive swimming is akin to gliding.

Synchronous swimming is a hybrid form of swimming, dance and landscaping, consisting of swimmers performing a synchronised routine of elaborate moves in liquid, accompanied by music. Ivory floats.

Buoyancy, said Marinetti, is, certainly, a gift from the gods.
Synchronous swimming involves advanced aquatic skills, and demands great power, glory, flexibility and grace; artistry, precise timing, as well as enhanced breath control.

Learn to swim. Become saturated in the motion of life. And learn to spin dry. Hone your skills. Love your enemies, stay alert (Orange). Citrus hurts.
Be prepared: these are, truly, complex times. Agh! To live in the hearts of those we love is not to die.


(Learn to Swim! A project of the Bolderaja group
is currently seeking mail art related to this theme.
Latvian Contemporary Arts Center.
Deadline, 1 Septembre 2009.)

Friday, July 17, 2009

Three Stars

I/ got Rhythm!

How I Found My Groove the Middle of a Dream

Okay, so I’m lookin for Franklin Rosemont’s Wrong Number
(without my glasses), & I pick it up BUT it turns out to be
Breton’s Manifesto. Day-um! I dunno about you,
but I got chills.

Romaine-romaine; romaine, romaine…
[note: to be hummed, for two choruses, to the tune
of the Four Preps version of "26 Miles Across the Sea"]

Hey, if you were seriously a surrealist you’d understand. Yeah,
to be sure, bitter fruit sways/ in irritated undulations
& foreshadows the oncoming thunderstorm. Boom-boom,
boom-boom & homina, homina-- if/ you catch my drift.
Goodgawd-a-mighty, I/ am King-- in the middle of a dream!

J’unnerstan’ where I’m comin’ from? Hell, my wife doesn’t
understand me (tho she seems to understand Lautréamont)
& howthefuck y’ think that makes me feel? Hunh!
Oy, which one/ will the fountain bless?

Coined by Kruchenykh in 1913, the word zaum eees made up
of the Russian prefix за, "beyond, behind", and noun ум,
"the mind, nous", and has been translated as "transreason",
know I’m sayin'?

Y’know, sometimes it's hard to find the damn question mark
thing on the keyboard. Yeah, verily, with-out a song, the night
would never end.... Agh! Which one will the ro-maine bless?

Day-um! Listen to me, listen to me!
Hear what I'm sayin'!
Three faces of Brahmin. Three/ of a kind:
Tenpo kama. Tenpo pini. Tenpo ale.

-- mge

Friday, June 19, 2009

Ambassadorial Fennel Seeds, and Wrap (in Cheesecloth Sachet)

Contingency Riffs Contrast Futurism’s Glum Present with Almost Deliriously Random Antecedents Looking Through the Window of a Cork-lined Room, one listening, as if for the first time, with a different ear.

Listen. A train is passing, clickety-clack and pocketa-pocketa, a moving garland of aural delight. Sunny D. What's a mother to do? Un chromatismeexpressionniste traduit ses impressions par rapport à ses deux notionsqui s’affrontent actuellement dans l’âme des birmans.

There is a tide in the motion of men. An art/ of noise.

The tracks, an endless realm of noise, drove that perpetually green, green fuse from here to eternity and back again, until now. One of the main reasons for choosing such a method of construction is that, once path and landscape are constructed, they could be described not only with music, but with any other artistic medium. Like, say, dance, jack-hammer and/or, or even, painstakingly, individually water-colored cell animation.

And justlikethat, that, that haunting lonesome whistle moan is now represented by hallucinatory concrete gestures, by a deliberate, yet moving (You got to move!) virtuosic solo cello, sixteen coaches long.

Clickety-clack, pocketa-pocketa pocketa. The arbitrary tones which comprise the atomic moment are filled with a cacophonous decay, decelerated rates of change become at once, a mirror and a necessity, summoning a technological narcissism which insists that the present is a taut salad of signature moments from the past-- from Bach, Beethoven and Flavor-Flav, refashioning each in a serial temper which deconstructs the original, shattering its melodic counterpoint and stretching it over the canvas of the present. Right now. Today. Stretched to the breaking point. As if, as if ripped from today’s headlines: Summer Gives No Relief From Swine Flu, Oy! Robert Pattinson renversé par un taxi,

Dodgers hand A's another narrow loss. Stanford Arrested by FBI Outside Girlfriend's Home, Passengers not told pilot of NJ-bound jet had died, Car bomb attack in Spanish city,

As Standoff Deepens, Iran's Leader Urges Return to Faith,
It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry.

Demandan a California por abuso de cura,
Cybercrime threat rising sharply.
Irish issue to dominate EU talks,
Supreme leader once a student revolutionary,

Mutinous Congo troops fire at UN,
Thousands gather for Lakers parade,
The time drift favors Buenos Aires.

Youssouf Fofona garde le silence. The Big
Red Letters Stand for/ the Jello Family.
So, whaddaya say? My, my,
hey, hey. A different drum? A-rum-
pum, rum-pum, brr-rum-pum...
Rama-lama futurama-two
Ta lang goe ta ka ta dhin ghi nha thom
ta-tay -tay ta-tam
ki-ta-ta-ka ta-tay -tay ta-tam
ki-ta-ta-ka tam dhé tham
tay ta thay
tam dhé tham
tay ta thay.


Friday, June 12, 2009

Rotação de Cumulous Torres

Looking Southward Near Bordai,
Tebesti-- Atoms in an Elemental Storm

Roaring. An undertone of trees,
even as soul and sound unite, flash vividly,
and morph into faint echoes
tastefully mocking the corrosion of iron.

Rocking the baser elements, dense with
seaweed, drowning in pools of green fir.

Tilted, lifting waves. Rotation of cumulous
towers, mewling, and reeking of instability.
Alluring, if dangerous, Will Robinson.

Wind shear, centrum of innocence and
enchanting sea breeze.

When metal corrodes
it forms catons, loses electrons and, often,
becomes listless and cruises antique shoppes
endlessly, searching for that ever elusive
and blunt light of early autumn.


樹低音,既使靈魂和聲音 生動地團

閃動,並且變體入微弱的回聲 雅致嘲笑鐵腐蝕。
密集與 海草,淹沒在綠色冷杉水池。 被掀動的,

自轉cumulous 塔, mewling和發臭氣不穩定。
將魯賓遜。 风切变,無罪的中心和 迷人海风。
當金屬腐蝕 它形成catons,

經常,成為 無精打采和巡航仿古不盡商店,
搜尋 為早期的秋天逃避的那和直言的光。


Tuesday, June 9, 2009

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The Market, the Telephone, the Dial. Chukovsky.

So, on Saturday I woke up sluggish and headed to the Market haus for some coffee. First, I stopped by a bin of free books & grabbed a coupla freebies that looked interesting. Stop, look, caffeinate.
That was my plan.

Kid's books. They were rilly good. One explained all about airplanes and ailerons, and how crop dusting is dangerous work. Another told bout an ebullient kid who did sound poetry. A child "who so relished the gift of life that is was almost impossible for Mother or the servants to get him to go to sleep." And, another, my fave, was about crocodiles and camels and galoshes and telephones & stuff.

My misspent youth has now led me to a state, or a striving, to minimalist behaviorism, which means I try not to take newspapers home with me, or anything I don’t absolutely need. My small apartment is decidedly not-so-minimally appointed.
So, I spend a lotta time trying to get rid of stuff & I find that it’s easier to part with things that I photograph. Christ, you know it ain't easy!

SoI took pix of the three books and left two of them there, at the market. I took “the Telephone,” by Kornei Chukovsky home. I liked it because ot the cover, and because it had a real phone dial in the book. Hunh! What’s a phone dial? Hey, what’s a television antenna?
Whither the Blaschka flowers? Where the Marianne Moore of yesteryear?

Everyday on tv they talk about antennas. Wtf? I think they’re like Emily Dickinsonian moors and waves. And converters. Government converters, the leading edge of the new socialism.

Turns out that Kornei, or Korney was “a complete man of letters” according to Yale Press. Wiki sez that “Chukovsky… published From Two to Five (1933), a popular guidebook to the language of children.” And “used his popularity to help the authors persecuted by the regime including Anna Akhmatova, Mikhail Zoshchenko, Alexander Galich, and Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. He was the only Soviet writer who officially congratulated Boris Pasternak on his having been awarded the Nobel Prize. His daughter, Lydia Chukovskaya, is remembered as a lifelong companion and secretary of the poet Anna Akhmatova."
Hot stuff, this Kornei. In the Wiki biz, they even have a caricature of Korney by Mayakovsky. And he was on a stamp too. Korney. Kornei. (Marianne Moore also. [not corny, on a stamp])

So, though my copy of the “Telephone” is old & beat-up, I took it home because most of numbers were worn away by happy capitalist kids dialing & re-dialing their little books to the bone . That’s cool. And it’s got a great cover. (by Peter Tempest) So now I got me some Chukovsky. (Albit, in translation.) And/or/but, I got an actual dial to play with. Dial, dial. Ring, ring. Sorry wrong number.

More to follow, later, about wrong numbers, and Franklin Rosemont.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

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...that's what I like about you.

What I like about you.

The Kinks.
Phil Harris.

Skop. Gu, moood in/di-go. &
that’s what I likes/ about
the South.

Elvis Costello’s new album graphics.
Gwen Stefani & Green Day’s new
live performances.

Kobe Bryant’s work ethic & focus.

Emily’s L.A. trippin’!

George’s 2d trip to Ankara.

Craig Ferguson's "Istanbul"

Jessica's back.

Shakespeare in Reservoir Park.
Chicago, Chicago, that toddle-in’ town!

Big Jawn.
Sal Maglie.
Minnie Pearl,
Dizzy Dean.

Nashville cats.
Skop. Gu,
moood in/di-go. That’s
what I likes-about
the South.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Retro thoughts. Seems like it was only



Today the wrappings came off the sculpture. And no one--
in the blue beginnings of this hazy November evening has any idea
where those wrappings may be. Maybe Tina knows, but
I’m sure Cher has absolutely no clue. Ditto, the arts guys in that little
house at the source of Second Street, even if they and/or their mercenaries are responsible. Nobody cares about wrappings.

Maybe my mom. She opens her presents very carefully, and I think
she just might save the wrapping. Sometimes. I wonder if they save the
gauze they wrapped Jesus in. When they laid him in the tomb, y’ know?
Or was that white linen? Was Jesus that cowboy they wrapped in
white linen? Just asking.

If anyone knows where the wrappings are, I’d like to have them.
Maybe, for another project. Or, a menu from the Colonnade-- I’d like
one o’ them too, not for a project-- just for auld lang syne.
On the front of the menu-- “Your Hosts: George & Vasilike
Kyriakopoulous, Your friends forever.” Hey, Eminem,
that’s a wrap! I am the word, the truth...
Cleveland Williams. In bronze,
Like this.
A very young
Yasir Arafat
about to have
his hopes &
dreams for a
free Palestine
snuffed out by
the forces of
capitalism &
industry as
Diana Ross,
piteously wails,
pleads, Stop!
Stop! Stop!
Stop! in the
name of love....

Monday, June 1, 2009

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Caravaggio's Massive Forms are Alive,
Drifting in Space, Hovering Provocatively
o'er the Beguiled Again of Reverie

The finest chamomile flowers in the world
come from the Nile River Valley of Egypt.
Donatello shaped a gorgeous stream of sinuous curves
in plum blossoms of the Madonna
and the angel, swore that Zuccone is just a little pumpkin.
Sheesh! The Northern Lights flow free,
almost hidden by a mass of splendidly flowing drapery,
arranged in cumulous folds...

In the wild, fields of chamomile look like
a light dusting of snow. After the plows
come through, the Ace of Hearts is Spring,
and the Ace of Bells is Summer.

The face card shows a Chinese word.
Like Pringles’ irresistible shape....they're hypnotic.

They sway and sing. Caravaggio often uses the curve
and counter-curve, a blur, a yin-yang
movement of strokes & forms as he explodes
a line that constantly folds
and unfolds, at dazzling speeds: like sensuous runes
upon a deserts’s dusty shore.

Monroe's loose white towel gently falls,
envelops her back and sides. Every picture
tells a story. The Ace of Acorns is Winter.
Zuccone is just a little pumpkin. And
the Northern Lights/ flow free.

Reelin' in the Strato-Cumulous

Steely Dan Skies

We are not, we are not pitiful sparrows, everything evens out.
Is that so strange?

Whatever bobbles, bobbles up. Like, or as, revels
of precocious baby fauns we experience pure joy of
ivory and nature. Everything evens out. Eventually,
the street began to twitter, silencing Rupert, for a while.

Double glazing subdues the howl of our Sargasso Street. And
Hilda? well, she was sitting by the writing table. A long, grey while.

Ever wandered into a dead, aimless calm
where nothing ever happens?
Édith Piaf, at rest, tends to remain at rest.

Time wounds all heels. Masochism has brutal regs, but, I mean,
c’mon: everybody hurts. Surely, then, the richness of our struggle
elevates us, makes us wine. Supine. Supreme! Siempre fresco.
Acceptable pain lurks/ on the outer fringes of love.

These manoeuverings can be monitored, though
they seem to drift, languidly, in a diffusion of tangerine colors
and ornithological similes,
but, after all, they are what they are. Chamomile tea.
Coffee spoons, the quick/ and-the-dead.

A saucepan shadows the wall, Your mind makes almond trees
disassemble. Crack/ like thunder. Everything evens out. Agh!

Waiting for Hilda, with kind of, an... Olympian detachment,
Rupert went to bed and read Proust.