Indefinite Descriptor

Nothing isn’t art
Runs like new
Something my mother said long ago
If, you are ever in a position
Where you don’t know exactly who is getting fucked?
It’s because it is you

Nothing isn’t art
One day only
Vacuous returning of nature’s hatred
Julies Cesar said Caveat Emptor
That you are the buyer who should beware is debatable
But not the value of the lesson
It’s because its you

Nothing isn’t art
Jesus on black velvet
Even a glimpse of another s thoughts
Conveying to any and all who
Would so much as look
Fulfills the obligation of sight
Or your ears or nose

Nothing isn’t art
Empty aquarium
The subject beyond the object
Nay, hear me pyrrus and purpend thereon
On either side of the paint
Its because its you

Jesus Charlie

Tiny little blip in time
Humans as we are currently defined
Protein sequences exactly like hummingbirds or sharks
Not a little bit like them
But exactly like them side by side
Four amino acids in endless combinations binding us all
Tiny little strands
Ribosomes connecting the twin strands
The blueprints of Charles Starkweather and Jesus Christ

I am the egg man

And I dreamed I shook the most massive hand I had ever seen
Emerging eerily from a hand stitched diamond quilted silk vacuole
Bearing an enormous old fashioned knuckle-duster ring
And I seem to remember his pupils pinned as we shook hands

An instant of icy crystalline fear paralyzed my very soul
Angel Hearts Louis Cypher eating the Man/Egg Mickey
Something in a language I no longer allow myself to speak
In diamond chips sans-serif capitals your ass is mine

I knew the second he let go of my hand that I was forever changed
A certain hyena like asymmetrical quality in his unseeing eyes
Assurance that there would be no death prior to maceration
Persona non grata casper milquetoast personification preferred

The rooms of my subsequent passage

But this feeling had come that day, the day I was arrested
And swallowed up everything inside it,
So big you could not really prove it was there
Except by an arithmetic of absence and the memory of better days.
And I had moved around in it, whatever it was from one point to another
utill I had wound up behind the razor wire at Elmwood in a place so bad it was like a Piece of broken glass to rub up against that big empty. And thereby growing aware of the thing that had swallowed the world. Though it was only just visible and then only in sidelong glances, not a feeling so much as a form of gas. Something I could almost smell in the back of my throat
Lying chill and inert in the rooms of my subsequent passage

Keep those flags of distemper flying

A work in Progress..........
Is it true that one can not help but to perceive any given moment with some remnant of whatever thought-forms that were extant during the moments that preceded it or them.
A sort of residual force of reckoning that in effect infects the developing now moment with a tincture like overlay. A hint of the now past moment forcing those moments to more or less morph from one into another not so much as to actually define the newly developing moment or series of them but to setup a certain contiguous familial quality about them.
Giving rise to questions regarding inferred word values, queuing and nonrandom word selection and the deep and abiding suspicion I have always had that most humans must be at least a little bit insane to actually understand one another And if so....?

On Constellations

On Constellations


We are stardust, we are golden,
We are billion year old carbon,
And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the garden.
………..Stephen Stills.


Parallax view lending credence to a collective impression
Though light years apart we perceive a connection
Constellations are a perspective relation
The song of the spheres defined by vibration

Socio political is the increment of measure
And curacy the genius of this international treasure
Megalopolis located between the future and the past
Globalization reconfigured redefined unsurpassed

In this world wide turbulence, a different expression
This biennial theme, is an harmonic progression
Former Military Industrial Complex Conversion
Paradigm shift marks its total inversion

But seriously now…
In my mind’s eye I keep picturing Zues in a near frantic state of apoplexy
Hardly knowing which hubristic mortal to fling his thunderbolts at
Zhu Qi, Marc Hungerbüler, Raul Zamudio, Any of the bevy of polyglot
Curatorial conspirators involved in this wanton reanimation of the
798 war machine.

And I wonder is it safe?… this breathing to life of the long dead 798 corpse
What impact will be greater upon the world? Old or New
Surely the hopes & dreams of its East German designers
Will in some way finally be realized !
A new world order based upon Photographs & Sculpture?
Paintings that could cause the world to actually take there neighbors seriously
Can we hold Martin Wehmer responsible for what happens or Nicoykatiushka
Alexandra Loewenstein, Jaishri Abichandani Tried in a court of world opinion
I think these things a long overdue and to celebrate this austere point in time,
I am going to shamelessly Ripoff Sir Winston Leonard Spenser Churchill
This is not the end It is not even the beginning of the end.
But perhaps It is the end of the beginning

The Angel by Bruce Springsteen

The angel rides with hunchbacked children
Poison oozing from his engine
Wielding love as a lethal weapon
On his way to hubcap heaven
Baseball cards poked in his spokes
His boots in oil he's patiently soaked
The roadside attendant nervously jokes
As the angel's tires stroke his precious pavement

The interstate's choked with nomadic hordes
In Volkswagen vans with full running boards
Dragging great anchors
Following dead-end signs into the sores
The angel rides by humping his hunk metal whore

Madison Avenue's claim to fame
In a trainer bra with eyes like rain
She rubs against the weather-beaten frame
And asks the angel for his name
Off in the distance the marble dome
Reflects across the flatlands with a naked feel
Off into parts unknown
The woman strokes his polished chrome
And lies beside the angel's bones