Saturday, June 13, 2009

Future Suture

The bloat and fall of Chinese Food. The Chinese Food Restaurant grew into Twelve Chinese Food Restaurants, One for each Borough and there are rumors of a Thirteenth Chinese Food Restaurant, a Secret Chinese Food Restaurant that will free Us All from the crippling Chinese Food Drought brought on by the the Unfortunate Paucity of Things Which Are Breaded And Fried, of Goopy Sauce, of Misunderstood Orders, of the Tang and Zip of the Downtown Train as it comes to a screeching stop over the Precipice of The Future.

The sidewalk cracks and vines come spilling up, spinning round and round looking for something to grasp onto, alien life that is also our own parents or grandparents or something. When the vines find the iron rails of the prison they begin to rip it apart, but they are slow, too slow to help the current crop of slaves but promising a future without prisons, hospitals, or houses; without man, woman, or child, except those who are able to adapt to changing vine-related circumstances and can abandon civilization in favor of hunting, gathering, fishing (which is like hunting,) stealing (which is like gathering,) and without fire and without complicated language. What will the vines leave for their once and future and cultivators? Something between grunts and unsplit infinitives, something between dying of exposure and living forever in an international space station, something between fists and missiles. The first couple generations of prisoners suffer from the taking hold of the vines, lose the little sunlight they had been rationed by the overseers, greening it to dim. The vines work, tearing it all down, dusting it to soil, isolating the poison isotopes, the power plants, the cancer particles, the dams, the bridges, the art, the parade grounds, the bottled spices, the candle light vigils, the velvet roped ruins. All crumbs. Slow and steady ends the race.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

16 Hours Before The Surprise Death

After dropping rhymes like nickel bags all over the neighborhood, 16 distinct trees grow in a big circle around the house. It's hard to remember a time before they stood full size and the question of were they ever saplings is, every time, superseded by the question of were you ever young? Thick sap wastes itself on bugs and birds and the pancakes inside the house go naked. Piney green herb aroma floats up in an illegal cloud but the law of man can't reach here, except for one, except for the ones that insist upon themselves even without handcuffs, without cells, without solitary confinement and cruel and unusual torture, without the benefit to the town that the prison brings, without the largely underground hypermodern facility above which new parks and playgrounds can be built, without the sodium pentathol, the electric chair, the thumbscrews, the death of man, the my house now, the sound and the fury, the dancing lights, the will o' th' wisps, the will of the people, the wills of the masons, the secrets of NYMH, the NYC transit hub, the garden, the guard who always lies, the guard who never lies, the column of hands that talk and see and lift and drop, the crystal balls that are part glam, part magic, part illusion, that explode into horrible drills that kidnap babies that take too much for granted that are in danger; horrible danger; that do not know what the high line is but curate the high line festival that are impressed by new zealand folk comedy singing that is way more serious than it seems but isn't saving anyone's life today; by this, by that, by this and that; by and by; by and by; by and by the trees turn brown and yellow and shed all over the ground and the weeds grow up and are hard to tell apart except that the weeds don't come out of the ground as easily as the flowers, and the weed turns brown and dries out and a lot of it ends up getting wasted, and the willows still don't understand why everyone thinks they're depressed all the time when they're just trying to provide shelter, and the woodpeckers fly south and are annoying, and the penguins fly north and are extinct, and the dodos run in circles and perform great feats of calculus, and the dinosaurs evolve into birds and are much less beautiful and sing much less sweetly and are much smaller and are much stupider and are still warm blooded and at least they can fly now, that's something.

Little puffs of herbal smoke come up from the chimney, each one the exorcism of an unintended consequence, a repression, and tomorrow.

Monday, June 8, 2009

For You See, It Was The Sequel

Opening this week at the Casa Del Tupedo in Temperate Climate: For You See, It Was The Sequel, an evening of comic one-acts written and directed by Maryanne Washington.
For You See, It Was The Sequel is a hilarious night of sketch comedy, performed by a stellar cast of Temperate Climate residents including Q. Pillard Rushmore, William Tell, Al Sharpton, Phillip Glass and Jazz Man Bluestockings. The humor is outrageous and irreverent - If you’re not offended, you haven’t been listening.
For You See, It Was The Sequel will be performed at the Casa Del Tupedo, Temperate Climate Avenue in Temperate Climate on June 12 and 13 at 8 p.m. and June 14 at 3 p.m., and the following week on June 18 and 19th at 8 p.m. Tickets are $15, seniors $10.

Seating is limited, so reserve now! 516-676-615, or e-mail exclamation point@!.com

@For You See, It Was The Sequel contains adult material, and is not recommended for children@

Sunday, June 7, 2009


Sort of a dopey expression on the face signifying possible deep vacancy or stupidity, although it could just be the heat. Things assembled wrong, or not assembled at all, or not fully assembled. Clean clothes dropped in the hamper or sent to the dry cleaner's rather than just being put away because of laziness, or obsessive compulsiveness, or fear, or confusion. A bedroom full of beer bottles, over 300 liters of Jack Daniels consumed in one year of sleeping on the floor of receiving facebook updates from the not yet divorced wife living in the house that two people paid for petting the dog that two people trained and raising the kids that she brought into the marriage in the first place. The bitter root taste of not having fought for custody, for togetherness, for the tv remote when those things had meaning, the deepening metal on the back of the tongue of the complete utter total full pregnant weighty dripping laden loaded extra fried extra noodled extra bread extra tea-line extraneous things that swim up from the bottom of the ocean or float there or not the ocean but the deep dark lake, the green water, the slippery mossy rocks, slimy even and unclimable, the understanding that the shore isn't getting any closer but the muscles are definitely tiring and the numbers might not be with the swimmer in this particular case. Over 100,000 swimmers drown every day in Burgundy. Over 99,312 construction workers get coked up and drive their pick ups into the very building they're supposed to be working on, ending their lives and destroying the work of their peers. Over 100,688 flamingos get sucked into jet engines every hour between Orlando and Miami and Mickey Mouse has started reciting one big eulogy for all of them instead of giving each one the respect of individual attention. It's a cold world sometimes, but other times there's a draining heat that can be confused with unforgivable laziness, stupidity, or heartlessness. When the coffee grows tumors of ice and the stoop sales spring up like fungus and the outdoor seating becomes more precious than water and water becomes more precious than gold and gold is the only thing anyone trusts anymore since the bottom fell out and the little naked boys go running around the park delighting in their own scandal, the fluster on their mothers' faces, the confusion of the strangers' looks/not-looks, the fountains become preciouser and preciouser and the tropics aren't what they used to be.

I pant. You pant. He, she, or dog pants.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Over Seize Buoy

Starts out with a triangle cut out of the back revealing the back. Leaves little to the imagination, but for some reason the eye and pelvis are focused on that bit of missing geometry, rather than say, the bare legs, the bare shoulders, or the liquid curves. It doesn't matter which side of the road traffic ought to be driving on, it gets stopped just the same. No real rival can be as charming as the ones made up of bits and pieces of movies and paranoia. That there are flights every day brings comfort which turns to ash quickly at the thought of how little there is to liquidate, or how little sense it would make to be spontaneous and how long the situation is going to go on for, how many opportunities there are for cheating, for rethinking, for getting distracted, for outgrowing, for forgetting, for abandoning, for being swept up in the things that exist over there that don't exist over here. The old buildings, the very old churches, the bright lights, the green fields, the late hours, the strong whiskey, the international vibe, the old world charm, the new world charm, the opportunities, the opportunities.

In between is the chance to drop out of the sky without any warning and, presumably drown, but perhaps become stranded on an island, whether magical or secular. That, on the way to experience love, the lover may end up in a straw-drawing situation the wages of which are death and being eaten, or may revert to a frightening animal state and know that the trip was only being taken on behalf of the still faithed in relationship and that feeling of responsibility, deserved or forced may be enough to cauterize the last open heart parts.

Or else the plain lands safely and the lights of the city which seems to exist only as life support for the airport, for the runway, are brilliant and varied, much more so than the lights of the night sky that had seemed so special, seemed to spell out love's own name for the past many hours. The being nowhere and nothing and unreachable from above or below, the knowing that there may be a seismic shift, a fall of man, a change of perspective but riding it as the degree of change rides change.

The missing triangle of purple fabric haunts the mind's eye, is pointy like anger, is flimsy like the foundation it's time to admit. Everybody's got the right to be happy, but everybody's got the right to be happy.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Office Party Fractide

Bright light from under the crack in the door and a girl who ended up with a typewriter and paper for some lazy reason. The negligence of replacing manifest cruelty for any sort of honestly arrived at horror of the soul. Darkness of the cellar for actual night time. Blood and guts that can be listed off in neat pointless columns. Torture porn and Mommy, why is that lady crying? The true bankruptcy is evident in the requirement that the rape victim be beautiful, hot, or beautiful. Scourge out the Oxford Commas and leave me the fillings. How fast can you eat a box of Glazed Popems. Dutch Mill makes the best and they're good for you if you don't read the outside of the box.

Any asshole can make something gross, but only a stand up comedian can make something scary. Girls wear expensive jeans cut to boy specifications, ignoring hips and lowering the crotch, and worn down to look like they belong to the boyfriend waiting at home in the apartment cooking dinner, out drinking with the boys and soon ready to rut, working late in a black windowed office to support the cobb salads and mimosas of tuesday lunch with the girls, to pay for the boyfriend jeans, who traded in his motorcycle for a brand name stroller and swaddling cloth, who accidentally brought down the world economy and spilled coffee on his jeans, simulated on hers, by toxic artificial coffee ring made in New Jersey and pumping sewage out into the swimming pools of the suburban lives. There's sprawl and then there's sprawl and both are rich soil for more malls. Neighborhoods are defined by the size, number, and names of the dogs found therein. Also how likely are the dogs to be wearing dog clothes? Anyone who puts a dog in clothes will be first against the wall when the revolution comes, when America inevitable goes Socialist, for, you see, black people are all on the same team, and they're gonna play these white people for their freedom, so don't have a sore tendon on Saturday.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Shen Wei Dance Arts responds to Ernesto Neto's anthropodino, with FLUX Quartet and special guests

Interesting capitalization all over. Impossible not to read too much into the ups and downs, but look at the old iron ceiling, the old iron bars. The unique sameness of it all. Smatterings of getting pantsed in dogeball class once upon a time even though the old iron clock and long stopped ticking by the time that, or any, idea became relevant.

Fortunately, all this precedes time. Natural? No, one could not call it natural with it's synthetic hole punched walls and its plastic and its children. But the dripping is familiar, despite being stopped at an arbitrary moment, or a moment not so arbitrary but perhaps selected out of one thousand and one possibilities by a mind that percolates randomness itself. The crying sweetness comes from that the liquid froze without changing form. The laws of liquid still apply but not the laws of gravity maybe, or just, we're dealing with another set of laws here that we don't have names for because we're only discovering them right now. Together and no one's allowed to take pictures so how are we going to present this to the academy? Fluidity without a medium. Supercooled this and quantum that, whatever, but the ineffable feeling of the best of nature without so much as an approving nod from that sexy old lady brings up something like relaxation, but less settling. Least settling of all is at the finish the contortions that are at once what everything before settles into and at the same time the least restive moment.

There's never been life like the life embodied in those dusty dead bodies. One with black eyes selects me and is close enough to touch and then is gone and I can not follow her. I can follow her but I am afraid to see her return to her grave. I can move but I am not sure that my muscles belong to me. My limbs have grown so light that they have turned to gas and taken the shape of their container. My organs have leached out and been fossilized; stockingified. This whole thing would have been shipped off to make parachutes for the allies, but, luckily, this war doesn't count and so there's room for the wailing of mountain instruments and just the cutest little hipster chick on bassoon. My brain is full of turmeric and clove and the sweet smelling crowd can overwhelm me anytime,

although i don't like it when i get told i'm not allowed to interact in certain ways. The holes in the walls are one size fits all, exactly with space for your arm or my arm and the idea of not putting an arm through them is simply unrealistic.

The greater chills come from a simple lift resembling something humans would do, but without the connection humans would have to have. Would have to. The grave illusions lead each other to ground. The one with black eyes breathes the cold air of the future on all her inevitable quarry and then washes her face and forgets herself and herself and herself and me and herself and herself.