of the reality. The flesh in the test, in the dish pan hands,the eighth died like a room,please. Sears in rows.


A car pulls up into another gallery parking lot, filled with steaming loose movements.Tired tracks and dust bowls. Hoover flags and bunny rabbit ears. It's funny how much this hurts. The tiresome cycle back to the beginning,the unavoidable physics of the movement of money.


I say fuck you. Cold chills and a heat wave over the surface of my skin,if laying on my rumbling bubbly side bloats and pushes. A creak of floorboards in the night,the clickity clack of a keyboard and dog claws on hardwood floors. Vomiting with a fist pressed into un-disinfected cold bathroom tile.


Art looms out there, like a job that can't be held. Like a bathtub's hard surface and a lack of seizure medicine. Whatever happened to I before E except after C?


Thank god for art openings. Thank god for coffee house doodle-a-thons to compete with Apache Oprah's good intentions. praise Allah for the new prices at the majestic.


good intentions are everything,aren't they? they're the best shield.


go validate what you do with your friends and sit & spin. get lost in the world,the division that separates the unreasoned contributions to society from the published and curated dialogues that really,in the end, don't say anything new. your friends will lie to you -and it wont matter - if somebody buys it for a bunch. there's no escape. Technique can be soulless and function just the same...didn't you know that?


Dialogue should bond those with common ideas. so be honest. You big meanie. Not some circle jerk of yes men glad-handing waste. But ah yes to an illusion of the crowd's acceptance,take a big bite. COME OUT & PLAY. throw it all against a wall that isn't even there cuz our hallowed critics and gallery owners have the whores b4 the art. it's okay. you can pretend it sticks. until you realize you need to get a career. and not in this city. not with art...cuz you didnt swipe the phony pieces off the phony gameboard,shit on the gsameboard and define your own . ALONE. (it is art afterall)


the thrones shift when in different jurisdictions...and you know it when yr outside of yrs.


Unite and admit that all art love is not the same and they cannot share the same feeling that it gives a city. One must be toppled and not with an idea of an idea,but with a winning of the crowd.


but oh no! our crowd doesnt care! is it cuz we're the ignant south? or cuz our zip zip business gentrifried green tornado silver shovel shallow gold diggers off paper mill are a pseudo association of an image, of an idea of cultured- look to our "collectors"...what do they know? they still go to bill lowe and fay gold in search of big price tags,IT MUST BE "ART"...look how much it costs! look how pretty it is!


but aaah...then look at the unaccredited - the lost idea of an ancient beat poets starving boheme with gutter real meaning-the crap of the windbags,;ying to each ohter in suppportive glory-claiming another kind of value to their empty "starving artist" crap. even they tend to strive for "the pretty"..the most sanctimonious. no meaning/oh. and dont look to graffiti for meaning anymore either...the dollar sized "outside"the gallery walls have consumed them too..graffiti for hire. please call me! welcome to the 21st century suckers.


by the way allison..i was watching the television last night (it's true) and madteevee was on-the expressionless dead eyed drab ass laughless tiresome gasp that that show provokes,and one of the imagination-less skits had a character named,guess what? Ping Pong. go fuckin figure