In the morning, In the dark.

I am perfectly assertive in my discomfort.

You as the bomb.

Induce me wolf.

Bright Black.

When I was kinder...

work by bas jan ader

http://www.patrickpainter.com/editions/artists/Ader_BasJan/work-11.html

New PANNNINGG.

HAH!

Everything is slippery except slipperiness,

but to say that is probably just indulging the stupidest part of the universe

Maybe a truck will come along and stop me

and say hello

and say hello do you need a ride? and I could say anything really at that point

but I would probably say no

because that would be the most real truck to

nowhere

To be accurate

I am joy incarnate

and also a couple of other things

yep

Nah On High

Is leopard print punk transcendence?

Am I just short of being an angry victim?

May I write the shape of alphabets

domestic and non on your skin...?

From Far, and Hills, and Mountains, and Farther, and Farther Than That, and Valleys and Smokey White City Gleam and Steam, and Now, and Then, Whenever and All Shuddering Westward Riding the Jet stream, Drawn by noise, Force and All.

I was answered

Resounding

Nah oh high.

Up so late all the time these days...

Ive been working at the opposite of meditation for 5 days now

hoping to slip in to a field or stream of consciousness

delivered simply by the mercy of the universe and strictly on merit of persistence

I don’t think I’ve ever yawned so many times alone

Now, this is not a cry, no

now this is something bad

now this is something not worth speaking of, no

now this is something worse

now this is building steam, no

now it is time to move or more likely wish you had moved

now my tiredness has a vigor of its own, a tenure for as long as it sees fit to stay, no

now I wish I had gone, or wish I was going

now I am gone nope nope nope, no

now impossibility meets at the point of function and leisure

and its infuriating

brilliant light, and probability swoons at its

feet, red and full

New Work

Shitty shots but oh well

"Here and Now, Now I am Here"
"I Don't Believe You"

I made a Blog

Its called "Both Hands"

http://bothhandskj.blogspot.com/

New Art School Stufff

-"Small Note 12"

-"Small Note 3"

"Something About an Elegy"

Statement for fine arts night

My problem is transcendence. I am interested in how anything specific can give evidence to anything greater. How total context can give form to that which needs no context.

My process is reaction to relationships. Relationships like, what is this? And what is it not? What do I want this to be? And what don’t I want it to be? What would this look like as furniture? And would this function well as a rocket ship? It is about what relationships are relevant. It’s about which relationships I employ and how. But it is not a matter of coming to a suitable compromise between relations. It is about delving into the relating process thoroughly and wholly, that an opposite of this process must appear. I am successful when I can glimpse that which in relation to a world of relationships (bigger, smaller, smoother, more pleasant) is unity and relation-less.  

In this way it is not about an honest mark or purity, for I treat lies and truth as two parts of the same thing, and that thing is of our construction. It is the complexity and collective power of all that we share. I surrender to it, and I aim to exalt it.

Come to see how this is  relevant! 

FINE ARTS NIGHT

TUESDAY NIGHT COME TO IT

AROUND 6 or 7 till 10 ish 

love like the lord of the rings

It sits out there waiting for me.

every time i take it out, I'm forced to put it away a little differently.

I apologize for how often I have picked it up.

I said I would be right back.

 And I walked faster.

He was sinking into hard wood floors.

His paint brushes were all hardened over.

He complained about everything but the weather.

Her sewing machine rings in the background,

attaching sticks to plastic light,

attaching him to her.

I’m where I always am; waiting.

My hands go up slowly to rub my eyes,

rub it down, away, 

back into my skull, or the insides of my eyelids. 

Apply black ink to my waist to 

steal you the illusion

that I have in fact improved.

I bend backwards and forwards,

I lift my legs this way and that,

I turn my wrists all around,

I crack my knuckles

I work on becoming a doctor and a trapeze artist. 

As she sews together pretty parts and

waits for him to tell her

that he loves her like the Lord of the Rings.

I didn’t ask for that, I asked for care, asked for awareness, asked for consideration. 

But never mind

because I love him now and it’s thin air. 

Besides the impossible present, I still crave flawless belief in that childhood romance.

It doesn’t really exist, which is what they all wanted me to have.

What I wanted to keep.

But age was pouring where water doesn’t rise.

I can’t get back to it; after you tore up my obsession, made it understood, forgettable.

I want to find those moments, before you;

when I threw the treasured recess soccer ball behind my head

and screamed his name, wanting to make sure we spent that 

holy thirty minutes of grass and asphalt together.

Just like her and her sewing machine and his rare letters. 

LOVE POEM

It's later now than it was then

but that's always true

you are like time, but in reverse

and dancing

I am headlong towards you

your grey guts, absorbent polymer impossible

may we be exponents of light.

Toni Morrison's Nobel Prize speach

"Don't you remember being young when language was magic without meaning? When what you could say, could not mean? When the invisible was what imagination strove to see? When questions and demands for answers burned so brightly you trembled with fury at not knowing?

"Do we have to begin consciousness with a battle heroines and heroes like you have already fought and lost leaving us with nothing in our hands except what you have imagined is there? Your answer is artful, but its artfulness embarrasses us and ought to embarrass you. Your answer is indecent in its self-congratulation. A made-for-television script that makes no sense if there is nothing in our hands.

We are young. Unripe. We have heard all our short lives that we have to be responsible. What could that possibly mean in the catastrophe this world has become; where, as a poet said, "nothing needs to be exposed since it is already barefaced." Our inheritance is an affront. You want us to have your old, blank eyes and see only cruelty and mediocrity. Do you think we are stupid enough to perjure ourselves again and again with the fiction of nationhood? How dare you talk to us of duty when we stand waist deep in the toxin of your past?

"You trivialize us and trivialize the bird that is not in our hands. Is there no context for our lives? No song, no literature, no poem full of vitamins, no history connected to experience that you can pass along to help us start strong? You are an adult. The old one, the wise one. Stop thinking about saving your face. Think of our lives and tell us your particularized world. Make up a story. Narrative is radical, creating us at the very moment it is being created. We will not blame you if your reach exceeds your grasp; if love so ignites your words they go down in flames and nothing is left but their scald. Or if, with the reticence of a surgeon's hands, your words suture only the places where blood might flow. We know you can never do it properly - once and for all. Passion is never enough; neither is skill. But try. For our sake and yours forget your name in the street; tell us what the world has been to you in the dark places and in the light. Don't tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief s wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear's caul. You, old woman, blessed with blindness, can speak the language that tells us what only language can: how to see without pictures. Language alone protects us from the scariness of things with no names. Language alone is meditation.

.

, a flower sometimes

two species

FLOWERS

If a flower were to give me advice
I hope it would say
"make bad paintings for ten years, its funny"

"balance things on your nose before you eat them"

It might look down at it feet and say
"Dig a small hole"

It would pause and sway in the wind, dance in awareness of its own goofy
embodiment of Pansy cliches
"take everything I tell you as a grain of salt"
hmmm
"someday you will season a fine steak with it"

"never be too serious for too long"
It would say
And
"Never go to church unless you are serious"

"You will always miss somethings"

"And some things are better never had"

It would tell me often about how thin its roots are becoming.
It was always old, it always felt young. Containing at all times the frailty
of babies and old people.

All the while it would urge me
"Let go"
"Let go"

My favorite shirt said dirt

Candle scented candles
and finest carpeting
did not prevent me

I ripped my oldest
boxers to shreds

Story gulfs
and missaid words
since birth

Didnt help either

My favorite shirt said dirt
Storm Stains on it
Salmon

My favorite shirt said dirt

There are rocks out there
They say nothing
and are rocks

I am not a rock

I'm not what I was
or what I think
I am

There are old boxers
ripped, silly, old
laying on my pillow

Ohhhh comming of age stuff

Its like how now I'm at the age
Where my friends show up naked on the Internet

What?
I didn't look

I only hear

Its like how when you drink
all of your pictures
blur
and look drunk

And its when I sit too long
I just rub my eyes
An elegy to the stress, and the things without names
But really
Its just dry-humping a cry

All of these the same
My naked eyes drink too hard
my sister is crying