Pig Skin, Pinkerton

  Every single one of us is a child staring at an empty glass.   


   If you ever get stuck in a door, open the valve and shut the gate. Child- red face


  the winter lasts longer when you’re walking backwards. We caught our first sun burn on the last day of social studies.


   Every teacher is still a person of earth. Everyone corrupted by their ideas- a shard of iron.


  Scraps of food lay at the foot of our bed, all the moulding is scratched. The ribbons are all piled on the rug, a burberry mattress. A coil of copper.


  The child makes lists out of the creation of thought. Paper written on by thieves. The cake came through the door with nothing but knives.


  We first saw it at the edge of the hall, the rim of our glass was a prairie fable. It told us a story, that we only wanted to believe. It was so sad and tired-like. The trubedor spells his words with color. Simple and dry.


  Rain. A wet apple, cold in the river. The sun burn healed after a few long days. The glass spread lotion between the gaps in my lungs. White and shriveled with wine. 


  Vacuums of vacation, vapor- summer stones stop at the edge of your face.


  So enjoy, and agree, and don’t think so much about it. Everyone tries not to stare at the glass. It sits effortlessly on the table. Child-like. Skin stretched over clear bones.


  Each one of us is a better version of who we think we could be. Each thought gets in the way of the stone pillow ice cube tray that we try to defend.


  So hold the hand of that person you’re looking at. Child. Hold the hand of whatever kitchen island you call safety.


  The world is a terrible mess. And we are enjoying the center of that tired old man. 


  His wire, his throat. Everyone of us sliding through the silky, sick hair of his neck. Vapid- futuristic. Carry your chopped wood to the fire- to the edge of that poorly lit summer.


  The sun burns and aches. The book turns over itself on the floor. The shelf. The counter, the glass, the kitchen island is just another ball that you grab, and throw.

Chipped Paint

  I like the things that only come through years of constant wear. Like long hair,
   like shredded jeans, or a thin sweater. 

  Cuts in a butcher block, ripped leather boots, faded incandescent bulbs, and oiled axe handles. 


  I like fresh air.


  Some folks find beauty in modern art, but I find it in the engine of an old fishing boat, in the concave step of an old stone stairwell. 


  I find beauty in a tired type-writer ribbon: oiled felt, chipped edges.


  I find beauty in dull pocket knives. The tired office desk, a stained rake.


  I like the rocking chairs with discolored wrists, the torn cardboard edges of board games. I like scrapes in old wood floors; hard water stained shower curtains.


  I like the soot on a concrete hearth. The water and ink stained silk screen. 


  I see history in an empty mascara cylinder; toilet paper cores in a trash can. 


  Fan blades covered in dust. 


  I like the rain stained vinyl siding of a mid century house, I like the worn tires of a tractor. 


    I wonder how many years it takes to fill the ceiling of a small bar with dollar bills. I like the sweat stained steering wheels, I like the salty passenger side floor mats.


  I like the dew between two panes of glass- I like the over grown garden of your past.

They Don’t Have The Power To Burn us at The Steak..

I don’t trust the Inquistion of saints.The headstrong martyrs bead up on my cracked windshield.

Another hard loss. The victory in the details. Potions that witches craft.
I drive two miles an hour slower when the pope sneezes; something, something the air forms ripples around my radio.
I can see their lost. The vacuums that hide dust. We are so used to hiding behind distractions. 


  Web 2.0 is a dying breed, everyone touches glass. I can see how lost I got. So twisted up on the roots, forgetting to look for finches in iron. The drizzle continues to bead, babble. Brook. I look for a reason to agree, but I’m too well equipped at annoying the ones who dislike me. 


 I can see it their iris, the dilation cannot hide from the light. Causality. 


  Truth is unlike trust, even though the former breaks, the latter breaks too.


  The flat earthers

   The titanic folks

  Goldman, oil man, breaker of teeth- 

   The pinkerton’s still laugh at those porous beads of rain water. Each drop, another

signal that time left behind the creators      of decently created mechanics.
    Even IBM corrupted their drinking water. Men wearing hats to the mall, war mongering in places of education. History rewrote itself!


   It was a grand scheme, we didn’t want to know. And all those children that grew up with light in their eyes, fell victims to it.


Ideology loses when you realize how many people live on the planet. Bugs creep out of the light. The smallest shadow dissapears in the blink of the eye. We always forget about the Maddox incident.
  A child tripping over a stone.


  The grass is littered with them. Moth nets catching bears. The fish immune to the pressure of the ocean, wild beliefs. Each light bulb is red and green. Sifting through soft dreams the diarrhea only goes upstream.

Sure we aren’t free. 

We’re being lied to. Truths hidden from the rim of some long telescope. 
Sure we selling arms to foreign nations for profit. Sure, perpetuating the war state is a high ranking objective. 
Sure, the narrative is being controlled. If you think about it, every good story has someone telling it. Every motion lives just behind an operation of some sort.
Whether it be opening your hand, or a leaf finally letting go. There is a story there. 
And how wonderful it is to witness an action, the leg of a table. A wonderfully made blanket. 
There are countless forms of beauty that are continuously over looked, and passed off as being just another part of the world.

Hacking the dial tone.

I can remember the days when it was okay to talk about the fringe theories and wild speculation. 

Recently there has been a deluge of new conspiracy theorist. A new captain arrived with a boat of fresh blood. Recently I’ve seen a new school of folks who think that being an outsider is cool. 

Being an outsider isn’t cool man, it’s a fucking dredge. Being a fringe theorist is like talking about anime at the water cooler, circled by fifty-somethings.

You think it’s awesome, but really your just a werido 

in their eyes. It’s like talking about that band that “oh, you just would t understand.” But to me?

Being a fringe theorist isn’t about how cool you are, it’s about the potential truth of this planet. It’s about walled gardens that deal dope to its citizens. It’s about proxy armies that occupy and destabilize third world countries to form a puppet democracy that controls the information of it’s working class.

What’s important to me is talking about how it isn’t a “recent development” it’s a fabricated reality that stretches back at least (for the sake of talking) a hundred years. And mostly because we’ve evolved in the last century. And if you don’t believe it, your on the outside bud. 

Everyone talking insistently about how cool technology is. 
The means to create and communicate through new channels. The ability to craft a skill with the intelligence of your mind. Something that the “old timers” just “don’t understand”
Well, bud… It’s happening again. But on a much smaller scale. These circles aren’t taking ten-twenty years anymore. They are only taking a couple months. And-It seems 
as the processing of information has changed and multiplied – the means to cling to the “cool side” has changed.
And here is where we are now. People clinging to the newly realized half pipe. People climbing over one another to make a gag, or frill. Yr either a shake or a shill.
I’m confusing talent for texture. 
I’m engaged, but am only hearing shit from people who want to be engaged. People are only latching on and lashing out to the swipe of the thumb. 
It’s a damn turncoat, seeing the unrealized, hearing the pornographic small talk. The motion of the digital ocean the undertow, I look at it, and I can’t help but think;
this doesn’t looks like anything to me.

Names of a Future Land.

Space is nothing but a blanket of time. 

Within the rapture of comfort and patience we encounter
time as a vacuum of warmth and causality

 Jak pokonać własne serce

 Reflux is a distillation technique involving the condensation of vapors and the return of this

condensate to the system from which it originated

 According to zen Buddhism and most forms of Buddhism and quantum mechanics this life is just

another game of hide and seek.

 Any description of the universe which leaves you out is inaccurate. Because any description of

the universe is a description of the instrument that you used to take your reading of the

universe. And if the only instrument you used was your own nervous system, then you gotta

include your own nervous system in your description of the universe.

 use audio codes to indentify certain events. Whistle for dinner, two claps for Clickers

 Zip Ties.

We have The Benefit of looking back on the 1970’s and saying

                   “OH WHAT RICHES
         B. R. O. K. E. N.
               T. I. M. E. S.”

Everybody knows we’ve been lied to
at school, during work.

With the class, 

with the whole class.
People give a shit.
It’s pretty clear now that it was an unjust war. (ALL THE DENIM!)
Because giving up on the government doesn’t mean giving up.
People are taking it on.
Critical thinking in the streets-

Politics in the living room

risk in the class rooms.

Black power, 

(back to the land.)

Women’s lib-

feminist presses/ the new Frugality.




Artists Gathering means 


There is energy to that period after that hopeful period.
Giving up the Ghost

is a kind of National growing up.

People doing it for themselves, 

 2004 or 1964.

It’s still an Us vs. Them time. 

A SIMPLISTIC POLARITY HAS BEEN RUPTURED. We are stepping out of our allotted boarders.



cropping up everywhere.

It’s a more than merrier Specificity!

We may not have jobs, but we have more than ever before- in our lifetime.


We are unafraid to make utopic gestures and say complicated statements out loud.

Wild experimentation and 

investigation across mediums.

not: us versus them,
squares or misfits.


   liberals or cons-

But- Disco. Soul, Rock N’ Roll,

Funk and Folk.

Everything in it’s own sphere and everything bleeding. Many of the vets have come back.

Our views have become complicated.

Disillusionment as a Starting point.

Newly Adult critical Minds were so young when the Wars were won.
Realizing How Much Can Be Done without Capital. That more dangerous, more powerful is


 that sharing 

means something.







Artists are: Publishers/ Partners/ Workers/ Dancers.

 So less hand shaking!


Not a revival of an idealized decade;

A building of a new revival

with open Eyes

resigned spirits

weighty desires



-Unkown street artist, Chicago 2015.