Monday, January 30, 2012


green genes

To be performed while wearing a Crank Sturgeon mask

1. Wearing the Crank mask, recite verbatim an encyclopedia or wiki article on the UN
2. While reciting, tie your shoelaces together
3. Still reciting, now jog in place
4. Continuing to jog, put on a pair of mittens (preferably red)
5. Do this for five minutes. Accent the reading by occasionally yelling "cocaine" and tossing a handful of flour in the air. If it happens to be a politically correct crowd, yell "meth" instead

eyes used for tooth support

another rubber in the dirt...

1. Tell me about Crank Sturgeon?

What would I say?

My ship has come in. I'm aged, oak barrel cumbersome; frigged to the gnaw by the scoldings of forbidden teat and patchy skidmarks. My friend, I'm a ship. A portrait of yodels lost... asymmetries of tribunals now ancient and tattered, once-proud but now childless, and in grave need of wheels. And sure, there's a remedy, would if there ever be one in a once-in-a-while-occasion. For example, it could manifest as something surreptitious, akin to the timeliness accorded to congress, when in their guile and most sacred poise of positing decrees, would appoint the breath-of-fresh-air to be its ambassador. But it's a process both arduous and not light on the feet. Even a dullard of fourteen winters could see it. Even one so lonely and priggish, the type of sullen tool whom would deliberately sit on cold stone, sobbing and pocked, coated neck to ankle with hemorrhoids, barren and incredulous at his or her uncertainty. Inconsolable. Even this person could and would, deem the need to be dire, and beg the question of when was a good time for administering more serum. 

In the proverbial buttress of day passage, I develop periscopic hope. It beats down the tundra of would-be dampers and moments of dampness, you know, the kind that might be maddening to some, but only when gazed at from windows of a train or from less agile sport utility vehicles. These timbers can nevertheless be exalted by a brevity of instance, when, setting an unusual precedent, give bend, like the limber willow, to a next day, one so indicated as being made in the shade, brought to light, or even matted and yet, kinda' sexy, like a freshly moistened rain poncho wrapping around the dank & cool chill of alewife. I'll default on total self negation with a hypothetical: referring to our previous figure, our imperial high commissioner of comely but stupefied adolescence, that pithy gender nonspecific, unabashed inner waif/scowling cur, imagine this person then, anointing snorkel, baring tooth and credo, upping his or her insights, shaving his or her back, acquiring third nipples, donning four genitals, and just like that, presto: take to the sea! 

If I cannot catch myself recording that prospect, you, dear reporter, only get a bit of the symptom. The resolve comes as wisdom and adage: add wheels, inhale until you feel it in the spine, and then pray for rain, mister.

2. Which adjectives would you use to describe Crank Sturgeon?

Oh, I'm pretty nice, most of the time. Autocratic, otherwise. Descriptive plays have their better days spent elsewhere, and odes should be written about them versus the odious task of listing these divisive adjectives. Life is a mean contractual agreement with words that only measure in metric, leaving scandals and requiems to any other port of entry. And forget about some sodden harpy or metaphysical guide, some authoritarian controller and/or harbor master seeing any nicety or able readiness in the mismatch of empathic blessings that have that tinny taste of aluminum or heaven forgive me, earl grey tea. 

It goes back to ships, man. I'm a veritable armada of dumb. But without these meaningful little barges, tooting and hollering, the bays get monochromatic, and no storm or seasonal fluke wants to pay a visit. Even the seagulls keep the fuck away. Bad jazz guitarists, they're the only cads that stay, preaching to the colon about semiotics or the symbolics of little corner lard piles. So I keep away from the verbal pries, and leave the rorschach to the scientists and other asthmatic mathematicians. Just don't let them grow up to be architects. 

3. What is Crank Sturgeon's greatest strength?

It's best to switch gears here, and disregard the aforementioned treatise on masters, boats, whelps, and the strafes of annotation associated with hydra and what I might later take a stab at: feel-good movies. It's like this. A sturgeon can grow quite old when allowed to ripen and not be speared, fished, or bludgeoned by the pasty marvels we call deregulationists. This is generally a good thing to lean towards, or at least have an inkling of, and where I try to focus my strengths.

4. What is Crank Sturgeon's greatest weakness?

Okay. So, when I go about vacuuming the ocean floor, this isn't exactly a weakness, but it makes my knees weak to filter through all the sediment. I get captivated by the nuances in the colored shells, the wriggle of plankton, and the leech-footed dance of random zygotes and passer-bys. All these come up through my tubes and land in the collection bins, gleaming and winking, batting their lashes seductively, pleading that I give each a prying eye and further inquiry. Once the sun has settled under the horizon line, I'm at wits' end to catch these sparkling agents, and often find the search to be less vigil, and if anything, debutante. The knees begin to quiver that I haven't aced the scores on a daily quiz that I imposed upon my life when I was nine years old. 

5. What is Crank Sturgeon's goal in life?

I'm really into growing arms. Really long arms, as in, abnormal, freakish, and non-mammilian. With these arms, I'd be able to reach more items off the shelf, or perhaps, wear large green boots at the end of each knuckle, which would somehow (and this is where things get a little bit implausible) be able to transport me numerically, pedagogically, and thematically. 

6. What motivates Crank Sturgeon?


There's a spirit to spit and saliva, and something even more incredulous to behold in protein. It's bliss. A sane, enabled hierarchy of meat ladders. But lately?


I love the feeling of air -- the really high quality stuff, not the ancillary variety that comes in magazines or cannisters. It has to be buoyant, aloft, soft and fleet with pontoons. And water, I love that shit, right? Simply add two parts oxygen. And all of this makes room for the ships to arrive, beg for a makeover, or at least have its chance stab at the casting call for a makeover series. Or in worst case scenarios, a bit part in a depressing documentary about casting calls, late night lotion sessions, neer-do-wells, their callused mitts, and pelagic mermaids, those sirens and their proffering of platitudes and inveigling of uppity jokes about baggage-faced mariners, aged fifteen and up. 

7. How does Crank Sturgeon handle stressful situations?

I'll broach the situation with candor. It's not whether circumstance, innuendo, or abject derision supplies the can of worms so often furnished as advent or happenstance, but whether a slick greasing of pert truisms can pronounce this line of interrogation as a broth that couples moot sex appeal with the downplay of muddled instigation. When offered candy by any token, I simply accept. It's no trill or pirouette to take home, but those fibers have a sense of bareness, acting as fodder for canon or empirical misfires when held to the tests of convolution, transforming into a kind of fervor that gets you into fluffing pillows when the sales clerk isn't watching, awaiting the corners to bite until blood is drawn. 

8. What is the toughest problem Crank Sturgeon had to face, and how did Crank Sturgeon overcome it?

If I go about seeking the cliff's edge with a self determined set of prose, religious or otherwise, it invariably happens that my letters get all jumbled-up and I end up not having a carpal grasp of any tongue, let alone, an envelope worth licking. So it boils down to accessories. What do I bring to the precipice? Dude, it changes every cotton picking time. Not to be adversarial, but it's safer to pledge allegiance to something utterly unbelievable. 

9. Would Crank Sturgeon rather be liked or feared?

Fear is the posit for fools. I prefer likable output, sympathetic channels, charitable offspring, appealing narratives, attractive counterparts, and the anthems of fellowship. This isn't to suggest I don't mind now and again, happening on the chance to instill a cold veneer. But I'd rather that it go as a nice mixer, accompanied by some lime and soda water. Then again, I'm not really a fan of gin.

10. What irritates Crank Sturgeon about noise?

It's little wonder to me that some people, at some point during their yawn encrusted day, would need something to embalm themselves into excited states of wriggle. I reckon they garner some pretty sexy reputations too! However, I personally find that this type of tedium is so large that you can wrap your friggin' lasso around it, and that like most problem children, the crux of the orchestral maneuver comes down to rope. What kind you might ask? Sisal? Jute? Nylon? Cotton? Hemp? See, what I make of it is that if you can't cast a proper net, then you have no business messing with children. They're vampires, most kids. And my god, can most of them tie knots! When this backfires and they grow up to become critics or bloggers, and then the whole band camp has no practical significance. There's no charity, no pledge campaigns, and certainly no more scenic lake memories like when you had to row out to the girl's camp at exactly ten forty every night to catch a glimpse of their marshmallow routines and burning ember tosses. At the end of the night, if you listened closely you could hear the gentle hiss of those lobbed bits of charcoal and carbonized sugar hit the water and sing with every catapult. No irritation with that noise, my good reader. Not with a blood sucker like that!

11. Finally, does Crank Sturgeon have any questions to ask me?

Do you really want to hurt me?

Friday, January 27, 2012

O tell of hair clips

Wise to that tape, all the land handed him skunks and drunk sky-pies. It was never really a beholden sum, but pretty, still, as a woolen wiled, and would be there then the paste and castes reel of widened gapes, these being deliveries in regular stashes: those types of thighs the ot-months had all over-&-done th' diving for, that off-tango hung.

The man/maid, them shem's, they pried tires off the bland candled, too, and in misbegotten fates, measures tenses all theatricallike, and I mean, all sorts of creamy, well, mixed receptions with, well, you know the kind. A wellness kind. And so, we... well, we, finding your tact straight, we oiled! Bumps made tracts uneasy, and that shill was still in a pirate lode and nevertheless distressed, but cheery as a molar, though dumb as a trucking hake.

I'd shot that high arc of globular matter something fierce, like the terence-tear, a weary young pup and s'up tangent, and billowy too, for god sakes! Wiring itself along that tornado-fed ampy, the better-wearer (betterist?) and candy-hapless feeder (coda return to "C" letterist?), and the lazy tides getting all hideous heist, and leisure-fine as lads would go, with hexes of sullen asp-graspings and padding the prattle with cherubic howls, songs of ol' tuckus with his or her or imperial noun-prowess, who would betray a night of neat decay and braying, eh?

Well den, you were tozed. And in an appeasement of impractical S's (with zed being out to hunch), this caper, this fine dal lariat, as pun-day hanging would heft its clyde to soiled reaches and bun famed weed clotted sears, tolls of ruth and comp and plex, an' ass all the sons leapt for lloyd, ten dimes short of a holler, these sums and rance would prowl that bow beset with ire and ears of wearisome peat.

eyes used for tooth support

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Sun winks, bookend prisms

eyes used for tooth support

Findings, art error, handscapes

eyes used for tooth support

Procrastination Lesson

1. Just stand there
2. Or

eyes used for tooth support

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


Technique is a blotch.
I live/t like this/s.

eyes used for tooth support


Sunday, January 22, 2012

open mouth huso pictorial

Eyes used for tooth support, why yes!
This process seemed to have apt cause, or at least a nice shimmy to lift from a sketchbook oracle; the snow had ceased, the temperature hovered up a few notches from the several minus mark, the sky was baby bottom blue, and the sun, the sun man, that shiny orb for once wasn't weaseling us out by hiding in dander of jet stream intentionals. And so, Huso and I, the two's of us, my hands and his maw, we took the trip 'round the back forty, gathering snaps at every tenth second blink of the digital clampdown. The ol' YouTube (below) does its sing-song rendering of this account. Cheggit.

Open Mouth Huso

Wednesday, January 18, 2012


YouTube Video

eyes used for tooth support

HusoWorks Kickstarter

Hello everyone!
I'm launching a Kickstarter campaign with a local arts organization called Spindleworks, here in Brunswick, Maine. We're collaborating on a three month installation & multimedia project, and would love love love for you to be involved! Get in touch or tap on the link below to become a backer. The deadline is February 17th!

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The Vanity of O

lore swoush

blended rear bended, a primer for those I have offended

'pon following this procedure, the allure quickly ran dry (wiles wended):

1. cups runneth over, thoroughly and with great ease, assessing and measuring and biding their bids with slow ambles and graceful puddle stretches (toe-like, amoeba-ish, 'cross tables, 'twixt legs, through the never) and ahem (amended)
2. milk men cliches, those cliques of early risers, bed-headed, well weaned from the charitable breast of snow-capped mountains and their purple dustbin sinks (befriended)
3. redundancies on steroids, only cusping ever-so, the boil of wreath and weaving heft, globbed in dainty but masculine drains, ever-flexing and naming all second born man-child after norse gods and or oceanic passage, keels and kowtows racked in shrimp, estuary leaps, quotidian shells and their hair satin tines wrought of kerosene, petal, meddle, and filth (upended)
4. bovines all a' homecoming, the she's and sized-up uppity cults, fed foreign of paternal creation myth, transmissionary heath, leather lunged, bingeing on peels and footprints, cloven yet upright, sentient but not sapien (intended)
5. chanteuses with gland problems, doing well dug and dugout quells of doughnut spyware utility folders and then compacted or inserted or enveloped as bower wrens would bear as retention, ache, and intent, bunched in either way you'd slice (highways, to be specific, were assuredly surmounted, but once the feathers asserted, they, o cruel prey, oft became mounted as reptilian utterances, shoe-like hunting trophies, prophetic anthropographic signatures of operatic and triumphant zeal, sequestered by way of ways or oft ever), and ended well (amen), right over peas and plies, osmotic, zygotic, regurgitated, and with ample cure (god scented)

Monday, January 16, 2012

on the hides of gloaming

His table and sured hands kept the jinx on top, or maybe slightly to a feather's width of right ended poise. Left to listing and front to bottom, the means had her dad, broiled like an easter dinner, flecked in cherry and rubbed mustard grain, the whole of it (the means, I'd meant), had the manners and ways through, tucked and dashed, stippled into caves with their seizings and sighs, brayed mule's breath (o, that if he-could-witness-it, the coughing nag and bratty mewl of unspayed letters), that very total, that all-summing it, the it, well, it was like a numerical break with little cods and pieces and pies and codgers in top-hats, swaying wistfully side to side with their light blue and yellow striped flags hanging ever-so limp by the pinkie, and then, only with rise, as given to chance by the balls of a steer, would the setting be so gabled, the cloths so demure, coy even, carps on either bend, that day would be, countenance relived, relieved and breasty, held too close but with three degrees of rim and grinning, that day, man, that culture, that clucking of smacking clacks and lucky hens, would and could and future pots or rote and portentous syllabic shim, that brackish temper of brine and steve, the clothes of those tested and wheel, all these but-if's and riffs of rollsome hills and granted woodiness in peat or layered carbon-rich mother, her lodes without tear or despair, then and without huff or finality, would come clean, and the anticipated step ensuing pursuits, would be a spoon, some bits of kale, and then, dessert.

Thursday, January 5, 2012


nothing to be upset about, the imperative field decorder had two trilogies in thrice modes swept. these likened the upsets to unkept carry-overs when the day had its upcoming and comely cloths catered with childlike maws, tins, rues, and heaven wards. really likely was the chap, blinking and mourning, mouthing the words like a sol or a pun, tons in keeping with tines and wild river parcel practices, he had no hedges nor wires high to roundabout kick that pucker. only likable was his tap.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012