Signage

1. The population was in danger

2. Sign forecast the grim reality of the situation

3. But it was a bank holiday, so things could wait

Are everywhere

Ninjas

whole's bard; barred holes

the spore of aging thymus lands and humps of consequential assuage, well, them digs wouldn't coffer a heap of likely, hoods, cloaks, and coverslips not withstanding, all out and out you were (we weren't) for a day's debriefing, a longing, a lowing, a mining murk amid scalloping clouds, this day with her or his or its gentle hum to the bristle and a pew therein to sits the eats (stomach's full), and the i's over u's under towed and lush, imagined coughing, stammer-stares, or the busloads of day-off, old, sullied and forlorn, save for a libel suit or corn starch hamper, hemmed din, chattering whorls, a squirm or two, acorn-toothed, leafing and fabled, wrinkled perhaps, taking on jobs like soldering or becoming a cabbie or a dashing-type, an every which way kind of guy, unfettered, hardly perturbed by the doughy justification of cosmic lances or cartoonish fonts, the under-typed scores for footnotes bespoke, an idea contrariwise to the next research-able tree, spree, or a leeward gaze, of a kind not exactly spritely, nor hairy eyed, and while as stark as these subjects were, I mean, whistling though it was (that kind of day) I farted a whole lot whilst on the meditative "thing", and goodly though it was, one couldn't tamper with the day, nor take mecca tantrum and hide respite (the why-way (my-way, hi-way, and so forth) so slung singing), and brazen and brandished (the legs do you well, my friend, what length!), what for better than? to etch a state of framing the siting, mind seats (it's real) and, as a reality nod, go garish, garnished, and logged, greedily one takes it all it in (I did my best), (to not be a hog)

acquisition accidental: for Richard Long

today's inanity and/or found poem

it's lonely at the naught

A curious worst ten would rely on there being ten things to say about something. A poem might involve taking a deep breath. A song would have her twins go running amok and adding stapled ads to bits of bonfire charcoal that still have their predecessor's nails hammered toothily therein. And then where, one might inquire, where for the third? Perhaps a bathroom, tucked into a third-rate culturally despondent town, somewhere where only wines are bragged about among couples that bend over and over each other's ends while out and about galavanting at parties, trying, wearing their wits like chest plates, shining to the brim and also, admittedly, daringly clever, yet, insufferable (to boot), as boring as trigonometry, this oneupmanship to sort out who will be the next street artist to publish or which arabian peninsula it should would or could be, in their jurisdiction and as long as someone else does it, to raid. As fourths go, imagine yourself in fourth place in a three-legged race, with only two competitors. When it's fifth, the soothing said would be only the railing you click, as when you walk by, with a stick or a prod, preferably not electrified, but resonant enough to remember and later write about in the form of a surrealist's languor, colored blue, stinging of hot something-something, a clangor so mentionable that the thought of it brings a sheen to the bicuspids, making one salivate for meat or some hapless prey, by the highway, branch clenched in one's talons, watching, raptor-like. For the sixth entry, envisage fur, everywhere, on the snow, on our arms, at the end of each street lamp, like hairy globes, warmly wrapped, and bold, orange, donging like a heavy-set man's jowls, going anywhere but here. Next up: eight is enough. For nines, penultimate in heirs to thrones unspeakable, yet, like a wilderness effort, a trek if you will, over arches turned green from the passing of centuries and under trees, where there once was the brittle loam of nuclear fallout. A curious ten would be writing it out in multiples ending in zeros with the floe of ice jamming through, tender at first, as in a dribble, the burble over brass, pushed lovingly from easy-breeze fountains, like the kind you see in boutique stores; and then turning bout face, wrinkled and germanic, forceful and horny, shoving pushes into stampedes, measurements in cups, pints, quarts, and then gallons, all at once, and one for the road, tipped over. 

Found poem series (see twidder)

new glubs on hum switcher

loop-de-dupe

rhythmen

Just relax Just relax and Just relax Just relax and con-cen-trateand con-cen-tratecon-cen-trateand con-cen-trateJust relax and con-cen-trateJust Just relax and con-cen-traterelax Just Just relax and con-cen-traterelax Just Just Just relax and con-cen-traterelax and con-cen-traterelax and con-cen-trateJust relax and con-cen-trateand con-cen-trateand Just relaxJust relax and con-cen-trateJust Just relax and con-cen-traterelax and Just relax and con-cen-tratecon-cen-trateJust relax and con-cen-trate and con-cen-tratecon-cen-trate

fail your loop

Foundshrine

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the day's parables (with a musical accompaniment of grass & ice)

Walking Daily

IMPOSITIONIST

TEMPORARY IMPACT

AND ANOTHER CRATER

FEATURING THE VIOLIN

an AND for an X en masse

The proaction and subscription left one bereft with a set of peat and plotting oil makeovers. I couldn't spry a day without clearing out a good many left, and we all knew what that meant when the spirit of gibing was dampened by lovers and jeers. Although it must me / be / re. staid, the holidays ad complaining heft a clarity unlike most; sugars, Lugar sidearms, boogers, belugas, Stuttgart's, and Stewarts (fine border-hitter lash stations) -- these prayed when the icy menace of white lurches came-to, and when the umbrage yards were no longer cable-worthy (let alone a hat elite lisp), and furthermore, when the noblest of bashfulness reveled in the entrancing gape, yelp reviews, sassy grass-shirted assholes, the hole-tuck and rucksack rum gentry, pollock-splats and booth-maddened convention-types, lyres equipped in mattress so as to subdue the battery of cumulo-numbing cloy-cheeks, shaving a sheen a bit too close, as well as well could pee, the tasteless rustle of tassel-wearers from grottos and hutch-pekid lairs arrived, surfaces poked like mossy whiskered nostrils dashing through the S / no (and M) / ow, and FINALLY, and AND worth its mettle. 

selfie, fie, fo, fum

Jerusalem revisit

_______________________

five months prior, on a warm afternoon in Berlin

mitch in the schno

repeat repair reypoo

rescind resign return

more bits, bits, and bits

Peak Signal 2 Noise Series 01 Episode 08 from Peak Signal 2 Noise on Vimeo.

bits, bits, bits

lampcake

By in large, karma worked phonetically. It'd slurp a few easy vowels, coming off with a bit of an Anglo-lisp, but nothing that'd upset the inlaws. Worked down with some gin, the effeminately curved typefaces formed O's, dripping with flourishes of spunk or possibly lactate.

Our favorite fascist resembled a cow. You'd send them a dossier about rinsing after sullying their mitts -- a thing cows would love to sully, mitts no less, cloven or with digits -- and all they'd do is moo and add some cum or milk to homogenize the hole, or the world, or the entire stinking joke. Many O's later, it would take someone like a politician, a democrat maybe, you know, some sort of land speed apologist, to update his caps and pack in a few extra nooses, just in case it was black tie. Then, head over heals, clasping his new-found helvetica maybe, or cuneiform (either worked), he'd stammer, erect but with slightly sloped shoulders, shaking his podium with the slightest tremor of a future relapse, and mutter on about something kind of dingy, kind of pale, a story that belied the truisms, a tale (or perhaps just a crapshoot take on life) that not many had uses for jays or the end (you know the type), and, no matter what bookshelves would go up, they'd really just lie there, pregnant with unread dears, distraught by the incessant lashings of cows and karma lettrism, a world made for funny and excessively large pants, won over by elastic waistbands and orange juice stains (so-called). Not withstanding, and despite the now-quaking podium, all the crowd ooo'ed and wow'd, made ridiculous roaring for encores, and, following the ballyhoo, tired but grinning with having witnessed such prose, such a statement, such charisma, they, the beholden of newly-formed-mouths, made for the dump. And registered to vote once more.

Inciting wrists

Kisses insist on listing the lust wander autocorrect, yo and you and over, we-the-several-you'd-implied, took to takings, Ronald and bimping, o'er 3 maybe, lucked wooden habitat, lumping old guys, circled obsessive as a huevo nouveau reeesh, what with its randy pumps, canal ridges, and lookingly complexed by deprivers and embodiment smells. It's a day costing lost and the frail November sea, a something which hick bashes licks as well as kinking up of seal liver, puce, and handies. Not one for either oat, some call em oaks, I call them tease, and everywhere spreads thy dingle of vinegar lease -- long nights man, crampy ads in tiny box corner x-the-cookies, suits and frites, open widows, portly something's, and caloric teens rotting their cuspids on maryjane. A dam-daughterly wink, carbo-fusion everybear, trains gaining seed but cannot you or I he-she-says, this pluck is a maize, amazed by carefully measured biographies of corned messes and hessian stools of dog pit tots and tricky ricksome rails, parables with hairy ambling planes that atchoo singe the site with curable citing, velour shadows and ploppy yule. Remember you well when not a decade asses: hell comes to Amsterdam.

out of context hi you out of context hi you out if maybe context hi you are out of context hi you wouldn't happen to be out of context hi you wouldn't happen to have a context hi you would out the context if you had to

roof toppers

circa 2014

circa 1996

Found the fernet, just a sip, 'neath the building with the mosaic and crow dotted curly weathervanes, spirally black motifs from an earlier guard. That's the check, need I remember? This place and its yellow dusted buildings, onion headed occasions, triangle headed cartoons, all an atheist alike, and very much a calm peoples, a rich deep soot; all this place has a resin, and I'm back, a decade ago, no, two actually, furiously trying to wrap my head around it. So I found the gooey liquid, running on full tilt that day, telling stories about shoving microphones in orifices, and then teaching kids to scribble sounds with little brass discs and solder. A central eastern, more eastern than central, but you're centrally positioned and trying to undo your eastern leanings. Fernet helps soothe the confusion: hey-you-can-read-dull-neo-whatever-novels-all-you-want-and-it-will-always-fail-to-miss-the-target. The sidewalk is still hollering in American English; the double decade Yappie is now the globalist by-product, a barrel-chested attempt at asserting climate change denial with its fckn Wall Street haircut, a neo lib-bro, brazen, more stupid than ever, and dripping with smarm, creased with top heavy tripod clothing, and unforgivably loutish. Fortunately, Husova street still glimmers and shares its cheeky fish smile. This is the calm place, if I remember correctly, but also the place where the breaks took place, and with gusto I might add, at first against the Holy Roman Empire, then President Havel with his plays, and now... now... now... CALM. And globalists. And fernet. And access to pho, smartphones, piezos, Loony Tunes, iTunes, high fashion, the noise underground, unread novels, mysterious golems, and always with the lurk and lore of a blacker black, a black-black-black that my pens and pencils were way back when (and still to this day) unable to draw.


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Pic & Point

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murks tribute band (w/ Ayn Rand)

Merde ichthy, yore and clamor, the onesies and twos of binaries and logics, the well and well and well again, man-man-man-man, you ain't having pun with the numb. The fingers itch to react in a crack of stoop and peel; eviscerate before you conjugate. From the here-perch, you're all glubbing and poking goldfish eyes into one another, hexes and V's, triangle 3's, naming unknown gods, pooping down to your knees. And the me-me-me's. It's hardly A. Minus circles round the bends, total hicks one would see, dotted fingernails and pails, no more soap or pen pals, but revolutions and me-volves, all the hoaxes one could muster, all-a-cable festooned bluster and rusted shunt tick luck shuffle shire tiff. Man-maan-maaaan, gotta ones and twosies through-the-hoops, duck and cover from yodels and ownershit totem crows, jowls, owls, and people named Joel. Why would not you not want me to not want to not un-return? Peck era. A squalid peckerish pre-return to gills. Humor? My my. And three more mighs. I'm in a soot orgy, dusted dimpled, November timid grey orange, with a wire hopper above and the stink of Skoda and cloves. The cramps come; he lied to me about ratios and stuff. It's not bad dose, as hee hee would raise a few fourth rate motel eyebrows later. Yet. As one would be taken to taking, the thus and this, the gander hue at your sudden fits, the bahnhoff bumble of disingenuous limbo dunce and ranch dressers akin, I'd best be beasting, rest-feeding, awaiting and baiting and getting ready for the queasy wakes of well, your welcome nothing. Si. C. Eww, in a minute.


eyes used for tooth support

poll, droll, drool, spy-on-you

Murk a murk and an A scarlet let-you-boil humor torpor armor murmur murky, jerk it, lurking murk, quite the birch, itch, rich end stick, clerk, a murk, humbling crumble mumble murky, shriek, shirk, stork, a fork, an absolute work!
What's you, you and you, get to got with no...
And no...
And then you, then and hen, pennies wise with skies fizz and falling copper acorn brims; then and then, that would be you, you (and you) go get it, you then, you get you, then, um, eh.
Stammer, stammer, wait and wait, stutter, shit yourself, stam--
It's the end it's the end it's the end it's the end it's the end it's the end, no, wait, it's your end. Um, you got an end? Mind the end? Murk yourself? Murmur, I get it, got you, smell it, shitty, rinsed well with high end conditioner and lanced boil bubble right guard spray-on, spy-on, eyes-on, scion, scorpions, porpoise sons, pretty ones, ditty buns...
I can smell, too.
Bottom's up!



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it's been a week

1. Kunst
2. Findings
3. Relax

In the act, in Israel

1. Ensemble piece, Levontin 7, Tel Aviv


2. Solo sturg', Tmuna Theatre, Tel Aviv


3. Audience synthesizer choir, Haifa



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Jerusalem

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sneak peek

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Any

One?


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art & crew, Jerusalem

Another tremble or two

Tremble-Pharaoh

installation in progress, Tmuna Theatre, Tel Aviv

Göteborg!

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Viktoriahuset / Koloni

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context performance

Taken at



Different times and


Compiled in this manner


Gives a certain impression