Friday, September 30, 2011
Down by the riverfront, or so it’s been chanted
Lies a building where the ninth month of the year has been duly supplanted
Replaced by a vector of little bohemia
by artists and musicians and poets who speak in alteration and onomatopoeia
congregating en masse where art adorns the wall
in the month playing host to the equinox that is fall
all sharing their works in a bouquet of leafy foliage
Orchestrated by a simple painter, and the name of the month he decided to pillage
They gathered agog in this aesthetic den, artistic lair
So join us know as we reminisce over each calendar square.
We listened to stories snuck in a few frigid Pabsts
and devoutly supported the cause presented by TAPS
the ghost accompanied the bass in ambient shrills
to the work of Mr. Ankrum which gave me the chills
especially when the reverb resonated oh so lo
before hearing the story of awakening by Jeremy and co.
What a joy it always is to wade in the dulcet imagery
compliments of Miss Jessica Stephenson
John Phillips facebook profile features a quote from Mason and Dixon
and whose prose is reminiscent of a prow from a ship
skidding vowels into an unknown sea
read in a gallery offering caffeinated samples from a company called broken tree
The maverick known as DAZ was on hand to transcribe
and optically chronicle while poets’ imbibe
He details winged guinea pigs in an art sine called Faerie
and how cool it was to have an intellectual discussion with a lass named Cheri
Adam read his narrative straight from the text
and that Krazy long haired poet who always writes about sex
and the human experience which is often lonely and hard
Aaron Strickland always tells it like it is a carefree drunken bard
next to works of art that will leave you still life awe and feeling full inside
while basking to the syncopated chimes of Suit en tie guy
who played along with View from Mothership, Gush in Cloud in thrashing loops
while the audience orbited their torso's in one Miss Lynn's hulahoops
That hillbilly southern song writer whose voice remind me of Lucinda Williams, I reckon'
Derrick sang straight from the last name of his Hart which beckons
acoustic twangs above the art shows heralding neon brow
Check out that cool guitar buy chief journalist Justin Glawe!!!!
There is art that will destroy you and make yer heart tilt
Not to mention the worlds largest polyurethane bag quilt
Artists like Keith Wilson, Wes Duffy, Connie Fauth have been in
KT DID creates art and she doesn't even have a drivers license
Phoebe attacks the canvas in striking agitated blows
her art dances in tandem to the colorings rendered by Kathy Oh.
There is Anthony's Couri's anatomical homage to the late marquis de sade
and a room dedicated to a sexy artist named Raghead
Some of the most alluring paintings that I have ever seen
and man, you just have to experience firsthand the work of eddie the fucking art machine...
….And then in the back perhaps if you squint you shall see him
the artist whom the month was named after in filched appropriation
the gallery's now most conspicuous tenant
interviewed on television by the infamous Joe Benett
You'll see him stroking the canvas with mellifluous intent
wild paint splattering, pent up sperm recently spent
ejaculated across the forehead of the canvas in searing encores!!!
as the audience screams out I WONT BE BROKEN ANYMORE!!!
Akin to Kerouac's roman candles, the Soul at both ends that doth burn
the spirit that ascends while the flesh achingly yearns
for a metaphsyical union while eventually you glean
that art is a reflection, it is your own life that has meaning
..so those times you are lonely and down on your luck
those souls who are there for you and people who fuck
you over and over when you have no where to go
There is a place on Jefferson, It's called the Art Show
with artist that are polite and vivacious and somehow never curt
watch out for numerous sightings of Erich Gilbert
when music and readings take place we will always dim the lamps that are best
paying homage Will's legendary readings held Champs West
and in between acts perhaps with a prayerful chest lull
discern art and poetry is alive and sometimes nocturnal
in this little art gallery Hannah covered on Solitary Journal
ferrying downtown so much sprinkled euphoria
the building David Foster wallace mentions in his novel set in Peoria
A toast of gratitude or apt elegy to be sure
to thank you so much for coronating this month of September
like tonic sans the gin it would be an alchemical-sin
not to thank visiting artist Christopher Robin Keller
and the Curator, the Lovely Miss Gavra Lynn....
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I would ardently like to evince my sincere gratitude to everyone who sent me condolences at the news of my recent divorce from (in)sapid socialite Kim Kardashian, who, even though she tortuously tweeted and texted incessantly during the wedding ceremony itself ( When I volleyed out the plenary ‘I do,’ I swear she verbally retorted in high pitched glittery feminine falsetto, “Mountain Dew, too.” while swiveling her porcelain chin into her lithe shoulder blade like an empty windmill before stating, “I know, right?”) will always be considered the unalloyed love of my life. For all of my dear friends’ in the mid-west unable to attend the wedding ceremony 72 days ago, a brief synopsis follows:
The beach side Los Angeles wedding convened with the coifed comb over of Justin Bieber who was requested by the bride herself to pay homage to this great plutocratic nation of ours by singing the national anthem in front of a bevy of chicly-attired millionaires in attendance to which he did nothing but blather out the fourth vowel of the alphabet followed by the word “Canada” making me feel like my nuptial nosedive was nothing more than the prelude to a hockey game—a portent which perhaps proved all too apt. Lindsay Lohan served as the flower girl who, in lieu of errantly tossing petals, lost several sallow-flavored teeth en route to the altar and then began making little olfactory cocaine-withdrawal snorting sounds granting her with the unsavory semblance of an emaciated sow awaiting slaughter
The bridesmaid’s were ravishing as they seemingly floated down the aisle adorned in florescent Versace drapes of couture glory with the exception of Lady Gaga who was wearing some sort of outfit that resembled a Christmas tree constructed out of expired slabs of turkey bacon which smelled just like the outside of the White castle where I lost my virginity in the back of a chevette junior year of high school to scarlet haired vocabulary-vixen Melissa Palomino (We were members of the high school thespian society and ironically just finished opening night of YOU CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU) . Maid of honor Paris Hilton was equally as stunning only she forgot to brandish her bridesmaid bouquet which was stylishly supplanted, holding a cell phone in front of her like an unlit candle at an AIDS vigil, looking down into the forehead of her late-80’s gameboy shaped Blackberry snapping pictures of her self in medias stride while tweeting (later I read, via her status update on facebook) “OMG!!! Kant blive Im actualie walking down isle of Dave and Kim’s wedding!!! THEY OUR SEW CUTE!! OMG!!!OMG!!!OMGGGG!!!”
Since my best friends from the Midwest John and Mike were too busy drinking beer and watching the Whitesox topple out of playoff contention I employed Ashton Kutcher, Dr. Conrad Murray and Simon Cowell as makeshift groomsmen (Cowell being the only one who overtly objected during the ceremony snidely stating that the jigsaw-configured poultry constituting Lady Gaga’s attire would last formidably last longer in various shrink-wrapped incarnations than this marriage of so called true-minds). Prior to the ceremony the esteemed Dr. Conrad gave me several superficial slaps on the back fare-thee-well bachelorhood jabs informing me that he could prescribe something under the table if-you-know-what-I-mean to help get me through this only the medication might incur several nauseating side effects such as moon-like rendering seizures, solitary glove syndrome associated with new-found tax-bracket Alzheimers and possibly death.
I have to confess that the bride, the love of my life, Kim Kardashian looked like a pillar of angelic light as she floated down the stem of the aisle draped in a 400,000 dollar ivory gown. In fact she looked like everything I had ever wanted in a human being. As I looked at my future spouse encroaching the altar, awaiting for the moment our eyes would somehow slip into each others optical purview like a French kiss, I noticed that she too was holding a cell phone instead of the traditional botanical torch doing something with her thumbs resembling rapid involuntary twiddling.
The ceremony was delicate and svelte although I felt that I was the only one really pay attention to everything the minister (ted Dibiase, former Million Dollar Man wrestler turned preacher) was saying about love being something sacred and eternal and having to do with some sort of metaphysical wished-for fetter, finding the others pulse in every sunset and every smile. I kept looking at Kim tweeting (or twatting, a la Kathy Griffin) only I felt that she wasn’t paying much attention to the gravity of the ceremony. Like she was somehow afraid that something magical might transpire between us as dual viable human beings who have somehow, after 4 billion years of evolution, somehow found each other in this vacuum of time-space-reality and have decided to partake on this bubble of here-and now together as one being, if she would, if only for a second, stop looking into the nylon tint of her phone and float into my eyes.
Like the sight of my eyes could ferry her someplace she had never been before.
Twice, during the ceremony I looked at best man and fellow Midwesterner Ashton Kutcher waiting to see if I was perhaps being punked.
In strict almost occult-like accordance with Hollywood diets the food at the reception consisted entirely of what appeared
to be tofu-nuggets and various vegan platters ( a paparazzi caught me trying to filch a slab of turkey bacon off of Lady Gaga’s top, later disseminating that I couldn’t even wait until after the wedding ceremony was completed to carry on with my philandering) . Since all the beer served boasted things like only having 64 calories on the label, I had ordered a Keg of beamish and a pony keg of MOOSE DROOL (fine Montana russet-streamed ale) only when I poured myself two pints and began double-fisting I was accosted by Candy Finigan of INTERVENTION renown who stated that I had a problem and that I was in denial by employing copious amounts of alcohol to hide from certain hardcore and uncomfortable facets of reality. I look around at all my guests bent over into their cell phone tapping their thumbs and saying things like, “I know, right” as if it were the rosary and then hard-core slam the two quality beverages in front her cardboard-saturated visage before punctuating it with a beatific burp.
In the mens room I saunter into Charlie Sheen with his nose pressed against the parabolic lid of the toilet seat doing some sort of tribal dance while sounding like he is stuffed up. While standing splayed legged over the urinal I am accosted by R &B legend Ray J and some guy dressed in a bad 80’s tux from VIVID entertainment offering me enormous amounts of money if they could video tape the tantric silhouette-shaped contours of the incumbent honeymoon suite. As I give the virile baton constituting my virility an earnest shake and told them that I felt that some experiences I just wanted to share with one person and not promulgate to the bulk of humanity via visual dissemination, I remembered that I wanted to say something important to my new wife in front of all our friends. I rush out of the Mens room, pour myself another vat of Beamish and lift it in the air. I then look at my wife and begin quoting Shakespeare, sonnets about love being forever and eternal. Love not altering when its alterations find. Love being an ever-fixed mark.
As I look around I notice that everyone in the audience is tapping into the front of their phones I somehow recall that the poem by Shakespeare was the same poem I quoted to Melissa Palomino, the girl I lost my virginity to in the back of the chevette behind the White castle . I think about the moment I entered the damp welcoming spring-like southern hemisphere of her body and the sound her lips contorted and made, as if we were leaving the port of reality together, slowly as one, not sure where the future would find us or where we would perhaps ever decide to go only that our limbs would plough into it together taping off into desired nothingness, not being able to imagine what the future must be like, being able to see everything we have ever wanted to see and know everything we have ever wanted to know ensconced in the mitten-paw of our coital-corsage shaped hands and then gone.