BrAiN SwALLoW

* beer, pencil on drink coaster

from just the right angle and just the right internal body chemistry. looking into mark-less skies for diversions while the cosmos's softly whispered horrors are transmuted through the snapping of surface tension, one drop to fill the gulf, basic physics and the inseparable terror of chance, blind, fucking, luck. soft slow syrup slipping south over the brim sliding slick semi-cooled liquid a cross a slab of super-hardened liquid.  cascading down from a drooling heaven, spitting down the faces of slobbering, indifferent volcanoes. weeping above our heads, crying nostalgia into our sacred daily cups. can't really tell our hands from the wood-grain on the table. like a lightning strike chooses a lone man's head instead of acres of empty field, so we see universal wisdom while accidentally falling face down in the messy puddles of poison we make lapping the earth's blood. randomized nightmares of psychoactive Ishihara dot tests flash neon holes through Rorschach's subconscious every time he shut his eyes or Freud opened his third nostril. all the psychoanallitterateurs and all the sciences' men threw their arms into the air and out of windows with years of meaningless training reduced to effervescent carbon dioxide and car crashes. mammoth opalescent butterflies speeding past our mortal coil unroll glowing, prehensile tongues to lick tenderly in our ears that life is a technicality. the cost of energy. the irascible burden of knowing. bright light bulbs burn fingers...


He seemed so certain about everything, didn't he? And yet none of his certainties was worth one hair of a woman's head.
-Albert Camus

  ...Some trillions of years ago a sloppy, dirty giant flicked grease from his fingers. One of those gobs of grease is our universe on it's way to the floor. Splat.
-Brion Gysin's All-Purpose Bedtime Story,
  as told by William S. Burroughs
 

PLoP A gANdER ~ adhesion never felt so good

!! fun new sticker available !!

* 5.25 in  x  4 in
* postage paid
* will ship internationally
* made possible through the generous berating of uncle marvin: ~ targeting audiences since 2005 ~


violence for the people
they always eat the hand that bleeds
-m.m.

Bitter Living Through Paranoia...

 

*chromogenic print

post cards from the future 
...with simultaneous remote greetings
from behind the orange curtain
and correspondent accompaniment electrically notated by
Ohi Rucecky Collective 
~
this is a very old formula
sadly cynical for a long time

still have some hope...but... lots of shitty humans out there

don't worry...everything will be fine...one day someone will be poking through the petrified remains of our trash and wonder what happened to us....

that's if there's anything tangible left to be dug

...maybe the whole thing will be a radioactive, scorched layer of rock....

hope to be a radiated super mutant specie that lives in harmony with the universe

given the track record, i'd say a pile of ash is far more likely

if i float still in one spot...i would reach you in 3 hours

sweet dreams

*chromogenic print

NeW THeMeS iN SEMioTiCS - ceci n'est pas un drapeau

"The Department of Justice Web server hosting Justice.gov is currently experiencing a significant increase in activity, resulting in a degradation in service. The department is working to ensure the Web site is available while we investigate the origins of this activity, which is being treated as a malicious act until we can fully identify the root cause of the disruption."

you can't shake the devil's hand and say you were just kidding.
the forefathers were too stuck up to even be british, manifesting a destiny of raw material and labour. and money. cashed in less than two hundred and fifty years later, the american people have been sold out. if all those indians didn't die, how could one be thankful over supper for the right to enjoy television and buy cheap plastic shit?
it's no mistake the devil is often personified as a business man.
the american dream is for people who are asleep.
if norman rockwell were alive we'd bitch slap him.

The positive element of kitsch lies in the fact that it sets free for a moment the glimmering realization that you have wasted your life. 
-Theodor W. Adorno, Quasi una Fantasia
-

LoLLYgAggiNg iN CosTuMe.

alone in the garden
*14 pg.
4in. x 2.63in.

~ a zine ~
* available indefinitely
* no cost
* postage paid
* will ship internationally


punch the clock since you're too tired to punch your boss...


Well, I try my best
To be just like I am
But everybody wants you
To be just like them
They say sing while you slave and I just get bored
-Bob Dylan


Haven't seen the sun weeks
My skin is getting pale
Haven't got a mind left to speak
And I'm skinny as a rail

Light bulbs are getting dim
My interest is starting to wane
I'm told it's everything a man could want
And I shouldn't complain

Conversation's getting dull
There's a constant buzzing in my ears
Sense of humor's void and numb
And I'm bored to tears
-The Raconteurs


..Do you know what the people say?
Plucked from the garden
Of wretched beliefs,
I offer a rose
And smile with harmless teeth.

Then slick back my hair
You know the devil's in there?
Alone in the garden.
-Them Crooked Vultures

the End is Here...

!!!
*~for one night only~*
...ladies und gentile men...

salon style sty-lings for your evening pleasures.
6 after dark.
dec. 17
west gallery
csuf

more frightening than any downtown pub.
don't drink the water.
fluoride makes good rat poison.
shut up. be happy.

* etching on paper

'Amateurs, dilettantes, hacks, cowboys, clones
The streets groan with little Caesars, Napoleons and cunts
With their building blocks and their tiny plastic phones
Counting on their fingers, with crumbs down their fronts...

I smell smoke, see little fires bursting on the lawns
People carry on regardless, listening to their hands
Great cracks appear in the pavement, the earth yawns
Bored and disgusted, to do us down...'

-nick cave

* chromogenic prints

DuSTiNG tHe BoNe CLoSeT...

*Installation View, Great Divide - Table and Chairs. Chromogenic Print.

On view at The Glass House Record Store
april 9 - may 6
Opening Reception- Downtown Pomona Art Walk:
sat. apr. 9th, 6-9 pm

All this noise is making me nervous
I feel every slammed door and drunken laugh
Sometimes there's no room for breathing
Take me to a colony and leave me in Antarctica
The living germs keep these buildings alive
And every day we feed them with our dirt and rotten memories

-therapy?

~ SpiRiTS CoNjUREd ~ read all about it in new zine...

Ghosts
* 14 pg.
3.75 in. X 2.63 in.

* available indefinitely.
* no cost.
* postage paid.
* will ship internationally.


...in a universe suddenly divested of illusions and lights, man feels an alien, a stranger. His exile is without remedy since he is deprived of the memory of a lost home or the hope of a promised land. This divorce between man and his life, the actor and his setting, is properly the feeling of absurdity.
-Albert Camus

EyE CaNdY

there's so much for you to see.
only some of it will set you free.

...best one night stand you've had in a while.
you don't even have to stay long.
we certainly won't be making you breakfast.

" i'm not ashamed if you're entertained. " :PosT AltPressExpo pOsT

*book, letterpress, assorted pills, subcutaneous syringe, resin


there's a hole in our soul that we fill with dope
and we're feeling fine

-m.m.





*book, metal capsules, glass syringe, assorted pills


a pill to make you numb
a pill to make you dumb
a pill to make you anybody else

-m.m.
















*book, letterpress, novelty rounds
















I read that book every page
And then I put it away
Said I don't think so

It makes slaves of all womankind
And corpses of the men
And I just don't know

-grinderman


cliche. pastiche. kitsch. one liners are worth it if they make you smile. lets not pretend we shouldn't all also be in the business of making a joke. delicious and nutritious.
"automatic charisma for your chemical mind."
no lightning, nada, nothin'. just a sore hand, numb finger tip, heaps of human sized gerbil bedding, a dull knife and a handful of narcotics. it's all for the show.
mostly...

over a thousand miles have passed. mounting the summit only to have to return to the bottom and start over again. when you push the rock long enough it should become easier to push. every day, your muscles become more defined and solid. your endurance builds. eventually, the stone begins to chip and wear. its surface becomes smooth from the unending friction of its own crushing weight..to grind the the stone instead.
in a matter of hours..cast once more amidst the gauntlet.
good ol' fashioned misguided gluttons.
at least someone helped jesus.
i'll be dragging my wooden stand alone for certain.



boys with bashed in eyes line the roads
but the longest walk was the one back home

-therapy?

Love's unidentified pharmacology badge appears in local town...

* collagraph, photo-transfer on paper



on view at
The Black Triangle, Los Angeles.
aug. 7 - sep. 4.

* etching on paper

Opening Reception: sat. aug. 7, 20:00.
five bone$. live noise. rude comments.

come be seduced, stay for the spectacle.




because life is just too damn short, and you might find yourself alone inside your psychotropic mind hunched over bitter and jaded, striking a forgotten pack of matches from a vegas hotel which hasn't existed since your grandparents were chain-smoking to the tune of keno, patriarch, and america
- too cold to cry.

sometimes the best way to discover if something exists is to injure it indefinitely.
the pain that cannot be bared will annihilate outright.
legend has it Oscar Wilde suffered the world a blow and killed what would otherwise have killed him.
if the proper amount of neurotransmitter careening it's way through plasma and cerebrospinal fluid is met, i will cease to be myself, or at least my expectations.

creeping its way forward through the synapses in your optic nerve, stalking you in old towns near the sound of railroad tracks. keeping you up late at night.
influence the mind and the body will follow.

as lungs dry in a heaving, tuberculous sigh - and so the host of draining struggle and illness dies from its own inherent cure.

when Freud was finished pounding open his third eye with the ludvodican hammer of cocaine the shade was drawn aside as old men relinquished themselves to the insanity of their logic. stories were told. numbers fudged. softly fingering the warm tissue of time and recollection, bemoaning the dripping past's longing for nostalgia. dreaming up a lie whispered through centuries of cytoplasm, waking upon the death of tradition's nihilism. even Bentham and Mill couldn't resist a good old fashioned longing of the earth.

one of the few things worth attempting.
especially in the desert of unreason.

BFA Graduate For Hire...

*for further inquiries and rude comments, please contact:

OpeN MiC NigHT...

*Etching, Photo-transfer on Paper


Open mic night. The Disparate spot light, the confession of what you wanted but weren’t. a platform for fuck-ups and preachers. the lonely, the bored, the self-important. hipsters and poseurs. washouts. i drop more than names. “you ain’t a has been if you never was.” dirtbags. water drinkers. scene kids. armchair philosophers. it’s like the undead say: if god does exist it never makes it to the stupid parties. heLLed up in traffic. Dying in an automobile like the rest of us. disappeared under the earth’s chapped lip
in the envious green-flash of a nihilist Western son. Hope Full, but hope less. i can only hope to be a wash-up, decaying in the sand. you can’t die if you never lived. you can’t live if you never die. after-lifes are for still-borns. you’re only more famous when you die if you can taint the air as you rot. anything is something if anyone notices. all was not for naught. vicarious a synonym of death. nothing’s depressing like karaoke.
no one smiled. and the crowd went mild...