skate on a crystal thinning
silver lakes. Swinging down
on rose vines they throw out
rhymes in a parade

to be seen. Pasting it
like paper dolls in these rooms
that have not walls, some call
a magazine. Till the weeks

scream not in words
but freshly painted silences
dropping down in bombs
of red. There fly pieces

of a dream. It's raining shards
of thank you nots. And like tots
wobble to the next room for
a shot with bruises on their egos

and knees. Waiting to please
men coloring with pen in the lines. Dotting
their eyes with white cotton, they'll not
be sought in this edition.

So many have accumulated over time
all stacked on top of each other

in an open cardboard box
not a bin

trucks sedans
sports cars

of red yellow
and blue

scratched and chipped
mementos

of a well worn
youth

we are artists without borders, we give and share,

not expecting anything.



in return we are part of it all, and pleasantly

accepted without judgement.



the journey is endless to join as desired.



i am a curator, a book about death in wales,

loosely bound, conceived by another



in memory.



ray johnson.



fluxus.

go to bed  •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning (5am),
jog an 8K  •thinking of you, wash up
drink some flavored, black coffee
watch the morning sun balloon
eat toast while reading a set amount
write my unique and uninteresting analysis
work on half a dozen, odd assignments
walk .8 miles to campus  •thinking of you
team up, with some older, uninteresting guys
interview a focus group, present dataset interpretations
walk .8 miles back to my flat  •thinking of you
eat while reading a set amount
go to bed  •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning (5am)…
.
.
Songs for this:
Falling Down a Well by Jack J
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee  [E]