Midnight Visit

This fellow quietly entered my home in the night. He hovered over my bed and breathed into my nose with two straws, one for each nostril, until I woke up. Strangely, I felt a lack of alarm as his eyeholes peered into mine. This morning I have breath of fire, a raging breath of stink and heat. I have already singed the fur of Krakow in multiple places while attempting to feed her. I heard once that soft-boiled eggs were absorbent of mouth hell - my next move is to stuff my mouth full.

I hope the day holds many more bold moves in store.

Portion Control Envy

I am empty of tunafish semblances and performing with a troupe of acrobats in the arena of public predilections. The tickets are cheap and it is a summer show only. There is a bucking, an inverting and a flipping on the bruised shoulders of panicked elders. The formations assemble and break apart quickly.

The critters I have trapped and had taxidermied this weekend include seven weasels. They have been stuffed and stilled and locked into a circle, backs to the center. Happy stuck weasels commemorate the Fourteenth Day.

Pants pocket-like jowls are forming. I am husbanding the landscape with my chums, each morning we raze, trim and pluck. All actions seem to come in demonic threes.

It is time for a suckling.

Bots

The rotation sensor devices are in correct alignment. The beige carpet provides pre-sanctuary before the bots come to smooth out the tangles and pick the pustular weedy nodules. Dig, pull and dump - these are the ways of the bots. The visitors have left, the landscape is tumbly with gunshots. I am off to collect more critters for taxidermy.

Skirmish in the Piles

Earlier today I took a trip to the crud piles to inspect and possibly help clear out the pestilence. I was embroiled in a minor skirmish that resulted in the above circular flesh wounds. Then there was a weird blackout at the supermarket this evening. Alone with cart near the bacon bits aisle, the lights turned off, the music turned off...many seconds pass. Creepy. Dark wraps around like a blanket of close plastic, shrinkwrap. Beard begins itching. Relief as backup generator begins to work. Happy sighs from fellow shoppers and self. Invigoration and indoctrination begins with the liquid toxins in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Hole

I have found a hole big enough for Krakow and I. We will sit there and play jacks until the time is right to come out. There are beers in there, enough for both of us, at least for the morning, and pieces of beef jerky, with which we will tantalize each other. We are on a stationary mega-transport into the zones of push and tether.

Jagged Skin Garden

The pincers come onto flesh and leave tracks and red scratches behind. You sit in the grass, amongst the weeds and bees and contemplate the disaster of frozen criss-crossed pathways that have led you to where you are. It is lovely, yet it hurts, the deprivation is palpable like ice cubes in clammy warm hands. The ice melts and drips onto your stained pants. You are thinking of marauders coming, Mongolian raiders to obliterate your town and rape your women. Just over the hill, the faintest rumbling of horses and then, before you know it, a full on invasion, life as you know it blasted and bashed. This seems fine, breath blowing out and sucking in, fetid breezes accruing on sweat-damp dermis, sweetish smells of death underfoot, under the flowers, leaving the living to amble and preen above ground. I make no sense. Sense drains out with salty eye goo. Plenty of rabid bland tantrums are coming tomorrow and the next day. I am heavy, like the circus fat lady, cross-eyed and goose-pimpled. I smack flies with my bare hands, turning infinity times around in dizzy nauseous circles. I don't know which life to have, I want to burrow deeply into the waspy nest in the dirts. Perhaps me and the ones I love can have matching holes of burrow to disappear head first into, a shared avoidance.

Marmojacks

These are the bloody super wormy balls that uplift our systems with little prodding, only with shelter and food, some breathing, some pills. I am feeling it is time to die and shed the outer layers of deadness and become more something - something new, something slithery on the rocks of slowness. I am perpetrating moves of fake improvisation on the relics. I figure it is like smiling - if you do it even without purpose you still benefit. I am hoping to benefit from surprises and licking of brush hairs in the goo of tomorrow. So far there is yellow and stinking rotten sunbursts, trees that over-articulate in the sordid breezes and clotted flesh forms that seek to become grotesquely up there in the strata of exciting subjects. I am ridiculous in my ambitions, they dwarf the real. Self-consciousness puts me at a supreme disadvantage when trying to tell a story.

The superlatives I am suckling from include:

1. Bloodiest
2. Merriest

I am girating, hoping to remove extra sags of blubber from the toothpick center, the wooden understructure that times all motion. My motions are haphazard and lacking in oneness. Yet still, yet still, there are reflections of idealized wonderment in the placid ripples of magnetic wanton surface tension. I am excited about tomorrow. I am excited about making less sense than today. Please help me.

Escaping Facts

This is the false wall of escape. Many colored handles for balance-keeping but no point of entry or exit except from above. For this you need rope. Knowing rope and which way to knot are the first steps to escaping any situation, be it bad or very very good. I am in a trance of rope-knowing, I have held it and, eyes closed, blindly studied its twisting rough ways with fingertip sensors. There are only certain fleeting windows of opportunity, times to escape where the ropes may assist. Danger may be below or above, depending on the day. It is tremorous and I am making a pilgrimage to enlarged chest cavities and falling red suns. The light is failing, palm sweat prevents tight grip. There is colorless gas all around, a pleasant not-too-sweet smell, a neutral green smell; I am uniforming myself to gird against the winds and waves. I will receive many scrapes and bruises on puckered yellow flesh pockets, but the vapors will come to soothe and prevent scarring.

Cuddles

I miss my cuddly bucket of squish, Mr. Pants, MM's nephew. The cuddles are coming in a different format now, a less welcome one, the cloying cuddles of hot air molecules. Please be gone. I need to think. I am donning a multi-feathered headdress in honor of this occasion and spinninig around in circles. So far no thinking has come to me. I will wait.

Prehension

The tragedy of the world is that there is not enough time to find the secret source of mega-devil tabs to uplift you out of your dreaded self and take you somewhere ecstatic for every second, all the time, for the rest of time. I am a woodpecker and I peck my head ceaselessly at trees and never get a headache (even though I always have one). There is a puddle of hot melted crayons that I am about to step into, merely because there is nothing better to do. I have asked the Juggler from the Woods and the Fan of Adult Contemporary Music to initiate a union near the cave entrance. I have asked them to fool me into thinking I am a wizard with magical fruity-time Mountain Man powers. I have asked them to fashion power cuffs for me to symbolize witlessness now and in the future. Back to gummy filters and visions of glowing haze layers, the delusion of making, the distraction from lack of functionality and fear of position-assumption.

Pooltime Surprises

This is the sport of choice to soothe the fractured souls of contemporary man and woman. Expressive as well as athletic, it requires heavy make-up for proper execution of stunts. Style is important. Life experience also comes into play, as well as emotion. High scores are awarded when feelings that heretofore may have lain dormant, awaken in the hearts of the judges. It is time to bear witness to the synchronous underwater gestures, the doubling in unison. It is time to study the violent wet ways of twin swimmers.

Kitty

Oh kitty kitty your breasts are so in need of support structures. Oh kitty I can see you and your boots are tres mad at me, what have I done? Please help me redeem myself and reinforce you with toddler-love. I love you! Why so angry? Please teeter totter over here and have a snack of kissers. I want to help, I do. There is danger where there is plenitude, this cannot be helped. I send you pats and snugs through the ether. Please help me to help you kitty kitty.

Roots of the Pull

Mixing the undernation twine-twirling squad of the morning disaster portion. All images are busted into brown danglers. Forget reality, forget personality, forget morals. It is time to dip downward in the faux-random haze.

In the kitchen I browned some meats in a greasy pan. I looked at my stomach in a mirror shard. I poked it. It bounced back.

I have no romantic tragedies to iterate, only fortress-like malabsorption of wrongness. I am sitting in my toast tower trying to imagine what might be of interest to someone who is

1. not addicted to methadone
2. not in a frenzy of split personality
3. not narcoleptic

I cannot think of anything. I am at the end of my creative tether.

I pray for a zenith of self-confidence and ideas to hit me like a basketball in the face. Night night my darling doodads.

Paper Airplanes

I woke up in the night, then slept late. All night paper airplanes circled around my unfortunate pimple-ridden head. I am avoiding phone calls. My hair is like string cheese. I go to the studio and fall asleep due to the heavy air. I am not asking for sympathy - this is merely a chronicle. Kibbles and bits are my breakfast this morning - dry dog food in a dirty bowl. I will hold my hands behind my back, get on my knees and chomp them miserably up like a pet. I hope these kibbles smell bad and incite gag reflex riots in the back of my throat. Today I am going to purge myself with backscratchers. Shoving and curdling will occur. All of this is in hope of getting some work accomplished. Paintings!!!! FINISH YOURSELVES FINALLY!!!!!!!! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? Maybe it's the closing down of possibility - as the paintings reach their obvious terminus and only slave-type work is needed to finish, they become oppressive and dreary. Maybe I should start something else to give me a sense that possibilities are opening up again...but maybe that's a waste of time and what I really need to do is FINISH. Four large poopers stare at me, day after day. They say hi. They say ha ha on you. They ask me if they are good enough then they taunt me with "probably not." Foo. MM. Make your calls this morning, then go to the studio armed with lasers and sabers. Go with the intent to finish up, you louse. (Yes I do have lice).

Sorry for the obnoxious post. I will replace it later with something more fantastical, I promise.

Tablets of Wisdom

Tremors begin. Vibrations of the head. It is lovely and disgusting at the same time. There is boiling, there is leftover silt. There is flickering. Skeleton death masks appear, books on witchcraft and alien invasions. Black felt spiders crawl in yarn webs. White chalky tablets fall from the sky into your palms. You insert them in mouth and ingest, according to the accompanying pamphlet. Your cat meows from behind the door - tap tap tap with his paws. He wants to come in but you prefer the sound of his insistent wants to his actual presence. You are alone in the fish fry, the new world philosophy that you have been adhering to for the past six months. No one else is on board. The tablets help you gain insight that you cannot express onto the world, they unleash gutteral machinations on your soiled interior. It is messy; there is no clean-up.

Playtime Hospital Indemnity Blow-up

Dear poodles of the summertime, I am concerned about the lack of mashing and mix-up, the lack of brain cells and research in the frontal and basal portions of the uber-real cortex. Where are the unifying concepts of mechanization? The branches are stretching and multiplying at their ends, extending outwards in a frenzied plexus. There are Mythraic wanderers combing the dunes for clues and portions of wisdom. There is a pink oozing plenitude in the weeping cracks of synthetic hardness, there are boneless thieves in the godless cuddle nation. We are always backwards, always paying the price for tomorrow today with rashes and gaping sores and scabs. It is visceral, this pre-punishment payment option. There are bands of naked bloody tribal renegades running past me with weapons of the cut and insertion. I am a fright in the dark and sing harbinger melodies to myself as comfort. I have love for the puppets of playtime, I invite them to play bash and forensic analysis with me in the wee hours of my attic. Your attendance is requested.

Good night to the sleepless for they are without blame. We are all junk-bears in a furry romance analogy.

Signing off,

Yours truly,

Today is tomorrow,

MM

Blart Show #2

Broken Overpass

The overpass is made of wood, it gleams silvery in some transpositional lights, but it is withering from the outside in. People traverse it and their feet get caught in the rot. It is a sinking bridge, a sad and beautiful monstrosity that makes crossing easier and harder simultaneously. I wish I could fix you, bridge, with a newfangled spray or coating but you resist this. I will wait and see. A new invention may be within my clawing grasp. No sinking, no troubles, no sadness, no worms. Just reinforcement and goodness in the chiming free-form woods. Good luck.

The Scoots

Group shows perused in Chelsea yesterday. Much of it produced wanting to nap feelings. Half dead feelings. Why feelings. Like Idols of Perversity at Bellwether. Clotted, overhung, an overarticulated vision...usually I am interested in this. I get it - it's fun! Over the top! Wow! Salon style! Tacky is great! Big wide-eyed feelings swirling into tiny dangling decorative flourishes. Romanticism and angst, kitschy bad painting, all mixed up in the dreamy, sexy-time languid bed hours. But it was too much somehow. As though all of the forbidden pleasures of kitsch, the kind of excited embarrassment that used to be associated with it have now been subsumed and swallowed by the very fact of its emphatic promotion by a Chelsea gallery. Like when a little-known band you used to covertly love now has a song on a car commercial - all of a sudden they are everywhere and all the reasons you had for liking them evaporate...I don't know. There were things to love, little moments here and there, but mostly I felt crowded out, as though there was no room to breathe or think or have any kind of independent reaction or private discovery.

However, I was moved beyond expectation at the group show at Feature that opened yesterday. As you walk into the gallery on your left, there is a small shelf of Tantric drawings made in India. They are simple, anonymous and gorgeous. Tiny, centrally-focused abstractions - magical geometric shapes and bits of colored patterning that hover on sheets of paper. I have just started learning about them - there was a show of them this past winter at the Drawing Center's Drawing Room. They are generated as objects of meditation, that is their main purpose. Their modesty and purity somehow provided me everything I lacked at Bellwether. It is an unfair comparison, for sure, as the intentions behind both the work and the curation of the shows could not be more opposite. But I think I just get more pleasure out of finding something to love that's small, out-of-the-way, something not obviously on display.

Alternate Versions

Striated grooves dug into thighs, hands pressed in waffle iron, syrup poured on flesh, no eating, just waiting. There is a Cosmic Chicken that rules all events which are pre-destined. This Chicken has no will, no body, but is a pattern of chicken, a pattern of accumulation of vibrations and waves. We will share speech, fuse with each other, and find intervals that belong to neither you or me. The verbs come, and one action is replaced immediately by another. This is our link to the world, although we are hiding.

Yay for Painting

I thought it would be fun to curate an imaginary show. I heart painting deeply and these are the ones I would like to look at tonight. Thank you for indulging me.

More New Friends

Tonight I bantered with a lovely inflatable family. I got to finagle with them and smile broadly over flaky foodstuffs. It was the time of inversions and puffs, of potent angels of the spirit in the core of everything.

The relicshack/hotbox/mousetrap has rendered trees to me tonight. I am becoming old-fashioned and woods-oriented - except that all landscape elements are animated with the swells and fissures of skin, the clotting of arterial networks. I think of portly hussies with dripping folds and realize much satisfaction with bumpy terrain. Yes to texture and cheez-wiz style flesh that bounces back upon touch and poke.

Reality recedes, I am becoming synthetic to myself, the hairs of head and body turn to skyward holes. Sense is leaving me. Negation is stewing in the upright back. I will try to find true content in the frisbee of tomorrow. Night night.

Rinsing

A rinsing is occuring as I have become oversaturated with rickets and yellow fat. It is busy, spinning. I will be back soon. I am missing of tricks and smoothness, the girth is mellowing. There are brain liquidation issues. Tomorrow, things should improve. Apologies for gutlessness.

The Unsleeping Comes

Listen. There is a bucket into which I release my salient juice extractions. This bucket tends towards hell-raising. In the end, what has to happen will happen.

There is a blank hollow mess that dispirits the outward-turning face - a ravage comes fast through bland events. The inward-turning face is a glacial jumble, a bee of misapprehension - feature-free and manic. This is the better face. Here are its mirages:

1. A patch of cow-print on a sloping lawn, sub-divided into squares (Sloth, these squares are uneven too - blades of grass poke through the cracks).

2. Amoral glass stems in the ubiquitous tube shape - shooting upward, a vertical thrusting.

3. Implements of cut: the shears, the kid scissors, the butter knife, the saw, the sword. They dance a cut dance, protruding in unison out of a single spinning unit.

4. Several weedy, black-cloaked thieves. With hunched shoulders and frizzy grey hair, they tip-toe about the periphery - they scheme and are foiled.

This is another progression, not unwelcome, that unfolds without warning. It is dead of sound.

The True Cave

Today I am leading myself by a leash into the true cave. There are many types of caves in each earth-strata - the cave I am entering today is the true sensory shut-out/enhancement cave. It is the cave of pagans and proto-assemblers. I will wear my light blue sweatsuit for this occasion (Fairy prefers lavender). On the front of this sweatsuit I have stenciled in glitter the word "MAMA" to let everyone know I have special needs. On the back is stenciled "HARM" so you will know I am also a miscreant with numb intentions. My crown will be imaginary and my transitions will be rough, as always. Please understand that this cave immersion is necessary to my research and gathering, it is necessary to my ebbing manhoods, my intestinal fortitude, my preparations of lack and luster. Worry and misapprehension will depart in favor of bridal appearances of woods, bogs and modulations.

Goon communion is good communion. This is my new aphorism.

Birdworks

I am digging with trowels and shovels into the dirts to make way for replicas of prehistoric birds. I want a zig-zag pile-up of stone dino-birds in witchcraft type formations. Ham Paw is helping me, he is conjuring from the clouds - they open like curtains to allow the airdropping of several stone birds (watch out!). After the correct formation is achieved, the chicken nuggets and fingers will be scattered over the birds as a sort of symbolic, cyborgian collision of old and new. We will not be allowed to eat any of these fingers/nuggets (Ham will not want to but I will have a hard time not aching for them). The we will mill about amidst the lumps and rows, wondering about the future and past simultaneously, and consecrate the event with sips from the wineskin. The true purpose of this ritual remains opaque.

Cave-Worn

Mistakes were made in the darkest hours with rockets flying and delight leaking out of the boat into the water to mix with fishes. Murder came with misdirections. Antlers grew from small bumps in the forehead and clashed with other sets. Leaky boats, everywhere. There was misuse of oars, splashing of dirty water, staining our legs. I found a cave beneath the earth to put my skin bag for a while. The time to emerge will be later, with powder. Now is the time to bake in the mysterious ovens, deep in the caves. What I will bake, I have no idea.

I cannot seem to post a picture today. Other than that, it is time to finish relics. The relics are static in their semi-finished state and have been for ages. I am seeking forward-movement and ultra fast marks to make themselves today. Large format painted relics take many months longer than I expect. The date of finish keeps receding further into the future. Better luck next time.

Hi everyone. It was nice seeing you at the tent meeting yesterday. Fairy, you were a most exciting host.

The Time of the Pigs

The time of the pigs is now. The pigs hop on all fours and are coming to you, down the streets and into the doors of your homes. They can hop up steps too, don't think they can't. These pigs are blind, they hone in on details through sonar. They have "amore" on their minds, so please be aware of that and take the necessary precautions (or not). This is the Independence Day Pig Notification Assembly. Please note that you have been warned so any complaints of messing or fouling will be ignored by the greater good from here on out. Good luck with pig removal and/or welcoming strategies. It depends what type of person you are.

Happy Drunken Pig Day.

Love,

MM

the formula

Here is the formulation. The temperature of the half brain should be above normal, That is considerably hotter than the temperature of the anus and the intestinal passage. The artworks are conceived in both parts with the brain as the conductor and the anus as the brush. Here are the moments of grandeur. There is a figurative cape and wand. This is a temporary art state, which is traded in for panic in the making which is then traded for listlessness. The relic is best when beyond reach, not falling into repetitive pile. The common pile is biggest. Listlessness is here and the intestine is cold.

The Shape-Shift Progression

1. A dense multi-colored jam of logs floats downstream - insoluble aimless wandering.

2. Painted wooden balls knock against each other, over and over, according to logorithms - a quiet but insistent clicking.

3. Gas-fingers rise from the well and replace breathable air with choke. It doesn’t last long.

4. Birthday candles melt and take all thoughts with them into puddles of pink wax.

5. A head is off the side of a bed, its hair sweeps the floor. Each of the strands is a ladder to an inverted mouth.

6. Tangles amass, in and on the head, and cause a waking.

7. Next, a ransacking, a paddling of fleshy terrain, where messages are embedded in redness, a code of burn-signals that revive the nerve endings.

8. A repetitive violent wave action causes fish to smash against rocks, white foam to appear and disappear.

9. All windows are open, accepting microscopic guests through the mesh.

10. Thousands of chirping birds create patterned curvatures within the spine, a wafting of breezes up the corridor that bring paralysis, a kidnapping.

I Heart William Blake

What is not to love about this painting? It has a donkey, an owl, a flying crotchgoblin, and a muscular hussy.

Meanwhile, I see the evidence but am not aware of what happened to me last night. Empty bottles of moonshine. Left hand missing. Black soot on feet, teeth. Krakow yelping uncontrollably. Menacing footprints in the dirt. Perhaps hypnosis will help me reveal the events to myself.

Have a nice day.

House Guests

They came for a visit, removed their bodies, attached themselves to the wall and now will not leave. Why is this always the way with house guests? Do they not realize that solitude is imperative? It is worse than Mr. Dank, the multiplicity of them and their lack of pupils make shivers down the hairy spine. They cause a worming, a lousing in the organ-center. I will offer them cookies laced with crap and see if that may send them on their way. Always perpetrating, these visitors, in their spare time, to enumerate bumps on the was-until-now smooth flesh. They are comely in this group organization, but I tell you, I am not prepared to host-organism them. Removal is what I seek.

Creepy Critters

Monster Spank reminded me that in all the hubub I forgot to pick up my creepy critters at the Taxidermist's. These are the two furry scoundrels I found mucking about around my shed in the woods last time I was there. I successfully hunted, shot and murdered them and wanted to memorialize my kills in stuffed formation. I must go the Taxidermist's today to pick them up and mount them above my fireplace in the shed. They are sure to enhance my stay deep in these haunted boo-woods.

The Hots

Hots are all over the place, on the flesh and the wood, in the crevices and smeared over every surface. It causes your head to get friendly with the freezer. I left mine in there while I write. The porpoise of calm is coming. My stomach has become a bloatation device and the trickles are swarming, causing many stinks.

He Was There

But we missed him. We were busy perusing other items. All along, just imagine this, the leopard man darted to and fro amidst us with lackluster sense-precision, he wanted to be us and be with us. Instead he was lonely and unseen, attendant in the worst ways. I have felt empathy with him in the past, but now in his forlorn state, I only feel disgust. Please stop I implore him, stop mirroring our behaviors for the worse aspect. Please leave us to determine value for ourselves. But he does not and we have to adapt to this. The cakes are headed our way, the sweetness is rising. Good night sweet ether companions. Thank you for your juice.

Outfit Options

I am trying to figure out what to wear for tonight's hoe-down. My two options are as follows:

1. Coon skin cap, overalls, no shirt (just freaky freaky amounts of tangled hairs), ballet slippers

2. Shower cap, housecoat, wax lips, cowboy boots

Please help me decide, or if you have other ideas, believe me, I am open to them. I get very skiddish in anticipation of these types of events, even if I know a gauntlet of goons will be there with me. Mental illness is what people sometimes call it. I do not feel stigmatized by this label.

St. Anthony Tortured By Devils

This is one of my favorite paintings ever. It was painted in 1423 by Sassetta. Not a very good image, but I just wanted to look at it today. Almost anything with wooden club torture, naughty devils, and snarling faces makes me smile. Beat him, devils! Beat him until he submits!

.

Baron Harkonnen

.

I need to own this. Look how his feet are bare and his toenails painted nicely black. I would like to acquire several of these and line them up in a row behind my bed. Sometimes I feel like him - large and bulbous, disease-ridden, pock-marked, a fright in the night, a chunk of balloon-viscera that hovers above. Heavy and weightless at the same time, very nice. I heart you Baron, even though you are a meanie.

Confoundation

I am developing my posterior muscles through repetitive squatting. I seek to become double my size in that area, out of proportion and worthy of sneering. I will krush with my rear, anyone who confounds me. Meanwhile the hair-crimping was a success and I believe it will be permanent, if only I can keep from washing my hairs ever again. This should not be a problem for I hate showering. I want to ripen like a good cheese. Many of you may find this disgusting however I am not worried, you do not have to be around me on a day-to-day basis.

Here are my temporary preoccupations:

pairs of ceramic animals
tangy taffy
scout sashes without badges
small tyrants
miniature robot police, also referred to as blue goo
Ralph Macchio

Poodle Pigtails

.

Hairstyle keeps neck cool. Orange field is calming and protective. Open mouth adds cross-circulation in concert with open anus. Next step is tongue lolling out of right side of mouth. Then all will be in perfect harmony and alignment. This is my new summer look.

Else is Muchful

So. As some of you realize, I and Uncle Fritz were away on a leave due to the funeral of his father. I hesitate to mention it here as it was that raw inside us, very pain-making, this is what happened. Uncle Fritz has donned the transparent cloak of his forebearer - a multi-divisional grieving cloak. Some have criticized the force of his grief, the lack of his grief, the degree of painfulness he chooses to reveal, but I will not. Instead I have anticipated and made padding where necessary, as well as I can muster. The brown spaces provided a cuddling experience, despite liquefaction and dry heaves. The boxed longhouse in the manicured grasses provided sanctuary as was hoped. MM was inside and outside, trying and trying. This elder father was a tall and barrel-like bear of loveliness. We miss him dearly and speak of him with hopes for emulation one day. Water drops trickled as words spoke themselves of special-making powers easily transmuted. Losing is familiar to all, more poignant in circumstance to some, but we felt lucky to know this one. It is alright to take leave when your vessel is rotting. It's alright even if it doesn't seem like yet should be now.

The Pink Goo has Eyes

Protoplasmic goo is what comes after the first thing and before the last, sometimes the other way around. It is pink, it has sparkles with eyes in them. It is the underlying transsubstance that synthesizes the pieces and parts. As each part has been assigned a beverage, so too has each pressure point thoughtflash been generated by pin-prick holes from a rotating pin receptacle that can be found at your core. It is a tiny polyhedral structure that perpetrates a pattern of pricks through logorithms. When it stops everything turns mindblack for you, the sum of all darknesses, all in one. You may then enter the creeping throng, the cone of silence, the elongated lightbox hidden beneath the dirts, the ethereal cloudpoofs in your imagining of high up. This is not my belief, it is my fact of superstition that comes into me even when I ask it not to. The delight and transcendence suffuses you, your thoughts do battle, each by each with budgrowths of spotty feeling-states. The feeling-states always win. They exist for all time within the tiny empathetic eyes of goo who watch everything all at once.

Sloth

Sloth posted links to many wondrous images yesterday. It made for many explorations into fun and possibility for relic-making. Here is one of my favorites:

.

But why is the lady buried alive? It is sad to wonder. It looks like she prefers to be there and is not at risk for death from suffocation. Instead she is safe and secure from the crowds, the angular task-driven wildness of the world above. She reminds me of curled up cat oblivion.

Thank you Sloth, for being such a stellar blogger. I heart you.

Meanwhile, Marcy has taken leave of me. She was an angry vengeful presence, as it turns out. Marcy had much bile to spew at her former classmates, invoked in the ether through incantatory magic.

PS - Sloth's eye, I may have found the perfect adhesive for the glitter - I do not think it will interfere with your purpose-driven ocularity.

One, Two, Three, Four

Ominous counting, rope over top and under bottom. Fixed glance, nice pressed suit. I am looking for something, someone. I am barbarous and lonely, fixed and unhinged. The fixer has gone missing.

.

My tea leaves

I listen closely to my intestines as these are my tea leaves. My spoils are my tarot. Tonight there is little rejoicing in my dank rivers and valleys of goo and gut. Today there is a swamp, a sign of the unbalanced.

There are dances required to attain balance and promiscuity in the sea lion and the human alike. One must attempt to act in parallel movements to the animal world. If a seal is unable to form the W, then you also must avoid this curvature. It is a vulgarity. The animal world is never so vulger as my anal construction site. therefore it is in my cards to form family structures, living and dining conditions similar to the sea lion. In spiritual terms, I am the nose of Michael Jackson.

Assumption of Another Identity

Today my name will be Marcy. I am a girl, shorter than normal, glasses-wearing, wearing of button downs.

This Marcy is a bit of a bookworm. She abhors loud sounds and carousing at bars - she loves the air-conditioning, wall-to-wall carpeting, diet colas. She is bland in personality but excellent at crossword puzzles and Scrabble. She has bad asthma and a giant terrarium in her living room. Lizards, chameleons and snakes in there. Tropical plants. She is planning a trip to the jungles of Guyana to study curative flora. She is in need of cures. She is nervous about this exposure to serpents and elements, but feels sure she will survive in the wild for a short time. That is all for now.

Smelly Sick Day

These are the places I would like to go today. I am having of a gross-out cold and therefore am hallucinatory about where I am able to travel. I am thinking again, of course, of a trip (nude) in an airstream. Criss cross. Many diners, many motels. Much in the way of grits consumed on this trip. Much in the way of bacon and beer.

1. Corn Palace
.

2. Precious Moments Inspiration Park
.

3. Pez Museum
.

4. Petrified Wood Park
.

5. The World's Largest Basket
.

Boil in Bag

Ham Paw and I went to the Chelsea Forest yesterday. The beacon of light and goodness and high skill levels remains Neo Rauch. We very much were in love with his work. I think he is the best living painter in the world. He herds multiple scenarios and viewpoints, orchestrating seamless transitions of flat shapes into deep space - wallpaper turns into landscapes, abstract blobs become distant roads. And there are these lonely figures throughout that appear to exist in their own private experience, despite being proximal to others. His figures are all working, accomplishing a task, or deep in thought - distracted, preoccupied. At times almost monstrous or in awkward balance, the figures remain mysteriously solid, sturdy and graceful, with ill proportions seeming part of their nature. His deft paint handling has the capacity to convince you, to make anything he decides to paint believable and pleasurable to look at. Smiles. Wishes to paint as well as that.

We looked at his wondrous relics for many many minutes longer than we could bear to look at anything else. I believe they helped fortify us against the rains that drenched us later in the day.

Ham Paw bought binoculars to improve his lacerating vision. Mountain Man beheld himself as an aging cut tree of a man and wished for sanity to rain down on him instead of rain.

Later, I began succumbing to yet another illness, this time in my throat area. How can it be? Weakened MM system. Faulty faulty system. I may drown in the phlegms of death, so if you do not hear from me for a while, this is what has happened.

Good morning to everyone who is not evil.

The Mysterious Band of Goons

.

I have met a lovely bunch of goons that I would like to introduce. One thing that is special about these goons is that they cannot, will not, speak at all. Another thing is that, despite their misleading appearances, they are all gender neutral. They stick together in a tight-knit band and only emerge from their place of hiding (a secret) once a month to replenish their supply of smut and multi-colored nibble-style candies. I love these goons a great deal and hope we can all partake in a circle dance communion of mutual stretching and tabulation one day very soon. I want you to meet them and love them too.

Charm of Frogs

There is a charm of frogs in a circle outside my window, they peeped as I slept and I hope they did the same for Sloth outside Sloth's log. The chirping peep sound is repetitive and extrusional of the calm that is derisively shattered during the course of a normal day in the city. It is hot. The people yap around you. Duties are expected of you that you dread. You go home to numb your tattered remains with pills, drink, ice or what have you. Then, if you are lucky, slumber descends and glues you back together. The early morning can feel passable, even lovely, but by late morning you are ready to maim or be maimed. You are ready to defend yourself from attacks of large mutant baby strains. It is terrifying to be you and to be amongst others. The best is to forget yourself entirely in strange ritualistic behaviors like aligning, licking, broadcasting, targeting, squishing or panhandling. There are many behaviors that have the capacity to delete yourself from yourself and enable delight. Please tell me if I am missing any, if there are any I should know about that I do not already know about.

Caterpillars

There are dangerous clumps of poisonous caterpillars winding their way up the walls of my home, winding their mindless way up my legs, with the intention of leaving bright green toxic goo behind that burns and singes. Their intention is total takeover, total consumption. I am lacking in forthrightness and gumption and cannot curb the profusion at this time. I am waiting for my mother to come rescue me for I haven't the time or the power. Please come mother.

Muffled

I have plugged up my ears with cotton and covered my eyes with post-its. I will eat MM pie and stew all day so as not to alarm anyone with the foul utterances that would emerge if I were able to speak. Do not be surprised if I feel you up as I pass you, I am blind today and have the prerogative as such to feel my way through the teeming throngs.

Earlier this morning I thought it might be interesting to try to believe in a pantheon of gods and goddesses. Has anyone ever tried this and does it have any positive effect?

Bats

There was a bat that buzzed about, flapping in circles around and around, until I took out a broom and Beth got a pillow and we punched him out the door into the night.

There were sauce stains on my pants. I left them there and will taste them later, in their drier formation. I am going on a diet and am restricting myself to sauce stains and light beer. Maybe some grass blades in the afternoon, but that's it.

Happy day to all of my favorite wormers!!!

Porscine Enumerations

Polyps in the form of actual events are forming in my throat. I am whitest of the white for summer, today I will sweat into a puddle of myself and leave a pale trembling jelly behind me. I am being pictured amidst an abyss that exists between two buildings. It is time for lackadaisical units to transform into ourselves for the heavy open days.

I am aware that this is vague. I have something more specific to admit, it is heinous. I do not want to hear any of Coldplay's new songs. Also, yesterday I witnessed the Max Ernst show at the Met. Although I was not really moved by any of his larger paintings, preferring the tiny ones and the collages, I left with many ideas for new relics. I need to remind myself of thin strands of lightly curling hairs, fleshy flora, chunks of flesh matter like glyphs or monoliths, and anonymous, half buried sheds and shacks. I recommend a journey to see the strangeness.

What I Hate About Puppets

Is that they come over for a snack and then they refuse to leave - they make themselves comfortable and stay for days. Last night, very late, three puppets knocked on my door. They have now taken shelter in my home. Their ever-wide eyes and stiff mugs watch my every move and penalize me with the wisecracking. Sudsy is sitting on the porch, while Bellows is nestled in the grass. Mr. Dank is by far the most menacing. He has opened his cloak to reveal his wares and sits alarmingly in my bedroom, making sleep impossible. I will have to come up with a plan to poison them and cause a dwindling that is permanent. These sketchy interlopers must be bashed.

.
.
.

Security

The guards are surrounding the yard. They are uniformed beigely and grayly as directed. Their fingers are over their lips, they are shushing the peripheral parties, the entombed parties. It is a lovely shushing sound that emanates from their thin wizened lips. There are many rows of security guards, a gauntlet, not easy to traverse.

I will see you later at polyrhythm dance accordance. Good-bye until then, when it will be hello.

Nighty Night

I am ready to go to sleep soon. Danzig and Krakow are in their waterbeds with heavy lids. I am on the floor with my false inflatable wife and Beth is in the hallway. All is as it should be. Stars are accumulating around my pores and I am proud to say I am feeling the love of donkey love and looking forward excitedly to the lack of understanding of everyone around me in relation to my self and my practices. Never will I share my complete inner fortitude with anyone. I am truly alone and truly secular, a monster in my midst. Thank you. Telegraphically yours, MM. PS - The summer love is gaining ground. The longest day approaches, mind yourself for terror may creep in to the waning darkened hours without warning. Pestilence is in the foreground.

.

Back to Bash and Coma

In the tournament of Pug vs. Hurricane, Hurricane has overwhelmed Pug with a disregard for the concrete humanity of others as well as the torrential downpours and tumultuous pressures that Hurricane applies to all in her path. Ham Paw is in the eye of the storm, but will re-emerge, as always, reinforced. Hurricane is an unnecessary phenomena, to be whirling in her vortex is to be without bearing, to be listening to foul utterances meant to ruin your house. It will not happen this time or any other.

Meanwhile, my donkey pooped all over the bathroom in the night. I was thankful that he did it there, as opposed to the rug, as it makes for easier clean-up. There were marbles in his poops, which irked me, as I have recently purchased the most lovely of marble sets to play in my insomniac hours. I have not been insomniac in two successful weeks. Sloth, I heretofore am hoping that last night your night was stare-free and you slept sweetly in your log.

The day is rinsed in fog again.

PUG VS HURRICANE

There are two beasts fighting within the physical realm of the negativity warp. Hostile fire surrounding slinking beasts inverting all that is simple. False smile and multiple personalities and tantrums are present though unexpected in light of the seemingly normal. One's daily duties become strident and strained. Pug explodes in bursts. She wants to love me but is unable to express this honest desire. Hurricane is blinded by herself. Her torment is shared.

Foggy Froggy Morning

Mountainous regions in the stomach and head have matching terrain, like twin countries with tropical storms and political strife. I am getting some of my hairs cut today to prepare it for Wandee's treatments. I am interested in her and desirous to hire her for neatness alignment both on the skin and off.

May the nits, listers and sirs get bashed. The nits and gnats are still here, I had to wake up early and clean their mess, close all cupboards, muffle all noise, wipe away all gooey residue.

I am going to wear a girdle today, to clamp in my gut and receive much needed support in the lumbar region. I am wearing a loose button down with a gaudy print splashed over it so as not to draw attention to my use of ladies' undergarments. Normally I would not hide such a thing, but today, I feel sheepish and threatened before I have even left the apartment, so extra fortification is needed.

I noticed my shoes have foul-smelling jelly gel pudding puddles on them from the battle. I am happy and sad at the same time.