Saturday, November 28, 2009

Poem 14 – A biography of the dinosaurs

[The assignment was to write a biography poem. After much combing of the Archive, we came upon the dinosaurs resting there. Orthography intact "as found." Special thanks to 7-year-old Tolerance Project collaborator J.D. for his insights.]

A biography of the dinosaurs

thecodonts gave rise to crocodiles and the span

me catastrophe from the ground up

eugenic organ as an ism when reptiles ran

general as the mono startle along the ground and each other

for at least one season of a soma ethic


This is my hypothisis of why all dinosaurs died out

This is a few reasons of why dinosaurs died out

No one lives

The dinosaurs got old

As the eyes / near wreck

There was a meteorite shower

That had catastrophe written all over it

The dinosaur eggs got eaten

To create /

There was volcanos

Both inside and outside history

I think because giant underwater volcanos errupted

When they see

Because if a land volcano erupted it would not destroy water dinosaurs

The massive extinction was when they died out nobody knows why they died out

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


If you are reading this , then you are an intelligent person who is capable of making informed choices about where you want your life to go

if ur reading this ,my symphaties to u guys cuz ur dead.

I know if ur reading this u will probably pay no mind but ur missing out on some talented artists..Give it a chance and then u can be on the streetteam

If ur reading this then obviously ur dumb to not realize my obvious unintelligence


Now if ur reading this , ur either the person I know or ur majorly mistaken. I know for a fact that someone very special is reading this paragraph!

hey, if ur reading this , good for u! this is sorta unervingly close to reality, but tweaked in some places. i am sorry if u feel insulted

If You Are Reading This, You Had Better Fucking Hate Horses!!! Look, this is a website about horses and how much we hate them. They are gross and stupid and
If You Are Reading This , You Had Better Fucking Hate Horses!!! NICE SHOES ASSHOLE!! Fuck Off Horse Hater Posers!

If You Are Reading This You Have An FBI File.

I'd Like To0 Meet AnyOne And EveryOne And If ur ReaDing This Then Of CourSe U!!!!!!!!!!!! the crotch of ur life!'s

If ur reading this still up to this point, ur only bored & nothin more

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Poem 12 – Mirror

[The assignment was to write an imitation of a famous poem, or a "reversal" of the poem, or some other response. We couldn't find a famous poem in the Archive, but the following was inspiring.]

Flying, skimming, skipping, pursued by fishes, alone of all tuna, in the midst of tropical waters, a motorless plane, no muscles. Flying like a bat. The road lined with lights. A rubble of stone darkened. The turf mouse. Among the eternal rain, I found an old, blasted time, a restless bird shape. Photos are great materials for the publishing world. A Lincoln Town Car is not unusual. Stuff White People Like – a witty idea of content. They sell traditional bookstores into cheeseburger or pumpkin pie. The groundhog goes out and sees the formal dress of the occasion at the last check-up – today nobody bothers. The sun is commonly termed the twelfth point. English towns and cities occurred to him. In 1908, emptiness was the root cause. Self here is the implied mental comfort that regards extraneous qualities such as the next moment. If one had no separate identity, no one would be likely to have theories. He tries to find irony. Westerners in the temperature must be frank. The men, worse, had killed them body and soul. How to get through torture: light is in us. Friendship: a Braille typewriter. The creature is difficult. There is no light in the rainbow. Gold can’t be found anywhere. The ring and the cloud made a plaited meadow. Entrance along the road of blood.

Walking, thudding, bumping, a lot of good it does, crowded into the observatory, chasing toucans, above arctic wastes, a ghastly flat, no skin. Walking like a ball. The sidewalk lined with darkness. A pile of rocks brightened. The field elephant, alongside a temporary snowstorm. You lost your new, silent space, a serene animal profile. Records are typical commodities of the recording industry. A Jefferson nickel is unfashionable. Things black gods don’t like – a sluggish practice of form. They buy websites via fries with that shake. The sky dog comes in and hears the casual speech of the everyday at the first operation – then everybody spaces. The moon is expressly cast a monthly line. Fresh tomatoes and citrons present themselves to her inspection. In 2008, fullness was the branch effect. Otherwise there is the explicit physical pain that blocks out intrinsic mass like the previous eon. If you don’t eat meat, everyone will think you do. She looks for iron. East coasters can fry up in the heat. The women, even better, would birth them, part and parcel. How to add to pleasure: sound is all around you. Love: a Morse piano. The human is easy. There is no sound in an echo. Silver can be traded for space. The bracelet and the wave wove corn rows. Exit through the gate of water.

Poem 11 – She then flies to Art

[the poem the gf didn't 'get'--see]

She then flies to Art

Melding human form and furniture
Into a seamless whole
Valuing herself an unnatural bundle of hairs
All covered with Powder

Works of Art by Department

No artists or poets without
A true desire to progress her
Exquisite handling of natural material
Shifts the ground of your polished
Mahogany and luminous opals

Timeline of Art History

Idea of sociality the return to point zero
Where she studied under a number of notable
Where acting is the central point, not listening

150 Hakka (Chinese people) in art [Not Subd Geog] [sp2009004632]

The moment where the “I” ends
Puts on a Perriwig
And “the other” begins

Viewing contemporary art as a natural component
Of creating communal property—
A home

New York: The Museum of Modern Art

I was so continual an art designed by Michalengo©
Unnamable gallery a joy willow
Not separate stand-alone processes
They flow from the liberal arts core

(C) 150 Kamaiurá art [May Subd Geog] [sp2009004349]

Catastrophic forms of underbrushes, these sums'
Radical disarticulation to the root of
My journey – so authentic a ghost – scares another toast’s
Assumptions about the aesthetic autonomy
Between inside and outside
An institutionally cultivated sensibility

450 UF Art, Kamaiurá

She is art
But you expect to hurry
Vestibules are inches
Farming art in abandoned lots

550 BT Art, Brazilian

Most paint self-portrait projects
Twice demolished and snow has aged
Twice the beauty of recycled decay

Is the readymade as macho as the abstract painting?
When to practice is the balancing jet,
Has loss glanced?
Its artist is the branch

......................................(Frog Pond turns into a giant temple
......................................Made of “allure.” I had to

RZ’s Xellent MOMA adventure

[The assignment was to go to MOMA and write about a piece of minimalist art]

Kosuth’s One and Three Chairs… One and/or three chairs, even. Readymade plus idea plus reproduction, beautifully poised on the cusp where minimalism meets conceptualism. Great description in MOMA online: “A chair sits alongside a photograph of a chair and a dictionary definition of the word chair. Perhaps all three are chairs, or codes for one: a visual code, a verbal code, and a code in the language of objects, that is, a chair of wood. But isn't this last chair simply . . . a chair? Or, as Marcel Duchamp asked in his Bicycle Wheel of 1913, does the inclusion of an object in an artwork somehow change it? If both photograph and words describe a chair, how is their functioning different from that of the real chair, and what is Kosuth's artwork doing by adding these functions together? Prodded to ask such questions, the viewer embarks on the basic processes demanded by Conceptual art.

‘The art I call conceptual is such because it is based on an inquiry into the nature of art,’ Kosuth has written. ‘Thus, it is . . . a working out, a thinking out, of all the implications of all aspects of the concept 'art,' . . . Fundamental to this idea of art is the understanding of the linguistic nature of all art propositions, be they past or present, and regardless of the elements used in their construction.’

Chasing a chair through three different registers, Kosuth asks us to try to decipher the subliminal sentences in which we phrase our experience of art.” Language, textuality, begins its ascent into art with conceptualism. Baldessari in the same room hinting ironically in a painting made up of language – What is painting… “Art is a creation of the eye and can only be hinted at with words.” Do you agree? I don’t. Look at the Kosuth.

But I digress. Back to Minimalism. Ad Reinhart attempts to produce “a pure abstract, non-objective, timeless, spaceless, chargeless, relationless, disinterested painting – an object that is self-conscious (no unconsciousness), ideal, transcendent, aware of no thing but art.” This is the key problem with minimalism, the phallus-y that the point of view is neutral, untouched by ideology, like a Platonic ideal. In the thrust toward placing the phenomenological subject–viewer in the gallery, minimalist art ignores the sexual-linguistic construction of the subject (not to mention racial, etc). Not until the mid 70s feminist art (Kruger, Levine, Kelly, etc.) does this critique materialize, but seems patently obvious looking back. Reminds me how it now seems somewhat absurd that Language poetry could remove the subject and narrative when the subject of women and people of colour, etc had not been represented, nor their stories told. All a matter of perception and timing. Just as the fact that Carl Andre’s sculpture is not on a pedestal and there is no differentiation between ordinary and sculptural space seems pretty to blasé to us now. The trick is to imagine what it would have been like to walk into a gallery in the 60s with this piece, how it upset expectations then. Or the Judd piece—you may wonder, how is it fastened? Is it a painting because it’s on the wall? It’s not on the ground, so is it sculpture? This categorization seems unnecessary now, but not then. Perception is what these artists were changing. The green lacquer on Judd’s “one thing after another” is striking, but come closer and see ordinary galvanized iron on its not so obvious sides. “A perceptual ambiguity complicates things.” (Hal Foster)… “Objects that are without any hierarchy of interest, that directly engage and interact with the particular space they occupy; objects that reveal everything about themselves, but little about the artist; objects whose subject is the viewer.” (Michael Craig-Martin)….. “There is no way you can frame it, you just have to experience it.” (Tony Smith). Like all the best poetry.

Fascinating that Carl Andre wants to “define rather than occupy space,” while Frank Stella colonizes space with the Empress of India…“What you see is [indeed] what you see” (Stella).

Love how Richard Tuttle replaces the frame with a wire, laying bare the construction of the viewing experience. Can’t help but think of his wife, amazing poet, Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, constructing her poems on a big table by laying out fragments of language next to images and rearranging them until the picture is correct.

Robert Ryman reduces painting to bare minimum, white paint, a square, metal fastenings … pencil lines display hidden apparatus that holds painting to the wall ... more concerned with the “how” of painting’s physicality than the “what” of image, story, symbolism. Heralds the turn to process art (Eva Hesse and others) post minimalism. Again, I think Language poetry must have been influenced by (post-) minimalism, the reduction to the bare unit of meaning, the how.

Dan Flavin’s ordinary fluorescent light and metal fixtures as political “monuments” to avant-garde Russian Constructivism. Eventually the lights will burn out and have to be replaced, like all utopian ideals. I also heard that at the end of the exhibit he would take the lights back to the hardware store where he got them, but obviously this is not the case, as they are in MOMA in the Michael Ovitz (former Mr. Disney and Hollywood agent extraordinaire) Family Gallery. Seems no coincidence that Pop commercial serialism or serial commercial art is in the next room.

But first a sidebar on Fluxus, supposedly “living art” or “anti-art” beyond the gallery and sales, but still contained here in a kind of attempted archive of the repertoire. Beautiful text pieces like Dick Higgins symphony of pen and mud and machine gun, but still a sense of lifelessness and claustrophobia…The performance can’t be archived and commodified, no matter how much the Museum tries…that is its ephemeral power.

Similar stench of death in the Joseph Beuys room, the vitrines with “relics” of his performances splayed out for sale: “The unique ways Beuys formed ensembles of his work for individual collectors.” The forlorn Felt Suit on the wall, the signed photo of him striding toward us, but not his presence [and no, 40 years later We are (still, unfortunately) not the revolution]. Video of the performance is not the same as the felt action of the performance. I can’t sit through it , but it has a fitting title: I like America and America likes me. Evidently.

I wrote a draft of a poem post-MOMA trip, but since my girlfriend didn’t even “get” it, I won’t subject you to the whole thing, just the last few minimalist lines:

.........Frog Pond turns into a giant temple
.........Made of “allure.” I had to