Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Find more artists like red benches at Myspace Music
I would like someone to use this in a short film, please.
thanks.
June rides her bike in circles at night. An awkard yellow sculpture, bigger than a car, sits on the flat of cement. June circles around a bench where a woman sits, talking to a man. The man is only coughing. When she circles around the next time, the man is sneezing. The woman is still talking.
June bikes over to a picnic table and takes out a joint. Lights it. Sees fireflies.
"I can't remember what makes me feel like myself anymore."
She holds the smoke in her lungs, then lets it out hard.
Lives are beautiful-and satisfying itches.
Seeing people laughing.
People's bodies.
Listening to music with a boy.
How can we forget about these things?
Lights at night dispersed with tears.
Touching self, or another...smelling your arm.
Pulling paint chips off a fence or wall.
June bikes over to a picnic table and takes out a joint. Lights it. Sees fireflies.
"I can't remember what makes me feel like myself anymore."
She holds the smoke in her lungs, then lets it out hard.
Lives are beautiful-and satisfying itches.
Seeing people laughing.
People's bodies.
Listening to music with a boy.
How can we forget about these things?
Lights at night dispersed with tears.
Touching self, or another...smelling your arm.
Pulling paint chips off a fence or wall.
A nice post...
from Donna K, who contributed to the live soundtrack for Brent Green's short films in Johnstown on Tuesday:Gravity Was Everywhere Back Then: Dancing with Maria
Friday, February 18, 2011
Transcendence
Far atop the untilled earth
Of days once dark and dim,
Once lived the Father Architect
And all did follow him
But in days soon to come and pass
He gave not sound or sign
For when the people heard him not
His throne met depths of brine
I. The Self-Created Manifesto (The Seraphic One Observes):
A:
I am floating above the Earth.
I: a word only understood recently.
But what is I?
I turn to stare inward,
An answer must surely reside within.
Stare: to gaze with mine eyes.
I observe the surface before me.
I mind the circlet of mountains,
Towering and magnificent.
What shapes are these!
They prove home to idols,
With figures akin to mine.
Within the coil of lifted earth,
A cell of beings
Push and pull each other.
And it is there.
The periphery of folk,
Encompassed within their center
Remains a dark and desolate,
But welcoming, crevasse.
As if upon notice,
A rushed flicker appears from the opening.
Pulled utroquely, and yearning,
I begin my descent.
II. Observation in a Time Loop:
The earth grows large,
I recognize the curvature of this body.
A storm comes,
The scent of summer rain saturates the air.
To smell such things, ethereal!
Above the ring of mountain peaks,
I recognize my forefathers;
My soon-to-be invalids.
Crown’d with the touch of halos,
I too reflect the nimbus.
The people gather in millions
Celebrating lesser men.
Before me: my rift in the earth’s crust.
The mountains make way for the eye-shaped feeder.
Speed hastens beneath this façade.
The wind on my back whispers
Of idle talk amongst others.
I study the bodies before me,
Only for an instant.
I once was a child,
Then to become an adult.
With unrushed intentions, the sepulchre rushes past
Descending beyond the lip.
III. The Decrepit Vessel Deteriorates:
Falling deep into the chasm, head long,
I turn to moon upward toward the aperture.
Growing wide and ravenous,
The eye does not let up.
I yield to my holder, with little strife;
I have chosen such an existence.
I see now that I am bare.
My only companion,
These eyes you have betrothed to me,
With which all things become apparent.
A lonely heart and lonely mind make for chaos,
And in turn,
Hysteria.
I turn to gaze again,
The depths of my endless fissure.
My mind recedes;
My veins grow dark with the toiled touch.
The nimbus percolates in purpose.
The Moirai cackle at my atrophy.
Time passes.
IV. The Other Half:
Separate entities concerned
L:
How I resent these beings,
The ones I address as cognate.
Structure and order be their greatest ally.
Look on them!
Look how they recoil from the edge,
Pushing and pulling; The animals.
They fear only the unknown,
That which they do not know,
The Great Ravine.
The lives of such, in safety and security,
But at what cost? Ignorance,
I shall know none of it.
Which purpose has this life?
One of solace and intrigue,
But with whom to share it?
I turn to gaze at the mouth of
my dark valley.
I sever myself from the organism.
I take the first step.
Falling, deep into the cavern,
I sense a presence.
V. The Coming to Consciousness:
A:
Drifting among demons,
This sea bequeaths no solace.
Gazing deeper I realize,
This is no book with which to acquire,
But a mirror, from which to be taken.
Such efforts to continue
Take from my vessel;
A siren of my mind.
Oh, celestial Angel!
Do my eyes deceive me?
Has my mentality accelerated to madness,
An apparition of the mind?
I gaze in unknown directions,
To watch the last remnants of my seraph dissipate.
Oh, astral Clockwork!
Why do you corrupt me so,
In ways no man could hope to combat.
But it was in this moment,
I knew no pain.
Two halves,
Returned to the whole,
Assimilated into the faultless self.
New eyes I have acquired,
And as I gaze about,
The cavern takes on new meaning.
Far below, the ravine bottom,
Or more-so the veil.
Turning, once more to gaze inward,
I admire this new and perfect vessel.
Two flawed creatures, assimilated into
Omniscience; One common heartbeat.
The time has come to actualize the aureole;
The abysmal chasm submits.
VI. Release:
As I reach the cavern bottom,
I come to recognize my keeper.
A mirror, she reflects the ins and outs.
At last, the shaded pane before me,
I take the first step.
Gazing the fathoms, the mountains emerge,
The body of individuals, praising still
The convalescents and cadavers.
I shall retire them.
Upon passage through the veil,
I find myself of the origin.
I look down to regard the same abyss,
But as well, different.
The divine maker, I bestow the first
Of godly gifts.
Atop the spanning mountain peaks,
The idols, falling from grace.
The crevasse welcomes,
They shall know much of their teachings.
Dismay plagues the sheep,
Soon to know a similar fate.
Much toil proves necessary,
I have much to do.
And I am contented.
Of days once dark and dim,
Once lived the Father Architect
And all did follow him
But in days soon to come and pass
He gave not sound or sign
For when the people heard him not
His throne met depths of brine
I. The Self-Created Manifesto (The Seraphic One Observes):
A:
I am floating above the Earth.
I: a word only understood recently.
But what is I?
I turn to stare inward,
An answer must surely reside within.
Stare: to gaze with mine eyes.
I observe the surface before me.
I mind the circlet of mountains,
Towering and magnificent.
What shapes are these!
They prove home to idols,
With figures akin to mine.
Within the coil of lifted earth,
A cell of beings
Push and pull each other.
And it is there.
The periphery of folk,
Encompassed within their center
Remains a dark and desolate,
But welcoming, crevasse.
As if upon notice,
A rushed flicker appears from the opening.
Pulled utroquely, and yearning,
I begin my descent.
II. Observation in a Time Loop:
The earth grows large,
I recognize the curvature of this body.
A storm comes,
The scent of summer rain saturates the air.
To smell such things, ethereal!
Above the ring of mountain peaks,
I recognize my forefathers;
My soon-to-be invalids.
Crown’d with the touch of halos,
I too reflect the nimbus.
The people gather in millions
Celebrating lesser men.
Before me: my rift in the earth’s crust.
The mountains make way for the eye-shaped feeder.
Speed hastens beneath this façade.
The wind on my back whispers
Of idle talk amongst others.
I study the bodies before me,
Only for an instant.
I once was a child,
Then to become an adult.
With unrushed intentions, the sepulchre rushes past
Descending beyond the lip.
III. The Decrepit Vessel Deteriorates:
Falling deep into the chasm, head long,
I turn to moon upward toward the aperture.
Growing wide and ravenous,
The eye does not let up.
I yield to my holder, with little strife;
I have chosen such an existence.
I see now that I am bare.
My only companion,
These eyes you have betrothed to me,
With which all things become apparent.
A lonely heart and lonely mind make for chaos,
And in turn,
Hysteria.
I turn to gaze again,
The depths of my endless fissure.
My mind recedes;
My veins grow dark with the toiled touch.
The nimbus percolates in purpose.
The Moirai cackle at my atrophy.
Time passes.
IV. The Other Half:
Separate entities concerned
L:
How I resent these beings,
The ones I address as cognate.
Structure and order be their greatest ally.
Look on them!
Look how they recoil from the edge,
Pushing and pulling; The animals.
They fear only the unknown,
That which they do not know,
The Great Ravine.
The lives of such, in safety and security,
But at what cost? Ignorance,
I shall know none of it.
Which purpose has this life?
One of solace and intrigue,
But with whom to share it?
I turn to gaze at the mouth of
my dark valley.
I sever myself from the organism.
I take the first step.
Falling, deep into the cavern,
I sense a presence.
V. The Coming to Consciousness:
A:
Drifting among demons,
This sea bequeaths no solace.
Gazing deeper I realize,
This is no book with which to acquire,
But a mirror, from which to be taken.
Such efforts to continue
Take from my vessel;
A siren of my mind.
Oh, celestial Angel!
Do my eyes deceive me?
Has my mentality accelerated to madness,
An apparition of the mind?
I gaze in unknown directions,
To watch the last remnants of my seraph dissipate.
Oh, astral Clockwork!
Why do you corrupt me so,
In ways no man could hope to combat.
But it was in this moment,
I knew no pain.
Two halves,
Returned to the whole,
Assimilated into the faultless self.
New eyes I have acquired,
And as I gaze about,
The cavern takes on new meaning.
Far below, the ravine bottom,
Or more-so the veil.
Turning, once more to gaze inward,
I admire this new and perfect vessel.
Two flawed creatures, assimilated into
Omniscience; One common heartbeat.
The time has come to actualize the aureole;
The abysmal chasm submits.
VI. Release:
As I reach the cavern bottom,
I come to recognize my keeper.
A mirror, she reflects the ins and outs.
At last, the shaded pane before me,
I take the first step.
Gazing the fathoms, the mountains emerge,
The body of individuals, praising still
The convalescents and cadavers.
I shall retire them.
Upon passage through the veil,
I find myself of the origin.
I look down to regard the same abyss,
But as well, different.
The divine maker, I bestow the first
Of godly gifts.
Atop the spanning mountain peaks,
The idols, falling from grace.
The crevasse welcomes,
They shall know much of their teachings.
Dismay plagues the sheep,
Soon to know a similar fate.
Much toil proves necessary,
I have much to do.
And I am contented.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
“Here I sit broken hearted, come shit and only farted”
What profound words. So profound in fact that man throughout time have felt some primordial, dude-like urge to etch them into bathroom stalls all over the continental US for as long as bathroom stalls have been around. It’s fascinating, really.
As I am thrown headfirst into the toilet at the Razor’s Edge, these prolific words catch my eye. God knows why, there are a million other things far more important right now than some stupid limerick I’ve seen written a million times in a million shitters in a million bars. There’s the 220-pound Neanderthal with the killer fade haircut standing over me, there’s the girls at the bar, Sarah and Jessie? Sammy and Jenny? There’s the rest of cast of the Jersey shore, watching on as The Situation hands me my ass…and for some reason, all I see – “Here I sit broken hearted, come to shit and only farted,”
I struggle to hold my breath, try to break free and try not to pay attention to what’s floating around my face. How did the night get this out of hand? It’s only a Tuesday, for Christ’s sake. I’ve just been so bored lately. There’s really nothing else to do besides drink.
“Who looks like an ass hole now, fuck face? Huh? You got some fucking mouth on you, for a hippie,” the guy with the new haircut says, mainly to himself because I’m pretty sure his two buddies left to try and bag the girls they roofied earlier. Anyway, I assume his question is rhetorical because he isn’t letting me come up for air.
I am running out of breath so I kick furiously and somehow make contact. I hear a yelp and pressure is relieved from my head. I get up and Tony or Pauly or Vinny is lying on his back, on top of the bathroom stall door. I kick him in the ribs four or five times and shake my long, soaking wet hair, covered in and smelling of piss and beer and shit onto his face.
“YOU. YOU look like an ass hole, now. And I’m not a fucking hippie, you greasy piece of shit. Jesus, can’t you get girls on your own? Do you really have drug them, man? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
When he stops grunting intelligible caveman sounds, I take his jacket and wipe my hair and face off then walk out. Out in the bar I quickly look around for Mike but it appears he already left with Jackie. Oh yeah, they left a while ago, before the kid with the new haircut and his crew of assholes roofied my friends because I was talking shit. The girls told me to shut up, but these guys were being huge douche bags. Shit, is it really a Tuesday?
I try not to make a scene and slip out the back so the bouncer doesn’t have to grab me and tell me to get the FUCK out again. Frank’s nice, but he has a tendency to repeat himself.
I’m at the crosswalk on Easton Avenue staring at the red blinking hand when I hear something behind me and then suddenly I feel something solid connect with my head. I should have figured someone else took the girls home. I guess Pauly’s friends had nothing better to do then to wait around for me. I don’t even get a chance to get some good punches in because the bastards sucker punched me and now I’m down on the ground and there’s snow in my eyes and it hurts like shit when the kid with the Timberlands kicks me in the mouth and fuck, why did I even come out tonight it’s a fucking Wednesday and I’m broke as hell and I can’t feel anything anymore because it’s so cold and I’m so drunk and after a while the pain just stops hurting anyway and the snow is falling and it really looks beautiful if you take a minute and just watch it fall on the broken sidewalk…
What profound words. So profound in fact that man throughout time have felt some primordial, dude-like urge to etch them into bathroom stalls all over the continental US for as long as bathroom stalls have been around. It’s fascinating, really.
As I am thrown headfirst into the toilet at the Razor’s Edge, these prolific words catch my eye. God knows why, there are a million other things far more important right now than some stupid limerick I’ve seen written a million times in a million shitters in a million bars. There’s the 220-pound Neanderthal with the killer fade haircut standing over me, there’s the girls at the bar, Sarah and Jessie? Sammy and Jenny? There’s the rest of cast of the Jersey shore, watching on as The Situation hands me my ass…and for some reason, all I see – “Here I sit broken hearted, come to shit and only farted,”
I struggle to hold my breath, try to break free and try not to pay attention to what’s floating around my face. How did the night get this out of hand? It’s only a Tuesday, for Christ’s sake. I’ve just been so bored lately. There’s really nothing else to do besides drink.
“Who looks like an ass hole now, fuck face? Huh? You got some fucking mouth on you, for a hippie,” the guy with the new haircut says, mainly to himself because I’m pretty sure his two buddies left to try and bag the girls they roofied earlier. Anyway, I assume his question is rhetorical because he isn’t letting me come up for air.
I am running out of breath so I kick furiously and somehow make contact. I hear a yelp and pressure is relieved from my head. I get up and Tony or Pauly or Vinny is lying on his back, on top of the bathroom stall door. I kick him in the ribs four or five times and shake my long, soaking wet hair, covered in and smelling of piss and beer and shit onto his face.
“YOU. YOU look like an ass hole, now. And I’m not a fucking hippie, you greasy piece of shit. Jesus, can’t you get girls on your own? Do you really have drug them, man? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
When he stops grunting intelligible caveman sounds, I take his jacket and wipe my hair and face off then walk out. Out in the bar I quickly look around for Mike but it appears he already left with Jackie. Oh yeah, they left a while ago, before the kid with the new haircut and his crew of assholes roofied my friends because I was talking shit. The girls told me to shut up, but these guys were being huge douche bags. Shit, is it really a Tuesday?
I try not to make a scene and slip out the back so the bouncer doesn’t have to grab me and tell me to get the FUCK out again. Frank’s nice, but he has a tendency to repeat himself.
I’m at the crosswalk on Easton Avenue staring at the red blinking hand when I hear something behind me and then suddenly I feel something solid connect with my head. I should have figured someone else took the girls home. I guess Pauly’s friends had nothing better to do then to wait around for me. I don’t even get a chance to get some good punches in because the bastards sucker punched me and now I’m down on the ground and there’s snow in my eyes and it hurts like shit when the kid with the Timberlands kicks me in the mouth and fuck, why did I even come out tonight it’s a fucking Wednesday and I’m broke as hell and I can’t feel anything anymore because it’s so cold and I’m so drunk and after a while the pain just stops hurting anyway and the snow is falling and it really looks beautiful if you take a minute and just watch it fall on the broken sidewalk…
Monday, February 14, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
An evening of multimedia performances @ VOMA
An evening of multimedia performances @ VOMATuesday, February 22 // 7 pm // $5 suggested donation
305 Chestnut St. // Johnstown, PA // 15906
Some links:
Brent Green's official site
Art in America article on Green
Drew & the Medicinal Pen
Laci's blog
Brandon Locher
Rubber Necking
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
