how to make delicious

blessed be the fruit stands

devil's hole

welcome to the neighborhood

behold! my porch-dwelling next door neighbor. i'm trying very hard to not let my preconceived notions about felines get the best of me but there's just something about his eyes that seems a little less than friendly. we shall see what the days make of our relationship. i'm hoping for apple pie, he for tuna tartare. keep your fingers crossed for us.

"Chapter 1" (Excelano Project, Spring 2010)

At last! Video from the Excelano Project's Spring 2010 show: Lords of the Fly

(oh oh oh, how i love my dear poets)

I present to you now, my heart:

WHEAT PAST WALL WAR

(kapow!)

(hand drawn - pencil baby)

silk screen on newsprint / gold paper cut out

Dante's Inferno: A Ravioli Rendition

AN EXPERIMENT IN EPHEMERAL ART

(yum)

Materials:

ravioli: wonton wrappers / spinach / ricotta / parmesan / oil / tomato sauce

ink: honey / food coloring / powdered gelatin / sugar / flour

Inspiration:

sketches: screen printing!

Fred's

ice jellyfish

oh, to be a jellyfish and bloop around all day
here: nature imitates itself - sculpting water into tentacled sea dwellers

jelly

mizspell

that

let me tell you this thing:

this thing about that day and that night

that thing?

oh

that thing

that thing

this thing

no, that thing

that thing was good

once more

A list of things Today:

1. this white that is far too white, a sort of bright that makes me want everything muddy, even my coffee. and good thing, because it is.

2. sometimes I feel so close to the edge of things – like the sidewalk has already ended and I’m dangling my feet off the earth like those simple line drawing children on the cover of Shel’s books and I want to unshell the ideas that lie shriveled in my head – puny like mussels and clams and foetal and ugly and funny because we all start out vain and full of potential and I’d rather not be deveined of my lifelines or vanity because I’m beginning to think that a little reckless self-adoration is more than it’s cracked up to be

3. there’s a magic in those first pages of those few books and I don’t ever want to forget it again. there are moments amplified – like someone turned the volume up on color and baked touch to perfection and I sit here in an empty house aching to open my brain and invite everyone inside – “here, I’ll take your coats,” “no, don’t even worry about your shoes – the slush will dry in no time,” “oh make yourself comfortable I’ve had the fire going for ever so long and you’re just on time” – aching in self-contained solitude to knock out the walls of my location and expand my bed – extending the headboard into Thailand and the place where my feet rest into Argentina – and then to just lie there, calm, knowing there’s no need to hurry, I’m sleeping on top of the world and getting to every impossibility is as simple as pressing my ear to the pillow and listening to the dreams of humanity float up through the feathers inside.

4. A bookstore always feels cluttered because the covers of books do a poor job of fencing in the wild minds that penned them and I always make sure my shoelaces are tied before I enter such a place, considering the potential to get tripped up on some phrase or philosophy running rampant and swinging circles round the spinning bookstands

5. I’ve been drifting farther and farther outside of conversations, circumventing them like an explorer, detaching myself from my mouth and watching words waterfall from my lips, splash across tabletops and evaporate. Everything seems a bit absurd this way.

6. I’d like to delete the space between impulse and action. the word should be “impulseaction.” I’m tired of that interval.

7. isn’t it funny how you can never know what you don’t know? it’s like trying to see the back of your own head or feel what it’s like to kiss your own lips or know precisely what it is to see you round the corner unexpectedly – when you’re not you of course.

8. I used to believe in that horse

9. of many colors

10. I think I’m ready to begin

burbz

in the night

green

When the sun drifts down through rifts in the bark of trees and the bark of your bark i think
bite
because the apple's only ripe for a bit on the branch and it really couldn't hurt to taste a bit of
sweet
like the sweat on my shoulder and the dirt of the river, and the heat of the moment so
hot
it's the sun, but baking is filling and i carry round spoons and if we end up with pie it's a product of
picking
the sweetest of moments and seeing the bugs and breathed in space that was holy
our
own like the green of the leaf where the caterpillar lounges and thinks to himself
how
life mimics me - it's the color of my feet that makes the day verde and if you get cold just put on a cape
and no matter your whim or fancy or reason, i know you're not drunk, just a
lush
like the trees.

un dia

The man sitting next to Leila smelled faintly of parrot droppings. The rough skin of his arms was caked with layers of dirt, and even through the fog of her pre-coffee haze she thought to herself that an excavation of his epidermis might reveal some interesting tales. His shoes looked to have been blue at some point years ago, but by that morning had chameleoned into a moldy sort of green. Leila found herself uncomfortably close to the man, and she cursed the abundance of morning commuters. To make things worse, she was seated on the plastic blue bench, staring directly into the slacks-covered genitals of a portly banker man. She tried not to think about the stomach turning image beyond the layer of cloth in front of her, but it was hard to avoid the present. She’d never sit down on the subway again, she promised herself, never.

Floating heavily over the smell of guano were the pungent fumes of aftershave, the morning sweat, the sweet aroma of coffee and bagels and the general odor of piss (potentially emanating from the rivulets of unidentified liquid shifting along the floor of the car.) The stench of this amalgamation, combined with the looming paranoia of potential-maybe-could-be-probably-hopefully-not pregnancy, made Leila heave.

Her nausea was given an added boost when the car jerked to a halt at 53rd and Lexington. She felt the smells around her stir in the thick air as all the passengers’ legs tightened with the anticipation of escape. The car grew eerily quiet as everyone shifted and tensed, willing the doors of the train to burst. With a defeated swish, the metal retreated into the sides of the car and Leila was instantly and impossibly squished between the meaty belly of the man behind her and the twin-bed of an ass in front of her. They were surprisingly soft crushing materials and Leila thought briefly to herself how much she’d like to fall asleep. The amoeba crowd swarmed towards the set of steep escalators, and once again Leila felt the lumpy arm of the dirt-caked man, her nostrils filling with the scent of bird…

“Shit” she thought to herself, halfway up the escalator, still firmly sandwiched between protruding belly and bottom. “Shit.” And then, she passed out.

------------------------

I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds longer than necessary because it still smells of unwashed parrot. In these last moments of darkness I relive the only other time I’ve ever lost consciousness: the 4th grade apple bobbing contest. I was wearing my new brown dress and all would have been happy had fucking Sarah Jones not been the one who volunteered to face off with me in the apple tub. Sarah, my arch nemesis with the long black hair, and the pale pale skin. In my mind, she approaches. She kneels down next to me, pausing to tie her silky mane back with a hot pink elastic band. She places her hands at the base of her spine and crosses her thin, rice-paper wrists. She leans forward, her face is within inches of mine, both of our noses hovering just above the water’s surface. I stare down into the tub, trying to locate an apple to bite, and in the reflection of the murky brown I see Sarah stick her tongue out on me. I didn’t have the words for it at the moment, but whatever I was feeling then has long since been translated into a phrase for older teeth: “Bitch.” Devi Khan, standing above, blows the plastic whistle. My face breaks the water’s placid surface and I begin jerking my torso, mouth wide open and eyes scrunched shut. My lips touch the skin of 2, 3, 5, 6 apples but I can’t seem to sink my teeth into any of them. I can feel Sarah’s arm bumping mine, the soft fuzz of her hair tickling my elbow and inciting rising fury. The panic in me builds and even as I feel my lungs begin to burn I think to myself “just a few more seconds.” Then, blackness.

Suddenly, I can feel water on my face – and I’m startled into opening my eyes. Through the blur of my contacts I can see a faint figure, with pale, thin skin. Sarah? My stomach heaves for the second time this morning. I blink a few more times before I realize that Sarah is an old man, and behind him is a sign above a door:

Casa del Loro
Buenos Aires

The sign creaks and shifts faintly in the breeze, as the old man pitches another bucket of brown water onto me. I close my eyes again.

river country

summatime

giraffe multiplication

sometimes i just must paint with insect eyes

speak it easy