Sunday, 12 October 2014

Der Parkbank Pinkler
Kapitel VII: Projektionen & Projektile

"It's a sweet little flyover"
Jayne Mansfield

Eine Kinderschaukel, zwei Geschwister. Auf jeweiligen Bretter schießen sie in die Höhe hin und her. Ein Ball, ein Junge. Dieser schießt jener an der Mutti vorbei. Ein Hund, kein Halter. Das Erstere scheißt auf den Spätsommer getrockneten Rasen. Ein Beobachter, zwei Augen. In den Letzteren sind alle glücklich bis auf den nicht spürbaren Hundebesitzer. Um die überfüllten Mülleimer häufen sich die Abfälle von denen, die auch sonst nicht zu sehen sind.

Friday, 3 October 2014

Tag der Einheitlichkeit

Hover your cursor over the image for my English translation.

Seuch' ein Vogel/Such a Dirty Bird :: Breite Straße 32, Berlin-Mitte - 2014

Sunday, 21 September 2014


A collection for your Sundae Edition, but first, credit where it's due: BLCKDGRD inspires the portmantitle above, and several of the phrases that occur herein (or at least an "also too" or two).

I ain' gonna lie. I wouldn't be writing this if it weren't for triggers in me sub-thoughtfully deeming it more valuable than a simple purge of verbilirubin, or were it never or sometimes or always more or less the introspectatorily abeit yon- Blegsylvaniatic.

Friday, 19 September 2014

Depend Ants

To daze online media surrounds the Scots in the pen dance, with imagery, images, post-analytical slogans and the like. We begin with...

Sunday, 14 September 2014

What is What

One side's alleged lament goes that Cheney and his comrades fucked up Iraq, therefore America has a moral obligation to help fix it. The problem with this thinking is that one must assume that, whoever "America" is, they have any intention of fixing whatever "it" is.

Sunday, 7 September 2014

D'you know what? I love you better now.

It takes effort to explain the adolescent passion effused by the enchanted Kate Bush enthusiast at the mere promise of being in the presence of her expected bewitching majesty, let alone communicate a review of what it was like to have been there, to get to see her feet planted firmly doing what I'd theretofore only imagined she'd do best if she did, along with the rest of her bests. Then she goes on and does it.

Therein lies my appraisal's paradox: A pure description of this extraordinary happening can only be done in the fashion with which she and her collective achieved it.

Sunday, 31 August 2014

RIP Fred Burkhart

Poet & performer, photographer & friend, a true artist and inspiration, Fred Burkhart has gone. This time for good. He gave me much, and his last words to me were graciously understanding and lovingly kind, when he responded to my email with:
"A beautiful letter. I will write more at another opportunity. Love is real, no matter the thousands of miles we are separated."

Sadly, he never got that other opportunity. Bless you, Fred, wherever you may be.  I know your essence remains with each of us who hold you thus blessed, but it's fully realized only as it could be known collectively just how much you'll be missed.

As you concluded so many times, on patterning the nerve speech:
The Eternal as the Origin of Words - the Logos
Somehow tragically lassoed and waylaid
and reduced to the flesh of obscure places

Lost in a world of name-calling and retribution
Reduced forever more to a Date With Noah Webster

Words forever lost on eulogizing one another.

Irgendwo in der Tiefe gibt es ein Licht

These prints of our feet lead right up to the sea.