Go be white somewhere else, play your guitar to the ducks by the lake in springtime when the roses smell nice and the water is friendly and the breeze is fresh.. We don't want your spring time fantasy..
There gonna get nuked, you wait and see, you priests, Rabbis, Men boys in robes proselytizing about love and the world to come, There gonna nuke you like they nuked you through out all of history, Lost, loveless, godless, nothing geniuses,
Power, banks, landlords, CIA, MFA, insurance companies, doctor bills, alone in the dark with nothing but problems waiting to die, tired of fighting for crumbs, numb, too old to care to young to give up, suicide sons of bitches rich men sell pens scam a dollar off desperate dreamers.. the real movers move ideas, invent tools, invent phones and cars, use energy to create light.....
mostly losers and lonely dreamers waiting to be nuked by the delivery company delivering our souls to the devil in a UPS truck.
CHAPTER 1
Enthusiastic spasmodically thinking killing the bastards the townies moronic wanderings stumbling slowly into the Deli buying lottery tickets drooling over destruction garbage dump highway nothing matters much the Aryans and the Jews and the Muslims, and the poor bastards driving donkeys on trash covered corpses....
Happy baseball days playing in the sun on roller skates smiling dresses taunting the boys wearing foot shoes toe hugger jogging in new sneakers and riding new bicycles not bitter or mad about being alive powerless loser... legs hurt getting old told about far away places dreams about delusional ambitions fears masking themselves newspaper headlines say no Internet or phone what a freak a serial killer like everyone else day dreaming about death making movies about sadistic nightmares...
beauty, beauty, pretty, pretty, smiles all day dreaming around the table telling ghost stories about Jesus and the Messiah good art and bad art homeless box houses dark nightmares on a sunny day shitting himself in the corner with no toilet paper laughing hysterically watching T.V. and pretty girls......
Oh normal, friends, never a mistake, do everything right and with respect, never offend anyone just make money and shut up... feed your family and kill everything you and me and your mom...
Creeping in the studio wood burnt dusty hollow sticky box type bright blue sunshine... dog piss in the corner stinking up the joint drilling holes cutting boards thinking of delusional failures waiting to be born torn from inside empty hopes...
...Breathing greedily thinking of funny things to write no more gloomy death creative darkness talking on phones with no minutes reading newspapers from last week seeing old friends in the hospital gone crazy from living in truthful sabotage, homeless nobodies, all the beautiful, talking people, bright, white smiles shaking hands bleeding fingers quivering giggling spitting black hole heart speaking gracefully facebooking book smart advertising friendliness....
friends gone separate ways making a living feeding the family losing themselves overseas woke up dreaming hanging posters in England sleeping under a bridge lost all the movies poetry dies a long time ago, funny sitcoms, comic strips, stand up comedy shows, Lenny Bruce... no money in dark thinking, witty puns, puny people drinking , smoking destroyed distractions, fraction of a second fall a part like a black out he dropped out all is pointless anyway.. make your money and run...
All the boys in bands who thought they were famous nobody cares, arrogant screaming cool in the gang getting layed tired of being the lonely loser writing home to mommy moving away couldn't handle the big boys, the pressure, the dirty scumbags, the hole in the walls the nobody cares get the fuck out of here....
and anyway who cares?.. nice day he said showing up late on time outside the big house surrounded downward by the way with babies praying preying saying swaying on the down low too slow to grow tired lost do whatever they say it doesn't matter
Poetry died a long time ago with folk music and punk rock.. advertising zombies and internet mobsters gangsters hangers on the lost the given up junkies hopeless living dead dreams living on television internet radio shows video streamed nightmares sitting alone in laundrymats washing clothes they don't need.. nobody wants what anybody has....
Invisible divisible walking slowly avoiding reality getting lost exhausted lifeless truthless money making making nothing died years ago together trying totally breaking apart try anything lonely lovers loving losing betraying begging begrudging screaming color me.
The greatest individualists of our time, the unorganized and backward workers, the cynics, not to mention the "business" men who knew nothing of organized action, all disintegrated morally.. They became witless tools..
Nihilism which was all along the destiny of Western culture: a nihilism unacknoledged as the bombs fall...The survivor is evidence that men and woman are now strong enouph, mature enouph, awake enouph to face death and to embrace life...
Some kind of crises is brewing, civilization no longer works well...the man-made death of one hundred million people in little more than fifty years is proofe enouph.
"how did I survive? my principle is myself first, second, and third. Than myself again- than all the others... this is the only formula possible for people who intend- to insanely intend- to survive...
We would eat anything, any time we could get it, in almost any state of decay... the dead were stacked naked in piles, rammed into ovens, tossed every which way into ditches and pits...
The imaginative deployement of demonic energy will use imagry drawn from the world of the camps... the elegant perversity of De Sade, the demonic majesty of Dali and Lauteamont, seem timid and indulgent compared with images at our disposal from the camps.
Our possible fate is mans last act will be truly God-like..he will lift his finger and destroy all life on earth and thereby kill death..we have machines that will make the "final solution" truly final..
If man eventually and necessarily realizes his deep imaginings in fact than the end will come, the bombs will drop, the myth of the worlds end imagined for millenia will arive in actuality.
Sanity depends on always expecting the worst, on the realism of doomed men still holding out, this is the attitude survivors take. They must make it, they probably won't, but they will not stop trying. Dignity is equated with selfhood because it is the only thing left, we no longer have homes to defend, all we have is our dignity..which is our home, our pride, our only real possession.
Heading into a new phase, not sure where I'm going with my work, I don't want to roam around the streets putting art up, I don't want to paint pictures to drag around and try to sell, don't want anything...
Old people, young people, children were all taken to the market place, they had undressed and laid naked in the stones face down, they came on horses and trampled the screaming human pavement..those who remained alive marched naked outside town...they had dug there own graves and stood on the edge as a hail of bullets killed them... we found a mountain of naked bodies... we found my mother, she was bloody...I wish they would kill me, I want them to kill me...
Standing in excrement and vomit, everyone lost both nerves and senses, corpses were strewn all over the road, bodies hanging from barbrd wire, sound of shots rang out continuously, blazing flames shot into the sky, emaciated skeletons stumbled toward us dieing...
The subjection to filth causes greater anguish than hunger or fear of death, the plight of man forced to lie in their own excrement moan and weap with disgust... we were forced to drink out of toilet bowls.. they forced our hands deep into the bowl until our faces were covered in excrement. We went out of our minds, our screams were demented...
Life itself depends on keeping dignity intact, they recognized dignity and tried to destroy it....
Urine and excrement poured down our legs and by nightfall it froze and gave off its stench... the favorite pastime of one prison gaurd was to stop us before we reached the toilet and force us to stand at attention for questioning, he than made us squat in deep knee bends until we could no longer control our spincter and we exploded excrement... than we were beaten... we had to urinate across the heads of the others, and also into there mouths...
There was one toilet for thirty two thousand of us. We were knee deep in human excrement, we could rarely wait for our turn so we soiled all over ourselves, our ragged clothes wich never came off our bodies, a terriblr smell surrounded us like a cloud... the toilet was a deep ditch, we stepped in human excreta, urine soaked blood, there was no toilet paper. We melted like wax, releiving ourselves in our cloths, we turned into stinking repulsive skeletons who died in our own excrement.
We were seldom given food, and on rare occassions when it was supplied, it was placed on the ground in the dark.. than only the strongest fetched it. The stench was overpowering..I was completely overcome by what I saw, I screamed in horror, It was hard to believe we were still human beings. For two months we layed on the ground naked in straw covered in urine and excrement.. our frozen limbs were covered with wounds, bleeding and lice nested in the puss, we were alive.
To live as a soldier lives: aware of danger and ready to die, yet putting up a long fight and regarding men kindly but without pity as brothers in a losing war. He is a man without hope, he has lived as long as he could, without damage to his innocense, without harm to others.. In the survivors voice the dead's oen scream is active, There is among us an envy in suffering.
Destroyed but not defeated, the survivor stands firm, for those how choose life, to die is to lose. The survivor lives an unrelieved state of physical pain, enduring unmet needs for food, air, sanitation, light, sickness and beating. There is no unpolitical man among us. A mystical thirst for life and an unwavering refusal to capitulate, sell out, or in any way become accessory to a system wich reduces men to puppets and meet. He rejects the benefits of abdication and powerless, he chooses not to compromise, thereby he becomes the sliver in the neck of power. The camps are full of people arrested because they were innocent, because they possesed the integrity to think. A man who never hurries because he expects only worse from what lies ahead.
Like a delusional, maniacal, anxious freak I rolled up to Hunter College to use the free computer nervously handing over my I.D. to the sweet girl behind the counter waiting for her to hand me my visitor pass... I must have screwed up every business arrangement I had over the last year, franticly e mailing people, hanging stupid garbage posters nobody really sees, and making movies so fast I barely no what buttons to push... running over the bridge with some art or a bag of half ass posters going to the apple store pressing buttons praying to Buddah or something holding my breath wasting myself on the streets while the world moves ahead..
hang advertisement boards but I freaked out and mailed him a movie of me advertising his his competition...I blacked out as I thaught of the $4,000 he would inevitably withhold from me as punishment... I woke up on the floor, my hat beside me, some guy asking me if I want to go to the hospital, I rushed out of the place and immediatly called Cameron from the Junk removal place and Josh from the other Junk company... as my head was rolling on the street beside me....
What kind of person would make his living making art?.... what kind of people would hire him without taking everything into consideration?...... usually dudes in charge of people and businesses throw small amounts of money at employees like cookies and make them do tricks..... fuck them... it's expensive, dangerous, it gets press..... and it makes them look good and smart..... I got bills to pay and vacations to take...... thousands of people a day see anything I put up.... one call from a piece of advertising art I hang pays for the entire chunk of money they give me..... I'm not full of shit, They are.... You are.... If I go to jail I'm sitting there alone... you'll pretend I don't exist than we'll see what loyalty is about.... I'll make you famous asshole..
Like a delusional, maniacal, anxious freak I rolled up to Hunter College to use the free computer nervously handing over my I.D. to the sweet girl behind the counter waiting for her to hand me my visitor pass... I must have screwed up every business arrangement I had over the last year, franticly e mailing people, hanging stupid garbage posters nobody really sees, and making movies so fast I barely no what buttons to push... running over the bridge with some art or a bag of half ass posters going to the apple store pressing buttons praying to Buddah or something holding my breath wasting myself on the streets while the world moves ahead..
hang advertisement boards but I freaked out and mailed him a movie of me advertising his his competition...I blacked out as I thaught of the $4,000 he would inevitably withhold from me as punishment... I woke up on the floor, my hat beside me, some guy asking me if I want to go to the hospital, I rushed out of the place and immediatly called Cameron from the Junk removal place and Josh from the other Junk company... as my head was rolling on the street beside me....
What kind of person would make his living making art?.... what kind of people would hire him without taking everything into consideration?...... usually dudes in charge of people and businesses throw small amounts of money at employees like cookies and make them do tricks..... fuck them... it's expensive, dangerous, it gets press..... and it makes them look good and smart..... I got bills to pay and vacations to take...... thousands of people a day see anything I put up.... one call from a piece of advertising art I hang pays for the entire chunk of money they give me..... I'm not full of shit, They are.... You are.... If I go to jail I'm sitting there alone... you'll pretend I don't exist than we'll see what loyalty is about.... I'll make you famous asshole..
Keep thinking of the money I was offered and the way I lost it... the wedding is coming up and I'm basically homeless as usual, just running around like a pissed off freak... the old lady Mary just calls to tell me I'm worthless and useless, she's dying and keeps calling.. I hate being around her, I hate working, I hate thinking..... I hate how life boils down to a few e mails, some worthless dreams, and a dead future...
The only thing that makes sense is the unbelievable creativity of spirituality, trusting an invisible man in the stars...
Go be white somewhere else, play your guitar to the ducks by the lake in springtime when the roses smell nice and the water is friendly and the breeze is fresh.. We don't want your spring time fantasy..
There gonna get nuked, you wait and see, you priests, Rabbis, Men boys in robes proselytizing about love and the world to come, There gonna nuke you like they nuked you through out all of history, Lost, loveless, godless, nothing geniuses,
Power, banks, landlords, CIA, MFA, insurance companies, doctor bills, alone in the dark with nothing but problems waiting to die, tired of fighting for crumbs, numb, too old to care to young to give up, suicide sons of bitches rich men sell pens scam a dollar off desperate dreamers.. the real movers move ideas, invent tools, invent phones and cars, use energy to create light.....
mostly losers and lonely dreamers waiting to be nuked by the delivery company delivering our souls to the devil in a UPS truck.
Nervously waiting the years passing skin aging while the
spirit whispers sleeping a deep sigh falling silent eyes heavy mind
fading.. waking to empty coffee cups memory gliding through skies long
darkened, past failures silly adventures almost dieing, breaking, trying
to carve out a life from a diamond buried six million bodies under
Georgia red clay, painting anxious energy agitation buzzing vibrant
uncertain broken strings with rotting chords built into cracked wood
painted over years ago bringing back to life dead dreams, rejected for
years to the point of becoming a troll, a wasted puppet, a working scab,
an old buzzers, a washed up long lost rag tossed out of a boat that
cruised the seas , carrying cargo floating over giant waves that could
have killed a thousand people, feeding egos, giving purpose, a power
game lost and crushed and thrown off cliffs,
shattered destinies, fractured ambitions, the youthful
vigor lost in bottles of soda water diluted grape juice, stale beer in
garbage cans, peeling paint, shivering in the cold wind with no keys, no
friends, no comfort, a thrown away garbage bag filled with rotten
eggs... waking up under a rock with the spiders, a nickel, dreaming of
love... finding love one day in a package sent over by birds flown by
angels reins made of gold guiding them through treacherous fire
breathing dragon guarded skies swooping down saving me.
March 2nd, 2012.
She hates me. The stress is building up, sitting in silent corners
correcting things that can't be changed. Chained to a pole like chained
garbage art I sleep standing up like a locust. Anyway things have
changed. No more private thoughts passing memories talking to myself in
books long since vanished, buried, invisible audience, grandiose
choruses, singing songs to blank canvases empty rooms on mountain tops,
painting invisible pictures selling them to strangers buried in the
mountains leaving dumb-bells in bags on buses.
March 2nd, 2012.
Woke up today feeling pretty good, gave her lots of kisses, she seemed angry.
Been here in this uncomfortable studio, using it as a rock venue, living room, and bed room for 7 months
Tons of bands have played here already, I feel like I have some retribution now from all the stuff that
Went down in the Glass House.. I feel confident enough to move on, I know I can run a venue.
People like it, it wasn't me or my art that went bad back than. It was just greed.. It was evil. I feel I can move on and run something better with more money. I don't care about the bands that much, Its a project.
I enjoy making the art I make for a venue environment, I feel I can push it further but maybe not here.
I'm slowly getting back into making the music but the location is so questionable, I mean, people need easy access, We're all lazy.. It's just a project, I'd rather start the labor business with the van and save some money for a large open space somewhere... keep on the road but have a stable apartment for the family. I love her, It's tough with the delusions of art and business..
I painted three real paintings in 7 months I've been here, made tons of installations and several minor paintings and sketches.. My production is enormous and I still work outside and keep my emotions in check, with all the out-put, work, and production, it's hard to believe ther'res still down time.. Thats where God is, Thats where we find him.. Still studying with the rabbis, learning to be a man, a decent human.. They will probably save me from myself.. I'm an obsessed reckless fool.
The dream died a long time ago, somewhere in Greece on a beach wearing boots, drinking coffee with dollar bills collected in a parking lot in middle America, getting lost in dark alley ways behind beach hotels drinking wine until the still night warm with spinning pottery wheels becomes blurry. Waking up in dazed hazy confused skunk breath heaven sun glimmering down on beaches once the bed of scavengers, excommunicated criminals, stowaways running from families that forgot them in camps, hidden from the merchants of America dieing alone, invisible like a passing modern day poet, with his poem locked in his mind, an aborted thought, a useless idea, a sorry excuse to pass time. A human being becomes a forgotten poem.
I forgot where it went wrong, I can't remember when it all slipped away, when my dreams and reality no longer danced nicely with one another, when everything became ugly, when I became dependent, when I lost the ability to be capable, to charm them, to sell them, to make them want me, to feel immortal, to be the strongest, the winner, the lover, the fighter, the dreamer, the conqueror. I can't recall the moment when i became just a man. A solitary figure, a failure, a trying spasm, a gopher, a pleaser, a desperate loser, a typical story of the chance taken, the risk with no pay off, the cliches of worthless encouragement.
What about the bands, and the back stabbing, and the bad business deals, and the failed relationships, and the empty ambition, and the lost money, the trauma of the guy who got hit by the car in the morning while riding his bike, probably paralyzed, screaming while the ghosts gather around taking pictures of the nightmare on the corner laying on the street in agony. What about the people from the past that died or killed themselves in some horrible way, with bullets, or trains, or car crashes. Disappearing into time in silent nostalgic uselessness.
March 2nd, 2012.
Woke up today feeling pretty good, gave her lots of kisses, she seemed angry.
Been here in this uncomfortable studio, using it as a rock venue, living room, and bed room for 7 months
Tons of bands have played here already, I feel like I have some retribution now from all the stuff that
Went down in the Glass House.. I feel confident enough to move on, I know I can run a venue.
People like it, it wasn't me or my art that went bad back than. It was just greed.. It was evil. I feel I can move on and run something better with more money. I don't care about the bands that much, Its a project.
I enjoy making the art I make for a venue environment, I feel I can push it further but maybe not here.
I'm slowly getting back into making the music but the location is so questionable, I mean, people need easy access, We're all lazy.. It's just a project, I'd rather start the labor business with the van and save some money for a large open space somewhere... keep on the road but have a stable apartment for the family. I love her, It's tough with the delusions of art and business..
I painted three real paintings in 7 months I've been here, made tons of installations and several minor paintings and sketches.. My production is enormous and I still work outside and keep my emotions in check, with all the out-put, work, and production, it's hard to believe ther'res still down time.. Thats where God is, Thats where we find him.. Still studying with the rabbis, learning to be a man, a decent human.. They will probably save me from myself.. I'm an obsessed reckless fool.
The dream died a long time ago, somewhere in Greece on a beach wearing boots, drinking coffee with dollar bills collected in a parking lot in middle America, getting lost in dark alley ways behind beach hotels drinking wine until the still night warm with spinning pottery wheels becomes blurry. Waking up in dazed hazy confused skunk breath heaven sun glimmering down on beaches once the bed of scavengers, excommunicated criminals, stowaways running from families that forgot them in camps, hidden from the merchants of America dieing alone, invisible like a passing modern day poet, with his poem locked in his mind, an aborted thought, a useless idea, a sorry excuse to pass time. A human being becomes a forgotten poem.
I forgot where it went wrong, I can't remember when it all slipped away, when my dreams and reality no longer danced nicely with one another, when everything became ugly, when I became dependent, when I lost the ability to be capable, to charm them, to sell them, to make them want me, to feel immortal, to be the strongest, the winner, the lover, the fighter, the dreamer, the conqueror. I can't recall the moment when i became just a man. A solitary figure, a failure, a trying spasm, a gopher, a pleaser, a desperate loser, a typical story of the chance taken, the risk with no pay off, the cliches of worthless encouragement.
What about the bands, and the back stabbing, and the bad business deals, and the failed relationships, and the empty ambition, and the lost money, the trauma of the guy who got hit by the car in the morning while riding his bike, probably paralyzed, screaming while the ghosts gather around taking pictures of the nightmare on the corner laying on the street in agony. What about the people from the past that died or killed themselves in some horrible way, with bullets, or trains, or car crashes. Disappearing into time in silent nostalgic uselessness.
"The Problem"
The problem with painting is it's invisible, the energy it takes to
create an image is enormous, the emotional, intellectual, and physical
exertion almost never justifies the time spent working on the agonizing
frustrated project that inevitably no one will bother looking at much
less buy it for a price that validates the experience.
With music, film, or any performance based art, the payoff is that when you present the performance they will see it. They might not like the film or the music but they will see it. Like babies who only see bold objects and big movements.. They will see it. The burst of intense energy it takes to present the art will be viewed by an audience.
No one sees paintings. They glance at them, comment on this or that, but no one sees them.... paintings, whether they are in a private indoor environment, or outdoors as a public statement always remind me of an advertisement.. something you look at quickly, available at the subconscious level. It might have a narrative, or some important social commentary, or explores some aesthetic quality, but it always reads as advertisement.
The argument that painting is unique because it explores the artists emotional world, or is valuable only as pure expression, or provides historical documentation is boring garbage... all art is that.. I would say Advertisements are especially! that..
No one makes art without an audience in mind, if one makes art with no audience or for his own sake he will soon burn out, he will stop or go insane... The act of creating art with no one looking at it, or listening to it, or reading it will drive the artist into a lurching, crazy, creeping, melting waste of crazy nothing. It is a bad idea.
The painter piles up useless paintings no one cares about, working in a primarily anxious frenzy because he feels obligated to do so for his identity. Meanwhile the world continues around him with not an ounce of caring for him or his useless painting... He may even play the fool and drag this heap of garbage all over town like a clown hoping for someone, anyone to approve of his creation.. Maybe he will even receive a few dollars encouraging him to continue on this deadly path...
With music, film, or any performance based art, the payoff is that when you present the performance they will see it. They might not like the film or the music but they will see it. Like babies who only see bold objects and big movements.. They will see it. The burst of intense energy it takes to present the art will be viewed by an audience.
No one sees paintings. They glance at them, comment on this or that, but no one sees them.... paintings, whether they are in a private indoor environment, or outdoors as a public statement always remind me of an advertisement.. something you look at quickly, available at the subconscious level. It might have a narrative, or some important social commentary, or explores some aesthetic quality, but it always reads as advertisement.
The argument that painting is unique because it explores the artists emotional world, or is valuable only as pure expression, or provides historical documentation is boring garbage... all art is that.. I would say Advertisements are especially! that..
No one makes art without an audience in mind, if one makes art with no audience or for his own sake he will soon burn out, he will stop or go insane... The act of creating art with no one looking at it, or listening to it, or reading it will drive the artist into a lurching, crazy, creeping, melting waste of crazy nothing. It is a bad idea.
The painter piles up useless paintings no one cares about, working in a primarily anxious frenzy because he feels obligated to do so for his identity. Meanwhile the world continues around him with not an ounce of caring for him or his useless painting... He may even play the fool and drag this heap of garbage all over town like a clown hoping for someone, anyone to approve of his creation.. Maybe he will even receive a few dollars encouraging him to continue on this deadly path...
"The Salesman"
The salesman rots while contemplating his diminished alpha male status,
probably degenerated into a beta or a gamma. He thinks as he drives his
broken down truck into a gas station with five dollars in his pocket..
enough for a gallon of gas.. Remembering breaking down on every bridge
in New York City, piles of tickets, driving on empty into the city from
Connecticut with 60 cents in the ass tray. The salesman's mind drifts
into the river of memories picking out a fragmented recollection of a
four-wheel drive truck he scammed out of somebody in Florida, driving it
back up the East coast fantasizing about some delusional plan he had
for taking this wreck of metal garbage up-state to the cabin he didn't
have. The rusted waste of space sat out front of his business that was
going out of business without him even realizing it, sitting on the
street with four flat tires and a broken windshield, it never left the
street.. it just sat in it's place reminding the salesman of his
delusional fantasies...
The salesman remembers his glory days, his first friendships, his crazy schemes, his thirst for life, dreams of success, the recklessness that broke him down into a pleading, mindless, burnt out wreck of a man dreaming of places he would never go, reading about people he would never meet, scared of everything and everyone, suppressing any honesty he ever had, he figured honest men either got killed or ruined there lives even more than he already had so he pretended to care, working just to keep the sharks away, desperately holding on to what was left of his former creativity, demanding to be defined as the salesman, sputtering and spitting out small useless creations to a non existent audience, tired and wanting only to leave behind everything... believing in God because they tell him to, they round up all the delusional, tired salesman and they feed them God, they believe in God because they need to obey.. So the salesman finally gives up and prays to god because he is nothing and he knows it...
The salesman remembers his glory days, his first friendships, his crazy schemes, his thirst for life, dreams of success, the recklessness that broke him down into a pleading, mindless, burnt out wreck of a man dreaming of places he would never go, reading about people he would never meet, scared of everything and everyone, suppressing any honesty he ever had, he figured honest men either got killed or ruined there lives even more than he already had so he pretended to care, working just to keep the sharks away, desperately holding on to what was left of his former creativity, demanding to be defined as the salesman, sputtering and spitting out small useless creations to a non existent audience, tired and wanting only to leave behind everything... believing in God because they tell him to, they round up all the delusional, tired salesman and they feed them God, they believe in God because they need to obey.. So the salesman finally gives up and prays to god because he is nothing and he knows it...
"When Dreams Come True"
pictures from deep within the artists mind manifesting in basements,
people perfecting obscurity, dancing dragons, chaos swirling and
swerving, the creative Gods whisper hanging on every word watching the
broken solitude.
If I Could Cry I Would
The hazy pressure hanging over head, building walls of paralysis,
blocked in by invisible bricks piled on top of one another with sloppy
wet cement.. Contained in crazy waves of neurosis and paranoia, staring
into endless uncertainty empty pockets, surrounded by greedy mouths,
open wide, sharp bloody teeth concealed in a smile, cloaked in
spirituality, disguised with fancy words, riddles, rules, dressed up in
blankets of contamination. He sits and waits for the next verdict,
waiting patiently in pools of anxiety while the judge hangs the gavel
indifferently over the fearful head of all the maggots chewing through
all the garbage and decaying corpses of whats left of this world.
If I could cry I would he thought looking up at the smoke of his life shooting up into the grey sky, no birds fly here anymore as he remembered pigeons attacking a piece of bread in a gutter in some town he can't remember with some girl who became a ghost, that drowned in a flood he had heard about, from her boyfriend who hated him for stealing her from under him.
The tears hadn't come in years, not since he was lost in the woods, with no money, when everybody left him with his paintings and whiskey, and the girls that came to see him learned he wasn't likeable, a distraction, a needy beggar, a fantasy they fell for and ran away as fast as possible when the clown turned into a demon on the mountain top that killed him, buried in the basement with a knife, and books, and bottles.
If I could cry I would he thought looking up at the smoke of his life shooting up into the grey sky, no birds fly here anymore as he remembered pigeons attacking a piece of bread in a gutter in some town he can't remember with some girl who became a ghost, that drowned in a flood he had heard about, from her boyfriend who hated him for stealing her from under him.
The tears hadn't come in years, not since he was lost in the woods, with no money, when everybody left him with his paintings and whiskey, and the girls that came to see him learned he wasn't likeable, a distraction, a needy beggar, a fantasy they fell for and ran away as fast as possible when the clown turned into a demon on the mountain top that killed him, buried in the basement with a knife, and books, and bottles.
Faithless
Looking out into the darkness, peering out through the ripped canvas
tied to pieces of wood and a tree, this was the tent he built by the
side of the highway. It was fairly comfortable, the dead leaves he was
sleeping on felt grimy and moist, everything was damp all the time.
Smoking his cigar he baught with money that seemed to come from nowhere,
Cops walking past the tent hidden behind the bushes and trees growing
out of the old loading dock it was sitting on, blowing smoke out of the
ripped tent, dirty socks hanging from branches, a bag hidden under a
pillow he found in the garbage, containing some clothes and books.
Another bag hidden in the bushes somewhere with all his art supplies,
his cell phone and other things only an idiot would hide in a bush.
Totally alone, thinking how wonderful this all was, how strong he must be, the freedom, the raging spirit inside thrashing this body all over town... This complete faith.
Waking up drenched in sweat, sticky, rained on, smelling of rotten solomi, rolling out of a box out front of the old library, desperatly searching for someone with keys, a friend, an old lover, wandering aimlessly with a bag of crayons, no keys, rain clowds gathering above, a slight chill, a breeze slicing through the heat a slashing slapping cool wind bringing the rain storm, nowhere to go again, running somewhere for cover, hungry, desperate, getting older by the second, lost, destroyed, ruined,...
Totally alone, thinking how wonderful this all was, how strong he must be, the freedom, the raging spirit inside thrashing this body all over town... This complete faith.
Waking up drenched in sweat, sticky, rained on, smelling of rotten solomi, rolling out of a box out front of the old library, desperatly searching for someone with keys, a friend, an old lover, wandering aimlessly with a bag of crayons, no keys, rain clowds gathering above, a slight chill, a breeze slicing through the heat a slashing slapping cool wind bringing the rain storm, nowhere to go again, running somewhere for cover, hungry, desperate, getting older by the second, lost, destroyed, ruined,...
Smells Like Harry's Living Room
It smells like Harry's living room standing over me vomiting up the last
40 0z of the nine previous ones he just drank.. swaying back and forth
naked in the shower at three in the morning, drinking Coors in the can
in the shower for breakfast. Sleeping under the table in the park
during a rainstorm one time, wilde eyed, grey faced, flushed, gasping
for air, punched in the stomach and weezing.. looking out of my table
home watching three drunk Polish wreckes standing under a tree in the
pouring rain, one f them drinks an entire bottle of vodka as fast as
possable than falls into a tree head first in a puddle of mud, he start
crying as his friends quietly walk away. He stops moving and seems to
melt into the puddle he's laying in. Maybe he's dead, maybe he fell
asleep in the rain.
As the pouring rain starting leaking through the cracks in the table and soaked face, trying to find a position between the cracks to avoid getting wet in the not so warm rainy night, rolling out from under the one protection against the weather, no friends, no keys, no where to go, no one to call, nothing to look foreword to, running as fast as possible to the building Harry was rotting inside f with his piles of 40 0z beers and vomit filled buckets.. frantically buzzing his apartment... Harry was God that night.. Harry was the only place in the world to go.. Faith in Harry and his apartment full of beer and vomit..
As the pouring rain starting leaking through the cracks in the table and soaked face, trying to find a position between the cracks to avoid getting wet in the not so warm rainy night, rolling out from under the one protection against the weather, no friends, no keys, no where to go, no one to call, nothing to look foreword to, running as fast as possible to the building Harry was rotting inside f with his piles of 40 0z beers and vomit filled buckets.. frantically buzzing his apartment... Harry was God that night.. Harry was the only place in the world to go.. Faith in Harry and his apartment full of beer and vomit..
Contradiction
Contradiction
All i see is guns, red faces, resentment, short kids in fancy cars using Mom's money to waste peoples time.. I wish they would get mugged by Robbin Hood from the Ghetto, stay in Manhatten, go back to connected, save your art for your grandmother, pray to Jesus in your hometown by yourself, in front of the T.V.. we don't need your ambition, your ignorance, your desperate wanting.Go be white somewhere else, play your guitar to the ducks by the lake in springtime when the roses smell nice and the water is friendly and the breeze is fresh.. We don't want your spring time fantasy..
There gonna get nuked, you wait and see, you priests, Rabbis, Men boys in robes proselytizing about love and the world to come, There gonna nuke you like they nuked you through out all of history, Lost, loveless, godless, nothing geniuses,
Power, banks, landlords, CIA, MFA, insurance companies, doctor bills, alone in the dark with nothing but problems waiting to die, tired of fighting for crumbs, numb, too old to care to young to give up, suicide sons of bitches rich men sell pens scam a dollar off desperate dreamers.. the real movers move ideas, invent tools, invent phones and cars, use energy to create light.....
mostly losers and lonely dreamers waiting to be nuked by the delivery company delivering our souls to the devil in a UPS truck.
The Big Failure
I've given up again, the room is caving in
The keys don't fit the door and the eggs are on the floor
Every time i think i won, thats when the pain has just begun
The memories fade away where the ghosts come out to play
I think I'll write a book but no one would take a look
All the paintings that I've made have never been displayed
The landlord wants his rent and all my moneys spent
So I'll try to pay my bills with a magic little pill
Watching movies in the dark cauz I'm hiding in the bark
In the tree I built inside where have no where to hide
The trauma I've built up in body ate my gut
I have no where left to go, I already slept out in the snow
All the friends I never had all went crazy from the fire
the ambition in there minds burned them up in the mire
The swamp that was there dreams blew them up into steam
The only chance they got is to give up, run away or never stop.
https://www.facebook.com/LeviticusStudio
The keys don't fit the door and the eggs are on the floor
Every time i think i won, thats when the pain has just begun
The memories fade away where the ghosts come out to play
I think I'll write a book but no one would take a look
All the paintings that I've made have never been displayed
The landlord wants his rent and all my moneys spent
So I'll try to pay my bills with a magic little pill
Watching movies in the dark cauz I'm hiding in the bark
In the tree I built inside where have no where to hide
The trauma I've built up in body ate my gut
I have no where left to go, I already slept out in the snow
All the friends I never had all went crazy from the fire
the ambition in there minds burned them up in the mire
The swamp that was there dreams blew them up into steam
The only chance they got is to give up, run away or never stop.
https://www.facebook.com/LeviticusStudio
White Wall Open Art Project
Been
"organizing" these open art, open studio, open ended, hand job art
projects for ten years.. each one is worse than the next, dragging
myself and everyone around me through the pile of garbage that is my
idea of a fun time...
So one time maybe five clowns stumble in, or another time ten desperate losers wander into the studio..... two years, five years, ten years, months without a studio, years gone by since my last jam, my last failure, the army of clowns that invaded me and my life years ago when they all ganged up on me and took everything...
The paintings, the music, the bands, the insanity, the chaos, the desperate ambition, the lurching clowns, the bleeding clowns, the creeps... The poets, the writers, the losers...
The plan has always been, always driven, almost never succeeding to be a huge gathering of losers that make art, a mass of suffering desperate maggot ass holes that call themselves artists, an unfortunate mistaken identity, a bunch of misguided foolish schizophrenic prone deluded knobs..
So this time I find myself out of money with a new wife and this art studio that passes for a venue, a pile of dirt..
So this time I brace myself to open my doors every fool in this dead rotting corpse of a city, open myself to every desperate ambitious "artist" who wants to present there geniusness to the world, all of humanity, and God himself..
Maybe one person shows up, we eat a sandwich.. he leaves with a depressed aching feeling.. we both feel guilty for even being in a room with each other.. maybe twenty people gather and we create some music, write a book, paint something, record ourselves, document the art scene 2011..
Blank canvases, blank music, blank stares.
Leviticus is hosting an art project at his studio on Thursday November 3rd 2011 around 8pm info about the space here... http://leviticustudio.blogspot.com/
e mail leviticuscorp@gmail.com for details
So one time maybe five clowns stumble in, or another time ten desperate losers wander into the studio..... two years, five years, ten years, months without a studio, years gone by since my last jam, my last failure, the army of clowns that invaded me and my life years ago when they all ganged up on me and took everything...
The paintings, the music, the bands, the insanity, the chaos, the desperate ambition, the lurching clowns, the bleeding clowns, the creeps... The poets, the writers, the losers...
The plan has always been, always driven, almost never succeeding to be a huge gathering of losers that make art, a mass of suffering desperate maggot ass holes that call themselves artists, an unfortunate mistaken identity, a bunch of misguided foolish schizophrenic prone deluded knobs..
So this time I find myself out of money with a new wife and this art studio that passes for a venue, a pile of dirt..
So this time I brace myself to open my doors every fool in this dead rotting corpse of a city, open myself to every desperate ambitious "artist" who wants to present there geniusness to the world, all of humanity, and God himself..
Maybe one person shows up, we eat a sandwich.. he leaves with a depressed aching feeling.. we both feel guilty for even being in a room with each other.. maybe twenty people gather and we create some music, write a book, paint something, record ourselves, document the art scene 2011..
Blank canvases, blank music, blank stares.
Leviticus is hosting an art project at his studio on Thursday November 3rd 2011 around 8pm info about the space here... http://leviticustudio.blogspot.com/
e mail leviticuscorp@gmail.com for details
Interiors
 | ||
| Stage, bar, and floor area.. a giant sculpture stands in the middle ready to be an audience member | . |
 | ||
| a checkered floor art gallery, with center piece sculpture..you can design any room as an art gallery |
Leviticus studio, 2011
Rock
n rolll venue with sculpture in the middle... an audience watches a
band while engaging with the sculpture.... you can add a sculpture to
any enviornment
A
unique guitar table with lighting as the centerpiece for this green
themed room... the table is off centered and crooked yet
functional..Leviticus Studio 2011
The
Stage area and DJ booth surrounded with abstract expressionist
paintings... adds to the mood of the Party.. Glasshouse Gallery 2006
Sculptures,
abstract expressionist paintings, and cool lighting make this Rock n
roll Venue/ Club Super exciting to the audience.. Glasshouse Gallery
2006
This simple sculpture makes any room more intersting and thaught provoking... Leviticus Studio 2008
People gather for a party with this giant sculpture.. The sculpture becomes one of the party goers..
Leviticus studio 2011
Leviticus Orchestra, October 2011
 |
| "Jammin Jon" Kiebon starts rockin the house on his guitar |
 |
| An orchestra member adds to the giant sculpture |
 |
| Some rockers hang out and paint |
 |
| Jimi Pantalon paints on the canvas.. his movie "Anthem" out soon |
Bag Flag
Leviticus and Greg build a Bag Flag
with the public on Statin Island
Rushing over to warn them of the upcoming battle with the strong arms we traveled to the mountain to signal the first wave of adventure...
Life
had become a boring, tension filled, drama, trauma, screaming, poking a
needle through moments of insane thinking.. the speaking had shifted to
babbling non-sense..
the resources were dwindling, the television actors had become trolls,
the rock stars turned into sad actors, destroyed clown.. the
tattered skeletons holding guitars desperately, bottles of emptiness,
sadness screaming into microphones, singing songs of silly dreams... the workers became zombies, the money was nothing.. 
supporting themselves and there families haunted them through evening sitcoms.. the clouds
above blackened as the wing crashed angerly upon them.. breaking the
binds that tied them to each other, the humanity leaving them, another
generation disappearing, they had given up, became conservative,
lost
the drive to change, the urge to die was overwhelming, waking up
another morning to wade through the chaos, the failure, the
disappointment was too much.. they were waiting for it to end smiling as
if they had something to believe in.. the children will live and die the same way.
with the public on Statin Island
Rushing over to warn them of the upcoming battle with the strong arms we traveled to the mountain to signal the first wave of adventure...
 |
| Greg ties the first bag to the flag pole |
A collaboration with Free Style Arts
The winds gathered through rough seas a high tide centered casually in the abyss of wandering nomads...
 |
| Now it gets going |
 |
| The news crew films a kid helping tie bags to the flag pole |
supporting themselves and there families haunted them through evening sitcoms.. the clouds
above blackened as the wing crashed angerly upon them.. breaking the
binds that tied them to each other, the humanity leaving them, another
generation disappearing, they had given up, became conservative,  |
| Its bag heaven |
lost
the drive to change, the urge to die was overwhelming, waking up
another morning to wade through the chaos, the failure, the
disappointment was too much.. they were waiting for it to end smiling as
if they had something to believe in.. the children will live and die the same way. |
| the lonely bag flag waiting for the storm |
Leviticus and Freestyle Arts at the Queens Museum
 | |
| Greg and Chase begin the collaborative sculpture .. |
 |
| A mother and child begin adding to the structure |
 |
| The structure takes shape |
 |
| Children and parents make the sculpture together |
 |
| The sculpture is complete, The lonely artist remains at the end |
It's all a book
That familiar anguish, the confused turmoil, the time killing
itself inside me, time passing, memories vanishing, can't keep up with
the flow of flooding water surrounding me, a breather, a minute to
collect my thoughts in a bucket full of holes.
Hundreds of lost pages of forgotten writings, ramblings,
poetic nothingness lost in translation.. thousands of unorganized
words, hundreds of images, pages and pages of endless delusions..
Nothing works is the only real conclusion..
Lost again in holes of hopeless faith, dreaming myself into desolation dragging everyone into pits of endless agony.. the desperation of creativity, the depressing enthusiasm...Maybe the next idea might work knowing it won't because nothing works.
Organizing
these thoughts into money... tired.. organizing scattered torn ideas
leaving trails...That was majic back there in those clowds of memories..
money growing on trees driving in cars seemingly appearing out of thin
air, the girl I married next to me in some foreign country on the brink
of war, people eating dinner and having babies and dying of deseases,
hoping it works out for us while expecting the worst.. a continuation of
the tragedy....We hold our heads high expecting the best stronger than a
hurricane in the spring time in the southern swamps of America.
 | ||||||
| "Dropping Anchor" oil on canvas, October 2011 |
 |
| "Faithless" oil on canvas, October 2011 |
Lost again in holes of hopeless faith, dreaming myself into desolation dragging everyone into pits of endless agony.. the desperation of creativity, the depressing enthusiasm...Maybe the next idea might work knowing it won't because nothing works.
Notes from the Middle East
Everyone
wants to do the swing a ding dong.. sitting on top of some mountain in
the middle East.. her purple dress and high heels hanging off goose
bumped skin.. chilly in July just flew off a cliff a few days ago and
crashed my car.
Blue
skies burning away yellow trees , the customs agent stopped them with
the bags, the birds inside flew away, the chirping was too much.. “Where
ya going?” they both asked… “I’m going to destroy your country and set
your mom on fire” he said… “o.k. come in” they replied, he lied choking
on his tongue smiling and rolling around the airport inside a rubber
ball..
The
other customs agent walked over and punched him in his mouth.. “You
stupid Son of A bitch” he said as the goofball emptied out his pockets,
dirty used napkins, three pennies, and a piece of toilet paper fell on
the floor..On the runway was a pair of brown dirty socks he used to
stretch his shoes that were too small..
stumbling out of the coffee shop
He vowed to get her shawl… “It’s on the floor on the laundry pile… they
had their rings now…Her moms number was nowhere insight..
Anyway this thing won't type like its supposed to and nothing works how ya want it... Looking back it starts to get blurry immediately..heart pounding, passports analyzed, angry agents looking to arrest some clown, the clown looking to escape some disgusting series of humiliating experiences, his delusional nightmare, the self deluding joke, the dirty nothing.
On the plane he preys with some bearded jokers, they need ten men to prey so the plane doesn't crash.. his first good deed, he calculates how many good deeds he needs to survive.. Everyone falls asleep, he uses the bathroom.. One of the bearded wizards tells him 'We don't need you to prey".. the clown says.." I know, but I will anyway, thanks"
Stumbling off the plane they get their money stolen from the bank. she exchanges some Lettuce, gets ripped off, the cards don't work ...All you can see is the future on a train in the desert, some buildings, bad advertisements, mountains, farms, old graffiti that looks like someone took a dump on a wall.. and blossoming love, pitchforks, a tired group of love birds, hoping, dreaming, laughing.. expecting the worst but trying to play along.. they want their money back for this bullshit... the angry mom is expecting history to repeat itself but they welcome the asshole anyway...
These two are on a mission... not a lovey dovey bullshit artist goof ball romance... a mission..
Its hot.. They carry there bags across the country five times back and forth..all while holding the suit, she holds the dress.. We carried the dress from New York in a paper bag, The clown carried the marriage contract in a tube along with a wrinkled suit that was the wrong size.. they bought two matching rings from some Israeli in Florida on a highway jewelry store in the middle of nowhere... "We'll take it he said".. grandpa waited in the car.. He wants no part in this crazy shit.
The house smells like a piss, shit, and smoke.. its like sleeping in a urinal in Conney Island.. Mom makes us a bagel from a bag she bought with pool cleaning money, guns all over the house, The feeling death is floating around, drinking out of the dog bowl.
We need to go to the Passport agency and get a new passport.. $100 dollars down the drain.. spending money like I have it.. circulating money like flushing toilet water..
Mom rolls into town ready to kick some ass and take names.. she couch surfs and makes several attempts at being polite, even tempered, she tries to be a pleasure... she ends up on a couch in Jerusalem with a stranger... back in Tel Aviv she crashes on a cot in some hotel room with three beds covering the entire floor, like some 80's bachelor movie in some 70's hotel... Her interest is extended to reading the paper in the lobby, talking to these fools must have been torture, the price to pay for being a poor old lady is having to pretend you like strangers..
"Seven days after the wedding" she said, looking into the empty nothing, the computer screen shining blue and white, the magnetic buzzing of hope inside the screen, maybe God lives inside, waiting for a reply, a connection, a business, a calling, an e mail, a future, a....
Finally found the hotel, Davis drove madly from Jeruselum, texting America, swirving all over the highway, busting through the checkpoint, not noticing the huge wall seperating the two worlds... The modern hotel painted brown, everything was brown and white and yet the designer made the place look gorgious... the bathroom was a shiney glass oasis, faucettes from mars, I couldn't work the T.V., someone from the front desk came to my room and switched the T.V. on as I stood in my new wrinlked suit.
Anyway this thing won't type like its supposed to and nothing works how ya want it... Looking back it starts to get blurry immediately..heart pounding, passports analyzed, angry agents looking to arrest some clown, the clown looking to escape some disgusting series of humiliating experiences, his delusional nightmare, the self deluding joke, the dirty nothing.
On the plane he preys with some bearded jokers, they need ten men to prey so the plane doesn't crash.. his first good deed, he calculates how many good deeds he needs to survive.. Everyone falls asleep, he uses the bathroom.. One of the bearded wizards tells him 'We don't need you to prey".. the clown says.." I know, but I will anyway, thanks"
Stumbling off the plane they get their money stolen from the bank. she exchanges some Lettuce, gets ripped off, the cards don't work ...All you can see is the future on a train in the desert, some buildings, bad advertisements, mountains, farms, old graffiti that looks like someone took a dump on a wall.. and blossoming love, pitchforks, a tired group of love birds, hoping, dreaming, laughing.. expecting the worst but trying to play along.. they want their money back for this bullshit... the angry mom is expecting history to repeat itself but they welcome the asshole anyway...
These two are on a mission... not a lovey dovey bullshit artist goof ball romance... a mission..
Its hot.. They carry there bags across the country five times back and forth..all while holding the suit, she holds the dress.. We carried the dress from New York in a paper bag, The clown carried the marriage contract in a tube along with a wrinkled suit that was the wrong size.. they bought two matching rings from some Israeli in Florida on a highway jewelry store in the middle of nowhere... "We'll take it he said".. grandpa waited in the car.. He wants no part in this crazy shit.
The house smells like a piss, shit, and smoke.. its like sleeping in a urinal in Conney Island.. Mom makes us a bagel from a bag she bought with pool cleaning money, guns all over the house, The feeling death is floating around, drinking out of the dog bowl.
We need to go to the Passport agency and get a new passport.. $100 dollars down the drain.. spending money like I have it.. circulating money like flushing toilet water..
Mom rolls into town ready to kick some ass and take names.. she couch surfs and makes several attempts at being polite, even tempered, she tries to be a pleasure... she ends up on a couch in Jerusalem with a stranger... back in Tel Aviv she crashes on a cot in some hotel room with three beds covering the entire floor, like some 80's bachelor movie in some 70's hotel... Her interest is extended to reading the paper in the lobby, talking to these fools must have been torture, the price to pay for being a poor old lady is having to pretend you like strangers..
"Seven days after the wedding" she said, looking into the empty nothing, the computer screen shining blue and white, the magnetic buzzing of hope inside the screen, maybe God lives inside, waiting for a reply, a connection, a business, a calling, an e mail, a future, a....
Finally found the hotel, Davis drove madly from Jeruselum, texting America, swirving all over the highway, busting through the checkpoint, not noticing the huge wall seperating the two worlds... The modern hotel painted brown, everything was brown and white and yet the designer made the place look gorgious... the bathroom was a shiney glass oasis, faucettes from mars, I couldn't work the T.V., someone from the front desk came to my room and switched the T.V. on as I stood in my new wrinlked suit.
 | |||||
| grandma |
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