Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Build Rome in a DAY

The impossible is possible.

Last night, my partner-in-crime and I woke up, rolled out of bed, and went to the New Museum to be part of the rebuild rome project.

2:30 AM is perfect museum-visiting time.
5 AM, hot glue gun in hand, cardboard temple in my lap, wine by my foot.

Talked with the other crazies, one of the guys from parts and labor, and the artist.
Collaborative art. Art about process. Art with a story.

Art with a point to make.
Let's get drunk, and make the impossible possible. Let's set your mini statue on fire on new york city sidewalks. please pass the grapes. What year is it now?

6:30 AM, bike ride home. New york was just opening its eyes. Sunlight rather unsure of itself. Me, giggling and giddy.

Just like when I was the door girl at a greenpoint rave this weekend, arms by my side. superhero pose. "show me your shit!" I screamed with glee. "flash me!" I mean your stamp of course. There is so much power in being less fucked up than the next person.
I can see your twitching jaws, glassy eyes, stumbling dance moves.

The rave was an afterparty for the pillowfight held earlier that day on wall st. You know, the type of shindig where you snuggle up close and swing a pillow around to a few hundred of yr closest strangers.

My laptop is turning purple from my new hair dye. I spend too much time in front of the computer, but what am I supposed to do? It's my job.

Generally when I'm not on the computer, I am being vomit-inducingly cute.

Example (taken at Niagara photobooth right after visiting the Antagonist Art Movement show):

And scene.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Because I am a shitty writer

everything I write gets deleted
(I don't know why this is written in a passive tense
as though the words disappear randomly
like I am not the god of my paper kindgdom)
this line has been written a multitude of times.

I own these words, I own nothing. Here, take them.
Take love, take salty skin, take fairy tale.

Take all the concepts I can't convey without wanting to mildly vomit.
things like the warmth of your body against mine,
things like how you actually get excited about ugly christmas sweaters and petting kittens
but still wouldn't mind being tied up and face fucked by my strap on.

I wish I could make the description of this bruise,
this blossom colored in by the purple hue of my burst veins,
something magical and original
like every one of your moans.

there is nothing to say about me,
I am just the tongue, the fingers, the thrusting

this is life and I am fucking it

life is a body and I am a lover and you are the smell of ocean
or feeling of sand in between toes

who are you? am I thinking of someone specific or
all lovers or
just anyone who reads these words?

I want to have tea with you, if you like tea.
with honey.

and try to remember what reality becomes when you are no good at creating
just consuming
and destorying
and complimenting.

Sometimes when I think I am a bad writer
I say a sweet thing to the closest person

and I say: look, look what words can do.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Love is a place

walls of skin and letters. Sighs as adhesive, carpeted by tangled clothes.

Dear you,
I am a new resident.
Please send a welcoming committee.

what is the fiber of life? latex is a slick second skin, bruises as self-expression. you should know this about me by now. write me something good. spin the straw of living into the gold of story.
there are so many lifetimes that have only been lived.

there is not enough space (but there is breathing room in the silences)

she fucked me and I bled. fingers sticky and brown and my insides BURNED. I want to fuck you. to get in uncomfortably close uncomfortably wet.

recording is a thankless job. Join the ranks of the hunched over the armies of the weak eyes and swollen fingers: the starter log to the bonfire of your vanities.

push your shoulders back and stand up straight or better yet, let me. let me take your arms and move them up, slip your pants down and kiss history lessons from your collerbone to your... space. to the space.
let me in to the space your space my space give me space I need space.

to be consumed by the living or the lives of others.

I want a solo show for the art of my being.
Dear sir, please represent me at the contract signing, do you mind mister business?
Dear art handler, here are the instructions on curation and presentation:
give everyone a camera on the way in, place random naked people in odd positins throughout the room. keep the tea and cupcakes stocked. have photos of me collage a wall, just one. on the others collage my writing, photos, random jewlery. one wall of just mirrors. vintage dresses, boas, and glitter all over the floor. I will do the finishing touches myself- writing anthems in lipstick on the wall. also, there will be a massive set of bean chairs resembling tits and penises. some days we can leave out fake drugs and fake money, or half eaten food.

I am going to make lots of money.
this is the place of my spaces.
I am selling my self to the highest bidder. we will have tequila at the opening. men will come from afar and buy it all.

I want you in my bed. maybe that too, is just a performance.

Dear you,
how much is a ticket? front row?
I want to stake out prime real estate in your love.

Thank You,