Wednesday, May 15, 2019

Sheila Murphy, from Asemic Series

Untitled #1 
Sheila Murphy

Untitled #2 
Sheila Murphy

Untitled #3 
Sheila Murphy

Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Lonnie Monka, cream of staunchness

The photograph features works by Abraham Kritzman and Marlene Steyn 
from their joint exhibition Kneading the Torso Makes a Buzz
Abraham Kritzman, Marlene Steyn, Àngels Miralda
Curator: Karni Barzilay
Kav 16 Gallery, Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel 

cream of staunchness


his oval glasses held with metal frames longwise perpendicular to the ground most of the time which is to say when he stands or sits straight but a memory of a face from the morning bus ride does not capture a conversation about the theoretical implications of a subject matter studied by the one with the glasses those oval glasses with metal frames which might not be oval at all and not not oval when not on his face and not not oval when other glasses but not oval perhaps because the memory and its inaccuracies speak a playful language of continuity like the continuity of the glass in those glasses oval or not oval we must assume that they help him see when he studies and see when in conversation on the bus talking about the perfect high paid low hour work schedule enabling a series of bachelor’s degrees to be pursued but surprised then who would be that he still is that qualifying force of those degrees and last night I dreamt of moving to some outskirt of Jerusalem whose apartment had a backdoor that led to a whole bustling part of the city I’ve never been to and how surprising it is not to be surprised in the moment of discovery that calls forth exploration as action over epithet just as I’ve waited my whole life for this moment and here we are


improvisation improvisation improvisation like words without poetry stuck in the head of an unattractive man but by in the head thus at the base of the tongue and by the base of the tongue thus reverberating in every single taste bud bearing a metallic flavor rising up from deeper in the body so unlike waiting in line for coffee in a mall with the man who told me as a friend that he loves me as the same man who is braver than most people will ever be and the man who is so wildly out of control in a playful way that everyone is afraid to tell him any command commanding the way that I had to push him to the ground when that sharp shooter was pointing the gun upwards between him and me and more towards his face a long barrel and light military uniform on that woman shooter looking up where we didn’t look because I pulled us down crawling across the floor to ride the escalator on our bellies and again to crawl until riding another escalator on our bellies and then standing up in the basement garage because we knew where to go where we wanted to go where we should have needed to didn’t plan on planning


when I say sky I mean square because the square is painted on the page as many squares lined up but not lined up too symmetrically and each square is a different color and most of them are actually rectangles so different than the challah shaped cauliflower that I showed a friend how to cut up in the shuk thus losing the two women who were with us and which woman to go for is like a gamble and I when I say gamble I mean those secrets that people know they need eventually to tell someone about but choose not to because instead of life filled with horror inducing repetitions of memories is no different than a challah shaped cauliflower flying through a sky which I’ve heard contains more sky because rectangles sometimes become squares and all of those hard edges can cut people causing tears and when I say tears I mean zero because when I say zero I’m indirectly trying to talk about the passing of all this counting which leads us into meaning that and this meaning changes as a wish to follow one another into the the capturing of sublime


trees for the woods or the woods for the trees as if anyone has ever really seen a tree or seen woods as if the way people spoke about leaves would help us grow accustomed to the continual disposal of finger nails and hair falling off whether cut or not falling off like nuts and falling off the roof like I hope that that soldier wouldn’t when I handed over my gun as an extra gun for him because I know that the second I decide to use my weapon I'm a target and survival kicks in so much faster than any premonition could have prepared us for the fact that on those 9-11 planes the passengers should have rushed the men overcoming predictable patterns of behavior no different than any conspiracy theory as a ball of yarn with a secret thread factory hidden at its core but unraveling the way the left over hairs wet in the drain after I shower are not unraveled as I gather them and wonder for so short a time about whether they come from my chest or my head before throwing them in the toilet where alone I live they will not be found except when I have guests and the woods and the trees and the guests and the roommates and if the confusing avenues of abstraction could be constructed so as not to allow automobile traffic then some Israeli motor cyclist would still mess everything up just as I hid in the room after handing over the gun hiding in a closet as if after the enemy passes I could go live in the wilderness though there doesn't seem to be much wilderness left so I guess I would need to seek out the woods but the woods is a concept for the many trees I’ve heard about and I wouldn't know what to do with trees anymore because I’ve been dreaming about Mars and interplanetary colonisation in my waking hours where the desert expands as a sandy horizon where I’m afraid of being boring as much as being bored needing to plant the seeds of my future forrest


don’t ask me about my dreams because I will tell you about the dreams that I shouldn’t tell you about and I will think of those images that express the secrets of my body that should remain secrets but all I want is for them to be exposed like the edges of every orifice and whatever enters every orifice and whatever exits every orifice like a sewing machine stitching objects that belong together to be together because otherwise they wouldn’t be together like the material used in 3-d printers printing scanned objects like the tight curls of man growing long and the spiraling printed plastic exposing a kind of tightly wound tube but not hollow so do not fill the tube wound to form curls of a man which in their growing have become scanned by nobody in a dream and I already expressed my warning against dreams like I would express warnings against a turd in the middle of a path leading up a mountain that is still soft and exudes such a smell that nobody needs to talk about what everyone feels in their nose but craves with their tongue in a kind of negative tasting what we want not to taste which reflects none of my dreams and their film of fog that all day I carry wishing to stop wishing to want what I can’t have but truth dreams and all of what we want to tell each other is so much sewn material that can’t be but will be printed



a surrealist game in an art class is like the way that people think that they are not interpreting the window cutting off the purson cutting of the mirrored image of meaning as in the one two three don’t think why would anyone instruct people to instruct them not to follow the instructions like a bard in the street with bandaids crossing out his yes and the eyes are crossed like a high school daft punk pleasure fest feeling its way through the grime of suburban sprawl


this definitely is a pipe properly broken in with a layer of resin allowing whatever you want to pack inside and smoke the way daily ladies are smoking but never say but unless you want to see a reverse mermaid’s butt not fish not woman hiding everything we do from the neighboring onlooking eyes that elicit censorship as self-censorship because the internet catches pleasure principles extracted for future use the same way that the future will never come for me baby the way that you like not having remembered dreams most of your life in the fact of the end of the imagistic lack of symbology caught in the net of the black the intersexual phantasmagoric lack of meaning in your interpretation of resin like the holes in a fish lip or the holes in the lip of a sad suburban boy who doesn’t want attention from his parents as if the whole sky blue sky clouds and all were stuck in a single eye inside us all looking at us all looking being watched because the same infinite sets of discrete objects are talked about so too is the wholehearted mixing of lovers’ hair the face of faces because the hair is a trail of the past stronger than any one eye that eye which when it isn’t looking though its always looking but when its not looking at least we can say that it is eyeing us all


how many generation back can the pain be like how many generations back can the source of today’s troubles just as how many generations back have each of us been forgetting the maze that we travel through because it’s not a maze but a labyrinth and all labyrinths are mazes like this maze that is not a maze and instead of remembering any dreams instead of what we are supposed to do and instead of telling about the we of the we inside of us all all there is to offer is a sore body full of muscles growing strong shortly in the midst of muscles growing strong in the long arc though arc like no rainbow and an arc arcing from your eyes to mine in which we all miss the mark that marks the marking like the specific locations wherein the creative spirit grows dissipates fluctuates flatulates no differently than looking for the few women that were few because they were women in a time when winking was not what today winking is

—Lonnie Monka

Friday, May 3, 2019

Dennis Cardalisco, Grunge Series

#1 Approaching
(20 x 20, Mixed Media on Canvas) 
Dennis Cardalisco 

#2 Archaic Fibers
(24 x 36, Mixed Media on Canvas)  
Dennis Cardalisco 

#3 Archaic Fiber
(24 x 26, Mixed Media on Canvas) 
Dennis Cardalisco 

#4 Grunge
(24 x 24, Mixed Media on Canvas) 
Dennis Cardalisco 

#5 Relic
(9 x 12, Mixed Media on Canvas)
Dennis Cardalisco 

#6 Exploration
(14 x 14, Mixed Media on Cork Board)
Dennis Cardalisco

#7 Evolution
(11 x 14, Mixed Media on Canvas)
Dennis Cardalisco

#8 Broken Promise
(24 x 24, Mixed Media on Board)
Dennis Cardalisco

#9 Zap
(11 x 14, Mixed Media on Canvas)
Dennis Cardalisco

 #10 Enigma
(18 x 24, Mixed Media on Board)
Dennis Cardalisco 

Thursday, April 25, 2019

Mark Young, from 690 words

Erasing D_scors_ sop_a la pr_ma D_ca, image by Daniel Y. Harris 

from 690 words


are generally acknowledged
belonging to the.
That reliable covering

This, These place on a to.
through mandatory retirement
which means The —

is but & why
are & in
devoted to all

if valid, is
is. thought
After, with on This

. that
were I thought it was
Sali if he was

........ : is the as
has a , ability
, this is a.

in  , how in to or turn it
especially, have
for a still &?

This are going to
this process can be driven by
operators in this model.




it is hat to soy
will be to the •
lay person

doing as well

much In
this context

. But So,

at a
as a

Think when
retiring of those
who die in vain

, and run


& your
! if you can
in its entirety

. devoted to all
if valid,
& then I find this thing.

is The core issue
is. The framework for

I’m just divorced
Clearly, this is
a bowl somewhat

: is the
has an
, ability to

Each. In addition,
Discorsi sopra
la prima Deca


, creating
also physical, social, &
supplemental spending —

in the function of
the outcome is
, taking up
little space until the
next time she used them.

something that
goal is
It is this

No more
spending time
though, than

a tabula rasa
whose entries are
mostly zeroes

, but he does so

#13 (methods of healing)

en      e
time house

by way of

state space


This page
is proceeding

tones & a
blooming that

which doesn’t enunciate
; the “which is to say”

. at a low
price now.

will create threads
I have many
The concepts of
, and later by



—Mark Young

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Erik-John Fuhrer, excerpts from The Voyage Out Sonnets

Erasing V_rg_n_a, image by Daniel Y. Harris

excerpts from The Voyage Out Sonnets*

Voyage Out Sonnet 1

As a narrow arm leaps to fidget
in beauty, it is better not to be
a long blue left hand. October becoming
a tall man with cloak eyes and traffic gaze twitched
between motor cars. The safe mouth rolled
down, leaning. A feeling greater than pavement juts
out in angles of preachers dangling
wads of paper flourished with a grotesque chorus.
Patch straw fell into ears. Shoulders polished
picture postcard eyes. Bridges
of animals shoot blankly. A cab
broken by walking motor-moons jingling
a soothing reply that clothed
the skeleton beneath.

Voyage Out Sonnet 2

Dismal lovers cloak sordid
their flower company, their sodden
blue heads pressed together. Sea-gulls
sharply trotting like plate-glass,
carefully-finished. Black cloak
wounds in danger
of egg-shells steaming
with obliterated fog.
They trusted water, square and
oblong like a child. Yellow light
escorted the man and remarked
among delicate feet, indicating
mournful waterchildren approaching
dimly in the dark flag of night.

Voyage Out Sonnet 3

The purple romantic was warmer than shaking
hands. His eyes sat down as some trees shook
the collar of his coat and spoke on the weather.
General Soup held out a thumping lip and began arranging
a pause across the table. The tobacconist left a theory
about the planets loose through the light outside that slid
across a melancholy moan. An unmarried house sagely carved
apples with considerable acidity. Arches sympathize
with wastefill and acid produced
in industry. A collection of free fog sirens struck
hands, upon which they rose and left. Forgotten
stories loosen round heads. They anchor
a swarm of eternally burnt figures
visible against skirts wrapping slowly.

Voyage Out Sonnet 4

Smoked pepper cut the ghost of drowned yellow
oblivion smiling at nothing. Rooted, bleached, faded,
the mirror was twisted. An authority on traffic
and love had chosen fish, prickles, and being killed in the night.
Arms insist on a definite outline. Years reflect that intimacy
was threatened. A stick was permanent. The door burly shook
with the glow of obedience. Grown young,
still and close, squeezing the side on the sofa, brightened
brats ventured alone across the fire to show
the tricks of nonsense. Reflecting fish
speak of comfort passing and fumbling at the door. A melancholy
moment looked in laughing severely, a bored attempt to improve
the droop of the situation, now a leaping mouse sucking
a cigar. This elevated the ocean. Great white monsters laughed to no music.

Voyage Out Sonnet 5

Uncomfortable rocking wore a kind of beauty. Hooting
river eggs cast reflections of the dead. Children
dropping from a height into a pool on summer’s flushed face.
Examinations carried nonsense among shoulder blades.
Cycling every morning spoons against the insides mounted
in a heap. Heavy rainfall proved true
with ferocious energy, concentrating this moment
into a kind of walrus swinging
with a slight rocking movement of his body.
The eccentric disappeared in a pale horizon, effervescing,
leaving October salt and a sloping
cheek. The ribs of words blow upon
the shoulder, laughing. An intercepted rock-like message
you could put your fingers through.

Voyage Out Sonnet 6

Sheets sewed to the bone went to the laundry, wavered
upon a table. Threads made ladders
to the ordinary eye to sit
and hear heart complaints dreaming no more.
Miniature crusted photographs hold babies
in a frame. A hammered voice opened the door too high,
flung open the forehead of the room. Swearing summer
lay beneath the sun in cornfields. Cluttered land
murmurs, the man vanished. Aimless
ants withdrew out of sight into the bark of a tree.
Pomegranates whirled between the sentences
whistled far off in other parts of the room. Branches
forced through the window. The music
died as a child lying behind the knob on the arm.

Voyage Out Sonnet 7

Thoughts startled the obscure laughter. Nonsense
blotted out morning. Umbrellas
could only say that lips cease to move, blazing
and subsiding in the rising and falling of the droop of sleep.
Early sounds beat above the mouth cleaving
at waves washing against the vessel shouting thirsty
in rubbing hands, combing the glass
of champagne. Passages produced
personal objections. They were pleased to submit.
Ministers foretold of people buried.
They stranded dusk with the autumnal
whistler. One whipped the hour ringing the glass
fingers made uneasy by farms. The eccentric held
a voice to the table and took soup imperceptibly and with pause.

Voyage Out Sonnet 35

Laughter grating dead silence, uncrumpling
from the wall. Love was movement crowded
into words of rhythmically stripping
nonsense. Into the darkness, breath so dark it numbed.
Dreams repeated chairs scattered
in a square box vaguely twitching as if paper. Metallic
sleep lit a cigarette impatiently. Lonely
minds look at the ruins in the garden facing
sharply cut spirits. Numbness disappeared, flung off.
Silence cut down a tree, big and splendid.
People are puzzled, pointing to smoking cigarettes.
Trees flirt with eyes: nobler than conversation.
A pale look shut up in heaps of sleep.
Fragmentary, hazardous instinct.

Voyage Out Sonnet 36

People vividly grasp years, unconscious
of loneliness. Dreams in the open room
occasionally exclaim in the glass doorways.
Doubt ran casually after a flying man, roared the page with a wave.
Years flush eccentric meat with canary-coloured disapproval.
Old pictures will become beautiful tomorrow.
Dark electric water smiles pick
roses without any teeth. Fast pits
sit and smoke in the road, break
stones in shaken hands. Massacres light moths in shut night.
Sharp faces lay undertone, faded
like a figure of speech. Eyebrows intervene
as mission-smooth wishes. Orange cigarettes depart legs out, a series
of beautiful hints flushing rose.

Voyage Out Sonnet 37

A naked shade of stone smiles. A chronic end.
Breath floats too hot to climb satisfied people.
Lips made thinking ugly. Bodies
appeared squirming on the flat future.
Flimsy conversation pounces, inclined to bitter answer. Beastly
envy is awfully soothing. Blush limited interest in morality.
To escape, to hold in embroidery, a great decision: unformed,
experimental feeling. Vague colours wanting
a walk silently watch a needle.
An abyss sounded as if a dark pyramid
possessed by sewing. Smoky men gave thought without reason. Rumpled
eyes bush the patches of white flowers, full of thought.
Blue flamingo edges sunk between bells
rising, swept round the seas, across mountains, dropping.

Voyage Out Sonnet 38

Long ago, dolphins extended in the dipping of sun-dried sea. Chequered
blood turned the clouds against the roots of water.
Red remained broken with body, obeying peace.
Water ceased a pebble concentrated upon blue hollows.
Lips parted watching for swim-red hands. Arms
write grey off faces, repeat. Shifted
brains scratch shakes of air with ragged ease.
Horses visualize absurd pianos afraid of heaven.
Rabbits meditate upon life. The piano leaks
letters up to the play. Oblong photographs roused the neck of a lamb.
Purple dogs go out the eighteenth of April, walk along
the factory chimneys in a mist. Pale yellow Spring barks
through the streets. People hugged to death by light
become lost under streets where people consider silent worship.

Voyage Out Sonnet 39

Smoke-brains describe the world less splendid but more natural than atoms.
Beauty building unconscious habits called vivid eyes to laughter.
Streets describe flamingo red nonsense.
Sea eyes look to breathe. Lips mercy-mood
the breath which gazed out to sea.
Impersonal pain vanished. An elbow arranging stones
like the cry of an owl. Delight widened blue, replaced the olive trees.
Light figures piano into music in the thin white gate.
Inhuman pleasure split life. A pause
thoughtlessly vowing to silence. A curious
atmosphere. The theory of chaos crushed forth wildest
bursts of mud. Depression ran
into quick waterfalls, water-racing shaped,
perpetually pressed downwards by the wind.

—Erik-John Fuhrer

*These poems are from a longer work titled The Voyage Out Sonnets, a page by page erasure of Virginia Woolf's The Voyage Out. During the process of erasure, I moved chapter by chapter and then formed what I had into 50 experimental sonnets. Solmaz Sharif has convincingly linked poetic erasure to government censorship, which every erasure project certainly risks replicating. Woolf herself had to censor herself in her novel in order to get published. Since the intent of this project is to celebrate rather than censor, I was careful and mindful not to redact but to highlight Woolf’s words. Rather than physically blackening out words during my process, I left Woolf’s original text clean and instead circled words that I believed revealed the multiple possibilities in the original text. I highlighted language over narrative and provided agency and voice to animals and inanimate objects, which Virginia Woolf often does herself in her later work, such as “Kew Gardens.” For the most part, I did not add anything to the text, with the exception of the rare addition of an "s" at the end of a word. I also occasionally cobbled together a word from individual letters. That said, Woolf's individual language remains mostly intact and unadulterated in these poems, which intend to pay homage to Woolf's original text.