How to Become a FULL Cube of Plexiglass

Manic chicken operatives: is this actually the font I’m using right now? Oh yeah. I want to move into the door next tO me.

I’m in Bosnia here it’s here. Loose endorphins
misremembering all the start dates to my obsessions
everything is so
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dumpster diving

On Friday January 22^nd Hofstra University in partnership with an undisclosed artist revealed a new art installation in the vacant lot behind Breslin Hall and the Lawrence Herbert School of Communication.

 

The pieces are part of an attempted renaissance of Hofstra’s campus to address the university’s abysmal lack of sufficiently productive art installations.

 

Last semester students reported experiencing a mildly wet lacrimal occurrence only once every 33 steps

when passing the existing 55-odd “sculptures” across Hofstra’s campus.

 

The university’s newest addition to its otherwise insipidly barren landscape breathes fresh, sometime smelly, air into the desiccating corpse of Hofstra.

 

Mother, please stop farting. Mother you’re stinking up the whole can.

 

The provocative installation consists of two 8 x 5’ adjacent assemblies of spatial solids adorned with deviously simplistic illumines of green and grey. *

 

*Editor’s Note: They’re dumpsters.

 

By placing the two pieces next to each other, the artist throws into question the question. Like will this succeed? * Am I missing something? Will this deteriorating body attract Public Safety?

 

*As in fucking the dumpster. He is trying to fuck the dumpster.

 

Similar questions, of the necessarily erotic, of motherly affection, of motherly love, care, sickness and of bodily death, of timeless iniquity deprived infinite rage, of vindication, why the fuck won’t this trash bag open I know there’s a half-full Boosted bottle of Naked Guava smoothie in here I saw it I saw it thrown away by some bottle-necked glasses snicker-wannabe in Breslin’s second-story men’s Bathroom, of shoes, shit and of life after corporeal cessation are suggestions of critical insight by the piece’s reflection on late 1970s dialogue. *

 

*Here he is talking about reviving his mom.

 

Bananas I ate early in the quest for the right home space feng shui came in use later, but I never knew where to put those peels so I settled their uses as duplicate: for the nervous digestion and the preparation of self-destruction ready to receive. *

 

*Penetration.

 

Never quite got that banana peel pile placement right…

 

The art! The art surpasses boundaries of modern discursive thought with its remarkable handling of form… a sentient structure active and still-born in modernism’s embryonic fetus bag. No, no I’m sorry, amniotic sac. I meant amniotic sac.

 

Time has gotten away from me…

My final moments with my mother came with a rumor that she had expired now and her brain had latched onto the loveless bond of a hospital waste basket.

 

My mother’s body never meant much to me, but it provided physical comfort, however shallow, in the days after her soul’s untimely departure.

 

I mean the mortal sequins of existential refuse kept me busy for a couple days before the men in squatters’ uniforms* came in their greenish-tan-greenish tan band skin suits looked me up and locked its copy crying man tears but I’m not no man I’m a continuous reversal of excrement and its suit is only of green and grey back metal.

 

*Public Safety found former Hofstra sophomore Tommy Gretchen, a film major with a minor in philosophy, living in the dumpsters behind Breslin and Herbert after an alarming smell drew crowds of Hofstra cats, a raccoon and senior faculty from the Fine Arts Department. Upon discovery, Gretchen, like the raccoon, fled in a scurry of shrill screams and frantic movements. He left behind a collection of Naked Juice bottles semi-formed into a shape resembling a giant plastic dildo, piles of banana peels and the rotten remains of an unidentified body. Gretchen first went missing in the days following his mother’s untimely death on January 22^nd, 2016.

 

@majortom That nail-rod shitter brought un-famed techno-gofers to the grape farm one day, January 22^nd, and they stunk up the whole breach not much like these two fecund greyish greenish grey lollipop incubators which happened to be just the right size for charging my banana poppers… *

 

*Penis? Penises? Unclear.

 

And I did, oh yes I did, I charged those banana poppers.

 

Finally,

Warholian containers of stilted green and grey metal shouted,

 

MONTBLANK PENS ARE BETTER YOU PIECE OF SHIT

to me yesterday, January 23^nd, and it stood up too, opening the wide sky to shine its glancing venereal juicer down on my poor mortal eyes. *

 

*Fucked BY the dumpster? Unclear.

 

My feeble salt and paper cracker mind split right down its meridian axis to vacant loose ghost holes now open to the entrance of my loosely plagiarized experiment- the art can of macro-seeking genesis peeled inside itself past to deposit my poor mother’s soul into me* -and I became pregnant with her eternal essence .it came like a flood into my causal statis-chamber, my I belly belly

 

*Here he is being fucked by the dumpster.

 

Now six months in I’m still on the miraculous train lavishing the Newest Hofstra Installation, but from afar it doesn’t look too good, I Can barely track the carnal doings of metal waste baskets from my telescope twenty two feet about the watchtower* it’s obligatory with all the tans skin suits runnin around, but the man is still running and I’m keeping the saint alive, oh my poor old Mother’s soul.

 

*Gretchen’s current whereabouts are unknown.

 

Anger

I was angry before in the dorm- with my clothes and warm sheets piled on top of the springy bed cushion. I had dreams that were dynamic, disorienting, recollections of the day placed in settings that were real but amplified. I paced in the small space, one sock on one sock off, the sound of my room mate’s Chinese action films to the right of the room. When I sat down to draft the messages I felt some boiling heat that existed around my body’s peripheral space, an outline of red. Looking in-to the screen, I felt anger, not the obfuscating logical oblivion of temperamental rage, but a clarity in anger that felt objective-pure even (?). So I rode on this strange feeling for a while, not identifying it until now, just experiencing the strangeness, and taking the time to reveal to myself some of the similar feelings I’ve had in the past during this circumstance.

So I’ve already mentioned clarity. Next, merciless direct self-criticism. Imaginary ~If I was a government~ the bureaucracy of this brain allocates continuous and copious amounts of funding to confusing the heck out of its internal structures of moderation. The effect: a painfully detracting habit of avoiding sticky things. I’ll have to end the analogy here because I don’t know the governmental equivalent of it- a self-perpetuating cycle of incompetence! That might just be Peter’s Principle then. Avoiding having to deal with weaknesses exacerbates the habit of avoidance. It’s like I have giant mental cavities and I never ever brush or floss.

And then realizing the clarity and un-withholding state of mind, I sought to capitalize and write! The main barriers to writing, for me, are the two that were just ameliorated or mollified by the angry man in my dorm chair. I wasn’t taking time to clarify, or be “OCD” about every single selection. With writing being composed of several minute decisions one after another, being indecisive is tantamount to paralysis. Not that one should launch into your writing without a moment’s thought, but that sometimes it can be more important to get the thought down with un-choice selections then not get it down at all.

So I’m still dealing with having to rewrite. Rewriting is against the “fragile perfect” grain I’ve been used to as a model for excellence. If you’d prepare beforehand, you wouldn’t have to do it again. I’ve got the before the scenes obsession down, and it takes me forever to put ink down, but not the rewriting part. Together they will take the worry of mistakes in the initial writing process, and strengthen research and revision. Help! *

 

*No final revision was given to this overall blog post.

on the night sky

Here I was again, 4 am in the empty school lab of my egregiously expensive university. What came of this night? I skipped into like a bright-eyed doe innocent and open to the unexpected. The night tore my mind to shreds, no rust, no mercy.

So I spent the second night of my first week on campus back in the chilly walls of the computer lab, where slick MacBook desktops mixed half in half with older lenovo desktops would stand superior by appearance if not for the mess of pollock finger prints smeared in ubiquitous patterns over most of their faces. I shopped books, I sat and watched videos, I took walks back and forth on the Unispan’s whale tail-listening to scotty and staring at my night time reflection from the dull white lights lining the top of the whale’s back. I left the upper levels and went into the Student Center belly where empty club spaces pronounced their memory with scratchy cafeteria wood carvings and Sharpie signatures. I contemplated buying a 1.50 bag of chips. All this was a part of some kind of quest to feel life without life present. I slipped unknowingly into the back of the dining area and stared at the frozen containers of hash browns through small industrial windows and stared more at strips of seasoned meat left in open fridges left only slightly ajar. I promptly slipped out under the push of a childish guilt. Silly?

No longer ready to take the world by storm, I’m ready to retire to the outdoor heat before seeking some shut eye myself. So I sleep with the night sky.