The Comeback's Exoskeleton The Comeback's Exoskeleton by Matthew Rotando

The Comeback's Exoskeleton by Matthew Rotando


My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Boyoboy. There are the endpoints and here are these/we softscape to-be things just about to. "Cavernescence of head, mucusoid webtrails pastiche my Hadean greysongs in-outward from older earthsmudge."

Matthew Rotando, achoo orlando, is expanding slash doublebacking to say onemany ways, hock, w/ musicbehindyou "Can you sweating all the ghosts/Down in the devil kitchen hole"

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sonnet on the back of a vintage mountain poem

will not / won’t / walnuts
a because I feel orchard
the closetlight aglow in the heart of a tree
Give away it. will you.
Thethingis
Thethings is
things welt
things is long silt flections
harangue black pieces of
papernight
a zone one-notes upon a carpet
slipfaced
and I this amiss / morass
by sectional, by carpetlight

missing you weirdo bookstore

Today I ache because I have the flu and I ache for one more reading at the Singing Wind Bookstore. Jimmy and I went to see Robert Hass and Brenda Hillman read in the cramped little ranchhouse-turned-bookstore. What an odd idea to stick a bookstore out in the desert. Fitting tho.

Name: Singing Wind Bookstore
Location: Nowhere, AZ.
Home of: crazybookstorelady; dust; muchos libros; one sweet little donkey

Trees and stars.

skunk roll on
down road
down brief flare
tell me about it
shoot I love it super-
stitiously, utterly
weather the shit
continuous rain
shunts up our hands & feet
the second story


I see a skunk rolling on the balls of its shoulders and hips like an elliptical. down the road down in a brief flare, cutting across the beach the same way and falling into the sand. tell me about it. I love it like a shot and point superstitiously into the dark, between trees, utterly. The weather equals the world. The shit continuous pulse of rain turns over addresses. I see a skunk rolling one time down the road and set fire. Cut into the water, reach into the circle of water to sleep in. A sign for the the floor. I love it coming to me in a shunt, with no hands or feet in the deep continuity of rain for days the rain gave me tips.

she explained how to put a blanket on his back. how to put a blanket her back when he died. twice she told me with her hands how to put the blanket on without ruining everything. she said star is far away and I kept thinking about how alone a horsewoman is, discrete. The morning is no place. The day is a wash of rubbing out the indescribable evils

star is an amorous sign

she built her house with lots of bedrooms and painted the kitchen the way she remembered venice the smell of venice the fruit overripe flies overfire swoon of venice as if in a tube income

decreation at BAM

You should be very very jealous of me and Jimmy Lo. Not only did we have great weather in New York this weekend and stay with the lovely Kasia Kowalczyk (yes she plays an alien in star trek), but we also had front row seats to Decreation, choreographed by William Forsythe.

It's not often that a performance exceeds already-high expectations, but this one surprised the shit out of me. Based on an essay by Anne Carson about (what do you think?) relationships, the text explores the impossibilities of moving/communicating thru romantic jealousies. The dancers confront each other, scream, they try not-talking, they attempt to make time stand still, they condescend each other, they tease and flirt, they break things down detail by detail, they just fail at it all. And that's just what I can say about the text.

The music was done by David Morrow and it was really wonderful. Most of the dialogue was spoken into mics and manipulated in realtime, supplemented with Morrow onstage keyboard. The mics acted more like confessionals or telephones than soapboxes and dancers constantly moved the 4 or 5 microphones around--creating territories and zones on an otherwise blank stage. During the musical climax, dancers (and a sprinkling of professional singers I think) built a really long crescendo of 'i love you's sung into the microphones. The dancers spoke/sang/screamed the lines to the microphones amidst heightening activities/dances.


Below is a clip pretty indicative of the pacing and feeling.

Museum Legs by Amy Whitaker

I stumbled upon a funny little debate at a book lecture last Friday at Blackbird Coffee. Amy Whitaker, author of Museum Legs, visited us in Milledgeville for a quick chat about her new book. Whitaker's collection of essays focuses on the cultural, social, and political circumstances that define museum experiences. 'Museum legs,' for the uninitiated, is a term for art fatigue or boredom.

Whitaker read from a particular essay called "Revenge of the Homunculus." In it she describes the use of the word "homunculus" in an description of a painting in a museum. Whitaker argues that the word homunculus, defined as a midget, is impressive for impressiveness' sake. Whether used to elevate the curator, the institution, or a second-rate art piece, the word slaps down 100 bucks when you only needed a quarter.

I guess I have to wonder whether we should automatically think a word we haven't heard is pretentious. If we are becoming syllablist (anything over 3 syllables should be replaced with sleeker more modern versions). If a word as weird and onomatopoetic as homunculus need be quarantined in the academic and Freudian vocabularies.

Possibly using the word homunculus would make us all happier, if only slightly. During our long flights and conference calls, before bed, cooking burgers: think homunculus. It sings.

Terrence Malick is Dead. Long live Terrence Malick

This was the post-armadillo leg of the trip. Booty included one dark blue bottle, a mason jar, babydoll head, bones, and an old lock.



Pages from the book of the green man. First edition. Covers a little soiled, otherwise a fine copy in chipped & torn dust jacket.



This car ate Terrence Malick. It is a very happy vehicle.