Dan Gutstein. Chris Toll. Duets and Shapes. The museum of inconsolable hangovers cries in the electronic alibi acrobat. The cactus wren going suite-sweet, the inglorious amphetamine dawn. The ant preaches "Words will not pollute the soup." Catherine retrofits a woodpecker thumping code. Rain, stop me before I kill again. What I mean is he puts the words, the pollution, and the soup in his pipe and plays it in order to think how coordinating conjunctions can pervert the enforcement of our already perverse, prefabricated life paths and in order to sing how much you can groove to that if you just prepare yourself hard to make it up as you go along. I know where the treasure chests are. The strange thunder of meal carts in the hallway. Our mouse found in the oleo. Our radials. Our bodysuits. Our digital rhythm in the running around chickens. Our mode tomb loons. Our face grayed organizing plain. Our bodysuits. Our hotel grammar seagull of death. Our limpid striescence. Our nouvelle demultiplex bordello paperwork. Our rags of truth. Our majority. Our luck.
2 comments:
I can't see all that good since I got punched in the eye, but I sure can see a squirrel collecting money when I see one.
I say that Dan should wear more wigs!
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