Lindsay Rhyner Punk Rock Vests
In a dream, John Berger’s book “Ways of Being” flapped from a Home Depot dumpster about the cashless economy. How could such an object ever come to be were its recycling bin not designated gritlit and theory, mom/dad, love/ hate, this/? How could its eschewing of hierarchy be any more hierarchical than its demand to be made, as are we, from recycling? KNot.
Pacing, a gothic cathedral sounded a note of TV static bottle spiraling down the steps from the top calling the guitars to growl, the faithful to keen: “Owhere”. Beer, “hey, we’re gonna find it ourselves”.
Then they hate, they do these savings of cast-offs to make a path. But are yet observatories and algebraic tensions centering around the muteness of the drone lullabye. Public and private spaces queen into an ant-burning zoom of ravishment and: “We will never not invent the astrolathe”! “Video game rapture, that too”! Point made through searchlight dragons we recapitulated Wendy’s bed, momentarily renouncing flight, blind, amplifying sirens, our eyes parachutes.
Then the sequence of fabric, beads, action! Looks. Real. Good. At US. The PVC conducts the smoke we become in gaze. The Eye zaps space boogersnot into galactic amoebas and rides Valkyries. This is Witch PR: $21,300. Good. Luck. NFS. Breadcrumbs back to womb, mirrors, quilts, “Hi, what’s your secret name?” Dutch. Off.
Mom, Dad please stop burning, but/or…
Happen or it didn’t picture thy kindlings. The runaways fashion show began and crust punks lit fuse and got gorgeous mail jumping through plate glass making it cold shouted, “Legalize Tiger Eye Coral Reef”! Hotdish filled the holes and a slow tug from NOLA and Brooklyn Center completed the patching. Pa, “O, am I ‘sposed to descript? FU, download and destroy”! Or better upload. Chill. Ma,
Ever bomber pilot with shifting targets where the sheep leave their dreams, the recycling goes on forever, without off-ramp cardboard. It’s not enough to barter, it’s not enough to offer, its not enough to trade, it is enough to invent. Indigenous Nintendo Memory Ziggurat thy weakness mine. Thee rhive zone buzz and mycroschum gills stave sharks, krill their downy $ to Babel semester so high to fall, to fall up, to bounce, to synchesize web.
Death to Moths!
by Sean Smuda.
IN OUR OPINION:
Donald Trump is an illegitimate president, a fake commander and chief. He is a diminishing echo of an ancient malignancy, small in every important way. His substance and power lie in his ability to lessen all he encounters, like a vampire, like a bully. His autocratic, mean spirited and dangerous decrees are the merest of words, slight movements of air, irrational and illegible marks on paper, digital glitch, lacking any substance worthy of respect or adherence. We refute then ignore Donald Trump’s claim of chief executive of the United States. The laws enacted under this despicable and incompetent regime hold no weight, receive no consideration by us or our gallery.
We believe the aggressive attacks by these would-be oppressors on truth and the integrity of discourse in general should be met not with diplomacy, discussion or appeasement, but total and unconditional resistance.
History will inevitably view with harsh judgement this transparent and futile attempt to lead a diverse nation of 350 million people over a cliff of exclusion, xenophobia, racism, militarized christianity, authoritarianism and homophobia.
Remember this moment. Never let those responsible revise their role in this moment. Take hold of this moment and resist.
by Ryan Fontaine