Or what they removed for me to breathe
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
It took today, on storm
Tony Licavoli's real name was Tony Licavoli. His father was also a Licavoli. In fact, the generations heading as far back as Tony knew were all Licavoli.
The early morning of December 7th, 1942 was the story of his grandfather. Before that, the memories of ducking in a tall field while the purple gang came by.
There was often a Tony.
It is, as to which, Licavoli to stand by.
-Got it, got it, need it, got it...-
Thursday, December 9, 2010
of summer
Act as humans do
The idea was to create that tickle, the depth looking upward through the abyss. Nap warmed eyelids freckled from the sun's afternoon kiss.
'I find an issue with all that is posted here. This motherfucker thinks that he is the tallest poppy in the field? Get real'
Ask yourself the difference and play your card, the table waits.
Understand that an individual life might hold common.
The pollen grows just as all others. And it's others who inspire, who give properties, who tend to grain from proxy as due on dew.
Workers in plant, on hive, stress bones to please, blossom to fruit, ground to gain.
Everything for the Queen, everything for the colony.
This is no Castle in Spain nor a fall in Malta.
Forget thyself boy, the train inside feels free on bound tracks. The bridge is long cross, without ford so still your heart and hands. With ear to rail, hold lungs to listen for her steam.
It is these who are those which built with iron rods a path to travel west... onward I suppose.
Consider the dust during or drag of net. You will come across the unintended to which a response, you'll act as humans do.
The idea was to create that tickle, the depth looking upward through the abyss. Nap warmed eyelids freckled from the sun's afternoon kiss.
'I find an issue with all that is posted here. This motherfucker thinks that he is the tallest poppy in the field? Get real'
Ask yourself the difference and play your card, the table waits.
Understand that an individual life might hold common.
The pollen grows just as all others. And it's others who inspire, who give properties, who tend to grain from proxy as due on dew.
Workers in plant, on hive, stress bones to please, blossom to fruit, ground to gain.
Everything for the Queen, everything for the colony.
This is no Castle in Spain nor a fall in Malta.
Forget thyself boy, the train inside feels free on bound tracks. The bridge is long cross, without ford so still your heart and hands. With ear to rail, hold lungs to listen for her steam.
It is these who are those which built with iron rods a path to travel west... onward I suppose.
Consider the dust during or drag of net. You will come across the unintended to which a response, you'll act as humans do.
Location:E Warren Ave,Detroit,United States
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Sede Vacante
:this repurposed picture of Pope John Paul II was handed out in the State of the City of the Vatican attached to a popsicle:
Thanks goes to Yells for the thought of this gift while on holiday.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
On getting back to the things themselves
Maybe I'll hang around here during the coming storm. 'Learning to sail' is what my fortune said, the way the cookie crumbled. A selfish, quiet focus. It'll function not as commentary or ego but more of a small work bench with a light hanging high above. Listen boy, find a part of town that silences the passing train and junction hum.
Orson Wells: Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash - the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life: we're going to die. "Be of good heart," cry the dead artists out of the living past. "Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing." Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much.
Orson Wells: Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash - the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life: we're going to die. "Be of good heart," cry the dead artists out of the living past. "Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing." Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much.
Location:4th St,Detroit,United States
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