Thursday, August 30, 2012

The Avant-Garde Is Dead So What

for Christopher Shultis
(written in November 1995)
 hear this poem read with improvised piano

Guard God.
Guard God!
Pick up a rock and carry it to the navel of the Earth and drop it in.
Ask three times
      this is twentieth century America ness pa?
      this is?
      twenty-first century madness?
You’re not mad you’re sadder than a bladder.
Breathing in and out practicing Tai Chi
      because he’s not a football star.
Say nothing for three Mahatma Gandhi’s.
Cut a fiddle in half down the middle if it’s not worth anything & and you don’t want it anyway.
Make some chutney. Green tomatoes and apples and raisins and ginger and cinnamon and on and on.
Boil art in it until it tastes good.
The avant-garde is by now well pickled. well heeled, well potatoed, picked over till
not even the carcass is left.
The weight of a dead bird.
A way to not be able to fly into the 21st Century.
      With a ding dong?
      With a merry merry have a canary?
      With a post guard tough love syndrome where character counts?
      With a pillow with moss on it from an endangered tropical bonanza?
      From Campbell’s soup quietly put to rest and never pop-arted again?
      With a giant bang or gross whimper or just a nothing at all not even a sigh
            a whisper or a kissing sound?
      With just the same old thing again but more people, more people
            and a helluva lot more endangered species.
      With a gun in every hand and every man an octopus and
            every woman a hydra-headed Dillenger toting weapon?
With just a little mercy.
With just a little sobriety.
With maybe a good night’s sleep.
With maybe an appreciation of the dawn.
Not hung over
not all drugged
not just so tired
not weirded out or anything just
getting up to greet
Number One.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / from Beyond TV, poems from 1995                                            

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Teddy Feelia at the Onyx

Teddy Feelia’s new work “Brushed Nuances” is hanging at the Onyx. All the aahs and oohs of the opening have been collected in a large urn inside the gallery. Gallery owner Robert Shoeless the 3rd went through a dozen canisters of Danish butter cookies and uncountable boxes of wine at Teddy Feelia’s opening.

His abstract gouaches and holy water based watercolors of Catholic nun stripteases and muted priests’ behind-the-altar jack-offs caused a tide of decentralization in the gallery mob at the opening. Everyone wore black patten leather boots, perforated and holy jeans and off the shoulder T-shirt remnants and danced, destroying several insured Feelia pictures to the grunge mix Teledildonics – “Art has been annoyed beyond existence,” Teddy piped as he brushed by one of his Brushed Nuances, this one of a pig in heat mating with a sunflower while zombies picked their noses and paraded around barely seen through the overlay of gouache and tarnished sequins.

The show will come down the day after Valentine’s Day so take your lover to Brushed Nuances and add your nuances to the sticky canvasses and be sure to dump your oohs and aahs in the urinal just inside the front door.

Highly recommended.

Gaston La Plume Albuquerque Soiree Society