ey ons nou mn
teribl kerookd mn
usd tsay tme hou
wods wre nhumn neychr
hee usd ttel mee
hw hecud rit ons
hw greyt hwuz
hw greyt eywz gonnabe
hee ded nw
dat teribl mn
ennd eyem kerookd
mike have drive
drive is hard
drive is die
drive is bad
mike is cry
cry mike cry
drive is die
die drive die
mike fix drive
drive no fix
mike fix drive
drive no pix
win no boot
mike no doze
drive no file
mike no close
mike lose file
mike is sad
drive is die
drive is bad
the pictures on the walls
of the art gallery
salon des refusés
félix edouard vallotton
le mensonge
la surprise
le toilette de sortie
the pictures change
the pictures repeat
gleaners in the field
androgynous bomb-rape
leon golub fill in the branks
stephen shames throe back
the gas grenade to
kerry j. marshall see
ralph ellis on long
invisible legs
the train runs the head
gently roll off shoulder
the pictures repeat
light from electric gallow
wood support wire
TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
The beat was insisting on it's regularity in his head. He has just handed a clearly-fake ten-dollar bill to the cashier at the supermarket. He even chatted her up, smiled at her, and got her to smile back, guided by his never-tested theory that no one would notice one bad bill on a busy day in a busy place. His heart almost leapt out of his chest when the girl turned to double-check the bill, but...no, it was okay. He got his change, his Korean rice ball and got the hell out of there, thinking feverishly about the bill he got from one of his students not ten minutes earlier, how he hurriedly crumpled bent and tortured it in his hands, how he gently tore one edge and how the bill still felt fake to the touch--too smooth, wrong. He walked away, down the street, his hands shaking. He saw an old man with a shaggy beard and dark glasses playing a djembe drum. He knew what he had to do. He crossed the street, unthinking, walked up to the man and said, "Hi! I'll give you five bucks to play the drum...for a while." The man asked if he was a good drummer. He opened his wallet, took out a bill and gave it to the man--a real five--saying "We'll see." The man said something about hurting his fingers and being gentle, but he didn't listen. He began to play immediately, immediately. He played his fast beat:
TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
TAM-tam-tam TAM-tam-tam TAM-Tam
TAM-ta-da-dam ta-da-da TAM-Tam
TAM-ta-da-dam ta-da-da TAM-Tam
He played urgently. He played well. He loved filling the street and the ears of the passerby, averse--as he always was--of homeless performance art. He wasn't careful. He wasn't gentle. He hit the palms of his hands on the surface of the small drum and he knew that it felt--and sounded--just right. It was not the austere, beatific sound of mainstream electronica. It was not pro. It wasn't anything. He played for one minute, two, three at most, but, having never done it on the street, he lost his beat, then picked it up, weaseling out of his haste with a strong, three-beat finale:
TAM-TAM TAM!
Then, he hurriedly got up, picked up his bag, and was about to leave. "What's your name?" asked the man. He mumbled something and then said "What's yours?" not hearing the reply. He shook the old man's hand and hurried down the street to his stop, wishing he had stayed longer, played longer, the beat still pulsing in his head, full of thoughts about the five dollars he had spent well.
A white guy and an ugly Asian boy are making gang signs right outside of the window of the Starbucks where I am eating my octopus balls and drinking my hot chocolate with cream on top, served to me by one of the two deliciously gay men that work at this store. The white guy, his back too straight, cannot make his fingers cross just right. His ugly friend shakes his 1960s moptop and gesticulates something outside of the window. There is somehing wrong about this white guy, holding a dirty lighter, his sweatpants clashing with his jacket like night an day. There is something wrong wig so many white guys, I think, as Kevin, my Korean student walks into the store and shakes my hand vigorously. They could be lovers, I think. How are doing says Kevin, sitting down.
The boy was beautiful. I could not take a picture because it would hardly do justice to the way long hair covered his eyes and concealed the effeminate curves of his face in the folds of a hooded sweatshirt. A couple of stops later, he suddenly stood up, his jeans hanging low. He made his way towards the door. He looked around briefly, furtively, the motion so natural it seemed that he made no superficial movements. Then, he got off.
