poem for Manson's 74th birthday

Charles will is man’s son will son (drums) the son of man, Charleston, miles off of West Virginia mad dog Maddox never no name on birth sheet the lower berth certificate is empty. spare the A.O. and he’s MNSN sounds like a psychic tee vee station (KPTV Portland)

Paris Review hates Dash Snow

dental hygiene dilemma

final final version of the DASH SNOW THING

The Dash Snow Thing by Jim Hayes This started as a record review of the first song on the Dangermouse David Lynch Sparklehorse thing. It’s sung by a Flaming Lips guy, Wayne Coyne: “Revenge”. I bought a new copy of the hipster rag “Wired” for 25 cents in a cheesy “bibles for missions” thrift store. Inside was an article about this specific rock and roll record which pointed me in its direction. I’ve been thinking a lot about Dash Snow and how his death is a turning point in the history of Western Pop culture. Why not? Michael Jackson’s death sure wasn’t. Perhaps it was Allen Klein’s death. Certainly Allen Klein’s death meant something. It was around this time I first heard this song called “Revenge”. Dash Snow overdosed hours before Bastille Day. He was an artist that made collages and photographs documenting the New York bohemian lifestyle. He turned his life into an art project. For this I see him as an avatar, a product of his own time as well as a low link in a theatre chain to the pugilistic Dadaist Arthur Cravan. “I wish I was a headlight on a northbound train! I’d shine my light through the cool Colorado rain. I know you rider, gonna miss me when I’m gone.” The song first appears in Alan Lomax’s “American Ballads and Folk Songs” in 1934. It could be about Dash Snow, it could be about Michael Jackson; maybe Ted Kennedy or you. The protagonist is saying in spite of it all, you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone. There are plenty of people that I miss today. Plenty. I don’t want to be someone that other people miss. (“There’s still time to change the road you’re on,” from the penultimate version: Seattle 7-17-77). I’m thinking about Dash Snow as a touchstone and a shew-stone of high art, High celebrity and HIGH reality. Where is the third place that walks beside you? To answer a question before it is asked. Am I trying to cash in on Dash? When I read about Mr. Snow’s passing it made me sad. I wanted to write about him because I felt I imagined an affinity. I only write about things that interest me. I’m only interested in things that show some sort of grand pattern or intelligent design. All cultural work is designed to be consumed in one way or another. While I understand that Mr. Snow was a living breathing human being, I mean him no disrespect by writing about his life and work. I wish to take nothing away from his memory. I’m interested in him as a piece of paper that Joseph Cornell and Kurt Schwitters would find on the street and re-integrate through their next piece, their next collage with the symbol of the avatar. Dash Snow was an interesting artist and his passing in close proximity to Mr. Jackson deserves his work to be looked at more microscopically. I wanna beat Schnabel and make my own movie about Dash Snow, starring myself (as myself) but in homage to Dash Snow as only Dash Snow could be Dash Snow. This summer, on envelopes, I stamp the Mona Lisa in duplicate. I arrange one just off center from the other. Then I stamp “Dash Snow” over the top in royal purple. This activity in the service of cultural accommodation (the use of the mail to distribute art) is a high end depiction of his work. The name, the brand above another brand of high art links these affinities forever. Meanwhile a Russian tourist hurls a recently purchased gift mug at the actual Mona Lisa. The mug hits the bullet proof glass and shatters to the floor. The French doctors held the woman for psychiatric observation. A psychosomatic illness, the Stendhal Syndrome occurs when an individual has a panic attack after being exposed to multitudes of art. Just last summer a woman kissed a painting by Cy Twombly leaving a large red smudge. She was sentenced to community service after being diagnosed as suffering from the dreaded stinkfoot Stendhal Syndrome. You just have to accept that some people aren’t going to reply. The day the Mona Lisa was attacked by a coffee mug bought in the gift shop like a piece of scrimshaw, I sent out some letters. I did a double rubber dubber of the Mona Lisa with “Dash Snow” on top of it-because now Dash Snow is in the pantheon, a blurred double reflective grade that can be accessed at will. “How much talent does it take to cum on a copy of the New York Post anyway?” Maybe if Dash Snow had cum on the bulletproof glass of the Mona Lisa he would have been correctly diagnosed. Errol Flynn had a son. Sean Flynn was the child of the medium wave media adventure hero. He was born on May 31 1941 to Lili Damita and he dissapeared on April 6, 1970. After his father’s death he acted in B movies and spaghetti westerns. Then he tried to be a safari guide but the only thing that incarcerated him was photo-journalism. With a pass from Paris Match he went to Vietnam and hooked up with the Special Forces. In the Spring of 1970 he went to Cambodia. The superstar child out to prove that the heroic line had not faltered. He was his father’s son and goddamn it, he and his friend Dana Stone of CBS were out to get the best war photos they could. In March of ’71 a pair of journalists were captured then released by the NVA. Flynn & Stone, Sean & Dana; they thought they could gather the experience of being captured and write a great story. Sean Flynn: child of the natural privelege. He was not a patsy. He got on a motorcycle and drove towards the checkpoint. They weren’t Viet Cong, King Kong or NVA. They weren’t from Central Louisiana either. Khmer Baton Rouge, red stick, Sean Flynn captured in the Kampuchean jungle. He wasn’t a dillettante. He was buried in an unmarked grave that stood for real. Dash Snow had seen what Sean Flinched. Dead in a bathtub in Paris, fabulous. Things could be different, but they’re not. The whole Dash Snow thing man-yeah man, Arthur Cravan, as I look back over the past year: the dismissals, the mystery, and the sense of waste. Wasted-and you are? The whole world did turn into a Royal Trux record with Dash Snow spinning off the cylinder. Royal Trux’s gesture, their rock and roll shroud was cloaked in the mystery of secret affluence that helped them pull back from the edge. Dash Snow didn’t pull back. He didn’t adjust the rear view mirror. I spend most of my time writing about writing, meta-journalism as-is pure poetry: “Writing about writing. XX Cent Criticism should symbolize what happens when writing turns inside out to write writing.” Allen Ginsberg, “Indian Journals,” 14 February 1963; p.175. (I cut this up and pasted it on 3 postcards). Merge Dangermouse/Sparklehorse/David Lynch/Flaming Lips review here: Trapdoor fuckin’ exit! “I wish I was a headlight on a northbound train.” I notice that when I’m in these living rooms waiting to score I adopt this different slouching persona. Problem is, is that when the actor wears the mask long enough his face tends to take on a different arch. “Strange, (it) seems like a character mutation, though I have, all the means of bringing you fuckers down.” (Dangermouse, David Lynch & Sparklehorse plus Wayne Coyne. The song is called “Revenge” and it came out around June; I wonder if Dash Snow heard it. It’s his song. “The more I try I hurt you, the more it backfires.” Coyne mumbles before some drum rolls: “the more it backfires, the more it backfires.” “The more I try I hurt you, (long pause) the more it hurts me.” The music is like a fog, like a drapery, like a shroud of the Post dripping with sea men, the white and sticky spots coagulate into the White Whale. “You can’t hide what you intend, it glows in the dark: once we become the thing we dread there’s no way to stop, the more I try to hurt you-the more it backfires. (Sound of bells, drum rolls, a disembodied guitar) “The more that it backfires.” The keyboard comes in to finish the song with a nod. The idea that ‘my life is a performance piece’ just can’t be true in the light of Tseching Hsieh. “Life” can’t be a performance piece because there’s no structure around the performance. The idea that no structure is a type of structure is meaningless unless it is compared with an additional structure. There has to be an idea of “form” so the piece can be ARRANGED, perhaps “framed” is a better word. Framed. Busted. Set up for a long shot, the last shot. Like Marion Barry said: “the bitch set me up.” But like Sean Flynn, Dash Snow took pictures of what he said. Photos from combat-two upper middle class upper classman taking the road more or less traveled. They have to prove to everyone that they’re for real. At no time do they have the option of pulling out of the decadence and going back to safety. Re-reading Breyer P-Orridge and the ritual experiences she undertook as a sense deprivation/as a sense heightening. This is a way to descend into the soul and expand. But this expansion does not materialize until s/he comes to the surface and breathes again. When the performance is over, when the ritual is finished shows how the individual is transformed. The type of cultural substance resignation that Mr. Snow imbibed was about walking through dreams, pulling apart curtains and peering through storm windows. He never ended the ritual so the ritual that became....his life had no separation and it wasn’t a “honey post-commodity” lack of separation but a no particular place to go sensation. The Fluxus like documentation, the hand done collages created not out of a sense of the charming “oh look it’s an original, a one time only offer” but simply Mr. Snow’s desire to transfer the moment to some physical thing. The collage, the single simple photograph was his way transubstantiating the moment he felt by conferring on it the title cultural work. Much like a painting before it turns into a spiral rack postcard. Almost as if someone in one of Hermann Nitsch’s visual documents be-came all the way alive, into a physical being right next to you. And Nitsch’s work is ritual. It occurs and happens at specific times like a poem. The Times called Mr. Snow a downtown Baudelaire. That’s quite a compliment. Baudelaire was a poet. 130 years later people are still reading his words. That’s an incredible accomplishment. Mr. Snow created pictures, movies and collages, which are certainly interesting and important activities. However, they’re not the same as writing. But neither is comparing the NY nightlife with an intellectual Vietnam, Sean volunteered Flynn. Dash offered up Snow. He didn’t have to go, but he went all right. He’s the latest scrimshaw of Arthur Cravan, instead of drifting off into a boat to nowhere Dash Knew exactly where he was headed. Arthur Cravan the performance artist-none of his performances exist-only lines cut into history books, reproductions of a faded poster of the night Cravan fought Jack Johnson in Spain... “And we thought we’d see all this in the sun. The shadow of a tired old horse remains a tired old horse. And the shadow of an art is kitsch. Remains art. And the shadow of Rome is still and always a Rome.” Kurt Schwitters, “Profane Words over the Eternal City”, 1928. Translated by Pierre Joris. Is the type of simple documentation, Polaroid’s, super 8 film, newspapers and semen-is this creative? Or is it only creative because Dash Snow type people are just naturally creative. Does it have to do with time and place and did Dash Snow make his own time and place. He certainly escaped his own time and place by refusing to have a cell phone or email address. His daughter is named Secret. Mr. Snow’s unfortunate passing was overshadowed by Shoeless Joe Jackson’s descent into steep shafts of slumber. Much like the real rock and roll suicide of 1994 happened in France not Seattle. A photo of Dash Snow clean shaven wearing a fedora and a black leather vest on the street in the East Village adorns a generic graham crackers box. Dash Snow masturbated onto copies of the NY Post and framed them. When New York magazine criticized him he masturbated onto that and framed that too. The use of his body fluids points out where Dash Snow was at that moment. Much like his documentary work of the NY party scene, he took photographs of the decadence he witnessed. Much like Dada artist Kurt Schwitters who picked up trash in Hannover and the Fluxus artist George Maciunas who kept the debris of his life (empty toilet paper rolls, empty toothpaste tubes, empty milk bottles etc) and sealed them up in plexi-glass. Showing their art by the trail of tearfully stained debris. Perhaps closest to Mr. Snow is Jerry Dreva who made an artist’s book “Wanks for the Memories: the Seminal Work/Books of Jerry Dreva” that comprised his semen upon the pages. Dash Snow was charging the media current with his sperm. The newspaper was his lover and helper. He was fusing the moment by connecting his seed with the stream of histories’ first draft. The part of his performance that remains is his ejaculation. His discourse about himself. The sticky white entry in a contemporary journal. “The are the Judex (Latin: Judge) and Testes of the Final Judgment; the Testes, in particular, are symbolic of the secret course of judgment whereby all current experience is absorbed, transmuted, and ultimately passed on, by virtue of the operation of the Sword, to further manifestation.” –Aleister Crowley, the Book of Thoth. (This is from the section on the 8th card “Adjustment”. Note that the 8th degree symbolizes masturbation according to OTO lore.) "I've seen what this kind of attention can do to people, when they let it go to their heads," he told Interview magazine recently. "I'll only go to an opening if I'm a big fan of the artist or to support a friend. People say 'the art world' but that's kind of generalizing. I'm not so concerned with it. I just want to hang out with my baby and make art." (Remembering Dash Snow, 1981-2009, Wednesday, July 15 2009 @ 1:50PM By Daniel Hernandez, the LA Weekly in Arts News). Dash Snow was looking for a spiritual high. His drug use was a shortcut. Was it a camouflage for insecurity? Why try and fail when you can just fail. A glorious well documented flame out like Sean Flynn driving towards the heavily armed check point. He had to be Dash Snow; he was expected to be outrageous, generous, warm, fuzzy, and spontaneous. The guy that is so “out there” does all the drugs, teeters on bridges makes collages and pictures and says he doesn’t care (look at me). Me and my beautiful girlfriend discussed how every city has a Dash Snow, since Thoreau and Schwitters there have always been those mystics that try and stand outside the flow. But Mr. Snow documented every bend of the landscape with his contraptions, the electronic journal-the photos and tapes. The endless loop of Polaroid’s covering up Dash as he sat in the bathtub for a photographer. Every city has a Dash Snow-every city has 500 channels, each digital pulsation broadcasts a certain dynamic, a certain demographic, no longer can the signal fade-it’s either: rain or Snow, on or off, one or two, dot or Dash. Scrimshaw is writing or drawings carved into whale teeth or whale bones. The sailors used sailing needles to carve and candle black to darken the illustrations. Writing and etching on the bones of a whale that was killed for its oil. The oil was used to illuminate businesses and homes in the 19th century. It gave the nation energy. If the creative act gives man energy, if the creative act gives a certain sense of illumination to the artist; could not 19th century whaling be a metaphor? Dash Snow goes out in NYC and all that is left is the skeleton of the evening. His Polaroid slivers are the final scrimshaw. Sean Flynn goes into the DMZ and his photographs become scrimshaw. They are sold in expensive gift shops on the outskirts of the boarded up whaling town. They are handled by scholars that decide the knee bone is connected to the thigh bone. “But it’s all in my mind.” I think Henry Rollins said that, he was too much of a He man junky hater to fall for the Kerouac Burroughs trip. He was too busy being a role model for future uber post modern boys and girls, the hardcore versions of Taylor Swift-Henry and Ian didn’t fall for it. I think they fell for standing up. Sean Flynn, Bushwick Bill, Dash Snow-they’re the real role models. Sherlock Hemlock and the case of the supper nigger. DJ AM avoids a plane clash but dies with an Oxy in his throat-the worst thing about his death was that he was found wearing sweatpants, an unopened scrimshaw gift next to his crack pipe. Bushwick Bill the midget gangster rapper is the oldest bone in the circus freak show. His act is carved in the jaw of a whale, look he’s just like us-only, well, smaller. Like the Khmer Rouge, “they still had all the means to bring you fuckers down.” Their size and obscurity divided the public opinion along lines of demarcation designated by horror and dismissal. Sean Flynn, Khmer Rouge, Dash Snow. DJ AM’s television show about drug intervention will being airing shortly, slowly in the October snow. Eight episodes were filmed before he died. The show is called “Gone Too Far” and is about him staging drug interventions with concerned relatives. The MTV show premiered on Aleister Crowley’s birthday. The Eighth degree concerns masturbation. Sean Flynn the documenter, the camera in his hand racing towards the Khmer Rouge checkpoint, his motorcycle commercial jacked up like Dash Snow on his way to score. The constructed heroics of children of privilege. Sean Flynn had to go to Kampuchea to see what combat was like. Without the discipline, after all he was a journalist. Dash Snow a child of privilege he had to drift into the seedy night time to document it for all it’s reality-“you can’t hide what you intend, it glows in the dark-once we become the things that we dread.” Yas Danger Lynch Horse say. The thing about Dash Snow, Sean Flynn and the moth like wingspan they inhabit is the ability to fly away from the flame. They can always pull back but not the soldier or the street urchin. Did Dash & Sean go too far because they had something to prove. The thing that gets overlooked is that person they had to prove things to was them-was they-I know to trip is just to fall. They died with their boots on. Does the life of Dash Snow stand separate from his artwork? If you hate Dash Snow does that invalidate his achievements? Was he really a performance artist that documented his performances? Was it perhaps an outreach of Thoreau and a thorough journal, yeah but the pause and click aesthetic does not give time for reflection. Though it could be said when you’re sitting in your bathtub with a pile of photos on your belly, this could be the moment that inspires quiet meditation. A very quiet and very American meditative reflection. Like Lou Reed said about Jimmy M.: “dead in a bathtub in Paris, fabulous.” Was it really fabulous? What kind of a bathtub was it? It was at a place called the Lafayette House in the East Village for $325 a night. Dash Snow was a mist of smoke that hung behind his shoulder blades. A ritual remarks upon a period of trial and rebirth, reincarnation and reemergence. Is this a type of mysticism, the notion that Dash Snow & Sean Flynn were acting as post-industrial shaman, all of their death defying activities just a way for them to communicate with spirits? Nineteenth century whalers were chasing the whale and while journeying carved stories into bone. The whales contained oil that was necessary for illumination and the whalers drew pictures on giant teeth. There’s a performance artist who sweeps, Michael Bramwell. He dresses in a custodian suit and sweeps. Though I guess it’s not a suit if you’re a custodian. According to Robert C Morgan in the end of the art world, “there is no audience necessary.” All that remains is a documentation of the sweeping. Which is the same is a single postcard with Michael Bramwell’s name on the invite. That’s cool. I watched Lady Gaga accept an award from MTV while her face was covered in a red nylon mask. She handed the obelisk statue to Eminem and she took the mask off. She thanked God. Next was Pink who was blindfolded and pulled up a winch while she sang. Her blindfold was dramatically pulled off at a link of the singing. All I could think about was Dash Snow; that was his act they were stealing. I want to watch a live football game because I want to partake of the collective experience. Even though I have a cell phone and an email address I’m not as involved in the world as Dash Snow. His works were public, they were interactive-the species that sits and types-well the more that I hurt you, the more that it hurts me. Paul Lewis from Boston College quoted Freud in the Times today, saying that gallows humor is only a temporary distraction, the gallows still loom. I was talking to my favorite ex-girlfriend. Ana B. She’s moving to London. She was furious I had a habit. I mentioned a close friend calling from London to read me the love war riot act. Then it was Ana’s turn. She said I was acting like a 15 year old. I explained that it was about the glamour. I told her that every Neo-Neoist is a star. Then I admitted that things were just fucked up. Things were just fucked. I mistakenly volunteered that my girlfriend said she’d be happy when the whole Dash Snow thing is done. Ana bolted: “she’s right- the whole Dash Snow thing. Why can’t emulate somebody, why can’t you emulate-I dunno, somebody-somebody like Christopher Buckley. At least he has a fuckin’ job!” It was my turn to laugh. She was on a roll. I couldn’t stop her. “Dash Snow, Dashsnow-how ‘bout Dash Poop!” I was in hysterics. I explained that was the point, that two groups are divided on his work. I told her that Dash’s stuff is going for like 3 or 4 hundred. “I already have collages by a coke head!” -Your future Dash Snow collection? I changed the subject to the killer Dangermouse Sparklehorse & Lynch “Dark Night of the Soul” that I’ve been swimming in all summer. Cash Flow, Dash Snow-“I guess it’s a matter of sensation”-flip the scrimshaw over and see the luggage tag-see the providence, bootleg Sean Flynn photos look like jook savages on the bravos. Aww you got a real imagination man. Talking withdrawal with the President. The last Christmas I spent in the city me and my old lady rode junk sick from Boston into Penn Station. We took a cab to St Marks. She took a walk with a friend and was a long time coming back. It turned out she fixed and sprayed the hall of the stash house with sticky debris. Dash Snow on a pay phone. Sean Flynn on a wooden spike. DJ AM in the plain of jars. “No glot-c’lom Fliday.” My favorite singer once complimented me. “Jim pretends to be a writer but what he’s really good at is hanging out (and) looking cool.” I’m making a heroic gesture at my mere witness. writing notes in class-texting: let's form a band called Dash Snow-let’s make scrimshaw with Dash Snow’s head...the original ending was here, the above more or less finished on the autumnal equinox. Necessary appendix: endless preface: and then you can be your own artist by making these blog postings you can live and die and be reborn on facebook- the Dash Snow thing was off the email and off the internet and off the continent-naah, Dash Snow didn’t blow it-we blew it- Dash Snow was the only one that recognized that the mere box of frozen Kroger Fun daze sundaes was really decorated with grinning anatomically correct skulls- The first guy to mouth off and say: well I can do that- next answer: well did you? and of course they never do, they always say well I can do that but they never seem to find the time to do these things they’re sure they can do- and the next problem is that some of these folks actually go out and try to be Dash Snow or Mark Rothko and then we have to put up with all their bad art and then some guy goes and does a documentary about them so in fact no longer are they just awful but now they’re officially documented AWFUL- I try not to read good reviews. There’s a bad review in the paper. This novel has a character who is a former rock critick that takes drugs and spits sentences out using words like “avatar”... on the beast’s birthday a tree limb falls on my house. Just last week I was with my girl and I was making fun of the gospel of john saying it was the gospel where Jesus lost his marbles. A hundred foot pine tree held a swoosh and me and her saw it crash in the street just down the block. It was dramatic and fire trucks came to chop it up. That I was in the kitchen looking out the window at the fourth week of heavy rain singing the Throbbing Gristle song: “what a day what a day what a terrible day-what an awful day,” and she came towards me and she has a way of underlining her eyes with a smile and I started singing the song for her and there was this incredible boom. We stopped hugging and ran outside. Out my front door is a huge oak tree. One of its limbs was rotted by all the rain and it just crashed. No holes. the thing about Oxycontin is that it’s so ubiquitous- rush limburger welcome to sammy jorgentown-do drugs give me the ubiquitous third place for me to reside-the third place, where is the third place that walks beside me? Ray Oldenburg. How can someone so ugly be so cool? I field a call. I can get a sixty milligram morphine for $55. I gotta think about that. He says that the offer isn’t going to last forever. I just don’t feel like driving to a bar to cop. I’m tired. I wonder is Ray Oldenburg is related to Claes Oldenburg. I always liked that clothespin neck right beside Philadelphia’s City Hall. Oldenburg says we need a third place to gather. As opposed to work and home. For years I used the 12 step meetings as a third place, for years before and after that I used drugs as a third place to reside. Of coursed it’s unfinished, everything I do is unfinished. How can anything in this society be truly finished? There’s always a second and third act. It’s all about the comeback like my friend John said. Oh yeah Dash Snow never made a comeback. They say he spent last winter in rehab. I see that Dash Snow has a tattoo on his right shoulder-it says “everybody sing night train” which is my favorite quote from flavor flav on that apocalypse album and of course Mr. Brown, the night train- l nickel Percocet. did Dash Snow get on the night train- that intro from live at the Apollo is 47 years old this month - he could have been introducing Dash Snow- “mister dynamite, the hardest working man in post-conceptual art, mister dynamite, hear him sing I go crazy-try me.” Like that ex girlfriend’s ex boyfriend before me, the(e) artist that threw himself out a window to break his liquid spine. He was doing the Dash Snow thing man. It was like a bake-off or a barbecue ribs contest. Once I was fucking her and I noticed one of the bedroom blinds didn’t have any windows. I guess pain is a matter of sensation. I really enjoy the ability to put in a good night’s work on the “piece” by sitting at the computer. Reaching out and touching, then reaching out. It’s turned us into a nation of voyeurs replicating, creating these elaborate digital trails that click clack and fit clack and release- I wonder what Kerouac would have done with an internet-or Ginsberg or Burroughs or Bukowski or if Raymond Chandler would have written his famous late night letters. These days there’s a strange tension in the force. FOR DASH SNOW: I KEEP FORGETTING THAT I’VE USED COME (cum) FOR YEARS. Back in the day I’d mail it to people an I even found an s & m collage that hung on my wall in Pittsburgh with a bag of my cum attached. Twenty two years later dissolved to the naked eye. I still smear cum over large collages before they get laminated. My blood is always there as well. I contend that this animates the piece. It forges a link between coming to NOW and remaining all the way alive. Not only did the very artist stand before this piece: “he stood before this piece all right.” I suggested to a local musician that he package his demo tape with a bag of cum. He appreciated the suggestion but thought it was ridiculous and possibly criminal. I thought it was a great idea. If sperm is a star, then Dash was a star trucker. Dash Snow folded up the tent of the collective unconscious and replaced it with a flat screen. Now media Gods preside, their heads morph into satellite controlled provocations. Marilyn, Kennedy, ready red rockets galore are reborn in the skies that pulse dreams larger than hard drives, you with the hard drive...softer than rubies in an ossified landscape, shifting for each metaphorical generation into a latest princess crushed by a camera lens and scattered through humming cables into desktop affairs, clicking dragging the corpse into buzzing shrines, a rapture of adulation, the huntress shifts into a funeral procession attended by hot young designer priests, lapel pins and programmed faces drawn long and officially concerned. We stop and observe the mute growth of nose hair. An inner colonialism explains that there is one way. One idea-one emotional stop sign. What is the accumulative effect of a billion of red hexagons speaking stop? A subtle reminder to halt, to cease, to step back, to hold it in, to remain the shame. Cancel. Be kindling, rewind a training camp of ideas that have been fostered by threats of violence. Dash Snow is the last Halloween mask. -Marietta, Georgia; United States of America Halloween 2009

south 12th street

i lived in the green building. she lived in the red building.twenty years ago tonight.

Led Zeppelin

I downloaded 20 Zeppelin gigs (not CDs) on Saturday. 3 from 69. 5 from 70. 3 from 73. 9 from 75. I’m really interested in the early ’75 shows. They play “when the levee breaks” & “wanton song” about six times a piece & never again. Physical Graffiti came out 21 gigs into the 38 gig tour. The audience’s unfamiliarity is cool.

four horus