Panty Sniffer Blues

Panty Sniffer Blues

 I.

They made an Indy movie about me and my friends by directly filming us cutting class in high school, and now I'm on a panel along with Joe Jackson, D.T. Maxx, Michele Abeles, and I'm somehow having to grope around to account for the activity of the New York School from something I casually said in passing. 

And I can't quite find a way to shift the conversation enough, can't find a work order of words or words to say indy sleeze was just TJ Maxx maxxed,

But it's the ascendance of seeing something unseen, weather a promising invocation or radical departure, now matter how miniscule the increments, now here.

Or just a piano scarf and over-smug Converse to stan stand on so easily identifiable, like all E shape barre chord cording,

But now I'm just some old spinster who's skin refuses to bigspin,

Bloated as gonest Doherty,

I'm more behind the times than Julian Casablancas in a too deferred black D.R.I. t-shirt he had on that I actually had in middle school (true story),

I'm more damaged than Gino,

More jaded than a jailed seventeen year old Carroll,

As spiritually deluded denuded as Hosoi,

And there's nowhere in the pubic domain to plaza practice for clips anymore, or maybe there never really was anyways,

And all the most relevant clips are post trick assaultive tactical operations on slanted combo chimney sweep curbs or scorching traumatizing landsend freeway gutter spills.

As ams now cannot afford to have a working methodological trick selection—well actually they can, but they are all neoconservative post historical neopostmodernist user stanning of a new braying populist post mc as death of artist user-producer pluralism raised on a not being able to fathom or even ever recognize physical video tape editing actually bringing better results through its tedious process, everything now phone filmed in decorated shed,

And they never recognized the death of tech formalism was Danny Renaud flying down on impact, 

And all the skateboarding is,

Pre-emptive surgery.

II.

And I know for a fact women do not get physically love sick like men,

As network agents write love songs with the immediacy of direct crisis because their life depends on it, in a way that Sabrina Carpenter with a train chain of always open options all the time can never quite exactly fully reach,

And I don't see Miski playing guitar publicly going extra in culling the poetry in tricking the audience with invented ways of misrepresenting finger placement to make indecipherable audience chord views to make songs unattainable mystery,

All chords so visually explicit from the mezanine, a good enough obvious,

Chords played in the same position every time on the necking torture chambering armless crucifix.

You got to really want it my piano teacher once smugly said when I was in third grade,

And as mountainous high tail girl with girl-lording park ranger hat, cupping breast with crazy hand,

Over hornied and reindeer dear Bullwinkle'd, all in a leisure time away from synching calendars and clapping pdf,

And American women can do everything a man can do, that is except vote themselves into power,

Even with my assistance,

So I poem poems that are applicable mind game manipulation parlour tricks and tips for candyassed prick pick up artist situationists,

I forage mind trick ordered text easily converted to Youtubing bulleted bulletin points for all coddle code toking,

I'm a self filming self reflexive reacting to art autist auteur artist,

I pen anonymous, though not quite accurate finger picking plucking banjo tabs, reinvigorating and periodizing historicity mid aughts contemporary Americana online, because I can see an opening there,

I've had lurid speculative auto fiction published in Penthouse Letters where in the narrative I still can never get lucky,

But in the narrative I see the other characters do, and it breaks me, and I describe it as the reader shakes it off so good,

And I can't get off to mail in porno story shorts now because the situation plot beckoning sex seems too unlikely and unbelievable from all my own baggage that I bring into the narrative,

So I bastard sire cowerding cobwebbing licking tattoo template books for trace, to be ripped out and binder paged to the wall,

After I cut my broken teeth tracing children's temporary tattoos,

Because I'm a menu designer freak folk pickleballed punk-star,

I think about Sean Lennon at least once a week,

And longboarding Arabs who over hard post,

Because in five years I will have made stretched ear lobes de rigueur retro, and then consequentially, synonymous with all the activity of tenuous notion of some current transnational avante-guard activity en toto.

I've been excoriated by a misguided ahead of themselves in inexperience smug Gen Z in the comments section of Yale studio program IG for innocently responding to hard posted skart just for saying skateboarding is art (true story),

I can see Rice University undergrads walk around so sound and smug, but they don't have the activation to tear it in tear it out enough enough because they don't have the fiery sense of lost time and searing regret uncontained,

As the most visible tattoo skin murals only tale to tell, signifies semiotically one in possession is more well invested in an advanced conceptual theoretical and dematerialized critical practice that began somewhere in the late late sixties, 

Like Lucy Lippard predicted what will soon eventually happen because we will all have too much leisure time to ruminate on a string taped around the gallery walls in Cologne,

And we will be surprised to find macarena-ing midwife will actually be way more competent at untangling the linguistic transformations posed by conceptual art than any balding museum man ever could.

Like in the 80's how one naturally assumed punks skated better because they where punks, now proven wrong by all the gloat of shirtless sweatpant ripping selfie stanning chads two-upping 90's skater of the year.

But for instance, my ryde or die tattooist keeps a copy of Leo Steinberg's Other Criteria: Confrontations of Twentieth-Century Art, in his tattoo gun console next to the ink nubs.

And I'm just the kind of guy that if my girlfriend was being being hit on by another guy and I retaliated with violence, she would probably side with him,

And I'm the kind of guy that if I was hitting on a girl and her boyfriend kicked the shit at my face, she would cuddle up to him, cynically egging him on,

They, like cynical villainous Saturday morning cartoon couple thinking they are on the right side, simply by virtue of them being together,

My reductive deductive though unwritten about sculptures have been referred to as bric brac,

And my want to impress people who venerate name check Dylan Thomas,

And I too often think of Death by reading because of an imagined pervasive inaccurate inconclusive misreading, if they even ever read at all by then,

In a landscape where even well connected and over-informed nepo babies cannot afford to fully live in the city off their arts and crafts alone.

 

III.

And when entire vegetable cooked phone book of normies all turn into post minimal sculptor neo avant garde, at least the public park looks like Virginia Dwan erupted all over the Eastering Sunday'd grass.

And it's just a matter of time a Yale graduate student takes DIY props and refashions them, resituates them in a white cubed theatricality post Serra phenomenological post minimalist object sited, because they have the financial overmeans and time to be buoyed by the armature apparatus of the vacation resort of academy, and I've had carried this idea for decades just alone at the park, only for they and their cohorts to extol the pole jam sun dial prop's semiological connection to Ferdinand de Saussure all while listening to Franz Ferdinand.

So I go below like puddling urchin, in search seeking out for over-looked undiscovered riffs for my own invention,

Waiting to hoard riffs accompanied to La La La's,

Trying for purpose rhyming verb lists with a mind futility taking cues from Richard Serra,

When all the museum activity in North America gets carved up by Gen Z post docs still now androgynous normie virgins who treat K Pop with a reverence formerly reserved for Sonic Youth and the Velvets,

Music graduate teachers pimping limping John Cage 4'33 performances every ever so smugly to add to all their multidisciplinary credential,

And on their own time, Gen Z curators document arena stage set dreadlocked golden bull like sculptures to a Moses sea of the self reflexive iphone lighters farago of the too much over-bobbling up and down kids-yall-all-really-need-to-just-chill crowd, out of the Gen-Z curator's predictable need to typically express their chill and relatable and unoriginal relation to the pop secular.

So when all tea cups sour,

When all spoons bleed purple lawnmower oil,

When there's no fertile local club scene mandatory to incubate and vet real bands,

And internal radar song bird song no longer ride treble cleft waves and music is dead,

Teared and feathered, bleached and lacquered, onto the hovering Pittsburgh anemia of snow globed wires flocked, in the cream of wheat under the weather mornings,

Then I will finally excoriate the poststructuralist merchandise display of pawnshop,

I will staple gun seamless carpet stage cubes for all the mannequins to stand and rest upon,

I will compliment art I don't like when I'm at a Gallery in Chelsea, in misguided anticipation to all my misconstrued assumed future success,

I will show too much enthusiasm for Rachel Whiteread to a staff that doesn't quite believe me,

I will pretend to have read an entire article in Brooklyn Rail,

I leather tool leather mobster astronaut coat with cooling fans forward towards a screwed wormholing sun,

Beating the bishop against edge of infinity,

As owl fallow finally falls to stain stripped floor, still staring at you in the dead in the dick eye with contempt, while codex of coos hover in frozen comic book bubbles containing irish whiskey plaid and pasta salad paisley backgrounds,

I will Youtube film myself patching all axl rosed marks of the plaza with fix-flat and tire polish that smells like blue snow cone,

And when someone on reddit deconstructed your haughty hermeneutic loop with pencil tool in marker mode diagram, right then I knew,

Not thinking of you specifically, but still thinking of you,

So then best believe, I will then be the first to dap dapplings so sheer,

Triumphant, even though I'm confirming it against all my own best interests,

And baby boomers stole the Gen-X postmodern posture of a circa Gen-X not knowing exactly what postmodern means, but it's okay because neither do the boomers really know now either.

And Gen-X caught up to the over-weight of the boomers, so they now both pretty much all seem the same,

Because science fiction writers articulating a slick futura modernism, have but not enough foresight or imagination to really realize garish roccoco Kitsch will always still exist, even in, or especially in the future.

IV.

But I'll be still out on the block, 

I will walk up and down the strip recognizable,

Or beneath all the metropolitan expedience,

Lie-ing with all the others,

Running with the un-hunted,

While all ugly male giraffe models in Black Sabbath t-shirts, pants with each leg a contrasting color all follow suit,

I remain beaked,

In meek weekend night,

Mauling your crew with cruel eyes,

And all your inordinate pride,

So violently tamed like match flame,

And drinking is the most radical thing that you do,

I so miserable during peak of fun,

Staring into eye of the key slit of padlock,

I'll be getting drunk again soon,

As another year ghosts past,

As tongues still stir like greedy elm switches,

Darkness like activated mirage,

Gracie Abrams, Bloom Twins in corn rows necking in a parked Eagle Talon,

Fogging up each other's pilled grill,

Needing new songs to ghost,

As you monster, 

Your love is not home again,