* * *

Onwards As it Were

2010-04-11T14:29:00.000-07:00

Botox, People Magazine & the Cowboy Stars
February 2009

The days turn, incessant and yawning
I am after it--
the one with the golden tooth

Souls are
inherently digital, already, the water was plural
It would not have made a difference
if one of us existed, as negation, in negation
I adore you for it. The terror
of crows and midnight-internets is time
broken into billions of People.

Without recollection, without having access to recall,
With nowhere does the body belong just as
Senses simulated or else mocked

For public usage, your skin
still there. "I" am not there, the violence
of double-quotations is to place oneself inside a tornado, willingly,
doorless sentences get slain
behind a single word or the enterprise
of your laughter benefits only you.

The mileage between two words
is what brought forth text-messaging, I believe, but
Who cares? No one, yeah, no one.

Tonight, beauty goes as far as a bare mattress
With a bare body on it and the light
Over your face is for age that goes with everything
Just as age separates and binds do we ever
get out of it--no, sure, fuck it why not.
 

-All Movie Clips Come to an End

The End

2010-04-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

Thanks Babe. Snap* We Did It Again.

ByeBye Birdie.

xx

Nailski

Happy Birthday Clipper!!

2010-04-08T04:48:00.000-07:00

Today in History
1994 Smoking banned in Pentagon and all U.S. military bases
1986 Clint Eastwood elected mayor of Carmel, California
1935 Works Progress Administration, WPA, approved by Congress
1914 U.S. and Colombia sign a treaty concerning Panama Canal Zone
1879 Milk was sold in glass bottles for 1st time

Nailppy Birthday To You

2010-04-04T18:33:00.000-07:00

Easter Mass on a Sunset Beach

2010-04-04T11:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Naily Easter.

A few days ago on the bed an argument of color extends its four limbs until it walks on its legs. On a wet spring train of that thought, somehow it was decided that color is a child of time and progression. In my mind I stared at what seemed to be color photos from the 1960s and giggled about representation, how tones in color come to prominence as a reflex of technological inhibition, how memory stains come to fruition during such silly daydreams, how it has me sitting here writing to you about it.

At Saint Louis roman catholic in downtown Buffalo, I lit a candle at the foot of the huge marble Pieta and said something like "god please take care of us all" and realized that Jim Carrey has two R's in his last name. During the priest's performance of the Transubstantiation I noticed the tabernacle behind his back resembled a drive-thru call box at the fast food joints when he removed the gold plate of tiny hosts and God was there. somehow. Does a priest still have the ordained power to turn french fries or a Happy Meal into the body of Christ? And why not?

While walking up the aisle to receive holy communion there is always the "Act of Contrition" to recite like a pop song which goes:

OMG I am sorry for my sins
In choosing to do wrong and failing to do right
I have sinned against you and yr church
I firmly intend, with the help if yr Son
To make up for my sins and to love as I should

Amen.

Leaning forward with my tongue hanging out, I felt like a puppy coming to get a treat and there was god in my mouth laughing. I walked back to the pew to, got on both knees with my face in my prayer palms and said "please take care of my family and friends. Don't forget me." At some point it became clear that Christianity is the longest living soap opera with a day and nighttime running of two-thousand years produced by Archangel Gabriel Studios all done in final cut pro in some far corner of my imagination. The bell rang. Spring is officially everywhere and its time for Claritin D allergy pills.

Everyday is a Dream. Let know one tell you otherwise.

Hearts & Stars,
Clippy Easter

He Is Risen!

2010-04-04T00:53:00.001-07:00

Clip
Easter is my very favorite Holiday. It makes me so happy to awake to a miracle. Like how three years ago we shared Mimosas at Maggie Brown's. I'm still here. and so are You. Ta-Da! love you so.
Nailster Bunny

Song response to Yr "Not For Then" and Because If I Then If Again I'm Gonna Break Up With My Own Self At This Point If Then Is Not Clear Now, Shit

2010-03-31T18:42:00.000-07:00

pome

2010-03-31T17:08:00.000-07:00

Not For Then, If Not

If not for then for what
Not for then for what if
For then for what if not
Then for what if not for
For what if not for then
What if not.

For then for what not
For then for what if for
The for what if not then
For what if not for for
What if not for then what
If not.

Not. If what then
For not if what for
For not if what for
For if what for then for
Not what for then.

.then for what.

-C;ip

Poem In Case You Want To Go

2010-03-29T13:12:00.000-07:00

This is crazy
as if we met
abandoned by
chance or how
to chase you
through darling
shadows
the things I'll learn
the race I'll die to win
the body
which does not
drag and paste
marked by hooves
I am yours as in belong to
hell,
not even trying
to make this up

Nailver

poem In Praise of Middle School

2010-03-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

Spam
for Middle School

Oh dare if she or what she's gonna say
Self-deary portraits on pink morning glib rise
Sunken gift of the hair flip give up
My pale memory serves me wrong but what do i know
As a kid I always thought how cool "to get grounded"
Because of the way it sounded from all
The white classmates. Grounded? We eat spam
And white rice and vienna sausage.

-Clippy

Just In Case You Forgot

2010-03-27T18:58:00.000-07:00

Clipyn Rand

At the Beat Book Store On Pearl Street nothing has changed. A really pretty boy bought a dollar copy of Atlas Shrugged and of course got a fist full of Good Fucken Luck from Tom. I love that Tom, the man is a legend in his own right. The king of Pearl Street. The Mayor of Fuck It I'm A Beat Poet. I'm cornered with a bloody nose nodding like hell at the words "Poet" and" Idolatry", agreeing to things that should probably have me arrested on Mars?, eyeing the overpriced Duran Duran record and hoping that one of those new "Camp Kerouac" t-shirts can be won by reciting the only poem I've ever memorized: "sarah cynthia sylvia stout" by Mr. Silverstein. I have no idea what year it is. In third grade I dressed in a black garbage bag and recited it aloud under a hand painted Giving Tree. I wonder if I could recite it without the outfit? or how memory is so connected to objects. Like right now, you are still in the bath to me and maybe always will be. Coincidentally third grade was the same year I as sure I wanted to change my name to Crystal. yes, Crystal. I know man, I totally agree, I should have done it.
I'm at the Laughing Goat- The posh cafe that opened our last semester. Some obvi Tori Amos fan is all up in my WindHorse with her shrill piano odes to Arizona and if I don't punch myself in the face soon I'm sure to take a stranger out. This body babe--*BAM- BAM*. This body is on FIRE.
Naila Julaton

Letter To a Young Performance Poet Blogger

2010-03-26T15:05:00.000-07:00

hi babe-- just thought i'd remind myself what exactly publishing is...! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Publishing
oh man this gets me thinking about a whole platform of possibilities on this one famous stage alone--
publishing as its own floorboard or stage for which narratives appear on-- to use the physicality, dimension,
shape of a book as a staging device of this diluted medium called publishing--we must experiment with it!
And what if we could simultaneously perform/publish/manufacture our books all in once concert?

Ah--Let us start to fail for real..

Heart,
Rainer Clip Rilke

Poem Whatever Being

2010-03-26T09:40:00.000-07:00

In Poland a woman
wanted to send a plate
of sauerkraut
as if transatlantic cable
could sustain
what we look like
our open faces
our conversations
on spectacle: the pure form
of separation. I gotta tell you
I'm wiped out
to be candid
inverted from my own
linguistic nature
finally, ha- spatium
absolutley fit to expose or
ha-choo.
I was made to love
and can become the image.

Nailgamben

poem

2010-03-25T17:59:00.000-07:00

I Come From NailClip Theater, How About You?
for every kid in their 20's

Shock houses on the hill skype box check
Photo me this photo me that
Pressing send shouts pressing what have we
Buffalo poorness glistening
To retrieve your Boulder in mid-air text delight
A house there on a hill some snow there on a thrill
And the tragic tropic tiger tire skids on dotted lines so remind me
What commas are for again? Somewhere
driving home we breathe with no rest so "can I
come over I need to rest". A dream of absolutes
Is not possible but we know that abstract parodies
When performed is our tiny desire to be like god
An arrangement of pattern, text message gossip
Heroes at the center of sport or small town
Muscle blogs in the subtle making
There is no Pulitzer here, just real fucked up calculations
On a suspension of belief in the future
With all the things we haven't yet made
In this digital metatheater tinkering and awake
Already clipped and nailed on eternity's cheekbone.

Poem On Text-Box Relationships

2010-03-25T00:02:00.000-07:00

I am can't are
am said no, nice
one then if come
milk ok uck
love right go
huh no what
o yes wait
no I no want
just don't go
light be can
so much box?
fuck ex wait
not that said
in of whole
way but see
what i ruff
don't know next
stop no done
sump/jump if
this you are who
not are so right
un can be soup
since from wait
i'm- forget
hack brick love
yes sick on.

Uncle Nailsse

a Letterbox In Praise of Our Distances.

2010-03-24T20:02:00.000-07:00

poems from The Castle Project 1 from feliz molina on Vimeo.

<3
Clips Of It

Had A Dream I Don't Talk About In This Post

2010-03-24T13:40:00.000-07:00

Clip Flakes,

At some point in the night I start to over identify with the power of feng shui. Since the bed is now in the Commanding position- for those of you wondering, *AHEM* the commanding position desires the bed be placed diagonal from the door and since the closet area would be my view if i placed the bed facing East, well I went with the North facing commando which overlooks the room and directly:the desk. Two melatonin later I'm tossing. I feel this Silver Cord- a term i derived from a book I read at 13 about a sister trying to connect with her dead twin or perhaps this helps: Ecclesiastes 12:6–7, “Before the silver cord is snapped … and the spirit returns to God who gave it.”- either way there I am, there's the silver chord of the desk and we my dear, are in Existential war. The entire night I am trying to figure out how else to place the bed, how else how else how else. Are these really the things we do? I get an email from my very first love telling me he didn't sleep. Although the reasons were completely other, and frankly he would have looked blankly at me if I'd told him:
NO shit, because I didn't sleep either! I was totally so connected to the energy between the alignment of my bed and my desk and it was so insane! are we soul mates?

as it turns out he didn't sleep planning a non-profit for social reform.

right. No Big Deal.

At seven I roll over and make a list of things to do. to get today. the sun is out and I feel as if I live in some sort of abandoned archaeological dig. To be sitting at Happy Trails coffee shop FIVE feet from my house next to a window that looks out to:____/^^^^\___/^^^**^^/*****________and so much of it already. I wonder:

If this place is extinct where am I here? The girl behind the counter reminds me of my college roommate. The guy with the finger web tattoo talking about breaking his shoulder while biking in the snow I'm pretty sure is Cheech in hiding and the two women taste each others Soy lattes and the one of them tells the other: I'm a rice milk fan, its richer in body even though people think soy is.

and they nod from under knit Tibetan? winter hats. Maggie last night sat in my room because she heard me quote Edward Said (i know) and call some systems of traditions in times of atrocity " devastating renditions of Oriental ism" and tells me that's why she lives in the mountains and I laugh with a hand on hers, " but in the mountains don't you see all the more we hide and snow shoe our way out of politics it binds us?" Can you imagine that people believe that the worries of the world, the Face of turmoil is only seen in the Cities? That things are Other. As if Lacan is the major of this beautiful place. She doesnt mean to hide, no one does it with malice or blame. We all just want to feel Safe. and in this room on the floor last night I believe we did. In just a few days I am really loving these kids. This house is for transients and Maggie is moving to Washington- she is a river guide- to me that was like someone saying they were a Shaman. You should have seen my reaction. I felt like I was in Avatar. and the other two are heading off to hike for 5/6 months. To hike babe. Me? I'm heading off to Blog for like 5/6 lifetimes. I guess at the end of the day we are all pretty hardcore. The act is like the photo of the Pinsetter. A job now obsolete but just too beautiful to forget. Here I go to hike to the hardware store. Extension cord/hangers/talk to me.

I love you.
Nailderland

Step Right Up Into my Cereal Box: a one act play for the Selected Writings.

2010-03-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

Nail in Nederland, Colorado.

I came three times this morning whereupon I got the signal to go ahead and hide it from the neighbors. If I'm not mistaken, anemic alleys in Barcelona still glows like vegas slot lights in my heart the size of Buffalo, New York. I prance around this apartment Breaking It Up a Little Bit like a one hit starburst. I'm about to ask these students to join me for a dance party between 11am-1pm next tuesday and thursday while we listen to Baudrillard lectures spread sun over Lykke Li.

Little Bit
Lyrics by Lykke Li

Oh oh oh-oh x9

Hands down
I’m too proud for love
But eyes shut it’s you I’m thinking of
But how we move from A to B
It can’t be up to me
Cause you don’t know
Eye to eye
Thigh to thigh
I let go.

enter Baurdillard as a hologram from Heaven--->

We are living in a period of objects:
that is, we are living by their rhythm, according to their incessant cycles.
While objects are neither flora nor fauna, they give the impression of being
a proliferating vegetation; a jungle where the new savage of modern times
has trouble finding the reflexes of civilization.

[[Chorus]]
I think i'm a
Little bit
Little bit
A little bit in love with you
But only if you're a
Little bit
Little bit
A little bit in la-la-la-la-love with me, oh oh

Ooh ooh ooh ooh-ooh

Baudrillard exits the theater and pisses on Duchamp's urinal--->

Accumulation, or profusion, is evidently the most striking descriptive
feature. Large department stores, with their luxuriant abundance of
canned goods, foods, and clothing, are like the primary landscape
and the geometrical locus of affluence...

Those are our Valleys of Canaan where flows, instead of milk and honey,
streams of neon on ketchup and plastic--but no matter!

There exists an anxious anticipation, not that there may not be enough,
but that there is too much, and too much for everyone;

And for you I keep my legs apart
And forget about my tainted heart
And I will never ever be the first
To say it but still I get over
Ah ah ah

Baudrillard shakes his dick, gets on his knees and prays.--->

Art consists in playing on the ambiguity of the object's sign, and sublimating their status
and utility as commodity in a play of "ambiance". The drugstore is neo-culture universalized..

Enter Molina center stage eating a cornflake one by one.
She does not leave the theater until the box is empty.------->

Baudrillard does not see Molina, gets up from his knees floats mid-air laying down. He floats further away up through the roofless ceiling and disappears into clouds.--->

I will do it,
Push button,
Pull trigger,
Climb mountain
Jump off a cliff 'cause you know baby
I love you love you a little bit
I would do it
I would say it
You’d mean it
I could do it
If it was you and I only and I -

From the surround sound speakers, Baudrillard enters and gives instruction.------>
These would be the successive phases of the image:

1. It is the reflection of a basic reality.
2. It masks and perverts a basic reality.
3. It masks the absence of a basic reality.
4. It bears no relation to any reality whatever: it is its own pure simulacrum.

[[Chorus x 2]]

Come here
Stay with me
Stroke me by the head
Cause I would give anything
To have you as my man

------>Enter Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche as his non-reincarnative self laughs like thunder claps in the distance and dances.

Come here
Stay with me
Stroke me by the head
Cause I would give anything
To have you as my man

----------> The theater folds into an origami dove and flies away.

A Note While Neighbors Make Love

2010-03-24T02:01:00.000-07:00

\

I'd almost forgotten
what a wall was
before the thing
started moaning
and moved in
so that to touch it
with my arm
bored electric
to the ground.

Nail Oppen

"Back To Life, Back To Reality..."

2010-03-21T17:03:00.000-07:00

Clipper,

At 2am I begin the 18 hour drive to Nederland. Did I just take a long time in the Target bathroom? Is my walking closet on Folsom and Arapahoe filled with last season's Diesel denims or can I come over to that watershed tree fuck and watch you drink wine, hear Anna stomp around or April roll up on JRB's shadow and ask you what we do if we ever come back in four years? I've been engaged. tattooed. drunk then sober. skinny fat skinny. smoking not smoking. angry forgiving. into no poems gimmie. Whatchoo know about this here boomboom? Where is our time capsule with all our guidelines on how to take over if we came to return:

"Hi babe, its me, Babe. Looks like you are back. Well don't even worry because This time: ok, so this time basically just relax. ok? I'm not even worried. Here is a Folsom Coffee gift card, a Naropa cafe free pita coupon a book of matches for the offenses in the free box and ear plugs for meditation cause I'm NOT even trying to let you reach the nature of mind- we have like so much to do. This is perfect. I'm right where the blog is. Welcome back babe. we can do this together. So let's just call this operation: its on..."

right?
I feel lighter. Lets do it. we both need me. I want a bath waiting. heat up the hostel, Mommas comin home.

Nail Cassidy

Poem For Jake Zamansky

2010-03-21T15:56:00.000-07:00

You're so right
I'm hella out
of my league
or how you say
compression of
allegorical territory?
The task
to conceal
the fact
that there is no one
and at the same time
obsessed with it's survival-
It's how I know
to reduce everything
to some reality
to lay my simulation
in place of our way.

winter Nailympics

2010-03-20T16:57:00.000-07:00

Voicemail Soap Opera
for Google

Loosen up the ends ol' daisy
The sun's out, all the suns from here
To made in China are out. So look:
I got a few installations we can do
Not for the public or even ourselves
But for memory's sake
since everything
Including our bodies
Is souvenir. I say we
Get married in a voicemail box
Drag the priest in
Masquerade around the black velvet curtains
and tell no one about it, not even the
Frank O'Hara blow up doll
standing black and white
On the other end of the call.

-The Clipster

Poem For All The People Getting In Our Way

2010-03-20T14:25:00.000-07:00

for twentythree

I play myself
we need no tricks
I'd like to feel
just in case
you move
so that the sun
wears on us
and years from now
people whiz on bikes
howl out hearties
the day it snowed
in Chicago
and years from now
to hold your hand
no black phone buzz
the day
you worked the downtown
hotel and years from when
I lay on you, behind the eyes
our quiet ends.

Naileth Patchen

A Poetic Study of JCrew

2010-03-20T09:28:00.000-07:00

Text Message Installation 1:

1. check yr phone babe.

Chicago 2010

2010-03-18T22:48:00.000-07:00

pome

2010-03-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

Heft Text
for Urban Outfitters, S. or A.

the bull legged bank account, heft sparkle
pen ink stains on the membrane hi
door locks uh uh uh,, ,um ,, uh
Take my hand already. Because
I am locking us in for fuckssakes
go get em'--wind. Tethering
text smiles around Chicago
from a train. On a train the wind
so Sony and today
We give each other candy bar names.

-Clipped Beyond Repair

Poem For Real Time

2010-03-18T14:12:00.000-07:00

It isn't a strange life
lead by euphemistic correlatory
as if to step over one's rumbling lullabye
that fine image coughed through Belmont toward Addison
Is gonna leave us a story
is gonna answer our great questions with a YouTube doubler
cross navigated by email and topped of with a little Sykpe dra-izzle.
You, dancer in my head while these table clothes fade into divine tremors ha-ha-hacking the sun blast
fa-fa-fixing up the night.
I'm ready for real this time
nothing but the parliment screams of balled fists
nothing but the muted mouth opening
ha-who am I here loving it all in?
yes yes yes that tha-thing yes that la-hove yes baby
that love is a real thing ha-yeah.

xx Nailbot

Will Kentridge

2010-03-18T14:02:00.000-07:00

The Blog Life

2010-03-17T11:12:00.000-07:00

Clip To The Nail Cause The Hair Ain't Listening:
here's the way its gonna work: we bend spoons with our minds and STOP BLAMING poetry for everything. The sun is shining in Chicago and last night I dream Coney Island is a graveyard and I am asking everyone but what happened to the Cyclone? I have a fever. My facial explodes and no one notices. It's St. Patricks Day. And in Boystown we trade in Ed Hardy hoodies and for gold sequins, party beads and red-faced voice mails. This beautiful spray-tan sits down like a silk scarf descended from heaven at a bar patio table and sings Tupac like he is at the Houston audition of American Idol:All I need in this life of sin, is me and my girlfriend Down to ride to the bloody end, just me and my girlfriend.

I wipe the Dead-Reckoning off my face real quick and imagine the PowerPoint presentation for our apartment performance on authenticity. Perhaps it may include something like this:

Thank You and Welcome to The Blog Life. An experimental exhibition showcasing the authentic installation of famed .blogspot.com celebrities, ladies and gentlemen, Poetry's sweethearts: Hair/Nail Calle and Flip/Clip Molina. As your cab arrives, you will notice you are in the heart of what we here at The Blog Life like to call: The Thick Of It surrounded by a hearty metropolitan nightlife, a bevy of pseudo intellectuals, a non ironic Chick-Fil-A and only a ten minute walk to Target, WholeFoods, AdultVideo Mart Express, and the local watering hole wittingly named " Here Lies Flarf". As you approach the seemingly modest door you may smell an exotic wave of spices from tonight's menu: Rellenong Bangus. You know you have arrived. We ask that you make previous arrangements with your local small press and store your ego and poetic identities for the length of your stay here at The Blog Life. We also suggest the following list of items should be brought to make your experience here more enjoyable:

1. The last magazine you looked at. This will serve as your reference guide. In it you will find the answers to just about any question that may arise. We do ask that you refer to your magazine guide before posing a question to The Blog Life.
One mix cd containing at least 20 tracks that make you smile.
2. A photo of yourself at 7 years old and One at 17.
3. Four packs of bubble gum. We suggest Bubulicious Cotton Candy or Original Flavor.
4. The Collected Works of Whoever.
5. A pair of comfortable earrings
6. A flash light
7. 2 rolls of cookie dough
8. one set of basic oil paints and brushes (canvas will be provided by The Blog Life)
9. Video Camera
10. At least three complete thoughts
11. A sense of sincerity or at least an appreciation for the sublime
12. A copy of "The Fam handbook" which can be purchased at nailheartsclip.blogspot.com
13. One song off the " The Blog Life Karaoke Song List" memorized
14. A Broken Heart
15. One well delivered Joke
16. photo ID

* Please note at least Three years of LIFE experience required to attend residency at The Blog Life. If you've been "checked out" for more than 6 months, The Blog Life requires a ten minute short film describing your current state for evaluation. For a quick self evaluation example to see if you have checked out/ or given up: If you have worn sweatpants for more than one errand in two weeks- you have checked out and must submit a video for consideration.

We remind you that cellphones will not be used, any outside communication-as stated in your contact- will remain collaborative property between you and The Blog Life done through Skype or Google video-chat. Please be reminded that all interactions with the impossible will be recorded for performance archive purposes and to ensure your safety, we ask that you pay mind to the section in your contracts entitled: "TEN TIPS ON HOW TO TELL THE BLOG LIFE THEY LOOK CUTE WITHOUT GETTING CUTE".

The draft is rough but well with a few formulaic activities, a Salsa lesson, Nighlty Karaoke, Connect Four Hour including an array of classes offered in varies tantalizing subjects such as : " YouTube: An Investigation into the Informal"; " How Google Do You Feel Today?"; " How To Lose A Poem In Ten Days"; "A Brief History of Blogidation" and "Explorations In Optimism and Circumstance: The Science of Lady Gaga". I think we will do Just fine.

besitos.xx
Nailsame Street

I'm Thinkin Just a Little Bit

2010-03-16T20:24:00.000-07:00


YouTube Doubler

Naillinois,
Let me start off the evening with not even a hello or fuck but with traditional Filipino dancing called Tinikling. You know what to do next--go on and mute that with some Lykke Li over it. As announced by Data Savers all my p.o.e.m.s are gone straight to Blake's heaven. I sat stoned for an hour watching data recovery videos that made so much sense I had to laugh; plucking and screwing the head with rubber gloves like a 21st century surgeon salvaging the heart of all these poems free floating in 1s and 0s. OMG. do you think our poems are nothing but numbers no matter how hard we try to fight it? I thought i could do this as a side job--start a business salvaging data-poems for reckless poets. Can you imagine you and me rocking white goggles in pink lab coats with bikinis underneath data saving for a daytime job in some run down shack with a Nail Hearts Clip sign sparkling in the tropical hum of Christmas lights on the Philippine island of Palawan? Because I can.

Spring has arrived. God, the weatherman on CNN or Bertolt Brecht seems to have shut the hard cold doors of winter as of today when my heart skipped on out of my chest and through the phone-call with California who announces a piece of the spindle slid and punctured the disk for godamm good. The white male voice had a moment of silence with me and then i hung up. Yesterday an Adobe woman in Manila was giving instruction on how to get this flash started. I knew she was Filipina right away and asked where she was located. Towards the end of the 40 minute skype call I wanted to say "omg. if I visit Manila anytime soon, can i come stay with you?" If it could be that easy, just like that--make friends with someone across the world through technical difficulties while they understand your retarded frustrations in not knowing where you put the serial number to get this flashy reality started.

Jesus,
Smooth Clip Moves

2010-03-15T23:05:00.000-07:00

nail, will you?

with love, clip.

pome

2010-03-13T21:16:00.000-08:00

Bingo Zebras
for my mom

Morning follies the hiccup parade swelled over holy fever
Yeahs. Yeah I could love you sure why not but look at
The sparkle teen dream color scheme fall from our sweater eyes
Sure I could love you like this under failing twilight television
Strokes radiating from our wintery foreheads. Peeling Saved By the Bell
Off from the skin shades of our living books. Sometimes when we.
It seems a shortage of punctuation to pounce around the awkward disturbance:
yes, no, maybe, no not really, i so really do. want. to fuck.
Give me your hands, stranger.
Anguish is not that cute without pink fingernails so let me
Hear them holler like bingo bells to make the whole city cry.

-Clip 29

Kissing you Through the Glass

2010-03-09T00:27:00.000-08:00

Nails On the Barn,

Tell me what you see up there. In the middle of gmail technical difficulties Gios pops the summons to Saudi Arabia. With that beautiful wandering comma flickering in your eyes I too am so sure of the bright gold future nested in the belt of Orion. I close my eyes real tight like a butthole to make the internet freeze and all I get is Giorgios on the other side of life asking to live with him and teach english to university kids on that part of the globe where my finger never did land. Somewhere it says i need to be redirected b/c of refusing to accept or deny a bunch of i don't know how ever many cookies. In the backseat of this carnival the air is colder and lighter, the sun trapped like a pause button, all of which takes place in the span of one spring break the size of my pinky nail in tokyo doggy years. This should be the title to my next unpublished chapbook: Tokyo Doggy Years.

In NYC at the Armory and Volta show nothing but recycled concepts all whirling in the non-self-effacing money weather called ART. I laughed and spied on several of my selves all inhabiting the concepts long-since birthed but never born and manifested into materiality as temporary sticky post-it notes peeling away and drifting to the floor from the minds of the curators. Marina & I fall out of new york yellow and queue in for what feels like a fashion show more than anything else. A whiff of digital ghost tropic in the afternoon air so happy after having heard the living body jukebox singing his heart out outside the Guggenheim worth a million stars.

Today my soul feels rugged with neon autumn colors flapping their irreverent hues against the will to power. Today my will goes as far as Lake Erie on google maps street view where you'll find me in the company of love for myself.

Notes on The Midnight Bowlers

No sails set forth the winged
Internet stars owed us more years to live
The bowler sits in his syntax my eyes dissolve
In limitless surrender a row of people
Bowling their hearts and disgust for life out
For what, I don't know, the three-hole signature
Kept us pure and common
That heavy plastic ball
Shot up towards angel pins
Oh life, oh death--what things to stuff
Between headless origin; someone strikes
Where I could have died in the arms
Of some ghostly gerund for the fun of it
It seems the sun rises, for the fun of it
We bowl and don't think about heaven.

-Tiny Clipper

Barn To Crozet

2010-03-08T18:00:00.000-08:00

Clip Addict

I've been M.I.A. even to myself. Hiding in cars, in empty houses, in roadside once barns. Out on the tracks the stars are more than ever. Last night I look up at Orion and think of Saudi Arabia. Suppose we are all that close that close that close that close. My bags are packed. The long arms of middle America await the R&B heaven of my John Legend head bob baby body moves. The world looks bigger? or perhaps I have shrunk deliberately folded like the hands of a grateful prayer. Lets try this again:

Hurtski go
no bigger am I barn hung than I
understood that freckled night
how to hold on
how to draw you out
from last punch of snow
whats left to break up
all the ha! and ho-hum
shock giggle, of
O shit, it's spring.
so ready to make it too.

Jerry Nailguire

On the Avenue of OH HELL NO.

2010-03-02T11:22:00.000-08:00

Heart Drawn in Nailtalics,
Don't forget what Flip said about the cinematic surface of the fingernail. After re-visiting the house of Hair Hearts Flip it seems we were already writing from the nail salon windows of Nail Hearts Clip. I'm ready to soon soak these toes in a bubbling spa down the street on the avenue of OH HELL NO. Tell me what a pair of Virgina Lovers usually talk or not talk about, tell me what they do or say because it doesn't say on Lonely Planet, nor does it in the travel & leisure section of NY Times. I want love beyond a bumper sticker clopping and chugging through the Meadow of Happy Hearts which is where I imagine you are now. "Cut and save this heart of mine but dear god don't delete it" are the lyrics which float through this karaoke afternoon riddled with faces and voices whose names I can't remember, whose names don't stick like rain. It seems I am dragging California across the world like some static shock of rainbow taffy when my hair sticks up from fucked up pillow love in post-historic medialand. I write you with a sense of no history or future and my god it feels weightless and liberating. sometimes. And other times who cares? To drag the sentence out from the body is often like loading a gun one bullet per day, cocks and shoots the thing where I stand in a bare field of red and blue roses for no god, saint, or sinner to come spare the bones of our syntax from rattling. Sometimes I think I am dead and looking at life from the eyes of some angel wandering around without a name. Our imagination is greater than us, don't forget that. To smash and smear nature in Naturalism over the pop-mediascape you get Stephanie Tanner smiling in the trees above Gumby waving his creepy plastic arm. I could do this all day--concoct a remediation of schools of thought for what should be in IQ tests for the sheer cotton shmandy of it.

OH HELL NO

Love, be close or far
As California stretches
From here to there. Love,
Let me talk about you
Without knowing what love is
But with pure faith
In Virginia bumper stickers
And the roads that lead
To other bumper stickers
Let the meadows full of radio
Hit the balloon hours
In happy detachment our lives persist
Remediated, sung and spun, hand me
A lung of this century
To understand where I am.

Heartly,
Clip Talk.

The "&" in Romeo ( ) Juliet

2010-03-01T20:34:00.000-08:00

Clip Clop And You Don't Stop

In the story of Rapunzel, she sings and a prince (aren't they so available in these tales? Like just happen to be on a horse in the woods or just happen to be in town on business as if they are no boys quoting Hegel in black Preziosi clogs with a dry pouch of tobacco and a frayed photo of Mao printed on a postcard that reads " Went to China and all I got was this Revolution" ignoring our text messages and energetic praises as we roll in beds watching Leo D kiss Claire Danes by the book in the elevator-AGAin? I was born in the wrong goddamn far far away, let me fucken tell you.) catches her tune falls madly in love with her climbs up the bitches braid to propose marriage. basically, without further discussion: that's it. Lets try this again:

"hey, I love you. I'm in love with you"
"I am in love with you too!"
"Then lets do everything we can to make this happen. Here, let me climb your hair- this seemingly impossible and maybe painful task- and whisk you into my arms in which we will face all obstacles together"
"Okay, I'm nervous a little but you know what? I've never known anything more real in my life"
"Tell me about it. We got the magic and the heart. Some people get the magic- but few have the heart it takes to own the magic."
"Dude, just get up on my hairstyle so we can kiss and shit."
"Word."

Although "fairy" and albeit, "tale" no further must I go to explain that the phenomena instilled in us as possibility is in out later years frowned upon as idealism. Can someone tell me when idealism and possibility hit the wall in negative-town? Obviously, I didn't get the memo. And for the record, let us take note that although nervous/afraid or whatever characteristics come with loving another what it takes is called a leap of faith. You know, one of those fuck its that has allowed us to ever taste the fruit of the sublime. If i had hesitated on that bridge at 19, shaking like the child that I was 30 feet above Blue Mesa Colorado i may have never flown through the summer, catching just enough of the bright mountains to take me into the waters thick with salmon that I decided were sharks and laughed furiously in a huff toward the shore back to our 4-runner, that beautiful piece of shit. If i decided to let my fears, my faults and nerves house me I'd never have driven to Brooklyn late March and bought a bright pink dress, a cape and shoes for a themed party to fall asleep in the lap of my fate. If the prince hesitated, that Rapunzel would get split ends and that witch that locked her up would die and Rapunzel would start a blog in which she would talk about things she never did and ho hum on Skype with a beer in her hand all scribbling memories she never made into a moleskin notebook thinking how its too late now. As the self appointed spokesperson for the much loathed Idealist party (and if it is up for debate: by idealist I do mean socialist and by socialist I do mean fk yes we can!) its only late if you never try.

Fred Hampton said something to the effect of: if you are alive- and you see whats right in front of you and you see you have your hearts, your eyes, your breathe and you do nothing about it? If you do nothing about it because you are AFRAID you will die? Then forget my name- because you are dead already. Love like Revolution does not stop. It is a force that moves moves moves. And baby, it will move right along without you.

There is no doubt in my heart that this work we do is building the braid down into the invisible crowd. It will take leaps and bounds of faith to believe it. In ourselves. In each other. whats more, is if you don't believe in yourself, believe in me and it will come back to you. This is unconditional love. This is my dozen tulips delivered to your door ( why the hell doesn't anybody send flowers anymore). This is your laundry clean and folded the bunny fed, the kiss during lunch break the whole world on fire. Ours is a fair-tailed marriage. One to prove that jaws don't just drop in cartoons. One that will leave Skype in pantomime and kick stop the mission of pleading to be wanted ravenously. Ours is the marriage that met at the club, that touched at the club and left crazy for each other. So lift up your Radiohead and fucken then come and find me...
Nailnardo DiCaprio

P0P-Naturalism is Not my Cup of Tea but I'll consider It

2010-03-01T18:26:00.000-08:00

Dearly Naily Sitcom,
Tonight the cat collides with the TV realism of good old childhood shows we once frequented in the twilight hours of our youth. But who says youth is subject to age? There seems a potential party in every object I turn my attention to. Bjork delivers it when she screams I Remember You, delivers in a way poems once were when the now extinct milkman once paraded through the neighborhood. We were born a few decades too late but still, I remember. My knuckles yearn to be loved. Not even my face, but my knuckles. Didn't you know that every time we sneeze the angels still take their positions, get the car started, in case our heart skips a tad too many beats? In my mind I slap and smear a forest all over the brightly lit Land of Text-messaging and retrieve one or two misunderstandings. In my mind I hang onto objects as though they were all made of playdough, slip it through the wringer and label it failure for fun. Max is on the windowsill staring at a blue cab pulling into the driveway I want to believe he knows himself well enough to notice its just thoughts passing. There goes another one.

Finding the mark of this, as Gios would call "Wave", there are only instances we can gather and refer to as something that already exists. It's almost nauseating but I'm trying to muster up the courage to just say fuck it nothing is New. And then there are the occasional "wait, this hasn't been done yet--let me try" or "wait, this looks pretty as a concept--i better not touch it." I think I was born a spectator of all of this; the same kid spectator of tv shows I'll never stop becoming. Reclining and nodding chin to that which tickles my fancy. I have daydreams of conceptualizing something that can be made or done but only for the viewer to do after I am dead and gone to heaven--a whole series of them not to be opened until my eyes close and title-ing it "Happy Things to Do On Your own Time". This is what I do in order to feel like I can make myself cry from 50 miles away inside myself. From 50 miles away inside myself there is a figure one-inch small standing around smiling with a real big heart made of the world. Can you see it?

In the name of the ----- Amen.

heartly,
Clip House

Turn Around And Forget Me

2010-02-28T22:22:00.000-08:00

Clip
This is one of many songs that framed my childhood. Its the lyrical equivalent of Gloria Gaynor's "I will survive" except these two are Argentinian siblings. The story is that she was dating Maradona- the fkn baller man- and he cheated on her. She wrote a song in which he begs for her back and she tells him what shit he is and look how he begs for someone that will never look at him, who boffs at his pathetic advances. She was real pissed babe. Her brother was there for her in a way i can't understand- he sang it. I guess that felt real awesome because she then wrote an entire album with titles of songs like " Im not your little idiot" and "you can take the sky I am the sun". They toured the world (I may have to start a blog dedicated to just posting them because its fucken unreal how good they are and I'm not trying to drag the blog to la rumbia). All of their performances are super dramatic and in my mom's then blue Mercedes it's 1988 when I am in the back seat not understanding why but belting this song out using my hands for extra emphasis while my mom praised and shook her maroon perm out scrunching her beautiful face I catch in the rear view feelin it, hard. look at them babe:
Nail

Las Calenas Son Como Las Flores

2010-02-28T21:24:00.000-08:00

Epa!!
nailS.Calle

Las Calenas son como las horas
pasando pendejadas sombre platos
de ajiaco, bailando- perro de los dientes mi amorcito!
pa'que las caderas se cuelgen solas
rotando como banderas Colombianas
movidas de pura gana
como un pequeno ejercito de cuerpo:
nuestra guerra civil.

Las Calenas hacen lo le que le da
la puta gana y con hombres
rogando, arrastrados llorando
con flores y recuerdos nadie
piensa ne los cansones Americanos
en medio de las rumbia, con el sol
felizmente acostado esperando
el marco de pestanias negras
en las almohadas.

Las Calenas son las sin-dolores
bellas de cansansio, reinas de sus perdidas.
Las delicias del todo callado en una copa de vino.

with heartache & chin love.

2010-02-28T17:13:00.000-08:00

The (Not-so) Newer Poetics of Survival Theater
February 2010
By Feliz L. Molina a.k.a. Bebe, Flip, Clip, Whatever You want me to Be

We feel it more than ever this need to be continuously new, newer than new, ahead of the new. In our glitter pony Digital Age where tele-communication is as rampant and potent its ever been, marking and tracing the self's every move to call, email, text, and video-chat for varying degrees of purposes and wants, where physical absence and mobility is motioned and prolonged by a ghostly influx of mobile communication, and where a kaleidoscope of places (the Internet as a convention to break down "here-ness" or "there-ness") are now visible, accessible, retrievable, downloadable and uploadable, coded and readymade available at the tips of our fingers, it seems every right of the so-called poet in this age to feel anxious, hopeless, and excited while riding electrical tensions between form and content, all of which occur in the greater theater of the poet's life; if the events of "life" itself appears to stream by like a seamless weave of commercials and internet-television shows, if life is characterized by anything one can point their finger to from one inch or continent away.

The poet, sometimes exhausted, lonely, tired of financial constraints and yet stimulated by them inhabits and retreats into an inner world conjured and developed by these very constraints where, alone, with one's thoughts in public or private spaces need only the bare essentials of a laptop to retreat further into the imaginings of an alternate world not so alternate in that the blurring of the two is where the poetic reaches sanity's limit; this limit is where the poet is able push pause on the daily mediated reality to extract what can be taken from it and used as material (for the poem) via language footwork which manifests the following:

1. A document of the poet's existence within the bounds of socioeconomic determinism.
2. A re-hashing of the mediated world and then relayed into a poem.
3. An interpretation and investigation into the poet's im(mediate)e reality.
4. The sense that one's life operates as a portable living theater.
5. The playfulness of the poet's holy thought pattern taking place within the theater of a capitalist economy.
6. A ridiculous uncertainty of subjectivity in a poem due to post-structuralist critiques of the "first-person subject".
7. A sense of attempting to re-claim subjectivity in a poem which can be viewed as also a gesture towards claiming one's subjectivity in a mediated reality.
8. A genuine sense of love for human expression in varying art forms no matter how commercial, avant-garde, ironic, kitsch, sincere or endearing.
9. Actively or passively participating in a re-thinking of love, possibilities for love, or learning about love through our heroes whoever they might be.
10. Feeling caught between emotion and technology as though they are opposing entities.

A problem of the theater is a problem with a heightened and diluted mediated reality offering us an insane amount of ways of how to live, think, eat, sleep, dress, etc. The theater after all, is a diluted mediated reality in itself inasmuch as reality is a perpetual theater where a small percentage of endless billions of moments have the chance of ever being recorded, distorted, animated, archived, and distributed by various ever-evolving old and new medias; consider the wonders of video sharing sites like Youtube or Vimeo. One can't help but cry out to Echo and Narcissus for remarks on mimesis with regard to market-driven advertising in its agenda to sculpt public and private identities. The body itself begins as the most reliable cite for an ongoing Poetics of Survival Theater in that it is through the body alone that existence, thought, and articulation occurs. The body is where the traffic of information (manipulated or true) flows through; a digestion of various kinds of information passing through the poet who decides what to do with it or how to incorporate it into his/her own daily theater by re-mixing, directing, and producing words on a page while staying close to a mysterious force that keeps the theater from shutting down in a network of multiples theaters. If anyone has looked at a visualization of the various routes of a portion of the Internet, one will see that it uncannily resembles a neural network of the brain--and for no goddam reason.

Artaud told us the world is killing and devouring us. But today, the world is much bigger and smaller and the thing which binds and unites us globally is evolving old and new medias and communication which itself is also the very thing that is killing us, robbing the soul from the body, leaving us out in the virtual cold if we can not keep up with what is new. Imagine a world just like this, because it’s the exact same one we live in. Unlike Artaud and Marinetti who relentlessly believed theater can heal the ills of society, it is no longer applicable--their achievements simultaneously succeeded and failed like day and night. THE THEATER ALONE WILL NOT BE ABLE TO WITHSTAND A BREAKTHROUGH IN CONSCIOUSNESS. Let alone be the one responsible for such a large task. IT WILL TAKE A REVOLUTION IN INDIVIDUALS-- A COLLECTIVE SUBJECTIVITY--TO DREAM UP A QUALITY OF LIVING OTHER THAN ONE'S OWN WHICH THE THEATER SHOULD NOT MIMIC. IN FACT, THE THEATER NEEDS TO STAY OUT OF IT, FOR THERE IS ALREADY TOO MUCH THEATER OCCURRING EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME. And this is what I dare call a Theater of Survival produced by market advertising in which consumable objects are precisely the props for existence at large and for this reason, there is no household that is uninteresting--in fact, the more uninteresting, the more interesting which involves a symbolic relationship between the self and what it consumes, for what's consumed gives context and decorates the theater of daily existence.

A Poetics of Survival Theater begins and operates with the basic need and drive to exist everyday for whatever reasons they might be. The Survival Car Insurance commercial is a great fucken spoof of this. It begins with dependency. An existential theater of pure dependency at the expense of the total production of the self and it is the poet's natural inclination to fight against this by taking on the perception of absurdity, finding and exposing painful truths, making use of or refusing the choking hands of nihilism, or happily surrendering to the production of the self only if their integrity is so solid that any brand name label begins to mutate according to their own poet's way of being and (by way of imagination) defamiliarizing (ostranenie) the brand for one's own familiar-ness of the self. It’s an American Apparel t-shirt. But it’s an American Apparel t-shirt that smells like me--all the time. It’s an Apple Macbook but it’s an Apple Macbook that bears only my fingerprints on the keys. It’s just a box of Captain Crunch cereal but damn how interesting it looks when I hold it. You get the idea. A personalization of popular goods incorporated into the poet's survival theater is what occurs everyday, all the time. "Two centuries of capitalism and market nihilism have brought us to the most extreme alienations- from our selves, from others, from worlds. The fiction is the individual has decomposed at the same speed that it was becoming real." (Invisible Committee, 8) Lifestyle magazines, fashion, politics, art, science all have the power to offer one common thing and that is, an identity to conform to. This form of self-identification is a mark of theater in itself; rhetoric one must be interested and willful enough to participate in. And how does this influence the external-body; clothe and decorate our bodies the way we do? David Krasner, editor of Theory In Theater 1900-2000 asks "Should theater remain faithful to real-world representation or challenge the veracity of mimesis by cutting against the grain of realistic presentation?" What exactly, might we ask, is a "real-world" in the first place, much less a realistic presentation of it? Baudrillard's thesis that "only the cultures of the West have developed a category, a notion and an ideology of the real and have produced, and reproduced, a real world" is something to consider not only in the theater, but the daily living theater of the poet; the poetics of the Poet's Survival Theater and simply the financial means in which a poet (and any artist at that) must survive.

Where do I go? Where do I belong? How do I get there? With what money? Who will hire someone crazy like me? How can I get prescription drugs without healthcare? I'm going where there's free Wifi. I'll Blog you later. Fuck it I'm going to live off student loans and move to Europe and not pay it back. Hooray, I got a teaching gig for however many weeks! Should I teach English in Saudi Arabia, for real? I'm selling my car. I need to borrow $500. Someone's publishing my chapbook--no one will read it but who cares. I applied to a dozen MFA programs--again--Hopefully one will take me. How will I get a job after an MFA? Where are you going? Can I come with you? I need to get out of here. Text me. Tweet it. What, you're not on Facebook anymore--again?

And yet, this is the real world we live in scrounging up change, bills, and loans to make it to the next place for some peace of sanity as though the theater has no exit doors just endless space crowded with the effects of socioeconomic circumstance, real-time, telecommunication, destiny, chance, objects, imagination and the list goes on like a game of mad-libs. All the while, catastrophic earthquakes worldwide, the highest death rate of starvation known to humankind, growing shortages of clean water, etc. etc. etc.--online or on-print the swift stroke of such catastrophes while we manage to stay on the fringes, viewing it from afar while remaining content and wading in the waters of a purely visual and audio-based relay of information as though all of it were a dream.

The task of the Poet is basically whatever anyone wants it to be. But let me suggest for the poet not to blindly reject the ideologies of a mediated society and to be informed by it so as to never stop challenging the multiple "authors" which design and set up the very narratives of product advertising. It is the narratives of product advertising that the poet views from the peephole of her own tiny separate imagination. It is the manufactured narratives on the side of advertising working to penetrate through our own peepholes. But still, if I am forced to decide between Angels or generic toilet paper at Walgreens, don't I have every right to base my judgment on the aesthetic difference of the labels? Don't I have every right to be ironically amused by the ridiculousness of the design and therefore, succumb to it as a way of redeeming myself in the hilarity of it because, ultimately, I am forced to choose? There needs to be an evaluation of mass consumer products as symbols and relics in a mythological media induced era where the poet dwells; if the poet can dig holes and roads through the mass pile up of these narratives and manage to still be able to write a poem that is as genuine and true as anything else. If the poet can survive in this theater then there is no telling what is possible on the vaster plane of existence outside of poetry, if, such an outside is even possible for the poet just as there seems no way out of the theater of daily living.

Revolution Photo Blog

2010-02-27T18:51:00.000-08:00

The Janis Joplin Of The Blog Circuit

2010-02-27T12:33:00.000-08:00

Clipper
Everyone wants to fall in love and be someone. Had a friend in school who wanted to be Mickey Mouse. Big fat white hands, squeaking in mine. It never made me forget but it sure made it possible to hop through the details. I want to be Invisible and published by semiotxt. Hey Committee- If your watching, we got proletariat popcorn and socialism cola, come talk to us. I go from fever to heartache, the truth is I'm ready for anything all over again. Politically, I could be everyone.
truth and Nail

Death To The Tinman

2010-02-27T11:24:00.000-08:00

Yo Clip- Check this romance:
Ray Tintori is a 24-year-old director from Brooklyn. "Death to the Tinman" was his undergraduate thesis film for Wesleyan University's Film Studies program. The film premiered at the 2007 Sundance Film Festival where it received an Honorable Mention for Short Filmmaking. It also played in the South by Southwest Film Festival and New York Film Festival, among others. Last night my wonderful friend Coogan played his friend's thesis film for me in a dark brick lined kitchen while we ate popcorn and drank water in grandma's china mugs. you should have heard us laughing like the opening credits to Wild And Crazy Kids. This film is the best thing I've seen in a long time.. Tin Nail.xxoo

Death to the tinman - Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

pome

2010-02-24T17:38:00.000-08:00

A Chin Puppet Called Linda

So the joke about two men in a bar goes
That one of them represents death the other life
To keep the funny from failing
Though either way it fails because we all die.
Have you noticed when someone keeps from laughing
out of ice-cold negation, buckling down
the beast in its unknowable dungeon
drifts and amplifies
heart refrains in spring
Peddles backward to a row of seats
With bodies there and a Chin Puppet
reciting this poem making you die once more.
What is it we're reaching for, really
what is the promise we willingly bold our breaths for?
And here comes Linda all decked
for the solo bedroom show all decked
in starry grief
hand me a tissue
she's going to cry.

-Clippet Master

Cynics Need Not Apply

2010-02-24T00:07:00.000-08:00

xx
The Nailvet Underground

"I Had A Lover, I Don't Think I'd Risk Another These Days"

2010-02-23T23:06:00.000-08:00

Cliptal T.V.
In a car lost through the dark country roads of Fluvana, VA I play Jackson Browne in my mind. In my mind there is a tired bar with concrete floor dusted with straw huff horse seed and highway boot cloud that know silos, barn floors and fields. fields i will never see. I am not interested in being found. In the front Andy and Cindy read the address to "Zion road just past Sitting Bull Road so It's gotta be here on the left past Dancing Ghost Lane that goes in a loop back to Industrial Park. But we just passed Oracle lane so we must be close..." These roads are no joke. "These Days" keeps playing and I am warm and thinking how Nico says " ...I don't think I'd risk another these days..." and Jackson Browne at 16 years old, wrote " ...it's hard to risk another these days..." and that beautiful face, that beautiful boxed jaw and how in "Chelsea Girls", I'd cut out that flute too.

Bim pulls body soft folded sheets of paper out, almost wet saying " is this a map? what about this one?" I don't actually know if he brought one or was just hoping he'd happen to produce one. We are parked at Sweetwater farm. A few cows drag themselves from the hum of the engine and I someplace with them.No I don't think I'd risk another these days.

At 16 in a field in Crested Butte, Colorado Sara points out the milky arm of our solar spiral is stretched along the sky. I was the little prince atop his nubby moon, just for a moment, no Dharmas up to no mind dhatu. I love these strangers shuffling google maps in tortoise shell glasses and so it goes white hair. I've never felt more safe in my whole life. "I've stopped my rambling..." and can see these skinny trees shoot past gold Volvo, Crescent Moon Inn, distance measured in trailer length. I tell Bim I am going to see St.Vincent preform tonight at the Jefferson downtown and he tells me " yes there are some odd justs joining us" and I'm not sure what he means but I like it, I really do.

At the show I close my eyes and rest my chin on the stage edge so that my teeth tickle. There is a fat crowd swelling behind me, then the violin, then the clarinet. I don't want to forget these things. I have spent so much time until now doing all I can to forget so much of what I did not live because i was not there. Seemed easier to forget than to admit I wasn't even there for my own life. Maybe while you were kissing your face was when I looked up riding the alabaster arch along the whole of the theater. "Please don't confront me with my failures, I had not forgotten them."

Nailco

Little Star

2010-02-23T20:02:00.000-08:00

Dear Nail.

Nothing gives me more pleasure now than writing through this sphere and calling you Linda. While showering post-bath I felt the urge to call you Linda. Tonight you are Linda.

I feel a fit of luminous. An entire fist of it the shape of a heart. Hello and welcome Digital Romanticism.

In Walgreens I stand and wait for the cashier to unlock the Sony mini dv tapes from the shelf. In line for check-out I see the unhappy souls in everybody waiting their turn.

In a bubble bath I mumble a hip-hop one hit wonder with lyrics that begin "Go mind ya own Bubble Biness.." I wade and sing feeling incredibly famous and alive. I am starring in the video for it with a gold miniskirt in a room full of bubbles with backup dancers doing their thing. I squeeze my little boobs to make cleavage and repeat "Go mind ya own Bubble Biness.." I do this for about 20 minutes. And get out.

Before brushing teeth I look at my beautiful face in the mirror and kiss it a few times. I kiss it the way I would kiss me if I were someone else. I imagine what it might feel like for someone else to kiss my face. They are twins. I am a twin of myself in the same way self-imposed failure works. But this time I do not see failure but something utterly beautiful and I bend over to dry my hair and am so grateful to the mystery of life. I know it is worth living just for the mystery of it, that we are loved by this mystery and that language is forbidden to say its name.

And now in bed on my luck.

Heart,
Clips

Poem For Lionel Messi

2010-02-22T21:15:00.000-08:00

I've carved
a name for myself
the size of Barcelona
along the wet arc
that divides us

undisturbed
breathes apart
from flash mouthed
heartaches lifting off
just before the sun.

and here I thought
the sky was huge
or that if left alone
your tiny sparks
would gobble up
what time has left
as faith in us.

xxoo
Nail Liga

pome

2010-02-21T21:47:00.000-08:00

The Beach House Video is the Title
for you

Wake up dear funny love riveted and red
Oh non-winter occasion for thee suit dress and tie
Winter snow socialize
The tech-dawn so techy was the moon you once spread
Over videochat my heart caught the symbol much later
When the strep throat sun slap hit like the sharpest water
Tape a million heart shapes all over the goddamm city
Nike spies and surveillance geeks was it Baudelaire's
Disinterest in nature that manifested car insurance commercials.
In a bathful of Paris bubbles
I ask him to insure the imagination of timeless mermaids
For my head can not take the myth of sexuality
As one body split, back to back, in posed-promise
And thus the Other is found by earth or moon.
Oh Brother Oh Sister how we live amongst each other
And hardly talk but still I'll fight for you
So long as we have thumbs.

-Clippy

Nail Hearts The Knife

2010-02-21T17:56:00.000-08:00

pome

2010-02-21T15:36:00.000-08:00

Kevin Leung

Wild, be heart with me
Exclusive doorbells keep talking
Scratched discs bend forward
Show me Samsara again just one more time.
Idiocy a pale orange
West the sun goes dow;;n
Hi Welcome to McDonald's may I
No but I can read you a poem.

Windows scroll downward biblically
The eyebrows on the cashier--oh how they pain!
For hideous survival theater:
Non-theo night lights the Cruelty of a kid's toy
Is the production of happiness sweet happiness

Immediacy of language betrays me
relays the reclusive unicorn
habitual seatbelt nostalgia the text-crow's need
to excrete what ghosts inside us.

heart,
Clip

pome for Barbara Be My Guest

2010-02-21T08:38:00.000-08:00

POEM
Eating Chocolate Ice Cream: Reading Mayakovsky

by Barbara Guest

Since I’ve decided to revolutionize my life
since
”
decided
”
revolutionize
”
life
”

How early it is! It is eight o’clock in the morning.
Well, the pigeons were up earlier
Did you eat all your egg?
Now we shall go for a long walk.
Now? There is too much winter.
I am going to admire the snow on your coat.
Time for hot soup, already?
You have worked for three solid hours.
I have written forty-eight, no forty-nine,
no fifty-one poems.
How many states are there?
I cannot remember what is uniting America.
It is then time for your nap.
What a lovely, pleasant dream I just had.
But I like waking up better.
I do admire reality like snow on my coat.
Would you take cream or lemon in your tea?
No sugar?
And no cigarettes.
Daytime is good, but evening is better.
I do like our evening discussions.
Yesterday we talked about Kant.
Today let’s think about Hegel.
In another week we shall have reached Marx.
Goody.
Life is a joy if one has industrious hands.
Supper? Stew and well-cooked. Delicious.
Well, perhaps just one more glass of milk.
Nine o’clock! Bath time!
Soap and a clean rough towel.
Bedtime!
The Red Army is marching tonight.
They shall march through my dreams
in their new shiny leather boots,
their freshly laundered shirts.
All those ugly stains of caviar and champagne
and kisses
have been rubbed away.
They are going to the barracks.
They are answering hundreds of pink
and yellow and blue and white telephones.
How happy and contented and well-fed they look
lounging on their fur divans,
chanting, “Russia how kind you are to us.
How kind you are to everybody.
We want to live forever.”
Before I wake up they will throw away
their pistols, and magically
factories will spring up where once
there was rifle fire, a roulette factory,
where once a body fell from an open window.
Hurry dear dream
I am waiting for you
under the eiderdown.
And tomorrow will be more real, perhaps,
than yesterday.

---------------------------------------------------------
Translation

Eating Baked Chicken With Rosmarie Waldrop

by Clip Molina

Since I've decided not to revolutionize my life
since

undecided

revolutionize

life

How late it is! 8 o'clock in the morning.
Well, the cat and rabbit were asleep earlier
Did you eat all your chicken soup?
Now we won't have to go for a long walk.
Later? There's not enough winter.
I won't admire the snow on your coat.
Time for cold soup, not yet?
You've worked for 3 hollow hours.
I didn't write 84, 94,
no 51 poems.
How many states are there?
I forget what divides America.
It is then time for you to run around, go play.
What a terrible, terrifying daydream I just had.
Though I like living better.
I still don't admire reality as it melts on your coat.
Would you take cream or lemon or adderall in your tea?
No splenda?
And yes Parliaments.
Nighttime is good, but morning is better.
I do like our morning discussions.
Yesterday we laughed about Kant.
Today let's not think about Hegel.
Last week we shall have reached the Marx Brothers.
Goody. Hair flip. Holler.
Life is a joy if one has piano hands.
Breakfast? Pancakes and well burnt. Delicious.
Well, perhaps not more glass of milk.
Childhood o'clock! Time to Fuck!
Organic french soap and scrub gloves.
Wake up, sleepy head!
The Taliban is marching tonight.
They shall march through a dozen Hollywood movies
with their disdain for music,
pork and firecrackers.
All those beautiful Futurist blood stains and dehydration
and torture
have been cropped out.
They are going for the hills.
They aren't answering any phone calls
or checking emails or tagging photos on Facebook.
How hot and tired and un-comical they look
in a New York Times photo
not saying "America how funny you seem to us.
How you turn everything into celebrity.
We want to be famous too."
Before I wake up they will throw away
their suicide bombs, and magically
a virtual world will pop up where once
a finger was, a roulette game "generating literature",
where now angels fly from computer screen.
Hurry dear dream
I'm not really waiting for you but I will
under the goose down blanket from Bed Bath & Beyond.
And tomorrow will be even further from real, perhaps,
than today.

Poem from "A Host To Fair Feathered Friends"

2010-02-20T21:42:00.000-08:00

Turn It Down

by S.Calle

I am lost
in every
meaningful distraction.
Forgotten
in the whir
of nothing airs.
How many of us
crawl through
revelry
fishing glitter
laughing in the light
that comes to follow
such silly haze. simple
like painting a flower
or snapping it dead.

O Brooklyn, Everyone Loves You. Be Nice.

2010-02-20T20:29:00.000-08:00

Nail hearts The Avett Brothers. Paintings by Scott Avett
xxoo

Blackberry Video with Nails @ Pamella Roland Fashion Week 2010

2010-02-20T17:42:00.000-08:00

Being There for Double the Fun

2010-02-20T09:19:00.000-08:00

Nailsisco Rodriguez:
A thousand gmail buzzes gather like a hailstorm while celebratory pops ring incessantly in my little ear. For three days I bend and shake inside my self's clothes to break wicked fever spells on a memory foam mattress sinking further into dream. In one of them in the early pre-dawn hours Slovoj Zizek is holding my newborn daughter up to his face, so proud for her to be born. He kisses her lips and closes his eyes. I see that she has dark hair and blue eyes. Why he adores her is unknown to me. This only makes me think I need to read at least of half of his babble including signed receipts. This summer in the Alps I'll be sitting next to him at a picnic table wiping the spit from his mouth, offering arnica oil to help slow-motion soothe the anxious "no future" trembling. After a two hour marathon talk with Michael Keenan on the phone last night I feel the decent cruelty and grace of Artaud reminding us that death is impossible. I feel it more in a classroom full of students who don't seem to believe it.

Its time we come to grips with choosing between commodity or death. Not that both aren't embedded in each other but that we figure a way to make both magic; to make the business of commodities and death magical so that we can tolerate the exhaustible beastly forces of both. I am always where you are. Your helicopter isn't so distant from mine while I lay in bed fumbling through the folds of every dream, itching to break through the wardrobe inside my belly. Your helicopter isn't so distant from mine, our propeller wings almost touching. Am fingering the idea of doing a clown workshop this summer to tap into that inner you know what in somewhere-europe to gain skills in the art of happy and sad---for goddssakes that's what my real name stands for. I am yearning for performance body stretching, disciplined yawning, all to irritate Artaud's sense of cruelty while he turns over in his impossible death cocoon crunchy protein bar.

Come join me in England-June 2011 for Natalya Ryzhova's Women's Wear Collection at Saint Martins? We shall be sitting front row drowning and laughing from all the engineered water designed to make the clothes on the models disappear--her idea since 2003 while we wait for science to catch up. While I wait for you to take off all that Forever 21 and Hollywood celebrity cruelty to come feast with me at a party for invisible foods in a velvet seated-rose filled room of non-performance and non-words. Everyday it seems I should be singing happy birthday to everyone born on this planet. Every other day it seems we should be taking paper-making classes to chop logs for our blogs to be born into books. And every night it seems just the appropriate thing for me to be held and swaddled in the arms of somebody who sees my dreams and believes in it more than I do.

Heart,
Clip Walk

So A Poet Walks Into Fashion Week And The Designer Says...

2010-02-18T07:55:00.000-08:00

Cipgel Barker,

It takes two red bulls,Radiohead in impromptu themed anthology and a diligent procession of cigarettes to drive from Charlottesville, Virginia to Brooklyn, New York in the middle of winter. Also, a couple of fast hearted morons reeling past DC talk radio holding mirrors up to the sky. We get dressed in the car on Bedford and 7th after Fabiane's and the college boy who blogs about the meals he cooks studying film and philosophy? at NYU living on the upper east side. Tearing on tights and floating into dresses we drag sleeplessness to cold and sopping Bryant Park tents where two super hot kids ask if they can photograph what we are wearing. "Yes, I am wearing Forever 21, American Apparel, DSW and Marc Jacobs" I said these words and fell apart before the entrance leaving the snowy white world to collapse on the lap of Narciso Rodriguez who kisses my hand saying the pleasure is his, all his.

We see Kim Kardashian flip her hair hearts under QVC lights and I act like she's a cousin whose mom we don't speak to so fuck her too. Im not even sure I was in the room. We walk into the Salon past a cluster of flash clicks chunks and babe I felt like it was everyday of my life. As I am walking to our seats my cousin is shaking- she says: " Wow, this magic! Is this like with poetry? I mean do you guys have events like this-Is there like all this like 'show' ?" I roll WholeFoods Egyptian Goddess oil on my wrists while I turn my head toward the sea of shuffling people, the meet and greet, Brooke Shields laughing straight out of the Latisse commercial, Nigel Barker an his wife who has a twin not in attendance holding hands, Mena Suvari as a brunette bitched out in heavy oversized clothes mouthing something to her oversized assistant when only a few blogs ago she was blonde and jeaned all fresh cute with petals coming out of her mouth, and I say to my bright eyed cousin: " No, not yet." Nope. Not. Yet.

I take inventory on the crowd, the runway, the size of the room, the care everyone went through to get dressed. I don't go to readings so do me a favor: the next reading you go to I want you to tell me how much care people took in getting dressed. A reading on a runway would blow the top off. I think it would best be done as a projection, desgining the poem into wearable peices and having them modeled down as the poem was read. Or now, perhaps projecting the poem on the runway so that it is walked on by various objects lead out into the light. I hit the poshest port-o-potty, a smoke, meet a british photographer and fall in love with everyone whose profile I catch. The big screen tells me that Tavi (stylerookie.blogspot.com) "wowed designers at the afternoon panel" and that Natalie Portman and Kirstin Dunst just arrived in the tent. Don;t you sort of feel like Natalie and Kirtsin were girls we went to high school with who had serious boyfriends and coughed up Abercrombie cologne?

Under the sheen of the new Mercedes Benz I felt at home. I know where we belong and it is amongst the ghost models, the cleanly concealed undereye, the black coats and angular frames taking black and white pictures on our cellphones laughing with Anne Waldman or Alice Notely about the paradise of circumstance holding the hand of those beautiful lights, "How so Clark Gable your hands."

Deisel Nail and Gold

pome

2010-02-16T11:39:00.000-08:00

Ain't Love Grand

Shout the scales back to me in McQueen fish tales.
The wanderlust mousecapade, absence is the enemy
Tilt the head that way, pardon my html but is that a lie
Or love lacking discipline?
Cut the attention seekers stepping in and out of my frame
There lives a tiny weatherman in everyone
Days fold, foldless, oh happy non-dimension. Oh papery light
The rain forest burns backstage to all the headlines.
Somewhere there is wood that can't be refuted
Anywhere on the news I touch the dismemberment of trees.
Alexander, give me my scissors and rebuke the robot angels
Hang the lazy beauticians. Remove logic from beauty if you will.
No more! Get the fuck away, ignorance, that which keeps
Un-holy mattress stores lit up at night!

<3
Clipstella

Valemtimes From Space

2010-02-14T20:14:00.000-08:00

Clip My Wings So I Won't Fly Away,

When I was sixteen Rick Barnocky drove a rattly car in a sweater and tie to my house. In the front seat was Cris holding the single rose he'd finger while ringing my door bell and place in my hand as we nervously were escorted to Chili's. At Chili's I order a ceaser salad and he a burger? we abandon for cigarettes by the dumpster to listen to our mix tape on a walkman and hunch over on a curb like question marks of ourselves. Today I buy extra strength Clearasil face wipes, space out into the pit of my belly while my cousins shop their child support at Urban Outfitters and I boringly thumb my Blackberry until my 6:30 aa mtg uninterested in the venue, finally bored of the text message lineage. Took long enough. Its true what t-shirts say, Virginia is for lovers. Today, all over the state girls broke in heels. Wobbling through movie theaters and restaurants whose entrees they couldn't pronounce. Through ice cream shops and hallways walled by mirrors and hobbled like centaurs to bathrooms reapplying lipstick. The whole world knows what love is. In a movie I hear: "Some people don't believe that you love them unless you show them in front of other people." I smile, knowing this is true for so many other things. Today my Valentine is HairheartsFlip- you are loved and not forgotten. Don't worry, this year we will show the world. Right babe?

xxoo

write your name with finger Nails

Happy Year of the Valentine Tiger

2010-02-14T19:16:00.000-08:00

Happy Valentines Tiger
for Buffalo, New York

Tiger jaws on the cellphone operator this heart collecting quarters.
Stop with me for a minute, hold my hand over my hand over my little penis.
This afternoon it was revealed that all verbs denote towards death.
Finger puppet shows in high definition realism. Come closer, inner clown.
Outside there is winter and the economy and money flurrying like snow.
We don't seem to mind. Card decks flip over frozen lakes, the blond boy pushing
Fisher Price tricycle cut squarely, an "epic failure" of luminous silly sincere
Valentine card party, smoke blows and media kids pushing the non-ironic
Elephant out of the room. Dopple-ganging for the sheer fuck of it.
I pick a blue heart out of the bowl that reads "soul mate" and look around
Embarrassed that no one is there to eat it with me.

-Saint Clipentine

On Holographic Love

2010-02-13T10:39:00.000-08:00

what can be done with fashion must be done with poetry.

with x and o
Nailte Moss

You Will Be Missed Dear Alexander

2010-02-12T17:57:00.000-08:00

1969- 2010

I loved you like urban fantasy

paraded Target for your impossible cities

of charmeuse and organza. Stood heeled

in Sratford. Pull my pig tails, one more time.

Last night I dreamt

the mermaids

of Neverland were working

their fat tails in search of you.

The winter Olympics started

you would have liked

the Aboriginal color

the ice men and cheer.

xx. Nailexander McQueen

Poem for Twenty Four Hour Zenith

2010-02-11T21:08:00.000-08:00

In the meantime

cabs and sparks

splash up black polyester coat

meant for space invasion

by way of hotel elevator and text message.

We are never too far gone

for change so believe and don't let go.

this I tell you with my mind as if sage

across American bedrooms

on invisible Santa Claus transit

unimaginably fast so that it hits boom

as you Pepsi grin patrons or cone head

the nights sheen, those crazo feelers,

that kissy pink knuckle in your chest yes,

he not busy being born is busy dying

or in other words

call me after work.xx.

2010-02-11T20:00:00.001-08:00

Nail.
Don't forget..

<3
Clip

pome

2010-02-09T18:14:00.000-08:00

Killing For Karaoke

Walang hiya, mamatay na ako, pero pag sabihin--
hintay mo ako, dito sa Blogosphere, dito:
ang buhay natin parang pilo

Hindi aking hamo "dahil walang dahil",
pangatawanan: America ikaw may-ari nang Manila

neon ilaw, 7 Elebens, wagas karaoke
Catolico-techno malaking manika
milyones pataygutom
daandaan batang-lansangan, burang
sa alaala. Walang-mukha

anong postmodern? Lahat ay bitbit nang micropono ilalim,
sinag. Walang Christo dito.

----------------------------------------------------------------english translation--->

Without embarrasment, I'll die now, but that's like saying-
wait for me, here in the Blogosphere, here:
our lives are hopscotch

I don't mind "because there's no because",
face the consequences: America you own Manila

neon lights, 7 Elevens, pure karaoke
Catholic-techno blow up doll
millions dead hungry
thousands of street kids, erased
from memory. Without face

what is postmodern? Everyone carries
a microphone beneath,
halos around the heads of saints. There's no God here.

-Clippy

O Beuy

2010-02-09T14:36:00.001-08:00

In 1973, Beuys wrote:

“Only on condition of a radical widening of definitions will it be possible for art and activities related to art [to] provide evidence that art is now the only evolutionary-revolutionary power. Only art is capable of dismantling the repressive effects of a senile social system that continues to totter along the deathline: to dismantle in order to build ‘A SOCIAL ORGANISM AS A WORK OF ART’… EVERY HUMAN BEING IS AN ARTIST who – from his state of freedom – the position of freedom that he experiences at first-hand – learns to determine the other positions of the TOTAL ART WORK OF THE FUTURE SOCIAL ORDER.”
Nailcial Order

Poem For The Farc 1

2010-02-09T13:54:00.000-08:00

Poem One For The Farc

Con todo mis ojos
con cascaras de risa y grito cantado benditos son

los nombres de los santos
vamos caminando
vamos recorriendo las pantallas del los barrios,
la luz saltada de mis paisanos arrastrados de apellidos

en camisas patrias matados por su marcha
quien soy yo sin bandera o calle
quien soy yo calculando un gran amor
o el deseo cultivado sin libertad

mi mascarrita Colmbiana

En el llanto de la selva tuya

Abrazame cortada por la luz

del gran arco sonado

____________________________________________

english translation:

All my eyes

with laugh rinds and sung scream o holy saints

we go walking

we go recovering the televised ghetto,

the skipped blare of my brothers dragged by last name

murdered for their march

who am i with out flag or street

who am i calculating grand love

or desire devoid of freedom.

who am i in little Colombian mask

hold me

traversed by the light

in the cry of your jungle

under the arch we dreamt up.

xxo This Little Piggey Went To Nail

It's Okay

2010-02-08T23:19:00.001-08:00

I Haven't Felt Cool Since 2001

2010-02-06T13:30:00.001-08:00

The only thing I remember about this whole "cool" thing is it exists in images. In sound. and possible before the age of twenty-one. After that, cool was this affirmation one made while applying eyeliner. For now cool is playing pool by myself in a town where I know noone with no interest in leaving or staying. cool is in the distance.
The Birth Of Nail

I Don't care What you Do as Long as Its with Me.

2010-02-05T20:39:00.000-08:00

Nailessee Williams,
Our generation the way we imagine it is doomed to being contained in the repetitious cyber glow of "cool". Last night Anna in Canada says "but isn't that what we want? Don't we want what's cool?" Yes, exactly, if only that were honestly inserted somewhere in The Coming Insurrection--if the regard and homage to cool were honestly stated then so much more could've been revealed about who we are and what we want. We want what's cool. and honest. and sincere. We want sincerity and coolness. Perhaps in a similar way Marlon Brando did it in a Street Car Named Desire. Sincerely cool like that, but my god, don't ever deny this. I won't ever deny that this is the case which persons often turn their noses up from. When did our desire for cool become socially inacceptable? Was it all the theory that made us embarrassed to admit that ultimately its what sounds and looks cool that matters? But don't you feel cool most of the time? I sure do. I feel so damn cool sometimes i don't even need to smoke a cigarette to feel it. Smoking a cigarette makes me feel too cool it makes me feel ready to die. That's exactly how cigarettes make me feel--one mile closer to death on wet train of cool. But man, sometimes i live for that feeling. I remember when one cigarette shared between two people was a signature of trust, of commonality, of equal difference. Nowadays I don't see cigarettes happening like this anywhere. I'd do it all the time with Natalya in LA in our apartment or in my car driving down to Sunset. Blvd. to work on a paper at a coffee shop while high off aderol and days of no sleep. Or with Anna in our London dorm room with tequila shots at 9am before taking an art history final in our pajamas and wandering through the rose gardens in Regents Park. All these instances of sharing cigarettes never recorded, hardly remembered, non-performative by nature and purely motivated by this wonderful sense of being human with all our flaws hanging out. Man how we glowed.

And now us in our separate states clinging on to the frilly edges of distance traced with a digital blog marker or smile every time we click closer. I get hotmail photos of dog silhouettes, junk tractors, and ocean waves like IOU's from paradise from a crush that makes me remember love the way i knew it in second grade; like a crush noticing you've got red marker blots on your cheek and he says something about it but you interpret it for him liking you when really its just embarrassing and he walks away not having a damn clue about how delusional you are. I am nothing but silly and you know what? It's totally okay. Its okay to think you love something you haven't got a clue about. Its far better than not having loved at all. Delusion, filthy eye contacts, broken eyeglasses makes it possible and you know what? Fuck it. I'm getting dressed for every moment of it.

<3
Sound Clip

"Take Care"

2010-02-05T17:01:00.000-08:00

"Take Care"

Ready Freddy

2010-02-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

Coco Clipnel

To begin romance, entice shadow. That said our dear Blanche DuBois had it made. So it seems unembarrassed by her American apparel. Perhaps this is why the hip little uniform of color blocks draws us in? What is it about nostalgia that we must incessantly work at it's creation. Each listed object invariably a limb assigned to function as attribute to a greater, monumental garble. You should see my face when I see a Sephora. The endless possibilities, the challenge of carefully enacting a linearity impossible to exist. As my high school English teacher used to say. "Go on, convince me."

What did LA look like that day in 2000? What day was it anyway? Years like clothing and digitally organized friendships hang over these silly bone frames. I used to collect folded notes, soaked in highlighter fluid, colored pens and illustrations of me walking down the hall dragging corduroy. I haven't gotten a note in years but flood the spam folder with LinkedIn requests. How can I tell you wuz up in uniform font? to tell you a story in the same font you get student loan information in is something close to dangerous and the death of sentiment.

they say we will be snowed in here. I wonder in secret if they mean "for good." when we consider the family structure we walk through graveyards unbuckling the ceremonial body. Yes, may it fall like boiled chicken toward the gallant earth. What it takes to secure the dissolution of space. Maria sits on the counter as I clean up the making of dinner. My uncle conducting surgery on a foot or an ankle as the first snowflakes enter. Juli asleep with a cold and a cup in her hand. We can't get it out, she cuddles it. The first breathy scenes of a Goddard slip past sharp branches. where am i? i know what Saturn envys: look at this shit. I mentally turn the page to the kids on the street saying:

"Excuse us if we don’t give a fuck."

What will moth-eat us? In a text a receive pictures of feet. of sucker faces and typewriter keys. In my mind I am every song I ever heard floating Mike Teevee crunchy over invisible houses. Let me be your Hank Williams tonight in this snow and "melt your coldcold heart"

heartspace

Nailstorm

Because I like you.

2010-02-04T10:57:00.000-08:00

Nailed to Sound of It,

I don't know how it happens. Not knowing how to begin. How the day opens and closes. Glass doors swinging. How everyone is plugged to their musics, tiny tendrils blocking out all possibility for human embarrassment. Ode to the things we buy to hide. I am looking at the things people carry on themselves that sustains the uniformity and distance. The embarrassment of such objects to conceal oneself is an aesthetic we'd rather not install on the contextual floors of art. Shit, I'd rather not. Its too embarrassing it hurts. But how to expose it and is it worth something to expose? Should this kind of embarrassment sell? Could I sell photo prints of me in close-up holding or wearing the things I own in order to hide? What are those things? Here, I'll give you a list:

1. chanel sunglasses
2. books
3. laptop
4. earphones
5. clothes
6. jewelry

But lets get more subtle:

1. mascara
2. eye-liner
3. friends
4. facebook
5. font-types
6. family parties
7. karaoke
8. the ideal lover
9. the general ideal
10. tastes in general
Today I am not embarrassed about these things but I can't promise it'll be that way tomorrow. I am asking that you be embarrassed with me if your in the mood. Did I tell you about the boy who shot himself in the head in front of a video camera at my highschool at 7am and left me a poem in his email? I'm beginning to think about art and trauma. Video, a gunshot to the head, and a poem. Wondering what all this means. Asking my 18 year old self what really happened. If it was him this whole time that lead me to a media program in some gateway to the Midwest. If its him that follows me sometimes, that makes the dvd skip the way it does, that makes my computer freeze, that makes the eject button not work. And of course i know its not him. He's not here with me. He's in a video with his head blown apart while high off acid. That December morning in 2000 i woke up unusually early, as if i heard the gunshot from miles away. That same day when all the students were dismissed from their classes i went home, prayed for him, and took a nap.

Today, I feel like him. I think I'm becoming him. Re-watching American Beauty with a classroom full of students who seem to get it. But I don't get it. how 10 years could pass right before your eyes and nothing changes. You become who you always were-- just an insecure high-school kid with big dreams and nothing to lose.

Love.
Not a Cliptomaniac but it sounds like a good project

First Time I Was Moved To Tears From An Image Since 1999

2010-02-03T15:29:00.000-08:00

Clip Clap I Was Taking A Bath, All Along A Saturday Night:

Hours. They are becoming obsolete. In so much as they are not required for the passing of states, the sun or time at all. I listen to the same song for three days. I drive 9 hours to and from. Passing homes and houses. Wooden mascots of weightless towns with names like "Hurt" or "Pittsylvania." A bunch of clouds to mock the passing cars. Clip, sometimes I miss the softness in hearts. In and out like Adobe. O slick neurosis of digital boom boom. There is too much hardness everywhere. Too many foul little noses in the air. In Charlotte North Carolina I do not relax. Every remark and tangy opinion settling into the boundless sadness and weight of ego. Jesus, fkn drop it already. No one is paying attention. And surely, you don't care all that much. What is happening is this angle, perhaps one generally disturbed by what we call the delusion of social marketing or the positioning of identity. it's too much. The schism, as always goes the tale, divides us into cynics and emoticons. Tell me, what is the point of finding something disagreeable in everything another says? No matter what it may be. My pigtails are being pulled, my knees shoved and dragged along patterned duvets. My face red with insult and heart ridiculed for idealism. The strength is to refuse the cruelty the obvious and uninteresting scoff. How obnoxious to dislike something about everything. It is like going to Machu Picchu and saying "O i thought it might be bigger" or "O, I don't see the allure" People always needing to pose themselves to align others experience into their narrative. Relax. or move forward so that I may pass through. For the past few weeks of traveling aimless, long u turns and snow crapped roads I may have been born on, I give thanks to the sun, the occupation of space. Jesus I'm fkn alive. We are fucken alive. Shut the fk up or at least take it somewhere else because these days are precious few. Been taking tango lessons, turns out the trick is to give in. Don't think, don't question or reject. Shut up and feel. Turns out, it's the best things that's happened to me in years. Last night I lay in bed watching a balloon pop. The thing holds the water. The concept of containment became perfectly clear. My palms sweat, my heart raced. Zo said- whoa, you ok?- I just let me self fall in love. Hard to let go, but my god the world is beautiful when you do. It is true what we talk about in occasional laughter- the path, will never let you go.
loves to the h-eart-s
Not Nailed

2010-02-01T20:40:00.000-08:00


YouTube Doubler

help me understand this fear.

<3
Movieclip

pome

2010-02-01T16:00:00.000-08:00

Internet Killed the Radio Star
for Clos Lara

The great London Eye came tumbling
mocking neon ferris Bentham dream, except outward
openly--handsome prisoners to internet cities :) Oh let
Me LOL upon the wire, sit together for strongbow ciders
and take notes on a sociology of gestures: punch dialing drunk darlings
Lets fuck on twitter again
It was fun the first time around and now
I don't need you
Anywhere. Take this <3 and throw it into Lorca's database for good.
Never did like his poems anyway, his ink drawings
grew on me. His Barcelona distant from mine. By the way
Left you a message the other day. It should've said
press # on this heart until one of us can feel it.

Yes, Yes I'm Moving Right Along

2010-02-01T00:06:00.000-08:00

love Bonnie Prince Naily

Hey iPad, I Bet you can't turn This Blog into Origami!

2010-01-31T11:18:00.000-08:00

Hey Nail Cutiecle Pie!
So good your end of my imagination is pumping out happy texts to whomever deserves it. From the interior of this interior which is just the same old cafe a swiffer of snow blasts out the window like what every Electrelane song pretty much looks like. It seems i am following around this haircut wherever it goes, messing up the sides like tired bubble gum slurpy sidehawks. I think this is where I want to be--always one inch away from the circus that follows me. Today I went to mass at Saint Louis Cathedral in downtown Buffalo at noon and felt like magic; like being put on this earth just to blog you every few days of my little life, look up and say tiny prayers just for the nonsensical of it. Though isn't this the same as pulling handles on the slot machine? You look up. You guess and wait. And if something comes out then great. Michael Keenan gets here in 3 weeks and I'm just about ready to adobe flash myself to that Biolystak Art Factory in Poland June if america doesn't reply. In Buffalo everything is cozy. You show up to the Book Arts center for a Linh Dinh reading with a table full of dinner for 5 bucks and after he's finished he tells his fans to fuck off which i thought was kinda rude in a Hello Kitty kinda way. Shelves of little presses all snug in their bookcase cubicles not even caring to be sifted through. Some canadian poet talking about refrigerators, how he watched her wash dishes, how the Looney Tunes all made it to his 5 year old's solo party in the space of one pillow. On the public toilet I tell Keenan over cellphone talk that all poets need are a bunch of sleep and pillows. If we could get by in this world with just one pillow and enough to eat as a way of surrendering to the demands of the economy we could origami fold this blog, let it rest in some museum and call it night. But don't worry, i'm not succumbing to the ergonomic seductions of the iPad just yet and plus, it doesn't even come with a webcam which is like having compact facial powder with no mirror. How annoying, right?

God how I love,
ClipBook

Come Snow With Me

2010-01-31T08:24:00.000-08:00

ClipClip

my cousin reads HairheartsFlip from day one at the counter next to the bowing of heavy weather in footie pajamas. I stand behind her in an indescribable resolve. It is as if watching my own operation from the small glassed room above the table. The body examined through familial prods and pokes. There is "m" "y" face embedded in "m" "y" words I'm all- "ok, who am I already? Im not gonna guess so tell me." And there is your face wrapped in long non pepper hair while she giggles at a post by Flip, something about spilling wine on each others outfits because we like them both. Isn't Nail hearts Clip the bitchy cynical big sister annoyed at the levity of HHC? what happend here? Snowed like mad yesterday. By 4 Real Madrid brought it again fisting pumping sweat boys. By 8 I hopp in my little chugger car shoving three feet of snow off the exterior and head downtown. By 11 we stack up empty tall boys of PBR and play pool like champions. By midnight I'm on the phone in the middle of a frozen ocean mistaking everything for love. The real kind. What if MTV finally made a show called Love: The Real Kind where seven strangers prove its not that difficult. Each nite is spent sending txt messages that get progressively more obvious.

Hi cutiepie! i miss you/love u/want u/is it ok i said that?/yes! its ok! jk/i don't miss/love/want/myself?/yes!/wait/love me?/or allude to it with a smiley face/or else don't ever talk to me/flash to: black and white/am i?/so blk n wte?/come get me then get naked, thanks/yr the best ever/i want u so hard rite now/hope you know i was being litehearted/silly/with my txts?/last nite/pool nite was hysterical/hope your friend is feeling a bit better./xx/oo/x/don't look at me.

SEND

what is it about time that makes me feel so sleepy? the word itself a cozy oragami. Get a txt saying " I cant stop tinkin bot u" and hope to God that was on purpose. my heart. the last one to get the news I'm ready to give it up recognizes its own shadow. sweeping up the smallest of hopes.
President of the Nailited

Poem

2010-01-30T15:26:00.000-08:00

On The Importance Of Giving Up
For 10

As it is said to have been delivered, I too come quickly
through boastful stars with pop strung heart calculating
our certainty or such a heaven to exist. Humble me
but do it gently. In French colonial suit, calm the ghosts
of Machu Pichu, the solemn growl of arching time. How I
crawl the march of pedestals, how I quiet theatrical sparks.

pome

2010-01-30T13:40:00.000-08:00

Pop Confessional

Waterfall syntax

smoke lens caught in the offshoot sparrow

Limb letters and all that candy coated stuff is just pop semblances.

Which one are you; give me your hand and fuck off the radio. I am gun shot

strawberry milkshake after effects gliding silly on these American knees,

Lyotards and cheetah leg warmers not that its ever worth phototexting

Bodies buried in the snow, souls buried in cellphones. And there goes

all the eucharist quarters dispensed into mouths, techno-catholic blow up doll

So give me vegas or the vatican.

Knock Knock love Nailbell

2010-01-30T01:19:00.000-08:00

from VA with love

2010-01-28T02:00:00.001-08:00

after tango lessons, conversations on infidelity, single life, flirting, playing hard-to-get, rare books, ankle surgery, prosthetics, tits, two bottles of Argentinian Malbec, three Shock Top beers and Mercedes Sosa videos: video of poems inspired by John Sakkis.

http://bothbothseries.blogspot.com/

A La Selba Con La Boca Abierta

2010-01-27T10:47:00.000-08:00

The Clipped Committee
Hide Clipper. Do it well. I don't even want to call, just tug at your priest tail. Up in the mountains I am understanding the idea of jungle or perhaps more accuartelty, the American commune sought after by the rugged, the few, the marginalized. Not surpsisingly, the computer sits in the middle of it all. Glowing apples hanging from heavy round limbs. Listen to you! Get that fist up- its how things get done. The process of identity is culminating in law. I doubt without being truly honest that poetry can itself be the source of movement. Poetry must be reworked as social change. form the tired brarrage of self amused banter. Implimenting a politics unmoveable by the force of the body. The body must not exist. I get an email that says "We have reviewed your application to our program, after through consideration our commtittee feels your skill and potential is best suited for our..." I am no longer choosing my path, I am starting to shut up, not care to call, and pay attention. These things happen. I started to consider what this would mean for France? What a castle with your baths would look like from my nose in Hobbes? What do I have to wear? Should I start working out for the LSATs? Since it is we exist in a system in which the creation of identity is the creation of the system itself, i can't help but notice that poetry does not exist as poem. for a chance at a new poetics we must become lawyers, doctors, teachers. Our anarchy is from the inside. Trungpa wore a suit, a clean shave and a smile. I'm taking out the razor blades, sharpening the edges of my lapels. Everyone I am is waiting.
The Honoable NailSpace

2010-01-27T10:12:00.000-08:00

The Coming Surrenderection

2010-01-27T08:53:00.000-08:00

Nail Me a Piece of that Kit Kat Bar,
The back windshield wipers went left to right like oh-no-she-did-nt. A brigade of snow fizzing like Italian soda pop rocks hit me from front to back so I turned around and parked at Aroma Cafe on Bidwell Parkway & Elmwood Ave. A thing of TV snow is all one can watch on a day like this while the woman on Food Network whips up a bowl of fresh tiramisu cream and cocoa sprinkles seated at a red and white checkered table cloth talking to me without sound.

Come to think of it, I think I've been intrigued by the idea of disappearance since being a tiny kid. Hockey reminds me of this. and tennis. I want a home with fresh roses, peonies, and sugar lace ribbons hung from the chandeliers. I guess i could do it now but all that work requires me to stay here. A tooth print caused by someone's obsessive love it what i want to see on my arm. I'm never giving you my cellphone number, not for a while at least because there's a shit load that needs to get started. For instance, that whole business of being a cyber criminal fighter sounds fun but so does The Invisible Committee. Is that all it amounts to--> fun? Is this adorno's nightmare brought on by the culture industry? HA HA HA. Let us laugh our way through this spaghetti and give up. Is it in "giving up" that our generation must face? If to Surrender would equal Laughter correlative to Fun, then why couldn't the three engender compassion and empathy? If there's anything any culture so consistently needs, its compassion and empathy. Empathy + Commodities = Gift Economies though its not that simple while things are necessary to build and solidify an image (as reference point or thing to compare) which is the very thing culture feeds off. While its Image that we despise, its the thing we desperately cling to for guidance and protection. Its here that blindness is radical. Blessed are the blind for they shall see god, etc. Big internet companies are the new country where millions click and flock to. I am dreaming of a kind of poemtry that functions similarly; a poemtry that operates as a big internet company where the customers are language itself, where language buys and sells itself to itself without regard for mass readership; an exploration of empty divinities in the vast mental-scape of the internet which is merely language if you think about it. The internet is nothing but numbers and language, distance and immediacy, mirroring the thing inside us dying to break free.

LA Clippers

Your Haircut Looks Hello Kitty

2010-01-22T09:38:00.000-08:00

North Nailrolina.
Look at this shit. This is Buffalo, NY's slap in the face vis-a-vis a real fucked up haircut. Every time I close my eyes i think it'll grow back faster. With just one appointment at Garren salon in NYC they'll get me back to pretty just for you. I was so pissed at the hairdresser i couldn't even feel it. All I want is to look like Max; to cut and paste his coat onto my head i think would do. Took a hot shower after the hair war and read bits of Bolano's lastest--Monsieur Pain. Have you seen? A glimpse into paris streets early 20th when we were there, when Vallejo keeled over on a filthy hospital bed and we were busy getting buns and coffees in saint-germain at Cafe Flor hopping and skipping penniless out of the train station. A time before the bustle and isolation of iPods, post phenomenology of surrealist film shock. I have a rabbit in this apartment dying to get out, a fearful and guiltless creature that can only hop along to my happy- anxious outbursts. Thank you god, the sun is out. Bells are chiming, bells that summons me to europe in the company of electric love. Back to Monsieur Pain--Bolano's self portrait of himself in the guise of a lazy romantic doctor without a grip on his own fate, without a grip on his daily comings and goings. Endless swirls of hospital corridors, awkward encounters that make him stare at his shoes, drunk phone calls on a payphone from a bar with a man seated at a table playing solitaire, being watched by two trenchcoat men in a restaurant, a two-thousand franc bribe to keep a mouth shut, etc. The classic NailheartsClip situation, i guess you could say. And guess what. I am ready to pack these bags again for a two day hair stroke by the genius of Garren & Co on 5th Ave in the that great big city where you'll find me in the upper east looking ready to give up and move to some european spa with Marina. Only a few more months in this town and lord knows what--as ever.

heart
C[ ]p

ABC Come Find Me...

2010-01-20T01:02:00.000-08:00

Cliptropolitan Museum, I'm trying to be so quiet. See, it has come to my attention I am missing so much of the big picture. See here, it is always 4 in the morning with a handful of sleeping pills and a heartache only known by reality t.v. love. In 2003 I met the creator of "The Bachelor". Mike Fleiss, yes cousin to hollywood madame Heidi Fleiss. In 2003 Mike Fleiss gave me an invitation to meet all the bachelor boys at Saddle Ranch on Sunset where I thought I could fall in love. Yes, at Saddle Ranch. Honestly, is that so different from the Downer? Let's move on, yes, with Lanny, 26, Stallion and Breeding Manager, originally from Mt. Vernon, TX, who currently resides in Aubrey, TX. In 2003 in a Sheraton in the valley in the middle of the summer with a fist of nattyice and heart about to endure 6 years of heartache, I looked at Lanny and thought: this could be it...right? Lanny with his thick frame and smooth drawl. Lanny who smelled like the fresh cut green and southern sun. Lanny whose clean blue eyes I wanted to sleep under for years and not ever do anything but cook pies and sneak cigarettes in the basement with my tiny waist in a house dress and manicure. Sometimes I lose myself in lives I won't ever build, in lives I only let exist for one moment for that one time. In retrospect, why do we make it so difficult? It is, for all intents and purposes, ours for the making after all.

7 years later I'm packing all my clothes into the same luggage it arrived in, shoving black stilettos next to miniskirts thin t-shirts and satin panties while Jake, the new Bachelor makes his was through a crowd of women trying to find what he calls love. Love. love. By the third day there is scandal and fighting and tears and infatuation. The show is good, its not that. Its Jake. He is this pilot, this genuine guy, this genuinely confident man and through the rock solid good looks he is brave. He is brave because he is scared and not afraid to show it. He says it over and over. "I am here to find love. I know my wife is in that room amongst all these women." and I want to believe him. I want to believe in love. Do you believe in love?

By episode 6 I believe him. And I am wrapping the cord of my flatiron in a tight knot when i feel it in my stomach and start to think- o shit. do I love someone unattainable? or Is it true then what his AOLchat voice said, that a heart can be made of pureshit? In a pub in Portland Oregon there is a birthday party with beer from the tap and cake from a box. In 2010 there are men and women flirting and talking and joking under pool table lights and near the cheeky vintage pacman not far from duck hunter is a man with a bad translation of Lorca in his back pack, Walt Whitman at home wearing my green checkered scarf I bought at Forever 21 in 2007 with his sister's cellphone buzzing and buzzing in his left valet pant pocket. In Portland Oregon I am called on a cigarette break and miss it while I tend to the tea kettle and run out of excuses as to why Jake won't find love on this show. Why do I do this to myself?
I lay down on a pile of folded clothes and remember in the best detail I can the dreams I have been having, O these wonderous dreams in which I am always inlove.

Last dream, I met this girl undergoing chemo, her head shaved and her eyes winter dull. I loved her. We held hands through hospital corridors and she leads me into a room filled with coma patients. Just a cold room with a long row of single beds suspending these dreaming bodies. I get a kick inside, I look at her and I am every hallucination. Every syllable ever uttered. I look at her and I know that I will always be by her side. She kisses me, against the rythmic sheen of lifesupport, she kisses me this kiss that was to say not even death will take me from your side. I am laying on the floor, I realize I am not there but laying on the floor and I start to cry in an inconsolable cry. My whole body trembling with loss. How can it be I can not return? How can it be that not death but life robs me of these adventures of these loves? I am curled on the floor when I think how is it in this life I let love leave my side?
I get a pink panther phone call from North Carolina and pour it out on line for a good hour. I am laughing, we talk about dogs and cartoons. colds and Best Buy. Sometimes if i don't pay attention I miss it. Sometimes its that phone call when you're laying on a pile of clothes trying to feel closer to something you thought was gone that reminds you that right in front of you not so far at all, there are people right then who are ready to talk about dogs or cartoons until you are laughing. And have forgotten what empty feels like. Until at the end of the conversation I hear, "so giggles, how you feeling now?" At 5 in the morning, at 5 am on Wedensday January 20, 2010 I am grateful for perfect timing friends.

all my hearts
California Nails

DuChamp Duh Done

2010-01-19T01:03:00.000-08:00

j'taime Marcel, a fait vous me quittez ici pour vous amuser? merci, je sui pour vous.
His sincerity toward rejecting art makes you want to take art and hold it's detached hand. what love!
NailNailism

We Have A Dream

2010-01-18T15:54:00.000-08:00

HairheartsFlip/ NailheartsClip Ideology

- A vantage point from which media can be used as a voice not lost in the digital hum that once turned heads. Combining the force of poetics, discipline of theory, and immediate power of media arts. A new combination offering a voice to the marginalized tradition of the social voice.

- The blog as the popularized generational niche representing a language based on response, urgency and availability.

- resurrection of the theoretical, the confessional, the passe in contemporary poetry. What exists behind the poem is the person.

- What is person V what is identified V what is characterization

- Re-approaching "the streets" through digital play.

- What is called "page" grown out of the word and utilized to preform truth for the creation of audience and post-art sociopolitical structure

- Language existing without the need for permanence. Existing as temporal and kitsch. As leopard and dove.

- Forceful play of perceptional fortitude.

- Placing the idiosyncratic rap on a pedestal made of hair by flipping it into notoriety.

- Representing the tradition of change by honoring the necessity of ritual.

xo
sNail

Made in USA. 2008

2010-01-18T15:23:00.000-08:00

Notes on Poetics of Hairflip

Sunday Night Mashup

2010-01-17T13:24:00.000-08:00


YouTube Doubler

All the Nails to Build a Full House or Inject into One Arm Junky:
Everytime I hear Burroughs i want to puke into a Youtube bucket while he takes me to the far ends of starry disgust or the Sundowner bathroom stalls of Boulder, CO that vibrate everytime you or my mom calls. The Portable Cinema is open 38 hours a day capturing punctuation that glitters and glows in a light box. Hear me shake it. Rearranged the apartment into what I am hoping will work to inspire focus, fearlessnes, and love. The sun stayed out of Buffalo's way today. I am on a mission to find a new ink cartridge for the printer so I can not see the difference between page and screen. Portland, Oregon sounds like a very uninteresting poem-- conceptually of course. I can imagine language tasting very much like organic oatmeal cookies over there with in a pair orange crocs pushed and shoved to repeat in some eco-pantoum contracting and expanding between harmonica bars. To prance around a blue flannel from Target with q-tips for wands is all I can think of doing on a Sunday filled Pandora channels and burnt vanilla sugar cookies. To kick up thumbs and avoid textmessaging for a while sounds like a good plan for the next few twittering years so as not to fall into the neutral boobie traps of texts oft mistaken for paranoid intonations when really its just someone on the other end of emptiness pushing buttons in the general mediated hoax of the 21st century. Should we get used to it? The distance and non-spatial communication adding greater sensitivity to the spaces where language sends and falls? One can only wonder what will happen when the earth enters Aquarius in 2011-- will we ever be able to text our human emotions and errors straight to any of the samsaric realms. Will we be able to text our dead loved ones "miss you" or "fuck you for not clearing up your debt, asshole." Ah, such is the planet we inhabit and god, I must say, i love it.

Clipster

O Sweet A, Thank You

2010-01-17T01:01:00.000-08:00

Lost Origina
l
by Anselm Hollo

Mr. K said in times of great crudity

it is necessary to be subtle

so please wrap around me

with awkward grace

I may have suffered some Rilke Damage

or do I just have a little trouble

with fantasy tripwires

while engrossed in the sky's lexicon

& hills like purple pachyderms

"there's been a great upsurgence"

said the announcer but I didn't catch

what of & what of where

does it come from where does it go

still asking on down the road

Let Me Work Out To The MeloDrama Of Social Identity

2010-01-16T15:20:00.000-08:00

ClipBar

Mickey: The whole world's comin' to an end, Mal!
Mallory: I see angels, Mickey. They're comin' down for us from heaven. And I see you ridin' a big red horse, and you're driving them horses, whippin' 'em, and the're spitting and frothing all 'long the mouth, and the're coming right at us. And I see the future, and there's no death, 'cause you and I, we're angels...

Mickey: I love you, Mal.

Mallory: I know you do baby, and I've loved you since the day we met.

Champagne Super Nailva

No, Its Not Too Much To Ask For...

2010-01-15T23:43:00.001-08:00

Mashing Up a Caribou Coke With You

2010-01-15T11:28:00.000-08:00


YouTube Doubler

for Nail
with love, Clip.

The Difference Between Two Happy Meals Is Andre Breton

2010-01-14T10:21:00.000-08:00


YouTube Doubler

Naily Tunes,
I am skip rattle and pop to the blog spot. Here me tic tac toe a tiny formation of a stardust castle known to the Kingdom of Nailclippers. A burst of bubble drop hair pins scattered on the grass. Here me chew sharp cheddar lipstick at every Hail Mary recitation on the 405 highway switching lanes at a rate the eye skims a thesaurus. At the Paul J.Getty in Los Angeles, Carlos and I are two giddy drunks disinterested in art and skip the show for a charade of Pimm tonics and award winning mussels. We walk around the pomegranate garden feeling like marathon winners against time having beat out all the dinosaurs that once roamed that great Los Angeles County basin. From off the Bel Air cliffs i can see my house, from off the Bel Air cliffs I can see Lord Byron's Lake Geneva. At In-N-Out Carlos briefs me on current LA poets over protein cheeseburgers all dipped into the mouths of East LA bodies all shaking rattling and rolling. Give me God or a t-shirt. Either one will do. What is this TV sandwich lust programmed in me since childhood? I think we should trade our Mayan numbers because obviously mine is a mistake that's tricked me into a second MFA program in a happy land of snow glow. Fuck. I am happy today. I am walking around white Buffalo snow like a fucken black bold font that spells out Happy. See me ice skating across the pond with razor sharp GPS strokes in one daguerrotype blink. Damn we really don't exist anywhere, or do we. If I have to pillow fight my way through reason, you better believe I will.

Thomas Clip Edison

Finger Waves

2010-01-13T17:08:00.000-08:00

Fish and Clip
as identity i raise my face to the bottle. Mom fogs Paloma Picasso fat poker chips five dollar bills in Ed Hardy sequin design out the door for the whole night. The whole night in Coors light Camel light internet glare existing as link in the cactus and orchid blackyard. Was i older when I met you? more human when I came to wine parties popping DJ highlights fucking in stairways stumbling into compassionate meditation fifteen pounds ago photographed and signing autographs? Do i clash against digital wall pushing the page under the microscope evening downloading albums to remind me of a time when shit hit the fan because i threw it? Today, I laughed up defending my integrity as if I owned it. As is anything is owned. But like I said, its about the habit. To form a habit allows for definition. What is formed by posed linearity. What is accepted and so on. If i stand up tall I'm in dog sandwich watching Pixar film on unknown couch in unimagined space. I remember the party in Providence we took a cab to. The house with hand puppets reading poems fixing flyayways like mothers. One day we will be. of something or other. what do you think of that?

Talib Naili

The Book Of Right On

2010-01-10T11:59:00.000-08:00

ClipStart
cut my finger into an eight stitch rose Saturday nite. Ready for the ChipStrip? Ready for the fat ocean blow us in? I watch Joanna Newsom pluck the harp like a cat sharpening her claws on my velvet mauve armchair picking and tugging away. as it gets colder i wonder about my things. O things. O chairs and couches. O bed clothes books and pictures. what to makes of these things when i see them again? will they remember me? when I had been learning to forget already? The thing is to never give up. London in the Buffalo cafeteria, Paris in the apple cider bathtub, double digit D in the salt flick Mexico. Tonight
i'll kill my dinner. Send my text message boyfriend a txtual cock grab and spin into crochet doilies blessing the useless, the great ordinary grace of being.

Broken Social Nail

pome

2010-01-05T13:43:00.000-08:00

London Buses Blowing Up
for Childhood

Somewhere on the syntax a paper clip heart
Got bent at the thought of it. I tossed it, no, you
Tossed it, no, it fell apart when the cellphone vibrated:
"I can get us a free hotel in Puerto Vallarta, what do you say,
lets make something happen." To paste the city of Buffalo
onto the overall collage of our joint anxieties and see what happens.
What you'll get is a genetic infant sketch of your history married to mine
And our house for sale on the moon projected on the exterior wall
of the museum of contemporary art, bartheelona. You see, we are not
all that apathetic under neon lamps, just bored of boredom for sun deficient's sake
Because its a damn good source to replay the tragic comedy mostly
made up of miles and long distance phone bills and texts and sweat
On the treadmill, that god given treadmill to keep us from going Kerouac mad.