Tuesday, June 19, 2018

SHOWING UP
by Elan Barnehama

In September of 1969 the NY Mets were in second place, the Vietnam War was raging out of control, and Blind Faith released their self-titled album with a naked girl on the cover.  And I was walking along 67th Ave, across Queens Boulevard, past 108th St, on my way to my first day of high school.

In History, the teacher put me in the first row next to this kid who also had those old-school, Coke-bottle-bottom glasses.  Turns out that Henry was even younger than me. Henry was young because he skipped 8th grade. I pretty much just started kindergarten early and moved on from there.  That made Henry officially smart and it made me, well, just young. Being the youngest kid in a grade lost its appeal the moment girls started liking older guys.

When the Miracle Mets’ won the World Series, some of the summer’s optimism generated by the Apollo 11 moon landing and Woodstock returned.  But then Lieutenant Calley was charged with killing 109 civilians at My Lai, the Chicago Eight went on trial for being annoying, and all around us sides were being taken, lines were being drawn, stakes were being raised. 

We stopped cutting our hair, started going to protests, and looked to rock and roll for meaning.  When the baseball coach told Jimmy to cut his hair or get cut from the team, Jimmy proclaimed the situation a mockery and walked off the field.

I started hanging out at the schoolyard with Henry and Jimmy and Ritchie and Sam and Freddy and others.  Freddy never played ball at all.  Freddy could talk though.  And Freddy could drive.  He was the first one of us to get a car, even though he was not the first to get a license.

One evening, sweaty and tired from basketball, we walked by a Chinese Restaurant down by Queens Blvd and Yellowstone.  The door past the main entrance was open revealing a tiny bar and a table filled with complimentary appetizers.  With no bartender in sight, we ducked inside and began stuffing ourselves.   The bartender entered and we tried to act natural and ordered beers.  Instead of laughing and tossing us out, he set us up with a row of drafts.  The drinking age back then was 18.  But we were 14.

In those pre-cellular, pre-digital, pre social-anything days, that tiny bar became our information hub.  It’s where we gathered before heading out and Eddie could always tell you where each of us were.  And on more than one occasion, we accepted a ride home from Eddie when walking was going to be an issue.

Nixon’s draft lottery was introduced that December and while we were too young, it threw a shadow over everything.  For the guys who “won’ the lottery, their lives were changed instantly.  It seemed that the more we learned in school, the more confusing the world looked.

I’d always been an outsider, a first generation, oddly named, child of Holocaust era parents who mixed three languages into most conversations, with thick accents that I never noticed.  I’d had my name mispronounced so many times I was no longer sure how to say it.

I’d gotten used to being an outsider, hanging out on the margins.    But Jimmy and Henry and Sam and Ritchie and the others, they were not outsiders and they didn’t care that I was.  Jimmy maintained that our bond came from not having brothers.  But only Jimmy and Henry didn’t have brothers. What none of us had, were brothers-in-arms, blood-brothers.  Calling someone your brother was a thing back then, but for us, it was about family.  All families begin with strangers and we had formed our own.  Together, triumphs were made sweeter, and defeats were softened.

Over the years, we gathered often.  If one of us called a Boys’ Night Out, we answered.  If someone called an Emergency Boys’ Night Out, we dropped everything.  If you weren’t sure of the rules, you saw Jimmy.  But first, you showed up.

And showing up turns out to be almost everything.  May not be the only thing, but it’s a big thing. Among the group, there have been some stints in rehab, some surgeries, one death by overdose, another after a short and one sided battle with pancreatic cancer, and one original was banished for betraying the trust. 

That trust does not come from our history; our history comes from that trust.  There’s no formula or prescription for why it works, but the result is outstanding and we all keep showing up.

KOLpAdAdA


JOHN M. BENNETT


MARGARET BELLAFIORE
SHERIFF OR COWBOY? - PEPPE ESPOSITO
Peppe Esposito's work, plays on the identification, with the image of the gunman
and raises a question about the legal acts that we do really

Monday, June 18, 2018


LESLIE LOWE
penebruma

the singed book yr th
roat  's  )hot cough(  stain a
skull  's  bent up clown sn
ore's glory sneezed a  a   a
deruddered foot at roof's
edge

putifacto putiplácido putiplenimondar

dripped off em leg ged re
ductionedist bruma em
BLAzoned EMBlazoned embl
azONEd whisker-like a flatt
ened mask you ssay ?  “smell
the hand's bare slaw eye” un
der a s lack d rift of as
hy pages  )small bad leg(  nim
ias y numenescas ,tu flujo
refulgente  )“hot lap heard”(
)dream of a dead squirrel is a
head rotting in a bucket is a
small room walled with TVs
blaring  PUTIboca pUTIboca
PUTIBOCA orange drool
pools on the floor a
tiny hand jerks and splashes
in the fli ckering li ght( (  (   (    (      (

eye
lint pages
leg clown fog


Que d'atrocités n'a t'elle pas produit!
- M. Boinvilliers, Cacographie, 1819


John M. Bennett
3.15.18 

FOX, 2018 - MATTHEW ROSE
Collage on paper

TRASHPO PEEK, 2018 - TARA VERHEIDE AKA SINCLAIR SCRIPA
Collage, found trash, marker
11" x 17"
SCORE: “BECOMING A FAMOUS ARTIST”, #1 - MELANIE HEDLUND
SCORE: “BECOMING A FAMOUS ARTIST”, #2 - MELANIE HEDLUND
SCORE: “BECOMING A FAMOUS ARTIST”, #3 - MELANIE HEDLUND
Left Image from “Dancing Fragments of the Ocean”, photo credit: Matt Samolis

Sunday, June 17, 2018


JOHNSON LIOW - ALL OF ME
JOHNSON LIOW - ALL OF ME
JOHNSON LIOW - ALL OF ME



[to be read aloud by the group, with low key beatnik jazz in the background]
A Poem
by Peter J. Evans
I have these dreams of butter,
sometimes theyʼre rather strange, I
boast, toast and weenie roast, but
somethings never change.
The vermillion in the
vermiculite, veni, vidi, vici,
I petrify my troglodyte,
thus no one there can reach me.
Rolling through the friction
zone, pitch pipe bursting bright,
though my compass reads unknown
the flog runs true the knight.
Five plus two is seven,
five and nine, fourteen,
my friends, a bit of heaven,
descendant from my spleen.
SUSAN SHULMAN
PICASSO GAGLIONE (THE DADAMAN)
macro_DaDa - DAMIEN OLSEN

Days 2 &3 of Dada Actions : Here and There

Cleaning Tristan's Grave Dada Exercise - Paris, France
by Margaret Bellafiore - June 13, 2018

I found Tristan's grave today at Montparnasse cemetery. It was hard to find as it was overgrown. I cut some branches off and threw some dead plants out (about six that had been dead in pots for awhile). Some people came by looking for the pere of dada.


Margaret Bellafiore - Cleaning out grave

The grave of the pere de dada all clean by Margaret Bellafiore
Joanne performing her version of Milan's score:  

Carry a glass filled with water in your hand.

Ask somebody on the street If he/she believes in god.

If they do, ask them If they can ask their god to order the pouring water from your glass not to fall down toward the ground but to pour up toward heaven.


Jane  and James Performing Milan's Score:  Prop: two chairs

In order to justify the more stuff and wealth that you really need for your life try to sit with your “one” ass on the two chairs.

But you have to sit with the full ass on either chair at the given moment.



 

THE DADA SCORES

 Milan performing Zayde's dada action:

If not now, when?
...then.













Jane Performing Jimena's Dada Actions:

 Do a combination of these actions, use repetition:
stand on one foot, sit down, look left, run around yelling:
"you love me, you love me not”, or "you love me, you love me know”,
raise one arm.





Jane and Joanne performing Sandrine Schaefer's dada action:
Return your vision to what is directly in front of you and to your periphery.
Recite a list of every color you see and/or sound you hear.




Saturday, June 16, 2018

PATRIOTIC DADA OR WHITE SKIN AND FLAGS - KATHLEEN MCHUGH

ILLUSION ( visual poem ) - JÓZSEF BÍRÓ


Mistranslations from the Czech of Milan Kohout

I. Nice-O

Po-faced ramen yeah lazy and svelte.
Jack up a couple Neccos, don’t stretch.
Cuter-est jester, nervy prize-denier,
snide or lick-costly pure.

Yeah, leaps-y milk cat.
Vapid half-sweetheart, taller,
why stave knees? Vague denial.
Ah never pout me out.
Zip museums die to chat.


II. Rose ‘Em Up

Save it, missile.
Do zero-die roses at checkers
coo crazed knee fissures?

Machinated nose,
zoom alley, udders row never who!

Touché, poor slow body yet silence-eyed.


III. Sour Ziti

V-baby,
spatterless nebbish,
pet tissue mortifies choke kisses.

You don’t me trifle, dope hilarity.
Feckless toilet-luster zine,
a nosey kale sets down ear melons, oh auto-mob billows.

Seamy scene, Nellie.


IV. Obey-niks

Us nakedy nose-mimes upset verse on tom-toms.
She ran out looney modern, prickle-null.
A jazz slave laugh, no lust-catch,
us new-life paranoids spank’em.

Nose mimes!
Sweet posies yeah and no-nose runners, knee bazooka pieces.
A vat-happy slow wagon pricks the vest, smarty ducts …


V. Pokey Technoslobber

Joust Lizzy loses rockass
deprived zebra kennel zest.

Proteus lies, must prove that
or blackout, two tipple hiccups
cross an itch at useless tielike poker detective.

Prove that Jenny or bail out toeholds bozo.
Ah trudge proud toehorse zits.


VI. Just Some Silly Me-Slime

Hat valise big-domes nohow
pretend to Otto’s mob piles?
Fracker ruckus unforms me?
Sleaze-nimble men voice itch?
Or bust’em nutcracker?
Kill-cow vibe rises?

Knee-boy last cow nervous hi-ho mudchuck
nicked your nose-pouch-by-night now.
And pray to poke a mopery toe?



David P. Miller
May 11-13, 2018
Source: poems from Milan Kohout’s Vztek

DADA AMERICA - MILAN KOHOUT
VIRGINIA MILICI ( ALIAS VIRGYM)

Friday, June 15, 2018


MACHINE #15 - WILLIAM EVERTSON


Stand on Your Head/This is not The Not
by Liz Roncka


Where is it?

Where's the song, where's the dance,
Where's the joke in this?

Where's the art, the poetry,
The hook-line-and sinker?

I turn it around and around,
Inside out
Upside down

And there's nothing
And in this nothingness is everything
That I fail to see
Because confusion and chaos is so blurry to me

Maybe if I spin faster I can match it
Spin my head so fast it will make sense
But what is the sense?
There's none to be had

Perhaps I could enjoy the fall if I wasn't looking for the bottom?

And if I let go of the bottom,
Then I am floating,
Ever suspended.

This is not the In-Between
This is not The Not
This Is

I run around the empty room,
Trying to escape the space
Faster and faster
But it surrounds me,
Corners me,
Envelopes me

All my talk is cheap and garbled.

My own words bounce off the walls,
Gently pelting my face
With the light sting of sleet
No sooner do they strike,
They melt

And what if I sat,
I know that I could
Still
In the midst

Let it rain down
Everything falling at once
I'd still be here
Falling too

Let it drip
Sink
Fall
Splash
Splatter

There's no bottom
No bottom
So you won't hit

Stand on your head
And fall the other way

The beginning
The end
It's all a mirage
An endless loop

Haven't you seen how it repeats?

The angle of the sun makes everything look different
But it's not

You're not falling
You're floating
Just stand on your head


LEWIS GESNER



SONJA BENSKIN MESHER

Thursday, June 14, 2018

ANTIC-HAM


"Jane on a walk" - CATHY NOLAN VINČEVIĆ


MATTHEW TAYLOR

MATTHEW ROSE
© STEPHANE PITTI / PARIS