the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

e.e. cummings

i have found what you are like
the rain,

(Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of green thrilling light
with thinned

newfragile yellows

lurch and.press

-in the woods
which
stutter
and

sing

And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
your kiss

e.e. cummings

it is at moments after i have dreamed
of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
at moments when the glassy darkness holds

the genuine apparition of your smile
(it was through tears always)and silence moulds
such strangeness as was mine a little while;

moments when my once more illustrious arms
are filled with fascination, when my breast
wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

one pierced moment whiter than the rest

-turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

e.e. cummings

(preview of my solo show from flavorpill)

Ami Tallman: When the Sun Shines, It Does not Need Proof

Ami Tallman's Fauvist palette, her love of extreme decor, and her penchant for historical research each feed into her interiors and still lifes. Tallman's compositions — rendered in an urgent hand, with the exuberant embrace of carved railings, ornate frames, tapestries, hunting trophies, and classical art — are shaped by particular historical events and eras. Her previous series depicted country estates in advanced states of disuse. The current suite looks at the society of spectacle that spiritual and political leaders surround themselves with, as part of their charismatic polemic and power structure — a topic well-suited to the quirky majesty of Tallman's style.

– Shana Nys Dambrot

*preview for against the grain in flavorpill. (christopher took up painting and didn't tell me?)

Against the Grain

Known for its progressive, boundary-pushing performances and interdisciplinary bravado, LACE's lofty space transforms into a clean, white gallery for Against the Grain, perhaps this summer's most anticipated group show. Curated by painter and LA art-world impresario Christopher Russell, this exhibition responds to the trangressive 1988 show Against Nature: A Group Show of Work by Homosexual Men, which upped the ante on engagement in a restrictive political climate. Invited artists include DIY anti-monumental sculptor Anna Sew Hoy, urgent magic marker-wielding pictorial historian Ami Tallman, and the meticulous, cross-cultural allegorical painter Wendell Gladstone. It's not a bid to re-stage the original show, but rather to examine what words like "bohemian," "subversive," and "decadent" mean in the here and now.
– Shana Nys Dambrot