Dance Artist, Dance.

Writing seems so hard these days. The content is abstract, the fluidity of thought has gotten the best of me.  I am sinking in my own sweat, gasping for the air that I cannot grip. Walls convex with built-up wax.  I read somewhere that being truthful is the only way out, as if containing myself inside of my own box.  Thoughts bound in shackles, wrists red and worn.

It's hard these days to transfer ideas into actions. I feel as if time has become sticky.  Multi-faceted and multi-armed, time whizzes by like a rolling octagon as if it were late to a polygon party.  It's hard to avoid rhyme schemes when it's being blared throughout your head.  Enough said, a short sentence, a long pause between unusual markings.  I would love to abandon all grammar rules but grammar rules the eye so I must slave away; arms soft like moldy papaya insides.

Roll octagon, roll.

Trapped like a domesticated animal, unwilling to get bathed by my elite pet groomer.  Trapped in the USA. UXA had the right idea going, the X was the variable that represented the constant change of any entity.  That's what the X in RMXIIFV means too. Variables allow for change and evolution.  Change is good, evolution is necessary, but most people like things to stay the same.


Groom me


No, pet me

Remember when we hated band evolution? We wished for bands to stay stagnant like mosquito ponds, trapped in its domestic form and size for all to pet and see.  But we are not pets for you to admire (or are we?), we cannot perform the same tricks over and over.  The artist has evolved and his mind is wandering elsewhere.  We roll our eyes when you yell at us to sing our #1 single.  Are we just mere entertainers?


Beauty caught in its own tranquility. Domesticate us! We are dying to fit your terra cotta potted arrangements. (12FV.)

The lion and the chair, falling-down-sound-effects. So where do we go from here?