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New Creations
Out in Public

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Quomone

Brian Looney

So why are we even talking? You cannot influence me. You who traded her integrity for a narrow vision. Will you extract me from the industry, creation intact? Under what specific terms? I fear your asking price, your OBO, because I ain’t no breadwinner, babycakes. I want to be enabled, enabled without strings. Just remember, the weak hand follows the strong hand until they are a match. For years I have unfurled a pair of not-so-dirty socks and turned them inside-out. I am tired of slinging slop. Life really is a set of hypotheticals.

Fill the gladiatorial stadium!
The only white space I want to see is the inevitable white space. That’s all I want. Maybe afterwards, a cup of coffee and some casual intellectualizing...maybe a little sex, if the prospect presents itself, if I present myself, if you agree to A-Z, and consign your soul to my good offices, and leave your guns at home.

I am open to you, babycakes. It’s just that, in exchange, I would ask for your soul, since you seem to have given away your body. I’d like to press it to my cheek and hold it up to the light. And I’d like for you to trust me not to crush it. Please, it is your last, true possession.

She was surprised that a psychotic could be so clownish, so undeniably slapstick, how this man could trip over the rug as he crosses the room and timidly chuckle at his own ill luck, sheepishly glancing left and right—while in his mind he commits atrocity.

Have you ever seen a man’s leg jutting limply from the twisted, battered wreckage on the highway, wreckage which crushed the man simply because he had someplace to be? Was he smoker or non-smoker? Did he die with cigarette in hand or a bottle of vitamin water?
Every hobby has the potential to be art, the take off and the landing, the altitude gain. But stay off(I repeat, stay off!) the corrugated highways. So light up, my kiddos, because working for the man will never be art, and exhale away from dog-and-baby. There, there, little bean, all awareness in due time. Listen to some Lennon: coo-coo cachoo cah coo-coo cachoo to lullahalloo you in your cradle, there to define innocence, but only for a time, because I might not be around when you awaken.

Q: Traffic death?
A: They put it down as natural causes.
Q: What did you tell them?
A: The truth. That the first naked woman I ever saw was on a pornographic website. That the last naked woman I ever saw was on a pornographic website. Give me just ten more minutes of your time, your Honor. I just wanted you to know, I value my solo time, even though the images are fed, and they affect my driving.
Q: Do you really want to go that route?
A: I stand by my decision. You know I almost became a teacher? Teaching is the last noble profession. I discussed it once, at a bar. I do miss those barroom conversations. I was social once. The conclusion was that humans are their own best teachers, and a true teacher encourages his or her students to become self-taught.
Q: Let’s talk perspective.
A: Certainly. Will you excuse me for a moment? There, that’s better. Of what were we speaking? Ah yes, perspective. Perspective. Yesterday, as I was extracting nails from the apartment wall, it was like wrenching them from living flesh. Notions of animism at play. Take, for instance, the clitoris. Now why would you want to cage that magnificent bird? It seems clear, your momma’s cooking is laced with poison. It takes a lead belly to stomach so much filth, especially these days, these days, when the clitoris is on the verge of liberty.

Camera shutter machineguns subject. Rat-atat-tat-atat-tat. One out of one-hundred is a hit. Reload and fire at will. The gunner possesses a bare-bones understanding of what (s)he is about. He knows that much, at least, of art. There’s your contemporary artist: never spilled a drop, though he acts as though he spills it, heart and soul. This showman who unloads a machinegun at an elk, who roosters about a court of law.

Let me state, for the record, that I have no issues with photography—only with photographers. In fact, photographer is to artist as alchemist is to chemist. A scoop of green starts the man from sleep. A scoop of red puts him down at the end of the day.
Q: Enough.
A: Don’t believe me? Here’s a lil’ anecdote:
Q: I’m afraid we’re out of time.
A: Just ten more minutes, please. Even now we’re wasting seconds. It’s about Walmart, for chrissake. I was there today, racked with guilt, with the grim intention of making a purchase. I debated the innate corruptness of the corporation, the nature of the institution. I held the product in my hand, outstretched, anticipating the queue, the cashier, the carry-out. The swipe of a card, and a few authorizing seconds, the brittle collapse of plastic satchels, and lastly the weight of the purchase tugging my arm as I reentered society. No sir, I would not have it, I could not. I walked out of that store empty-handed, but even so, I felt as though I broke the law.
Q: I assume you have a point?
A: Weren’t we just discussing the group mentality?
Q: Unbridled sophistry from a drug-addled brain.
A: Please, if you would only think of drugs as medicine...
Q: Unceremoniously declined.



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