A long time friend of ours sent along this poem and asked if we would publish it. “Why not,” we said. We read it, enjoyed it, asked ourselves what would we do if faced with this art act How would we respond if we were eating dinner, getting drunk, just sitting around enjoying ourselves. So here it is for your reading pleasure. A big thank you to Wendell for sending it along. He asked that we post a video that even we find disgustingly interesting.
One night ago: On making and filling empty spaces.
by Wendell Marsh
And when the body fluids started to flow
All over the table it was time for him to go-
Somewhere other than here, anywhere else but here and now, don’t care where, just anywhere, anywhere else but here.
She said I really have nothing to do with him, just get him out of here. Move him away from my table.
I don’t care what he does, go here, go there anywhere but near.
He drooled too much all over on the table, took his finger and made some squiggles. Art on the run. Spit, spit, spit, on the table.
Causing the lady, dripping in all the goodness that money can buy to get out of her chair and leave.
One empty space over there to be filled with a stronger stomach than the lady dripping in all the goodness that money can buy.
I’m getting sick just watching him as he began making his way from his table to another.
Leaving behind on table top spit art squiggles.
With the 3 ladies he sat, oh no why, why us wailed blondie. I don’t want him near me. Not here or anywhere close by.
Why in the world, why in the universe why in the depths of hell, does he want to bug us? Crap he moves closer, he smells along with his grubby clothes.
That need, that need that needs to be filled, happy go lucky stumbling slide over and bug me out. Oh no. Get the fuck out of here.
Lonely artist draws in spit because he has no money for art supplies. He’s a post-studio mess, out about town making it where ever he sits.
Money for drink now that is another thing. More important than all the paintings on canvas. One can always draw with spit on the top of the table in fancy pants place or dives.
Causing people nearby to say fuck this shit we’re leaving. Clean up your act you dirty old thing. We’re outta here.
He mumbles who cares, you mean nothing to me and won’t even buy me a drink for my art.
All’s a goner, empty spaces lots of places to make some art. Wipe the table spit is gone no more art to bother about.
Throw out the bum the bartender yells. He and a few hearty farts do the job of chasing a crowd out the door.
The train rumbles by shaking the whole place. What side of the tracks am I on no matter which the place it shakes.
Every night the train comes right on time, wakes me up and I think, I lay there and think, how the fuck can I get out of here?
Tomorrow I will get on the train and go. Go, go to someplace else, some place other than here where trains don’t rumble in the night waking me up so I have to think in the middle of the night laying there thinking there, thinking in fright, thinking in the night about spit on the table and art.
Just wants to sleep be quiet seeing what can come through from other places to fill this space.
Up in a tree, down in a easy chair, on the bed, beneath the breeze, hoping to cure a sniffle,
running in a field, crossing the country in an airplane, doing the squiggle on tabletops,
naked as a jaybird, startled awake the alarm clock just rang out like a bomb blast, all’s a goner, nothing left, bringing you into the real world from other places, anyplace but here. Landing with a thud in the bed.
To work, filling that space with work, work, work. An ugly place to be at any time, at any place, in any space.
But money is needed this we know and spit on the table isn’t an art work that would bring in any money. If you think it is and try it out you may end up filling the spaces under a bridge.
Winters cold, summer bugs they bite, not a whole lot of invite in such a world as this.
Security remove that man!