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Artist, Musician & Writer Exhibition & Interview

Biography:

I spent my tender years in Altamont, Illinois with my parents and two sisters and left at the usual age to attend college at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana, the town where I was born. After a brief venture in engineering I studied painting with a couple months of classes in Italy and travel on the continent. I graduated in the spring of 2001 with an armful of weathered canvases a couple thick slide folders and two short films to show for it. Currently I reside in Dublin, Ireland where I have been employed as a construction worker and a barista and am living on an expired visa, so please fail to mention me to the garda.

I consider myself more of a wordsmith than a poet or a writer. I like the characters, the shape of the letters, the shape they make your mouth make, the way they look on the page or cant in your mind. I'm not as interested in the story.

Inspiration comes to me from literature(Dostoyevsky, Virginia Woolf, Kafka) art (Christian Boltanski, Joseph Beuys, Manet) conversation, music, bus kiosks; anything really. I use whatever is at hand to convey my sense of ambiguity and beauty and confusion, be it a typewriter a coat hanger or even (GASP!) a computer. I'm talking email. The first time I used it I fell in love. It was typing, communicating, showing emotions ambiguously. It was instant and irrevocable. It was danger from a distance, delayed possibilities. It was perfect. It was exciting. It was also the malleable nature that words took with the advent of the internet that bubbled my blood: with a few taps a sentence became a didactic image, mental and visual. I started writing things that would hover between sense and nonsense and sending them simply to see how people would respond. I sat for hours after work at night in a sterile computer lab hunched over the keyboard in rapture with only the clacks of a handful of Doom addicts for company. The music of the keyboard. Don't get me wrong, I'm no technophile. Down with robots, boo on mutants, blah blah blah, I'm one of those guys, but little contends with the sheer joy compacted into the moment when the computer pauses to get my messages. And that's about it. My writing is about starting somewhere, anywhere, and coming out at a nice point where you've never been before. Like shaking a sack of worms.

If anyone is still listening or god forbid still interested you can view some photos I've taken at www.ursis.com/las, and if there are any philanthropists in the audience feel free to send me a sack of Euros because I'm broke. Send comments to niburkey@yahoo.com and remember that I have feelings too.

-- Neil



"Lullaby Thomas"


New to the scene the farmhouse entrance percolator quilt with its barrister and byline croplands, meshed with sex and blessed by corridors rather like a lullaby, prescient and pissed on one benevolent evening smeared over with the mild Portugese cultured cheese. So much to ponder and then wonder, will, beckon germination cardigan buttons Ethan Frome glastule pollux.

Verisimilitude in an urban setting called upon to beat itself on third offering breath blankets of Remington guttersnipe harpie-tires or grass beds smoking half-shots and hymnal rapiers that swig from irradiated pint glasses. Not that they expect you to believe it, exactly, but rather inspect it with your own breed of prudish pride, if you're still with me.

We're left holes. Holes and wooden poles and crisp burnt edges of tiles which from below at the floor seem to eat away at the edges of certain bits of cumulus and misty pollution and Oooooh the shafts of light which enter there and pick out a spot for you to sit and drag yourself slowly to keep up with the spinning earth with the knowledge that the sun isn't moving but the building is and you're only rolling to stay in place and OHH what a plan to make deals with inertia and circumnavigation!

So it comes down to squatters' rights and it goes back up to Godless nights with young Bohemians asking stupid questions of old Bohemians while they fan the smoke out with the door and smack certain persons on the head only partially on accident and you can't be sure whether to snort with repugnance or say "groovy, man" and wave a spliff between your knuckles.

So sleep Thomas and forget your monetary woes and your missing red fluff and your distant romances. Eat Thomas and remember to floss.



excerpt from "
From Everything That Was Told"

From everything that was told, the dog must
have died. The people surrounding it were
nodding or drooping their shoulders, the ceiling
fan had thrown all its dust, and through the
window overlooking the backyard the train had
lost its walls. You could see the passengers
standing on a single plane that followed the
rails until the train diverted from its path.
Before that, though, uniformed men were assisting
the frail and the frightened. Oblivious to their
own futility they handled the citizens with royal
care and directed them to an unforeseen
destination.

There was an object in the sky which according
to its proximity must have been the sun, but as a
caricature of itself: styrofoam sprayed yellow,
with soft round knobs at the end of each
tentacle. Two red dots and an arcing line were
meant to represent eyes and a mouth, yet were so
sinister, so out of place.

This hovering spectacle transformed into a
bright orb which came crashing onto the horizon
not far past the train. The collision shook the
ground mightily and sent the engine toward the
mourners huddled behind the pane of glass which
they viewed as security.



this is you. went to the went. billable by next
tuesday with computer screen flophouse pathos
vortex. treetops while the park bench. lazy
brown. She is the result of two thousand
year evolution of homo sapiens, plus a snifter of
the finest brandy available to residents of North
America. lying prostrate on my floor today
amidst wilting examples of the summer heat, it
looked upwards to the bleached clouds and opened
mouth fledged with strings of gummed saliva and I
was so moved that I wept at that place. Later

on
we played a record and danced in small circles
according to the architecture.

You could be listening now to the [whoosh] of
traffic near you, and I could possibly be saving
for a time when the I mean the place where the
trees aren't quite as rugged. And I could be
listening to the whoosh of the air trafficking
through the trees while that lay in the pine
boroughs and sighed like I saw that girl do in
the movie once. And.

long and billowing violet black hair of a bilious
and never docile creature on the floor further
away than normal from that skull that forms a
soft ridge above the eye sockets and creates the
look of intelligence or anger. and a mouth that
forms the letter 'p', but only the beginning,
only the air with no vibrations, over and over,
puh,puh,puh,puh. LONG hair detached and tied
around a neck warm with blood.



Radcliffe had the shoes of the elite, hands-on
hip-barrister of the future. The cataclysm
agreed to disturbance of the garrison while in
the end it was reluctant to hold a belief,
without which it could not have entered, and was
bothered somewhat by the insistence of those in
the upper-echelon that total betrayal was a
matter beyond discussion. The intelligentsia
(which held the belief that this shall be the end
in definite) was incensed by the mere mention of
the subject. Strange emanations uncoupled.

Why this was the worst possible result:

This is the culmination of converging
ethnocentric collateral which will hopefully
bring about an end to the apparent-fear theory.
Prime will will always be the center issue here.
One must tend towards one group or the other,
depending on social status, education,
pre-disposed concepts, applicable talents, stable
promiscuousness, etc. Taken as a whole, the
situation appeared to be fatalistic. How does
this relate to the current topic?

This one sits up straight in the chair. We have
pin-cushion reactions to your greeting. Just as
Kant said, i have no idea. This wears blue ring
topping; is indeterminately long. Actuality plus
vehemence. The reification of glib.

Postulating on the better judgement of certain
individuals, one comes to the ends of plurality.
This is found to have been woven into static
relationships, with condolences (ha ha).

Why this is a bad idea/also a bad conduit:

Famous people had names like->dillinger,
artschwager, bonaparte, artemesia.

art amnesia.

dead fish, onions and/or phillip glass.

What will fulfill the speculative dream action
critiques, and why does the application of this
theory to this day bring advocation of works such
as the Krakow treatise? This shall be answered
near the end of the listings.



I . . . . . . . . sometimes my . . . . . . you
only .
. . . . . i guess it just doesn't . . . . . . . .

. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. .
. . . . . . . . i need to leave . . . . . . . . .

. .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i took some
pictures last night. it was pretty cold and
everything was buried in ice back where the
abandoned
rail station and cooling tower were. a blue hat,
vertical. a paper cup from a gas station. one
of
those plastic sets from a six-pack. i went to a
show
with my camera where a man i knew told a story
about
heating timers and shone a flashlight onto an
orange
plastic sculpture on the floor.maybe it was wax.
whatever it was covered a bunch of toy race cars.

in
another room people, some familiar, were crammed
next
to a table with broccoli and wine on it.
the second floor downtown, worn down, plaster
falling,
pipes showing. i guess i was barely there long
enough
to sign my name in the guestbook. validate my
presence. k. i get questions about the ants.
push
th e button to make them fall in response:
dancing,
fighting, smiling.
i made pancakes this morning. the box promised
me
that they would melt in my mouth if only i would
add
lemon juice, baking powder, cinnamon, sugar,
eggs,
milk. they were actually right. they hadn't
lied to
me, which felt nice. i put the honey on top of
them
and they were complete. the coffee i had made
was not
my best, but it couldn't detract from the success

of
the hotcakes. i swear to you that breakfast is
the
only waking hour that i spend in contentment. by

the
end of the day, . . . . . I . . . am, through.
i feel as if i'm screaming in
an
empty room. oh . i am.

there was an old wooden platform. there was a
tall
cylindrical structure with an iron ladder going
up the
side. i wanted to climb up it. i wanted to lay
on
top of it just to get a different view. on top
of the
water tower is a flat wooden surface from where
you
can see the weeds growing. i bet it is soft up
there
in the spring. i wonder if i could leap from the

top
of the cylinder to land on the wooden surface
with the
weeds and the soft ancient earth.

i don't have any money left but it doesn't
matter. no
i have a dollar. i spent most of it this morning

on
baking powder, milk, eggs, lemon juice. and the
box
with the promise. it was worth it.



"Once or Twice"

once or twice in the new world emerges finicky consumers who prevail to the grainy images of benevolence or greed to the tune of twenty thousand dollars or the equivalent of blood money price faint fowl follow towards exits outside past premieres and fountainheads, and exists solely for purposes of recording expectorate raid Cyprians. Take for example the shadows pressed onto walls from circular logic and rectangular barrooms:

1. various noises from the floor above
2. banging noises
3. Hercules
4. fist fights
5. the falling lamb
6. etc.

Chapter Two

The reemergence of the new world. from Santa Fe to Jesus these trends borrow heavily from haunting birds in the rose garden [pause] as the panting subsides. will the part of tin or major factions of purge bargain primary bottle top quietude in bankrupt flops. Is it the stench that matters, then? Billy is wrong at that. fried clams discovered in the ocean warp and the others and year two radically differ. Please copy and send over.

Chapter Three

Rawlings sprayed factually over layers overlapping of egg sandwiches across time with the destruction of faith of communal living that passed in the wrangling period excess gross inheritance misconceived Joyce frames. AND this can be misconstrued as such! It is quite evident then that this effort of mystification has succeeded, which would not be a difficulty but for the fact that it exists in a humanitarian realm fuelled with idealism and must be followed by base barbarism.
Sound three holds that entry may be maintained in Havertonian perfectionist qualification standards and propagated by yacht-wielding.

Chapter Four

Chapter Four begins with the proclamation of fatherhood in jeopardy. The paternal path, broken yet by bartered slot machines try maniacally to rend and wrought asunder plans to photoramify pleas before a feverish guest. Calamity bends unto hunter red back fear bequeathed to thee or Myshkin's kin, the helpless the doe-eyed, laughable practitioners of vanity free beneficiaries.

Intermission for Arrest. when heads turn to see the trolley overturned, contents spilt upon concrete, those with wits will flee.

Chapter Four, continued

For reasons of clarity, the beckon phantom priceless rapture entity blistered by affection with sordid tenacity and the clunt of keys converging. Your obsession has come to light, fiend, your craving and hapless bludgeoning the space bar vomit to the telecaster all that is possible. And imagine that, this possibility. Will self be discovered? Will the after death conversation be appreciated? Will you collapse on me, lover, bring it here to the place of tenure to the pleasure center o' the earnest and the liars den bring it here, darling. judge me by this, bring it here. lend me yours and be repaid a thousand fold. Hear this, here, here. I am living in the land of the dying PUNT and the emerging euro that killed it and rose, no phoenix, no park, breathing licks of hair gently down on napes in the southerly it emerges, ashen, horrid, clear, fucking quandaries of no return in wrapped plaster Gotham.

Chapter Five

The days of the bereft.

Chapter Six

Believe this, girls: DH was to your benefit and mine as well. The soup lifts, we hover over. it descends again, we sit. This one was a drill. Take it off, realize the breath. We are chafed Now.