FOE

				The FOE Show happened on June 18, 2004 at the Oklahoma Summer Arts Institute. Gorilla art tactics were used prior to FOE to prepare the masses. FOE is Greg Skaggs and Sucker MC. Look for FOE II soon.
		Statement We started this thing with adversarial relationships in mind: Godzilla versus Mothra, Us vs Them, Painting vs. Poetry. What can we do if we avoid collaboration and start fighting each other? Why would artists from either side of the aisle throw down? What happens to the art when the artists are foes? I’m fighting Greg. Words are fighting pictures. The individual squares are fighting each other, while armies of like-minded squares join together to do battle with other sections of the overall piece. The colors fight: black vs. white as old as “Let there be light.” Our private skirmishes are there, too. I wrestle with my neurotic obsession with personal safety and my fear of robots and machines. Greg uses war imagery to fight against the stifling nature of growing old: play like this is not supposed to be the realm of fathers, teachers, homeowners. This is definitely an audience participation piece. We want you to fight against us. Respond. Return fire. We’re fighting you, too. Put up your dukes.
		Sucker MC, 6/16/04
		Click to enlarge images.

		FOE POEMS by Sucker MC
	Incoming, incoming, There’s a grimace and a moan when I touch her on the small of her back. I love this so much I could laugh, but there is only so much, there’s only so much, and so, and so, incoming, incoming, I am the serpent that eats itself. I am the living bomb. I am the deflated driver’s side airbag. I am the married lover’s wife. I am the purple worm. I am nothing if not punctual. I am incoming, incoming, Lift off from the inner edge of her lips, close to the space and the teeth. Touch this and she will open for you (THE POD BAY DOORS, HAL). She will throw you answers 3 and 4 to questions 1 and 2. She will plug herself in. I am the photograph of the skyscraper workmen hanging in her hotel room. I am the Alpha incoming, incoming, This is the truth point I catch myself on. This is the lie discovered. This is the darkroom I develop in. I reach left and find her right hand. Clench and let go, clench and let go, incoming, incoming, I am the broken trigger guard. I am the enabler. I am nothing but more, nothing but more, incoming, incoming, She pinches her lips shut like an overeager crab on the first day of work. There are techniques I can employ to work my way in but they are as devious as a rabbit punch to the kidneys. I have nothing but respect for her. I have many things other than respect for her. I have an ungovernable urge to punch myself in the stomach each morning. I have a foodservice-sized container of sugarplums. I have a broken pair of X-ray specs. I have a virgin letter opener craving attention. I have buzz bombs screaming. I have a red-letter day for commies and pinkos. I have nothing of value, many things of consequence, many things of consequence, many things of consequence, one thing she wants, incoming, incoming, incoming, incoming, incoming, Today, Tonight, Tomorrow They’ve got this robot that can do your job now, coming in for training after the staff meeting Thursday, polishing its metal neck tie to impress all those coworkers that were never very impressed with you. I will be waiting next to the coke machine in the employee lounge, pink slip in hand, two tickets for the matinee at the unemployment office, dinner crocking up in the crock pot. Come throw bricks with me at the busses full of poor people like us, mailmen on Segueway scooters,girls in skanky skirts I wish you’d wear, those smirking triathletes and their girlfriends with fashionable eyeliner. Tomorrow is as open as the folds in my wallet where flies live. I threw your dayplanner in the trash compactor. You can swallow up all of your alarms and run around naked (please). Let’s take pictures we’ll never develop. Let’s make like steadfast tin soldiers and jump in a fire. We can live off of stolen Pick-A-Mix. We can listen to bands from the alleys where ticket-holders go to smoke. We can sleep in a fort made of blankets under a corner booth at the International House of Pancakes. Hold my hand and we will drive your 1991 Chevy Corsica through the plate glass window closest to the robot’s cubical. I will carry our Ghetto Blaster of Freedom on my shoulder. You will kiss the robot on the cheek in thanksgiving. We will leave the Corsica there. We will find dinner someplace cheap and quiet. I will spit in my palm and pinky-shake on this. I will type it up and have it notarized. Pack up your desk. Grab your keys. Put on comfortable shoes. Never close your eyes again, those blu razzberry cotton candy eyes. Bicycle Helmet Bicycle Helmet, I fell off my bicycle, you protected me. Bicycle Helmet, my pants got caught in the gears, you pulled them out. Bicycle Helmet, I rode my bicycle into oncoming traffic and you obliterated the trucks and automobiles with concussive blasts of sonic power. Bicycle Helmet, I fell out of an airplane. With you strapped snuggly to my chin I landed like a cat. Bicycle Helmet, I was chased by wild dogs, you broke their necks. I was bitten by a rattlesnake, you sucked out the venom. I started to grow old and you stopped time. Bicycle Helmet, the Earth was destroyed in nuclear war, but as my friends and coworkers screamed in melting agony you created a new world for me to live on called Planetoid Safety Alpha, and filled it with a bounty of natural resources including, but not limited to a Nintendo 64, an ice cream sundae bar, and a whole lot of naked girls. I want to thank you, Bicycle Helmet, for making the world a better, safer place for me to eat ice cream sundaes and play four-player Mario Cart against 3 naked girls.