Colleen Blackard- Fluid Lives

You may remember Colleen from Greenpoint Open Studios. She has graciously agreed to share more of her intricate creations here on ALSO THAT as September's guest poster. This series is part of a new collection called the "Abandoned Series". Learn more in her artist's statement below:

Sunken Depths

Colleen Blackard combines natural, celestial and man-made elements in occasionally surreal compositions that explore light, memory, consciousness and change. Her signature style uses continuous, circular, intersecting lines to create a luminosity that clarifies the subject and gives life to every detail. Whether in ballpoint pen, archival marker or ink washes, she is constantly pushing the envelope on the types of atmospheres and effects she creates with these dynamic lines and the light between.
Currently, she is creating the “Abandoned Series” to discover the light within her experiences of sibling rivalry, heartbreak, and loneliness through the trials of an abandoned barn. These dramatic scenes can be interpreted through a variety of perspectives, ranging from the very real dangers of global warming to personal responses to the constantly shifting changes and conflicts of our modern fluid lives.


Visit her website here.

Like her Facebook Page here.

Follow her on Instagram here.


Daniel Horowitz: His Obsessions

There is only one Daniel Horowitz. He's a wholly unique individual full of brilliance and wit and talent. His writing style reflects this as he blurs the boundary between prose and poetry. I read his book becuz and I was spellbound.  I'm excited to be able to share his writing and photography today.

Daniel Horowitz writes poems and plays and novels. He also takes photographs. His most recent book of both poems and photographs is called becuz and available on amazon (link below). For more of his photography see Daniel is available for freelance portraiture and other photography work around Boston and later this year New York. These three poems are a sampling of some of his obsessions : Americana gloom, outdated symbolism and confusing eating for sex. To get in touch with Daniel for any reason please email


becuz in black and white ($5.50) :


becuz in color ($15.00) :

The Last Cowboy

a small autobiography
on the day I bought leather boots,
wore my leather jacket near the mirror
and didn’t play it safe even under all
that dead skin made pretty

So the biggest-of-all time hurricane set to smash Mexico,
it’s been downgraded to a “tropical depression”—me too. 
Last night in Boston the cracked hand-in-deep-stuffed-pocket
chills came howling down from the haunting Canadian Alps
past the glooming doom-stricken upper burbs of Boston town
to blow clean and dead like the sand-blasted surface of the
green ungrinning moon the famous barebone streets of Boston
proper which the original daddies of this country had to toss their
paper umbrellas and fold forever their lawn chairs to huddle
holster-to-holster and come up with “oh well now that we can’t
play in the yard I guess we aughtta invent liberty : hey whadda say
Jeff, Benny, Ham, Slim Jack Johnson and The Ramblers?”

I am standing like a tragic James Dean type and my left foot,
I left it crushed between the brake pedal and the clutch.
I’m looking out at the thick night which conceals things like
poison shivs, parties, brained rats and the spooky breath of vampires.
I am thinking about the variety of human life. Socks do little
for me. Lollypops cannot be depended on. And the layer
like stone dust of junky symbolism that snores rancid on each object
I inflict on my eyes makes heavy sneezes like Howitzer shots.
I’m a great kaleidoscope as well as a pair of windup lips :
a photographer and a poet, a farmer and a practice clown.

Listen to me speak : the “obfuscation” of the “visual plane” 
in my picture is the “aesthetically good” confusing “neighbor” 
of the “slang-drivel” in the “grammatical defenestrations” 
of my past “experiments in the expedience of thought.”
Language is a funny thing but it is not a joke until you crack it… 

Why am I standing? Action is a outdated scare that lives in my muscles
like a “You’re dead” from John Wayne a.k.a. Genghis Khan :
it knocks like a bone’s rattle when news arrives of gunslinging
or wooing or circus heroics… I am only standing : not moving,
my hand is on my hip but I have no weapon. I only wanna look
good… Hold the pose. My lips are red. My hair is classic.
My clothes, my body parts, the steel bible in my chest pocket
to catch a bullet and make a miracle : I am the last cowboy. 
I’ll walk out, clinking with bells and belt buckles and quarters— 
I’ll go into plains, the chill will roll over me but my organs
will have grown hard like blisters and I’ll win : I’ll kiss everybody
and lay all my enemies low. I’ll be very cool. The wind’s picking up… 

The Last Cowboy doesn’t wear a hat he looks and looks and
in order to have the appearance of sophistication and depth
he puts the gloomy ocean of sadness in his eyes as their sparkle
when he looks at you, right—ha ha haha haha ha hahaha haw ha ha. 

Photography: Three Allegories

A European sits in the lap of another European
turns almost completely facewards
pulls his tie increasingly flatteringly—
Nobody can stand anymore.
Someone says off-camera,
    “Impeccable dress is a dead
(and by dead I mean slaughtered)
Pigeons go casually extinct around these people
who appear to be shining shoes and bottling
They stick fingers in their eyes and nostrils
and press their cheeks as if they were someone else’s
A pigeon falls dead soundlessly into a splashing martini glass.
Like dolls, laps are switched around and behold!
—Sequins are invented without ceremony in the distance. 

For just this reason, tying knots in cigar smoke,
A portrait of a monarch mourns things like
Paint is made to understand by violence a color
Like gray.
Portraiture is consumed by starch-armed perusers
Smiling like virginal old men.
Kimonos are wheeled in, a piece of glass is
Thoroughly masterbated—to solve this problem. 

Bedding unchanged, a boa constrictor rears lavishly
Fearlessly, with circular lenses, smoking a lollipop: lime
The genius photographer orders the snake curl up
On a fur coat, crumpled.
The snake answers, similarly,
Like a serpent confused for a penis
“There is nothing more theatrical than dollar bills.”
It is a photograph.

Calories: The Poem

    “BODY: If we knew how our body is made, 
we wouldn’t dare move."           

We’ll combust. Faintness creeps like a pang
an ingrown toenail—drift: my tummy… And you
standing still, staring at produce like a thigh. Grumbling, 
our burn—sweating at cornucopia, hot river gods—
peanut butter’s goo and nut meat, warmth:
texture of the womb—pastas well cooked
give under feral teeth, pleasing—iced cream,
salt on pretzels, salt’s slight burn, throat’s gulp
its physicality—consumption. Gulp. Consumed.
Hunger at the hardness of a fresh pepper, red
like you. Meat’s sponge and animal dung appeal:
also warmth, organ meat’s scented faint piss—
animals, burned to our burn: chewing, alive…

Like all gluttony it is only the indirect flare of desire
to have the world reduced to a few monumental objects:
a mountain, a bowl of beans, a truck, you my dear, and my mouth.

Guest Post: Three Lives- Abba Furry

You may remember Abba Furry as the third place winner of the ALSO THAT Poetry Contest held this summer. She makes her return to ALSO THAT with this inspired guest post. Check out her art collective, Lion Tail Media, and her personal blog!

We each have three lives, the life that was, the life that is, and the life that might have been.
— AF

The life that was


Do you remember the teeth in the side of the mountain
piano keys with snakes underneath lifting you up up up into
the maw of the rickety blue beast
that swallowed you into a stomach that felt like timelessness
Do you remember the staircase with the
jars and jars of once-jam stacked up on the steps
that led to heavenspace filled with clutterhell
under and around a window
Do you remember lace made into butterfly traps
with the guidance of a coat hanger and a wooden stick
and that of the crumbled goddess of the mildew ladybug
daddy longleg fire castle
Do you remember the upside-down freezer and the tissue paper
hummingbird that flew overtop of it
there were too many strawberries and it’s doubtful what
you actually ate but it was the work of a deity
Do you remember the swing inside the gate
that flew from the peeling chair to the edge of the driveway
and only a small jump would send you tumbling
into the foot of the van and a stream of human waste
Do you remember when rocks could be found
with magazine cutouts magically glued to them
and the slightly scary neighbor
would come out to say howdy
Do you remember the cowboy and the bulldog
and later the Newton’s cradle and that ugly stuffed dog
you loved in the face of opposition and the lace-trimmed
plastic bride waiting next to the clock
Do you remember when you looked up at the clock
and behind you there were pictures across the wallpaper of
people you didn’t know—“family”—and you also
didn’t know that the goddess was crazy
Do you remember the little TV for VHS
where you, the stubborn child with the
Fourth of July toenails, hid from argument
and watched that ancient woodpecker
Do you remember the tipping bird
and the icky carpet and the gas flame
the wooden swing on the porch and the feeling that
mystery was here in the mist
Do you remember the last time
much later, standing half-naked in the moonlight
changing, remembering funeral and grandmother and light,
boyfriend, excitement, escape

The life that is

How art works

My entire life is a whirlwind of sketches I am
manifest in
scribbly glory
My art is all more or less shit
sometimes I get compliments
on the more-shit stuff
and funny looks for the less-shit stuff
I don’t understand why art is so hard
to digest
If I could eat all my poetry
—even just that on actual paper—
I would have the cleanest colon
this side of the Atlantic
but then again the Earth is a sphere
and I would probably poison myself in the process
I am always in a process
of discerning what it is I’m
actually about to do
commitment is hard
where my pencil is involved
it just draws stuff and that’s like all I know
Don’t shoot
I’ll prove myself valuable see
this is a lamb like in
The Little Prince or um
this is a sailboat uh
then there’s this thing I drew when I was bored
which is really the only way to get any art done
It’s hard to be done when you never get started
hard to call finished what
is not in ink or color but
your lazyass black and white graphite
I don’t care if it looks alive you can’t be done
unless you do it like a real artist

The Life that Might have been

Blue Things

Half-read poem in a tab
in another life I called a cab
and went rushing out of here
down the drain, into the year
of rhetoric and prose
where is the poetry?  Nobody knows
nobody looks underneath the folds
of a skirt where treasures untold
are the subject of conversation
I felt a spark of elation
as the sign for Timbuktu
passed over into the deepening blue
of faded jeans shoving down
she holds my throat so I won’t howl
as I get lost behind her lips
in a world of slits slung up to hips
I wandered in a New York fur
the washed-up has-been that you were
is set down in careful rhyme
in precisely metered lines
you could not be reborn Shakespeare
so you got your ass out of here
the city soon went sour without
the sweetness of your thighs about
I followed in a later season
stirred by your redundant reason
there was so much left to see
lovers dance between the trees
unaware this world is concrete
the closest souls are still discrete
that where I found a tangled we
there was only you and me
packages for different offices
different condoms for different orifices
I used to think
behind the mink
one could be anything
but now that I wear the decorative rings
I know the monsters we become
are not about the way we come
but the ways we never went
the poem in the tab was sent
by a friend
I am obligated to make it to the end

Guest Post: Breathe New Life by Keith Roland

My main man Keith (who you may remember from his 2014 guest post Technicolor Wonder) makes his return to ALSO THAT with his new series of multimedia art. 

Check out his blog Skeleton Assembly, LIKE his brand-new Facebook page, and pick up a print from his Society 6 page.

Some photographs just never really get old to me. They continue their life in so many forms, and within the mind. Something one contemplates while sitting alone, gazing out into space, or across the seemingly infinite ocean, or even when taking the next photograph.

I decided to breathe new life into some of my favorite photos with a little bit of mixed media, basically, I took my adult crayons (oil pastels) and began drawing on them. The first few came out nice, but really had no defining characteristics other than being drawn on. However, I came up with a series to begin, completely by accident, after drawing a mask over one of my shots. So without further adieu, here is the beginning of my series of masks...
— KR