The following is from the doers, dreamers, sketchers, crafters and mess-makers that congregated in the first two versions of The Match Factory. This running scroll is a snapshot of the artwork, propaganda, design, poetry, commissions, experiments, collages, brands, gifts, posters, documents, paintings, photos, screenprints, gig posters and so on. By some of our dearest friends and most admired fellow makers, consider this a shout out and a thank you for participating in something we care about deeply and think of far too often.

To all the better things everyone has moved on to, the fond memories we have of each of these projects and to one hell of a 2010. We feel honored to know you and grateful for being inspired by your hands. Until the next time we find ourselves drinking and plotting together, we hope, in the not-too-distant future, onward! – Jason and Justin

FUTURE – by Bil Johnson

1.18.08

boy
the last month
you’ve been put through the wringer
flu
cold
pink eye
ear infection ear infection
and still
that smile. that laugh.

1.21.08

jack was born an anarchist in the true sense of the word (aren’t all children?)
innocent. enlightened. anarchist.
authority figures are ignored with confidence. no rule-of-law no rule of class or race
no arbitrary self-righteous leader-figure holds sway over him.
he wishes no ill-will or harm he simply wants the shackles to dissolve.
he will disarm with a smile as he deconstructs a routine of days once believed to be
etched in stone. grinding ones focus until it is centered only on what is real what is tangible
what is truth. what is truth?
a look into jack’s arresting blue-eyes is a look into our deep past.
food shelter unconditional love. these are all that exist.
as it should be.

The Pledge of Grievance – by Bil Johnson
you.
is what we never were.
silent.
we no longer are.
invisible.
no more.
stepping through the fog.
of fanatical nationalism.
can someone scream.
please.

i am first a husband and father.
son. brother. grandson nephew cousin uncle.
i can no more swear allegiance to a government.
than a government can swear allegiance to me.

Weston - by Craig Turnwall

I stayed up late, drank all the beers,
thought about my old-
man for no particular reason.
Imagine the living room where’d he be
sitting, he’s still awake tonight too,
wondering if anyone’s
wondering if he’s tired, restless of rusting shackles.
That naked
street, outside the small town picture window, the summer air is pensive and lazy,
of memories and unhealed
wounds which don’t escape the deep gravel, or the firehouse.
Where all the engines are cold, alarms
at half mast, all is on fire inside rather than rooftops
or property, he knows his legs don’t work
anymore, there’s nowhere left to run.
Ache, on the canopy, airs twisted and silent
ghosts, glance from a sitting expression
reflection back
against the panes of glass, all the hourglass beats
poured from extinguished wishes, false dreams and patch-work
cigarette burns that no cloth can carry.
This carpet and wood, these walls and patient
stares of my old-man linger, so we both stay up
late, and his
streets are alone and mine are
meant, meant to imagine cured concrete lonesome, but I just can’t
think that hard, that hard
at all – out Weston windows.

Where heart meets blood. - by Craig Turnwall
I think a man’s heart beats fast
when he thinks about the hour before him,
and the new,
a moment when he feels bent, or lapse,
night crept upon him like a bleeding wound, dream
woke with faded light, night on the creep,
mindless drum, anticipation of not finding a way again,
to make morning,
he wants heliocentric ideas, in a moon phased wanderlust,
all that is dark is long,
battered can be a cool breeze, men think with their souls wide open,
sidewalk is tragic, death is tragic, pain is not a fearless endeavor,
all scars remind of past achievements with regeneration, blood pumped
toward goals coursed during walk and sleep,
what wonderful conquests you entertain, adrenaline,
this palpitation and open window.

Youngasabean – by James Dunn
You at right now
Luck and love
Love will explode in these hills
Our beds will be ovens.
Dirt covers you
You are as young as a bean.

A City From Above – by James Dunn
The city is no different from above.
I see struggle.
People with sweet poor faces falling into a mess of numbers.
All they want, I think, is to kiss their kids.
The city from above,
Each brow a light.

By Midnight, Bullfight - by Adam Pomajzl
mornings blush
with light behind
curtains,
making sheets
impossible to unwrap-
I assure you,
it’s just bedposts,
tossed jackets,
poems on hardwood floors.

so this sunrise
salivates answers
from dashboard notes,
quotes lines
from park benches,
quip conversation
conversely arrogant
while
our divided attention
fell to turning phrases

The Up Side Of A Flip Coin – by Adam Pomajzl
keep your knees
buried in trenches
fingers dug in earth
in creases
expressions plastered
on this thin space
between we and window-

it’s back spasms
that’s holding us
up at night.

this day passes
in a withered wash
formulated by
a shelf of books binding back
a choke of tears
a white of knuckles
a furious glare
that snuck up
in the form of a glance
with first thought,
but shuddered

before blooming.

Development at the corner of Monterey and Country Club
(they’re watering dirt that used to have things growing in it) – by Dan Schreiber
they were allowed to tear out the date palms
native vegetation
that would have helped hold the dirt in place without any water
but are now required to run sprinklers all day
half a dozen or so on giant piles of dry earth
so the flow of petroleum-burning, carbon-emitting autos is not interrupted by blowing dust
in the desert
a large placard gives a number to call with complaints
where would a caller really begin?

Untitled 1 – by Dan Schreiber

in hills less black
we dig for teeth
giving them history
introducing timeline

their value now true
as assigned
their loss now of import
as found
we give them our grace
meaning
we give ourselves place
imparting gifts

d.schreiber
09.01.2005

Rememory – by Jacqueline Ostrowicki

I miss you in parts, as a whole,
and both in various combinations:
just the eyes
or sometimes the eyes
and the fingertips.

Blood River – by Mike Semrad

We built up this bridge so long and high
So we don’t get swept down the valley where the forgotten souls lie

Welcome to this well oiled machine
Where the poison of heartache is amongst us
Old mans leg is dangling through the bridge that we have built
To save us from the skies cry

We built up this bridge so long and high
So our children and theirs won’t ask why

Blood River

Tonight we watch out the window at the rain
We watched it rise up and go back down again
Down to the valley to soak in the lines
Where the harvest grows as high as the pines
The bridge we built holds strong through the weather
Cause the blood we shed holds it together

Tags: The Match Factory

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 7th, 2010 at 9:38 pm by The Match Factory and is filed under The Match Factory, Work. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.