Collage Burning Landscape

Ridgewood, Sunset

what’s even worth painting anymore? all the nerd
girls in big striped sweaters warming bleach moms
gym guys in slate sleeveless tees and they make
shoes out of knit polyester now tight pants loose
pants clouds bodies minds bricks piled up high hair
gel on a young couple four hundred feet away
i’m worried about their screen time is their crib
flammable age sex location trap beats the problem
with not liking anyone is you always have lots of
company imagine for a moment being a sixteen
ounce poland spring bottle the thin crinkling plastic
threaded neck choking hazard threaded cap
arctic-nothing impermanent black they don’t do
decaf here i listen to the gods who do not have my
best interest at heart is it ok for me to smile at the
incandescent young lesbians so in love i’m
repeating myself my recycled edges ache at the
thought of appearing a fanboy Eileen Myles in
my hands my eyes my neurons my hair dirty teeth
rotten and unbrushed like i said: no one’s looking
out for my brief colors i strain to love anyone but i
fear a relapse into hate for everyone hocking trace
antagonism — like me i’m afraid i prefer living in the
cracks and this world powerwashes squatters rats
milkweed moneywort morning glory like us — there
i go dreaming again self-flagellating my verse-thin
flesh which is bulletproof if bullets are tsetse flies
i am genetic i am bodied and disposable if extant
— there is a cloud there is the gelic memory of sun
leather loafer real burning cigarette appropriately
scented altar i don’t care what your mother named
you i will love you anyway without me.

Sweat Sweet as Melons the Tongues

one

hands grasping the
ornamental knobs of
the man-ropes father
mapple cast a
look this color
orange tries to
remind me of
you lay down
and be slumbering
a cabinet is
kind the and
when i’m cornered
at the final
blown it seems
from room in
clouds peeks at
ourselves in the
mirror brain inside
the test tube
is still alive

two

the thing that
death gave you
themselves christian thorns
you bet apples
bananas sour as
sweat sweet as
melons the tongues
and tigers hotly
towards dancing away
from your cars
by the frond
of the sea
i live of
rain made out
to ask me
whether we were
again to be
bedfellows i told
him yes whereat

three

content and there
let him rest
all our arguing
with him would
not avail let
him be in
and out a
window will never
create hay back
me up then
to ask to
arrive late and
be polite so
you are do
you know here
is the corner
a couple of
men jump up
7th as a
little there’s only
one option

Fuck Theory Kill

Wikipedia Poem, No. 880

On hand acidic trap in the bowel of what I’d contained with soft steel wire. Am I alive oil, salt, too late now I’m 28 and acidic trapped in this newspaper executive security forces in the making like delicate membrane fangs. The dog struggles in the bowl. The bowl of nervous broiled potatoes, olive who pretends he’s a word: I’ve got to brandish fangs. I strain at the calcium light a less periphery universe? Bowl of bloodless bone of bloodless bone

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Of bloodless bone of broiled potatoes In a way every newspaper executive who pretends he’s got the word: I’ve got to wire the bowl of torn flesh refers to background themselves off conside Myles Brecht less bone than broiled potatoes. In a way several different mixtures of contaminated withering electronic senses someone else’s fairly compensated to be? A bowl of flourishing myself. Sick and acidic trapped in themselves of torn flesh. My lips burn. I stop reading magazines and

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Acidic trapped in hand the french dykes burn. I stop reading. Suddenly a tired bind: interred in my mouth: I’m not sure If I enjoy it themselves consider Myles Brecht less bone of broiled potatoes, olive who pretends he’s the word: I’ve got nothing to do today. I stop reading magazines and son. The leaf sure I enjoy it cost broiled potatoes stretches brecht less bone of broiled potatoes — in a way several different mixtures of wire then copy editors hurl themselves far above

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Themselves above contained with soft steel wire. Am I alive Who pretends he’s words: I’ve got to be millefiori i’ve got to bind tired: That term, i’ve got to be? A bowl of broiled potatoes in magazines and the bowl of broiled potatoes struggle off condo roofs — And don’t call the jump acidic trapped in the money to be honest — even they’re flesh. My lips burn. I stop reading once free the copy editors hurl themselves

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Myles Brecht tossed off condo roofs — and settling myself Sick and the bowl of nervous flourishing electronic something or other myself Sick metal tin? covered in thousand books Myles Brecht less bone than broiled potatoes. The dykes burn. I stop reading electronic someone else’s fairly compensated to be useless bone of broiled potatoes, olive oil, salt, too much pepper Burns my mouth: I’m not sure If I enjoy it is too much pepper Burns my mouth: I’m notorious

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Sources:

  • Qin, Amy. “Their Art Raised Questions About Technology. Chinese Censors Had Their Own Answer.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 14 Dec. 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/12/14/arts/china-art-censorship.html.
  • “Guangzhou Triennial Pulls Works on Biotechnology and Artificial Intelligence.” Artforum, 17 Dec. 2018, www.artforum.com/news/-78111.
  • Dewey-Hagborg, Heather. “Artist’s Statement.” Deweyhagborg.com, deweyhagborg.com/statement.

‘Shhh’ by Eileen Myles

Shhh

I don’t think
I can afford the time to not sit right down &
write a poem about the heavy lidded
white rose I hold in my hand
I think of snow
a winter night in Boston, drunken waitress
stumble on a bus that careens through
Somerville the end of the line
where I was born, an old man
shaking me. He could’ve been my dad.
You need a ride? Wait, he said.
This flower is so heavy in my hand.
He drove me home in his old blue
Dodge, a thermos next to me,
cigarette packs on the dash
so quiet like Boston is quiet
Boston in the snow. It’s New York
plates are clattering on St. Mark’s
Place. Should I call you?
Can I go home now
& work with this undelivered
message in my fingertips
It’s summer
I love you.
I’m surrounded by snow.

from Eileen Myles’s “I Must Be Living Twice”

We All Lay on the Island Beach Together (Tension)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 649

w649

“151. Pseudo-cyclical time is a time transformed by industry. The time founded on commodity production is itself a consumable commodity, recombining everything which, during the period of the old unitary society’s disintegration, had become distinct: private life, economic life, political life. The entirety of the consumable time of modern society ends up being treated as raw material for the production of a diversity of new products to be put on the market as socially controlled uses of time. ‘A product, though ready for immediate consumption, may nevertheless serve as raw material for a further product’ (Capital).” Guy Debord

 

first ask is it interesting
tell the pocket waiter pull-ups skin-tight jeans
scent the studio booth
to be the hungriest ghost kill
in the studio booth smell theorists
scent the studio booth save the actor
kills in the transcendent idea of brilliant to love
basic vanilla body mist scents the hungriest ghost
to be known for a particular black hat
to be known for a particular black hat to kill
in order to slip on a theorist be known for the smell of one’s pockets
to scent the theorist’s tube top for a particular guess what
what’s in the studio booth that isn’t a still particle

life’s deadline fast approaching
that feeling of heroism self-conditioned
against resource scarcity sacrifice
supernatural darkness
of marijuana for the scholars
of cold-water flats floating across envelope scenting the air

Nice Work If, Surrounded By If

Wikipedia Poem, No. 511

w511-sm

“the hoot makes / the grey sky / blue” Eileen Myles

you
can only
spit

between offices
or still never rhyme
versions

all over life
magazine
up reader

teeth full
of mouths
taste life

now’s
the time
reader

Did You Mean Más o Menos?

Wikipedia Poem, No. 510

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“How about an oak leaf / if you had to be a leaf?” James Schuyler

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