rich fucks poor schmucks grey donkeys pink goats loser communist cattle roaming cocks black pig
gnaws vestigial arm of long-dead stump pink pig dreams of shit in dry sun
all pant in red heat zoo as palace of great social inequity lonesome horse shreds grass
beside canada goose both children enamored in their wielding
large white girl swings twig black girl arcs storybook of freckles red polka dots
on tawny field of mask skipping mirrors through corridor of meat two indian condors fuck in nearby cage
and insignificant small brown deer neither getting their money’s worth older schmucks inarticulately elsewearing
zoo — $6 a head— equalizes even verbs animals people objects subjects as commercial rents plummet
dirt everyone fucked and fucking sun and moon penetrate sky kiss asphalt i go back where i came from
play volleyball with colombian neighbors i go home to america feel lonesome as stars
imagine america and hang cheap black tarp like flag with expensive steel clamps
over and over
union made folding in america where wind is ideal and idea and erase myself between parked cars
another picture made with shitty attitude fueled by quarter crackers
we feed one another from vicious passive hands
release fang fur leather feather plate-mail instinct river bloat low medicine white phosphorus art school upheaval
In a Photograph of Heaven
cold floorboards creak and broken feet labor, yr
tiny vertebrae at arms fingertips asleep on a giant’s shoulder, my
one hand raking its grave across her back taut guiltless guileless unwalking preverbal, yr
the object holds fear her out there like just her out there with the fulsome dogs of envy, my
wrapping themselves in wallpaper and music and great ambiguous hurdles that jump jump jump over trees canals and land on a better partner who tells himself the day’s failures remain, okay, yr
that when one sits down to analyze their respective scroll everything beneath our feet, vulgar back catalog, mines and thines
bedrock rot head-in-the-clouds metaphor head-in-the-sand metaphor she cleaves the fall harvest at winter’s end
The Race to Fire Island Lighthouse
hey, listen i want to explain it to you the difficulty of love curled up like a roach ‘s obvious hunger sense organs engaged and something like a heavy-lidded lighthouse lying grandiloquent on its side elbows sore forearms sore my exercise anymore to soften desperation melts that selfsame bedrock
do you understand the line through love and pest and lighthouse i’m snorting a lexapro with you in this zoo
beauty bubbles up like a distraction desperate not for good genes we’re all needled scaled or broadleafed nor unabashed of scholarship and easy love hidden in history
reader, when i’m gone tell her how quickly the tunnel nootka was built
how direct its line from here to there a plurality of good intentions some heartbreak ‘s unavoidable but not too much that she’ll come to understand as mere fact like a new crime the prosecutor says
dig a little in the dirt
the ear the chin the crown of the head missing uncombed not as wild as any newborn mind pull back a meter stop digging the prosecutor says gun badge law degree and no sense of aesthetic pride
reveals some pretty incriminating things the truth isn’t the best way to get a bad actor off a clean street
i am not a fan of creation neither nor perpetuated myth it is what it is it is until the skin burns the maps draw themselves and murderers prop up little books of poetry a little knuckle a little knee a choice to remove the lighthouse debris i abide the law with a straight spine from space presumably hemmed in by caught-shadow i remember her face as it dances across every unknowable constellation of beauty
A hate passed across generations over borders an ex-vast desert
a black wall scars the landscape i do not know what i am in it
what it gives me destroys me i do not need it not today not tomorrow desirous alien interior
crown fortune its endless skull walk exposes the delirious face grabbing and shaking-down of who or what anymore and goes away from the island dune with a tavern of warm milk and upside-down memory of friends and if a place is too familiar it removes its visitors like certain meteors from near constant travel i stand at the immense black wall and scream in wind at the constructing god
here as in under my feet here sheathed in goat leather as in affronting here as in without fear of description discipline or performance
idiot rush at the gold farm gods open your terrorist wallet trap the house of esplanade and swallow god
black camel mahler stops death can be a poem he didn’t have to leave though i demanded it with my hands and bleak words i hoped anyone could understand the desert media or what remained drew up plans my intentions my privilege like a deep wind-up across sand and i wonder how he’d bred a modern aesthetic echo the private world of containing wishes: no black river neon bootleg nothing ashamed of … as a poet i dream about him buried deep in the sand in the lungs in the lugs
deep enough to have had enough of other people’s worlds woke up screaming bronica barbacoa bankrate like that would fix anything and here i am the white noise cresting the horizon she said looking back one final time
and beach dragged back hands intracoastal churning snatch from impossible tides certain hopeful loneliness imposed the bodies of others i thought i saw an iguana at the gates swung open manna bornfrom a factory i scratch the wall first with stones and dried plant matter and stones then fingers beguiling consistent
fingers bleed wall remains black black black
through travel we charge the scene a belanced knight tilting at god these innersee references insufficiently sophisticated inflicted upon us by lesser
the job of an arrow is to brand the world what puts the reader to sleep — that is you to sleep — passes for a story between hands the simultaneous wall do you understand do you have this inside you?
the sky above the city is the noun constantly reintegrating parameters these are the questions made obvious against a photograph but what about the outreach the compassion the drama of it all otto had the look of a killer big bald head dirty lederhosen someone nearby spinning out the color of green apples big black eyes quiet let his friend do all the talking not the type to confuse numbers for bugs (or vice versa) had many famous friends now none
c. 1400, “make impure by admixture,” from Medieval Latin sophisticatus, past participle of sophisticare (see sophistication). From c. 1600 as “corrupt, delude by sophistry;” from 1796 as “deprive of simplicity.” Related: Sophisticated; sophisticating. As a noun meaning “sophisticated person” from 1921.
Poem Can’t Defend Itself
they are gone out / they are beautiful / they are never enough
DESPITE a community rises up around me a community rises up around me a community rises up around me a community rises up around me a community rises up rises up rises up DESPITE i sink into community into community into community rises up around me around me around me a round me a rondo a nonce an ounce of community in my pocket a pound of trounce in my hand a ton of electronics on my back DESPITE a promise to tend to the garden to the garden to the garden tend to tendencies tenderly a garden a garden a garden worth guarding tenderly a community DESPITE rising up around a ton of electronics tenderly gardening my back DESPITE an ounce of rondo in my pocket
Ounce of Rondeau
you ask yourself: is the next minute enough? enough to pull you into them? to keep you there enough? is its plurality of negations enough to keep you reading forever? independent of the men in caskets we come to the incinerator or from the incinerator — there’s a world through this door
poetic form necessitates a poetics of absence less attitude more altitude reality holding your hand we walk backwards down a fall of steps individualism into the chopper i wrote myself a letter in sand no i will write myself a letter in sand no i must have forgotten not writing it with precocious expectations of a strong handsome noun on my knees at the wall with obscure eyes the letter didn’t say west of here is a nice mass grave and east of here is blue smoke of otto more violence more opiate i wake up wanting
survive make friends at the inn at columbia tell stories
whenever i hold my child the hair on my body turns white noise white heart welcome to the world it’s just me you’re ok oh my god you’re ok
Ounce of Zuihitsu
the moon of thicknesses and texture of papers one for photo one for text quality absorption two i’s a k and a p pile high like huey dewey and louie in a trench coat attempting to purchase pornography or an assault rifle or enriched uranium galk the image is gone he’s piloted guys chariots into the sun melted melted axle horse and hope alike the image has dispersed the boy my stand-in meditates on his describing destruction and finds opportunity for new life to bathe its hot fault lines there’s an emoji for that the old phrase goes
when i lift a palm-full of warm sand i feel it coursing through my hand though i see it still in my fingers the sense receptors haunt the skin wrapped around muscle bone breath the warmth of the sand the atmosphere of it of them our misunderstanding and inflate with metaphysical charm surreal pleasure undeniable expression the inward experience of what kind of story is this story
the menu at the storm is written in an alien language that looks like begging a stranger to buy your underage-self violence and sounds like the opiate state protecting your fragile body on offer are the powerful horses of a new god
I don’t know how else to tell you there are problems with what little soil remains problems with what little oil remains problems with the spoiled chaos of which there is plenty the dog-boys expect one in every tribe to make a mistake i put the beginning at the end and pray
c. 1300, despit (n.) “contemptuous challenge, defiance; act designed to insult or humiliate someone;” mid-14c., “scorn, contempt,” from Old French despit (12c., Modern French dépit), from Latin despectus “a looking down on, scorn, contempt,” from past participle of despicere “look down on, scorn,” from de “down” (see de-) + spicere/specere “to look at” (from PIE root *spek- “to observe”).
The prepositional sense “notwithstanding” (early 15c.) is short for in despite of “in defiance or contempt of” (c. 1300), a loan-translation of Anglo-French en despit de “in contempt of.” It almost became despight during the 16c. spelling reform.
Blacking Thee Impossible Art
some men are large others are sharks but all men have their cut coming what price what playing harmony what origins hungry submissions layered to the ceiling like dried newspaper waits for spark a wide lens saturation cranked creamed laughing fringes pissed the windgreens that fill sinuses this is indirect incorrect take the first viola on your right and go straight on til the measuring tape boils oh see can you say it like he sees it will you allow the worries to tell you no wrestling nude in the sun people blacken me blacking thee impossible art life i’ll tell it straight no surface artifact artifact camera aims his gun at the sun a diagonal field sailing memories the means to be an artist dearest exponent YES! i like top ten art as much as the next guy but here in the desert there’s only survival
i don’t want to hurt people that’s the point i guess jane the fried of the west said the best you scream when you know jane didn’t say that i said that no not that even i’ve acquired it put it in my pocket like a write of passport it was born here what do you want from me screaming burnt hair test the limits of the dog-boys laying there depressed dried out next to their dreams of milk next to a soundscape of rolled up death that gives way to the blackened mind
in the wallet of the last quarter century don’t know how to spend it don’t know that if we ever will
the data bears this out the data proves popularity is a marauder straddling a spreadsheet from station to station the numbers are bright and clear as the moon ticked on the ocean wall in chalk the countryside evaporated by nuclear strike like a crow like a crown like a clown from the diving board insert yourself here transfigure possibility and cliche
the men he met at the wall and they were always men displayed no dedication to the pilgrimage no ambition to elide its infinity they plant their feet in the hot sand and shed blood an ear upon a pedestal this masculine beauty
so we waited seven years anymore how do you experience cold it’s not cold to be uncomfortable would it even register as cold or just certainly not a breeze a sensation experience an external sensation register as different from in your belly proximity to celebrity on this the final day of the final april
what is this crocus trampled inconvenient bottom boot beside the dog-boys’ leftovers in the sun warning our flesh some listen some tilt listen i’m thirty seven trying to get to the under of this big wide doing so far so guilty so unwinged by the mage or the architect or god the builder send me a picture of there
“Frustration has become a key response to certain recent art. Frustration because the viewer is looking for a complete “idea” and is foiled. The notion of completion (i.e., self-containment) is at fault.”*
March 2021 — A vast sucking sound invades my consciousness even god dies many men are god over and over again and again confusing the prophecy smile with the pissing of one’s pants horrifying child reach down into the worksheet subconscious and pray for us — reader and read — spit the stuff of life into the dry bed of our hair
Herd of wishes tiktok cartwheeling in the 2021 pandemic rain
Look out now into the field of the poem:
An invasive, patriotic pan into an urbane shopping center in praise of everything average fire from the gods every popular poem of the last 400 years a streetcar sunrise eventually finds time to name check chicory and sage this one begins with blood moat pikeways spectacular arguments theory of riot like a match/strike and riot literary technique milk as cologne rot as physique reason generates contradictions being the moment of fixity decaying protest protein establishes work as crucible
“When it examined a work of art, materialist criticism was accustomed to ask how that work stood in relation to the social relationships of production of its time. That is an important question. But also a very difficult one.”
Encyclopaedia Logica negatively rational complications of basic machine translation abstracts from the fact that every few days I dream about the staten island ferry terminal — never the ferry — cavernous poisoned with workers worriers and weasels red corona around time’s neat little rows like
I’ve taken the ladies heaped on our generation’s greatest writers and turned them first to dust then to paste then tipped in my photos look at us here in the margins singing out loud like
With a shark knife this isn’t magic but middlebrow slight of hand I hollow out the differences between things the car is always parked comically far from the party my hands are always full of papers I hope will contain valuable information my shoes are too big no one likes me I am alone my mode is survival shame let’s do the time warp like
Alive on the internet baby snails rabid preteens snapback starter caps wreathed in mycelium the message is clear get ready to floss billboards are no longer optional avon barksdale whistles like
The results of a promising life come back negative so the reader fingers across coarse vellum begins to trace the source of the information back to its etymological roots stainless steel web of memory no one will rent to a poet the dog punishes the cat anymore for being slow small and weak captain communism strikes again like
How many cows have to die after climbing into a tight high attic — red yellow green blue pink — ALL OF THEM the inscription reads SLEEVE NOT CUP followed by an 11 digit phone number not magic but martial disorder I was just looking for the bathroom but he was an entertainer with a high iq i know boo-hoo no one has said anything good about me though memory is incomplete and what is complete is corrupt like
Hallucination as savior my Pietà of language crumpled but full of etymological life in arms I watched the four, there, in the delicate black corner sprout wings no flight but possibility and strange other outcast the deep uncontemplated darkness of the eye cries like
Market Bug (Rhythmic Chirping)
I can’t stop repeating the words astra and zeneca like an incantation to our collective effigy is it big enough this elegy said brave but meant careless mad dissolving head the poets like gruesome biblical angels want what’s best for it/god
For us the hotel staff provided drugs and provided thousands of pounds of rooms but no hallways no keys the elevator was controlled from the destination floor hooligans frequently mashed the nauseous fast button mother and the first man were there Adam cut the safety line mother watched
The poet chirps rhythmically yes I let the dog bite me I ask the influencers what do you do for money and get no reply bite chomp rip stomp I mostly think about a long vacation one year to justify who I am or was meant to be a lie a list a liar a black market bug electric fingertips the kind of person who doesn’t as vocation
Og-noid the Flagrant
All we heart have beat breath hearth and got here we turn to need & formalism I’d rather buy it cheap than learn it hard Og-noid the flagrant turns toward the busy sub on main street and aims his psychosexual power What he attempts to resist what I also attempt to resist is easiness how gorgeous the hands of the clock pointing at nothing I dream of vesuvius fists against sex workers impotent rage of soldiers of consequence ponytailed picasso woman’s blood in steerage on a stream ship from Italy on canvas bills on florescent future oh heavenly heart welcome to New Jersey
The child quits as the sun provokes birds from wherever into the rhododendron below an eastern cottontail and just about a diesel truck delivers a box full of lithium ion batteries every cow walks around with its leather milk and beef eyes for the buzzards discarded bits for tossing into the dog’s bowl companionship it is spring not a symbol of spring you’ll remember this haircut long after I’m dead
We let things die and eat our friends and family
Every photo ever captured contains at least one suspect. A photo of a fish contains suspect of fisherman. A photo of mountain contains first ascender. A photo captured by code contains its coder. Every actual moment in a river is success, every photo is frustration of that river.
*”Frustration has become a key response to certain recent art. Frustration because the viewer is looking for a complete “idea” and is foiled. The notion of completion (i.e., self-containment) is at fault. What is thought and what is experienced continually replace each other. Nothing reveals itself without at the same time concealing something else. The concealed is the source of thought. And thought, which we hoped to use to “fill in the gaps,” is in itself bottomless or … incomplete. So every work is only the residue of thought’s attempt to simultaneously close itself up and its frustration at not being able to do so. The artwork, whatever “form” it might take, is the visible center of an axis connecting intention and disappointment.”
revivified cicadas end dormancy fans outside the garden at night saying the stars hark an advertisement for more stories from today’s affronted vases flank new eliminations of doe queens of canceled revenue a screenshot of the dead lie three men inside a high rate of speed burn cash as others stay grand at kill station & terminal statistics colorized cells from an oyster of city and state support us or die (repeat)
How our lively natures were rapt away by post-modern science fiction
“What temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of? The inert Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!”
February 2021 — Why doesn’t ugly start a revolution? The intellectual farmacie of traditional media, rife with fit, reasonably attractive folks earn profiles in the The New Yorker. Unless you’re an old white man, in which case beauty is rare and, take it from me, things are relatively frictionless—we will write your story of greatness.
If our obsession with youth can be explained by an attraction to that which we, statistically, were not: precocious, interested, prodigious and destined for the top rungs of the social ladder, than maybe beauty functions the same way.
Shall we ugly design the end, throw a rock, hold our bodies hostage? What kind of hunger must we become?
The man in rags approaches the bricked barn camel and needle yarn strikes With no breath to confound Though no one sentient around Hears this knotted rotten demand Buries his tires in the unyielding sand Keeps the guests at bay Perhaps just one more day
See the threads of desire meeting needle knowledge binds together various fabrics of self at uncertain edges emerges eyes of crucible crocodile burning fog & cloud unity of irreducible information unit of unbound dictionary lightshed gathered father and son in bodied survivalhood emergent territories of thought escapes in breath
Dressed in silversbane protect my faith new mother — holy anymother — lose her holy see scatter her across the January 2021 Facebook Pages redesign her brands are luminous with nostalgia or panic there intuition sings of a songbird two fingers pointed and retracted come-hither autocorrect rub graphite like grapevine phantom to flesh to thought
The sun hangs low on two points connected in electrical circuit Obsessed with the minister of reflexive language as lovers panchromatic grey perhaps a different meaning the new center of socialist joy and recreation I contemplate the aquiline but refuse to rush into the masses I rise elaborate as embroided air vast plains of testosterone encased in shadow engorged with the forgotten god and his abandoned metaphysics
I am a snapchat filter in the eyes of oblivion and beg for forgiveness a man who collects comrades because even kindness needs a posse a man who in the infinite stretch of sand finds god’s black wall and in an instant his purpose a woman who builds rooms inside and outside of the modern poets’ vague allusions to common knowledge the radio has dinner the terrible thing inserts a gun into its poem of simple relational delight and dilemma was no gun only infidelity changing lock letters everywhere in shadow usurping men shooting bullets into the sky almost every evening when I lived in the country who permits this you have driven language like a dead ox from the meaning of the field
Must is the greatest word in the English language also it is the most misused among the lot must is my daddy must is my savior must is the end of a snowstorm as the cupboards go bare we must not accept this way of formulating the issue if we do not we shall be in serious trouble with the virtues of curiosity our grammatical assumptions enshrine themselves within our philosophical arguments and that is death
String a pair of slipping records the great colonial spasms of blood against dirt a free exchange of birds and rival ideologies coincides with the rise of criminal networks in cyberspace house of hexagon open to the possibility of retention of sky sound of brutal dictatorship string I do not know the woman’s name nor her side of the dialogue nor mine I must ring the bell though it is of form and weight without she is without voice string in this instance to look at me you wouldn’t know my hands repeat insincere gestures I was listening to that string together at last after years of waiting the smell of skin and
Waiting for the other shoe to drop it is what it is i drink whisky i drink beer beer made of sculptures her words not mine borrowed really from peter to paypal paul and talk about geometry ugly repulsive apparitions on a wet black bough lazy mapping doesn’t know how to read a nap no sense of ambiguity an obsession with youth glowing skin fresh powder a reliable reit wilbur ross financed spac takes it public no sense of ambiguity the poet and the programmer vindictive academics both
Obsessed with the minister of reclusive language the character pans the screen not the player like a patient etherized upon a table I deny myself the opportunity no one’s said it explicitly — actor, writer, set designer, executive producer — but the show is about memory no one can take that away not the ultra rich who pile vindication and swim not the blood and shadow brokers cointreau spiked with lsd at a cia retreat al spoke of destruction finally getting its break if it’s good enough for the abattoir why not right here at home?
Hop skip jump burn hop skip jump burn hop skip jump burn hop skip jump burn
The mass destruction of tourists The mass destruction of production The mass destruction of typewriters The mass destruction of jealous music
Poetry policymakers conspiracies fourteen women share a couch destruction everywhere their feet behind them behind the couch a trio of monochrome musicians a hot light a baudrillard disclaiming suprareality a wedding ring i toss behind the couch like an anchor rides in veins of the venal need flower print — imagine that — in black and white the posterity collapsed like a pharaoh’s lung fat legs crossed surely worm food by now all these artists care so much about dying disclaiming flesh of wristwatches
The memory, bound with piano wire, is something of a meditation. Not intended to pacify the hungry, curious, and violent child-made, by polite society, to sit still and earn their wage. The memory, bound by piano wire, is something of a primitive chant. Primitivism as if to say committed to the ursheriff and the supraellipses. The memory, bound by piano wire, lets blood through an unmarked limited liability company. Too many of us have been dragged through the mud to reserve comment — to forget — to watch Everybody Loves Raymond nailed to the crucifix.
ritual of expulsion: setting proves important to the audience, which, in city after city struggles to understand why the woman in the white bandana suffers so and why the small-town cat buzzing in and out through the open den window bob and weave with puritanical, firefly charm. Symbolism escapes them until it doesn’t — like an embolism.
In the 18th century a rhino named Clara visited the capitals of Europe and inspired various French hairstyles as the sun crashes down on city hall where the streets are torn up to be repaved what does this have to do with ugly women? Everything!
At 2:22 a.m. I provide the characters with made up properly seasoned rips in time. We, as an audience, have nothing to worry about. The average theater-goer had a hard time separating entertainment from criticism and I am here to avenge that loss. Tears streaming down his unwashed face, he raises his hand like it was his own. Cold but well bathed, the poet runs his imagination through the treetops — rouses a eastern screech owl.
That you were buried before you could confess doesn’t mean the asteroid didn’t strike too proud too catholic too ferrous doesn’t mean you didn’t suffer and I didn’t love you more the pain in your endurance love is all I can offer now and forgiveness forgiveness for stitching up the wound unimagined queen of collisions dark and ceaseless coverings always there always lurking
Our patent pending technology attaches a set of medical grade dentures directly to the upper thigh to create the world’s most authentic prosthetic leg a photo is a list of ingredients and a set of instructions called preconception one might say there is no such thing as false witness actual theft or actual inspiration some personal news I am thrilled to hear the poet quickly come to the adjective’s defense.
My wife in the other room alone moaning it’s not what you think by being obtuse obscure obdurate I insure reality what a mitzvah a single poet in a kettle being trusted and truthful and godlike in a drained pool of diction they can be kind and determined all ears all fingers all backbone a penis is a penis is a penis we fetishize nature by its nature his repetitive conceit — I’m thrilled to announce I’m being specific for once — is tiring but not in a bad way exhausting like an Eggleston picture
Exhausting here comes the sun is the first song you heard silk where the green silicone pacifier reds your chin snow falling black against a holy sky every molecule on the horizon vibrates against the desire to regulate to survive navigating generative strangling not the winner but first place itself broken
On the political streets broken maddening itself like ants on a sugar cube here, February, or, interrogations you built America punched down and out by the sidewalk, you’ve lost the game saying too much abyss oblivion no one in my family tells stories broken and yet young bodies baked through with organic poisons in hushed tones around the breakfast table while i burp her
Under the christmas tree my gift unopened for thirty years shallow breaths deep water the lights dim in concert with listicles year end reviews lizard-content basking in the vast nourishing copper field you were invited to motherhood and chose virgin purity invited to fatherhood and chose putty imports a well-built alarm clock a gingham turtle shell split down the middle kintsugi impossible and inevitable, sky hunting its platinum trophy
hung in the shadows on the western wall emerald cone boasting corona of dipped lunatic cotton fails serially with each attempt (once every three minutes) to intellect through short dire sentences despite being broken into labium labrum maxillae and mandible the discourse remains functional powered up and spread warm butter like the sun like the museum’s most popular gallery quantitatively as the reader fails to consider commerce here the radical mage conjures a million jerry saltzs dehydrate mutants no geiger counter for this kind of subjective observation through a starbucks window clearly the majority look onward and upward while elements class traitors sift form from function and some nonzero number of postdocs see a leg and writhe in pain and some nonzero number of highly marketable postdocs see a shark skin wallet and movement becomes impossible consider minus zero as a vector of possibility
a long time ago lived a lengthy brass ladder known for lying who unscrewed an exit sign named piero manzoni the ladder was high as fuck and craved a little zappo critical discourse emerged simultaneously from the academic journals commonly read by building inspectors widely known to be bad men damp men with all sorts of wicked contradictions hammers hardhats marshmallows cargo shorts and bibles held to account hauled up by their judith butler-lookin lobes tonight is the night it is impossible to judge these men at this hour but long ago judges went unmoored a mythological tap of little sausages enticing a blue arc back then everything was faked everything was cheated an ounce or two everything surreptitiously observed and tweaked their values modified until reality felt just about right
without transubstantiation of the aphid this reality slithers from open space to open source its brand much improved especially popular among college educated white liberals aged 18-24 who earn each rostrum feeds then snaps predictably with a super majority obeying basic digital commands retweet unfollow promote accept all the role of the curator has changed for the wurst since wuhan
impish discursive corona dip thineself ankle deep into serious intellect unbreak your reader fall from function into a nonzero bouquet of legs move only when movement becomes impossible
my love uploaded virus unlocked door can of the artist’s shit save my planet one salsiccia at a time
All piffle & twaddle—influence of the Bottom Dog man. For real “decadents” read Huysmans & other French authors. Diarrhea of words—stew of classic allusions. Fuck Artemiset alia! Don’t put intellect in your prick! Write honestly even if poorly. Humor is weak—immature. Try drugs and compare two kinds of writing. Try using only Anglo Saxon words. Throw your dictionary away! Don’t mix realism with poetics! If you can’t make words fuck, don’t masturbate them! When you speak of the Cunt put hair on it! Try to forget everything you learned in college. Try talking like an ignoramus— or an Igaroti. Read, for emetic, “Palm Wine Drinkard.” You will learn to write only when you stop trying to write. A line without effort is worth a chapter of push and pull. First ask yourself if you have anything to say. Don’t draw the pen unless you are ready for the kill! If you don’t get rid of the Classics you’ll die of constipation. Never show any one what you’ve written until a year or two later. Use the axe to your 1st draft and not the fine comb. The latter is for lice!!!
The days — likely the months — leading up to Thanksgiving 2020 have left a hazy tarnish on my ability to be present for my family and friends.
It started, of course, with the economic uncertainty, political instability, and alienating nature of COVID-19. But it is bigger than that, more insidious, and ultimately more profound.
The rich got richer without doing much of anything, the poor kept fighting at great expense, and the world never stopped its dizzying spin. All this while 1.4 million people across the world died and left a dolorous wake in their leaving.
Please consider: The death of 1.4 million people is, by its very nature, an abstract and impenetrable number of individual lives gone forever and an exponential number of living grief.
Everyone who survives bears a scar. Every witness who remains watches from the silver shadows of their own guilt.
While I have much to be thankful for, I can’t stop making pictures that tell this terrible story writ large on quotidian society.
And I feel ashamed of its toothsome moral: There is a dark and resolute solace in this pathological estrangement from the brothers and sisters who survive here alongside me.
It was raining. I could hear the rain taking the pins out of her mouth. Soft rain became hard rain so that hard things became soft things. The wet leaves under the trees became heavy as diapers, the book left open on the grass could finally sink in her bath without a word, the way, after a hard day, I rest my head on the edge of the claw-foot tub and my mouth falls open, empty at last. Actually I saw that in a painting when I ducked into a gallery because it was raining. It is always raining somewhere, somewhere the wells are filling from above and from below. Somewhere someone is sleeping, somewhere the lady of the house puts the alarm clock in a drawer where she cannot hear it then tells the children to be quiet and stands there listening to its tick.