leica
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Men in Hats Rise from the Ground
‘Five O’Clock’ by James Schuyler Men disport themselves.They help each other:“Reach in my chest and massage my heart.I am not dead.” If clouds are God’s table linen,what is rain?He gave men towels to dry themselves.He blessed their soap. The city grew like the desert, by erosionMen walk in it.God is not so much dead as…
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The Song of One Hundred Thousand Chemicals Approximating Sunshine
‘This is the Song of One Hundred Thousand’ by Ariana Reines This is the song of one hundredThousand chemicals approximating Sunshine in my hair. My lover bit My cheek this morning. I think I’ll Fall from one trance into the nextMight fall asleep any minuteIt gets tiring making yourself looklike you’re alive while you’re lookingHard…
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An Urge to Flex Everything
‘Solidus’ by Ron Padgett Why am I making myselfdo and be things that I don’t really want to?Because I have an idea of what I should be doing and/orI don’t have an idea of what I really want to be and/or do.And/or both. I seem to be very and/or,with an urge to flex everything until…
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On the Roof of Wannsee Villa
with no ill intention to the artistwhat the fuck were you thinkingthe mangy dog and the electro-magnetic implantfine! but replacing the u with the v?what a braggadocious pile of staten island’s finestpiled up to intellectualaffidavits — i once asked allen ginsbergshould i be scared when the polishbarrister holds a luger to my templeand demands fried…
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‘Greenwich Avenue’ by James Schuyler
In the evening of a brightlyunsunny day to watch back-lightedbuildings through the slitsbetween vertical strips of blindsand how red brick, brick paintedred, a flaky white, gray orthose of no color at all takethe light though it seems onlyabove and behind them so whatshows below has a slight evening“the day—sobs—dies” sadness and the sun marches on.…
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Valzhyna Mort & Henri Cartier-Bresson, Postcoital
violent global apocalypsearen’t you worried brrthe mirror ball playing with the toddlerin the parking lotso meaningless: music in the air there is no belarusianversion of this poemshe turns the therapist to 11 we no longer think in colorthere’s only colddark and not dark the prism handles the restthe first third and fifth courseare the cheapest…
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Awaiting Diagnosis
who whips little wooden orbits sayshello i am laughtersoured there isgrass mown & wind stilled & i have come up to the hole& found it lacking
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Total Aesthetic Loss
cherry moves fastconsumes fuel spark airfires momentary and true tearsasphalt from erudition give it awaypennies on the dollar corpseof carbon pattern makinggone so badly maybeaerated biomasssteel screwsperchance to love lecture urlecturer well cared for whistlingwhite curator hands of filial head translationblinksconcrete total aesthetic loss
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portrait in oblivion (isa)
she says i can cook vegan she says savory nutritional yeast flakes harvested for good health our face is probably the only thing of that scale crushed red pepper flakes our face obsessed in its desire for duplicate i didn’t choose this sacred hardware our battle ax-thin XXX bride prime butch dress cascading salvo cachaça…
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