Tag Archives: Painting

Think We Have The Same Toothbrush

Think we have the same toothbrush oh my heart is already beating let me know what color chair you like prevent the sweat can you tell i’m here that’s boss love the motion the sense of transformation hubie needs his check bro the most powerful formula ever created modern cartoonists draw eyes with a drug addled weariness that betrays the modern lights surge up and down a horse that isn’t real comparing the warm sun on your back to my warm hand on your back seems unfair like i was giving too much away.

Strangle Me In Thee Ballistic Aire

Strangle me in thee ballistic aire of boston electric gagosian of invalidating fences employed to describe whatever you desire preprogrammed plague innocuous hebrew pockets distributed as though sewn into the bottom of the ocean by whom unhinged shocking applier of starts and brakes over intelligence or proximity america decides everyone was used to the name en plein aire so you see this house of email abuse so you bought a pound of nü modernismo but received a decorative set of abbreviations yes my father owns the gallery yes his father owns the studio storm clouds gather overhead tho not for us lol.

On One Leg (House Beautiful)

The Lauder Family Cardiovascular Center, Mount Sinai, Nov. 14, 2020

prokofiev cobham & darnielle circle one’s
crown blue llama equilateral winged
what have we here
seen? a photo in a photo in a magazine
metaphor boils the pot
after a jot spills its ink hung
over an fim-92 stinger which
like i said before is no metaphor
at all al gore despondent speaking to late modal fords
don’t forget mass production the cruelest beard
a habitat in the atlantic city convention hall
and curly beautiful ambulances free myself
today and forever from human
immobility masked up in constant whirls
a plagiarizer a bad speller pfizer hopping
on one leg from star to star i swing red radio
to blue gamma alongside a humming horse’s mouth
a plagiarizer paul reiser needle in the
armed to the teeth breasts
elbows draped over that still missile botticelli
like a real goddess of love cuts my tongue
into 8 poppy flowers and marches south
to war for the winter who do you think you
are tarantula swagger carpet bagger
meowing hoarse chuff chuff chuffing at popular art
cart me ashore saint bart of the ozarks

‘subjunctive, infinitive, not tied down’

Wikipedia Poem, No. 988

“Women have all kinds of practice
imagining themselves as men
and men have very little practice
imagining themselves as women.”
Meryl Streep

himself to less difficult words
the male is giving himself to improve
readability
the male is giving himself to passive voice
the male is
giving himself to passive sentence length
the male is giving himself to good results
the sentence length
the male is giving
himself to that which is not enough
the test
the male is giving himself to
sentences
the text
the sentences
the male is giving
himself to sentences
the male is giving himself to transition
the male is giving himself to active
voice
the male is giving himself to that which is giving himself to two instances
the
male is
giving himself to two instances
the male is giving himself to less
difficult worlds
the male is giving himself
to the male is giving himself to transition words
and sentences

the male is distributing words
the male is giving himself to consecutive sentences
to sentence length
the male is giving himself to your text
the male is giving himself to transition words
the male is giving himself to two
instances
the male is giving himself to sentences
the male is giving himself to less difficult worlds
the male is giving himself
to passive sentence length
the male is giving easy text
the male is giving himself to passive voice
the male is giving himself to sentences
the
male is giving himself to
sentences
the male is not methuselah’s father
the male is giving himself to that which is giving himself to transitions
the male is giving himself to that which is giving himself to only 3.4 percent of the sentence length
the male is
giving
himself to mix things up
the test
the male is giving himself to active sentences

m is giving himself to transition worlds
the sentence length
the male is giving himself to consecutive sentences
the flesch readability
the sentence length
the male is giving himself
to
passive sentences
the male is giving himself to improve readability
flesch readability
the sentences
the male is giving himself to the same worlds
over and over again the male is giving himself to good truths
the test
the male is giving himself to transitions
the
male is giving himself to two instances
the male is giving
himself to active
voice
the male is giving
himself to mix things up
the male is giving himself to tradition
the male is not enough
the male is giving himself to sentences where three or more
consecutive sentences
the male is giving himself to less difficult worlds
over and over again the male is
giving himself to improv

New Reform Temple with Snow (How to Fully Inhabit Your Characters)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 986

Barbara Kruger was born in Newark, New Jersey, in 1945. After attending Syracuse University, the School of Visual Arts, and studying art and design with Diane Arbus at Parson's School of Design in New York, Kruger obtained a design job at Condé Nast Publications.

you love/live;
you don’t know the woman
trying to
hold the woman what is this poem about? nancy me — about?
it’s overflowing and and you you get someone trying to tell her story
nancy tells you doesn’t she?
you don’t
know don’t listen
don’t know this woman is what
this poem is about? nancy me
it’s about me suffuse with meaning to get something
to get at her story
u don’t know the woman trying to get at her story she’s dead

something with meaning
her story hold the woman
woman this poem of explicit
gravity overflown with telling
the person who assigns
meaning to her story
it’s overflowing her story
telling/experiencing: woman is about the poem?
nancy me it’s about? nancy
me about? cold and gentle
suffuse with her story
saturated undulating up
meaning feeling material breath
feeling material meaning breath
hold the reality it’s overflowing down
her story is dead she’s dead
she’s the person who

Artifacts of Reference, No. 66

Artifacts of Reference, No. 64

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.

Artifacts of Reference, No. 56

New Mexico State Gem

What is your name? Never know. Hunched, picked off
a pair’a you—neither crow nor winch. A thing
god backlit in neon after blessing us with neon. And I
know what it means as a poet to carry this heavy basket—faint
mason, invisible stevedore, passage of time, neither good nor right.

I am fearful for firm and misunderstood things—
the spume, smiling inside the gargoyle, cultural forb—
they’re no different as carrion ghouls. Time
has done miserable things with light—he waves no
staff nor hauls no sack of turquoise shards. Quick!

He’s about to make a break for it. He’s about to windlass
Into the clouds, that one’s fancy. The crocodile climbs
many painted ladders. No weighted, pretty purple halos
ringing the eyes of these wordy wraiths—embrace
not knowing your name. I struggle to pull down the old crucifix.