Have you ever heard of Piero Manzoni?

“I should like all artists to sell their fingerprints, or else stage competitions to see who can draw the longest line or sell their shit in tins. The fingerprint is the only sign of the personality that can be accepted: if collectors want something intimate, really personal to the artist, there’s the artist’s own shit, that is really his.” Piero Manzoni

Oh, honey… Who can deprive a word of its meaning? Do you claim the words when you arrange them? Do you borrow them? Lease them? Leash them? How do you own them, particularly?

Have you ever heard of Piero Manzoni?

You are a vector. That’s all. I am a vector, too. The second you say something is beautiful, or a poem, or art, it becomes that. It’s that simple. Anything else is violent colonialism. Stricture.

This is what post-modernism is about. And by post-modernism, I just mean a movement projected forever forward into space. Like a light never dying. Sure, you’ll stop perceiving it at some point, but your explication of your perception is just limiting the reality of that object. Those words ever only meant anything to you. What happens to them as they super-ball around the room is exactly as irrelevant and as cosmically important as the words (objectively) and you (also objectively.)

I poop on a plate and present it proudly as art, it’s art. I put your words in a grinder and call it a poem, it’s a poem. Nowadays, it’s all just a matter of will, marketing and polish. Meaning is expressed by how words relate to each other in the reader’s mind, not in the poet’s mind.

We’ve (I’ve) been doing this for years (times infinity) does the practice (product) gain meaning because it’s remembered? Remembered to what extent? To what ends? Because one can quote it? Because it has generational weight? Because it effects policy change? Because it puts one smile on one face for one fleeting moment? Because it locks one professor into her peach tenure track?

Ever wonder why Wittgenstein ended up designing doorknobs?

(I love you, btw, as a person who is interested in poetry. I’m not grumbling here, just twisting my own nipples to get a bit of magma flowing.)

Erotic Possibilities in a Dark Theater

Wikipedia Poem, No. 414

wiki414-sm

“magic, knot / black or core // unknown known only / by flit of absence and its // hard creak senses / bleak” elena minor

          there was no 
    down time 
in his hard eyes
  keep 
in mind 
      the 
darkness for shaded lively 
      space 
and what an interior 
where it is hard to prosecute
         if no complaint offers the possibility 
     for remaking both the dark 
ideal and safe 
shaded lively rows 

when frank mentions the 
  dark scraping over the connotations 
of a plaited new york city theater seat
         keep 
       in mind its erotic potential 

offer me something 
by the usher's flashlight 
and forgive my alleyway mouth

paculum-spec2-smSources:

  • Porter, Fairfield . Portrait of Larry Rivers. 1951, oil on canvas, Colby College Museum of Art Museum, Waterville, Maine.
  • Minor, Elena. Titulada. United States: Noemi Press, 2014. Print.

Wikipedia Poem, No. 261

wiki261

“No one easily / survives love; neither the love / one has, nor the love / one has not; they break down / in the red smoke blown up / of the day when all love will have gone on.” Galway Kinnell

 

        not desperate not desperate 
         not 
        desperate not desperate not desperate not 

desperate not desperate 
      not 
desperate 

not 
desperate 
not desperate 

    not 
desperate not desperate not 
desperate not desperate 

  not desperate not 
desperate not desperate not desperate not 
         desperate not desperate not desperate not 

desperate not desperate 
      not desperate not 
desperate not desperate not 

desperate not desperate 
      not 
desperate 

not desperate not desperate not desperate 
not 
desperate not desperate not 

         desperate not thirsty in the 
rolling fighting flat white house paint a well-used 
drop cloth

Wikipedia Poem, No. 221

wiki220

 

for Amelia

ivermectin oxygen therapy
injectable ketamine propofol
halothane isoflurane nitrous oxide

bupivacaine lidocaine epinephrine
atropine midazolam morphine
acetylsalicylic acid ibuprofen paracetamol

codeine morphine amitriptyline
cyclizine dexamethasone
diazepam docusate sodium

fluoxetine haloperidol hyoscine
butylbromide hyoscine hydrobromide
lactulose loperamide metoclopramide

midazolam ondansetron senna
dexamethasone epinephrine hydrocortisone
loratadine prednisolone activated charcoal

acetylcysteine atropine calcium gluconate
methylthioninium chloride methylene blue naloxone
penicillamine prussian blue sodium nitrite

sodium thiosulfate deferoxamine
dimercaprol fomepizole sodium calcium edetate
succimer carbamazepine diazepam lorazepam

magnesium sulfate phenobarbital
phenytoin valproic acid
ethosuximide albendazole

levamisole mebendazole niclosamide
praziquantel pyrantel albendazole
diethylcarbamazine ivermectin

“Hi, Joanna”

Stairway selfie like a god damned teenager. #transmillennial #help

A post shared by joseph m. gerace (@bogotahorrible) on

 

Hi, Joanna. How have you been?
I’m well. You look well — I’m
Happy to hear you use that word.
Good. Good. Well, anyway, I’m

Concerned about your voice.
No, specifically the way you recite.
It’s … troubling. You appear snakelike
And arrested, harmless. That’s not the way.

It’s not. I wouldn’t say “short of breath”
Exactly. Let’s call it, Forked-god. Please,
Calm down. I’m going to ask you
A couple of questions about your sexual history. Is that OK?

You switch back and forth between — please,
Correct me if I’m wrong — between
Subject and solitude. That’s to say:
Radical loneliness and decimation. Correct?

Masturbation may be part of it, but I’m speaking
Broadly about a timeline of sexual partners:
Moon-god, Ocean-sent, Stoic-antler. Relevant?
Of course. Its right here on your chart, Joanna:

“Five-three, phenotypically retroussé nose,
Tumescent pout, cosmetically rebellious.”

So, why this affected staccato when you read?

“The music is beautiful it takes me”

IMG_1653

The music is beautiful it takes me a long time to see that this is besides the point. József Lendvay is beautiful like the music masculine affirmative embracing what is sad although I do not know from stories told to me but the music speaks and I understand it. But he says it and I have heard it clearly. Then something undeniable happens as József commands the percussion the second and third violins the patient cellos stare at the black shoulder-length curls begging for some contact waiting for a sign or a nod of approval or a rebuke József walks away from his attention and checks in with the bass reluctant at first again this cannot be a mistake. The bass speaks confident plays confident the incomparable shadow of József who notices nods again. The orchestra swells rehearsed a thousand times a reckless bass bounces atop other instruments strings stinging the fret board hard leather soles delighted at the floor boards of the wedding of flames the bass is free never before. Never. Reverie reserved a shuffling now of the feet somber and the bass back into His shadow then His shadow He blots out. In this disappearing the most muscular His eyes emerge to lunch spit out bones evaporate eviscerate. He reappears totally beside the bass nods the bass inhales draws its shadow repeats fills himself in with shadow turbulent shadow bravado fragile bravado deadly bravado’d shadow recedes all swell embrace bigger than clearly music not an imitation now but a formless capital commanding József still dancing in the shadow smiles bows bravo.