Sitting on the Bus (Ellsworth Kelly)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 941

movement within the frame movement
within the rods and cones? what a kind
blue green red morning to magnolia and fresh cut
peripheral systems a place to sit a place to second
guess time aches backward thicket synaptic cleft
slow pink throb of traffic stalled movement
within the chittering frame of traffic
within the blue green red morning man entertaining still

extra edges slumber breaker
today everyone cones and rods time
what a patient thicket synaptic pink throb
of traffic stalled bus within
the frame of movement of traffic stalled

entered
the question
lines and points? what kind of
camouflage causes
the eye to magnolia?
what a kind man. did
ellsworth kelly want to magnolia
and fresh cut
the peripheral systems in this place
to see the other man the blue green red man
jersey cut & hungry grass
seventy degree slide backward the frame
traffics in movement within the frame
the kind man the frame neuters
bus movement stalled by rays
and fresh aches return sharply through one frayed speaker

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The Netherlands


Bees abandon
the hive, the hive
children starve.

I’m sorry mother I can’t afford
the full-page advertisement
in Artforum next month.

I know I promised god help us
become the intentional animals
we were prophesied to become.

We Stayed in Damien Hirst’s Trashy Vegas Suite So You’ll Never Have To

Wikipedia Poem, No. 917

repetition of natural objects
through cantilevered strips of private change
and salt religion
drawn to demon serials
it’s like all people are afraid of nature

object not a thorough repetition
it’s like a feather or a penthouse
the world reinvents the word then image

nesting palms
prepare branches
of sin

i’ve always been drawn to relaxation
it’s like empathy in motion
so you create description
who’s driving?

slow motion described by real work
casino salt lick religious relaxation of nature
object of repetition
who’s driving? private description

it’s like a feather a penthouse
luck appears as a 60-foot-tall demon
its cantilevered private breath
describing change charge and nature

this life is not theater
though maybe the next

World Harvest

Wikipedia Poem, No. 907

compliant cosmos: i peel your offer from my body—molted down
melted down—bracelet-thing heras through the suburbs i say i
had some in my mouth—

weekend speech, strips of resin of mfa of repellant, delicate plot of us.

my diamonds prayer the grey splash across rampart of fire
hope blood redoubling about acceptance it is deep
et adhuc sub iudice lis est he days up in the defensive present

someone
our works of fire reach for moss
with slim time god’s lefthand plausibility
reaches afore to better days

up from much anymore to trim the offer back

gringo interventions & coups d’etats

Wikipedia Poem, No. 895

the picturewomen that brought the fair says the flare of mysterious sun nests in blood. the same age i waited for you in the girls we could break into goodness. like as in loved. asleep. you die. no sun in roots and whiskey and seems fair though therfucking the place up, tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i dream of spider blood. like love, with its finger on the bar, i dream of you at scale, just a kid, really, laughing in place. tangled in a ghost—hieroglyphics i come to understand the girls we made you soak in barnight. i come to nests of you instead. i say lookout with its clear finger. what’s new? drugs wet with clear-air always sitting in nests of mysterious spiderstands they’re sitting out fucking you with stars. nest of mysterious sun. the girls we loved. asleep. you instead say, stay, i look for you, you, you in rootblood. the fair thought-fish, painted-ghost—hieroglyphic dream of mysterious sun in rootblood. the fucking on and ever clutch a dream like love ever asleep. you in roots and nest of sun in roots and place, tangled-in, but older. the same eventualities, laughing off of my fucking stars. i come to the coast, no one’s i light say, i drown in roots and instead, instead, instead. i stood lookout with tears. i come to understand blood. loved. asleep. you instead. i theater the barstool look for you where no sun in the blue-black sea they’re impossibly large spiders. i say, i dream of a mysterious man in a good mood. through the nests of wet fingers clutch the bar rag covers neon clutch at midnight, i look for yourself. good. the blue-black thigh, terror fingers the bible like a ghost—hieroglyphic dreams of tears’ stars. nests of example; eventually the fucking stars. the ripping of an abandoned highway, i dream of oscillating black preserved in some anonymous monkey’s heart, drown in neon; came on eventually, flicked really, laugh—they’re just stars on a path. flare of mysterious roots now love asleep—you, subsumed by coast.


Source: Kennedy, Christopher. “I Called Shotgun When You Died.” NY Tyrant, Tyrant Books, 11 Jan. 2019, magazine.nytyrant.com/called-shotgun-christopher-kennedy/.

Image

Artifacts of Reference, No. 9

managua-sm

Image

Artifacts of Reference, No. 7

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Bayway Refinery

Wikipedia Poem, No. 815

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The blood red light slick on my sky binds skin to skull. I’m not the man you think I am who connects to violence, belching, where sky blinds to understand what I condemn in me. What I connect to skin, to violence, I loved first on the internet. I can’t have known New Jersey before I owned this wretched skull. I’m not the one who connects to violets. Where? There: Where mandible connects to skull. I’m not one for drama. I have no loudness, no spark. I have no loudness for drama. I have no profit for dreams. I am no lout, no prophet. I have sugar sparks for teeth. I split the atom.

A Raspy, Screeching Hiss.

Wikipedia Poem, No. 814

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A piece the size of me. We float downstream’s surge. Suddenly to steep, rocky shore and up under the boat down the stream’s surface began. The hotel has provided a nice razor set. I see how far down a submarine. The pain: the trip was small, not powerful, contained in more capsizing. The weather side of me. We float felt unsure recollection, sand yawed, before capsizing. The stream at the purpose of me. Inexplicably the window, the stream’s surge. Suddenly my home barbwire. My hairline. It pitches, reaching out for plant stalk to tolerate the stream. The water. Dazed. Suddenly normalized.

Ulee (After Visiting Dublin)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 804

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cumulus stalk
        dancing motes of grasshalms 
greek lemonade 
lonely kalamos 
reed whistle 
        of manchester or trinity

yet to have been made whole 
        somehow by countries
which had relapsed 
into appreciation those countries
halming the nasty english vocalature  

grass thatchwacked up and 
into the ol' english nose — achoo! such wind! — 
        which had like a holy cat o' whip 
        roughly experienced 
        that vampiric futurism 
least appreciated by the latin culmus, stalk great 
merely insofar as its industrial revolutionaries 
        plume up and out and into and over the city hollows
        wholly contained therein as a bauble
        for those who lash mercy's baetylus — speech 

your city 
        the wretched witch 
for other tongues of other men;
veteris ex nova
veteris veteris 
        veteris