On manic brush,
the paint, the paint!
And then on grain and filament—
the sweaty arms, frenetic to create—
a stroke, a stroke, a stroke, a stroke!
Backing, backing
and the endless rush—
cover, cover, cover all!
Mania to fill the minutes,
labor’s pains to fill the hours,
the job thus smaller
and smaller again—
alabaster creeping thus—
into the cracks, the veins, the knots—
across the wooden universe!
Across every surface of the room—
a stroke, a stroke, a stroke, a stroke!
To what shocking end
has this sleight of fate
been conjured up here yet again—
feet caught at angles now acute,
and back against the dampened wall—
each drop a means, a craven tool
to cover every surface save—
the corner—
the corner!
Catastrophic, bare!
Its laughing amoral in the creeping dusk!
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§ As you get older, the ghosts become more real than anything else.
§ Under the leaves, soil. Under the soil, stone. Under the stone, souls.
§ Radically empowering individuals in society may be the worst mistake we ever made.
§ Want to be a radical? Refuse to suffer. Then, wait for the assault.
§ Goodbye 2017, part two. (The real part.)
§ Sometimes you find home where you’ve never been—and you dwell where you aren’t.
§ The self can’t play Atlas for postmodernity because science is now supernatural.
§ Rehab is universal. So is history.
§ Identity, transcendence, and tactics.
§ Untitled. (a.k.a. Pretty faces, new old photos.)