“She was territory and words occupied her.” — Jeanette Winterson
photographer: Gary Ross Pastrana
Contrived as a self-portrait
& captured in landscape mode,
diamonds rest at her throat.
Lips split wide enough to connect
in rapture of majestic glare.
Caged, he filled negative space.
To steal a line:
the crowd’s a rapacious beast
Starlings sang from burnt trees —
songs misinterpreted as warnings.
Ecstasy migrates inward.
Cities bend to western light
when a sun rises full & tender.
In ascension, fireworks sound blue.
line from Silkworm. “Tarnished Angel,” Firewater (1996)
Tell me, what’s the joy of giving if you’re never pleased?
— Blood Orange, Champagne Coast
Georgia O’Keeffe, Blue-03, 1916, watercolor on paper
the sun rises at eastern edges
yellowing twilight blues
when there is nothing
if there were Christmas stockings
we always had an orange
such persistence can feel joyful
when there is no other choice
And it’s sad
And it’s true
Oh My Heart
Here December 31, 2015
waves mimic earth’s rise and fall
a frequency known as home
hills slope at similar angles
nearly invisible expressions
fog settles thick as love
a passive reflection
place contours memories
the body an unreliable narrator
We’ll let you guys prophesy
We gon’ see the future first
— Frank Ocean, Nikes
artist: Maurizio Cattelan
our houses red-tagged fragile
a state of taking up too much space
an absurd strangled feeling
broken into atomic structures
we forget the stars survive above
business owned is personal
witness morning’s stillness
how the days pull forward
swallowing quiet movement
I’m here in a room and I have things arranged.
I have them likened to code, so they can often be changed. — Karate, Bass Sounds
Barbara Kruger (detail) LA2015
I haven’t found the perfect way to describe you
sincerely shouting victories is something else entirely
the sun rose bland and round
that space between sky and water
absorbed all this energy
such openness feels chosen
I taste frustration on your breath
advancing in spirit and stature
aggression is its own logic
he hit you for the same reasons
he hit us: for your own good
a model of volatile benevolence
in political frameworks, the body does betray
waking up becomes a compulsion
reengineering you get what you ask for
I send this postscript as an invitation
I want to put you in a light that will hurt your eyes – Polvo,
Feather of Forgiveness
He said he was going to take a walk around the block to clear his mind. Stretch his legs.
Escape. He never came back. A map of states’s preferences for corn or potato chips forever frozen on his desktop screen.
Battle for references, a retirement to the absence of —
On Wednesday, I was reminded artists should “support each other religiously.” This community-level policy is seductive, whose root is “to lead astray.” Oceans of context transfer nervous energy. Is thinking out loud unprofessional?
Partisan frames explain our borders, infilled voids.
It’s come down to semiotic analysis of utterances. This weekly cathartic release looping endlessly to create a low frequency hiss. A similar process to the way valleys take the weight, form, and shape of foggy mornings or as secure as refuge.