Blue for the blood which is not blue, for the many, many,
Constitute its magnitude, compassing vortex. Maybe by writing
Relation to painting, to sculpture, I can make such matter materialize
Even as just giving canvas un-ameliorated self-conscious tries
Seems ridiculous: I want to paint what I want, not what I have to
Because I lack sufficient skill to dance through the medium’s declension.What I want for initiating spell may bring
Out necessary skill forth from me but what about next;
Painting and I are not a matter of now, rather protracted past fumbles present.
I am not Picasso, believing I paint, if not think, better than Velasquez.
There is a poet on the internet; his italic seed assassinates.
We should take him off, in order to get into
The spirits of fresher dangers. No, I should
Do this for me. The gun glows
Coolly, like the edge of a Blue
Time is an impossibility,
The painting, oily
Pigment priming poem.
I copied the “crudest scrollwork”
In intricately pounded platinum,
Then tried to figure out what color
Would do for the pinchhit for the platinum
For the canvas.
Economies determine the definition and ontology of what happens. This is not fully a matter of money.
The freedom so
This could be
Exactly less than
We’d have our
Stand in for platinum.
One of these days, when I’m established enough, I will enumerate my numerous poetic flaws, or tally the tributaries within a few key travesties. I overstate, but elegantly. The élan that’s pattern can trump afflicting someone’s episteme at its root: terrifying motile matrix, hamhued loam rocks like ears of bats bump out of.
Let me celebrate my lack of means,
Body sun can’t help but
Cast silver, elver
Noon, especially at midnight,
Never fails to
Economies, no triage unless one
Counts the most kinetic braiding,
Confers election on
This counterintuitive construction.
I doubt any of these ratchets will get re-sewn into my canzone. I hope some will. I am such a fan of modification. Tension is when there is no revision. Sense is not always sound, which is a truism and rusty nor freshened by me, but where this “plank in reason, broke,” strokes my ego, crawls its sirocco thorax around my right eye, then, via the terrifyingly tender space between and scalding bridge, my left. Naturally, I close them. Naturally, I can still see enough to be all panic.
I wish I’ve got the nerve to sincerely pursue bullshit. This state would make me making visual art tenable, sustainable, even as entering such a baseline seems unattainable, that which I can think but not imagine, imagine but not touch.
I am in the market looking for
A venue to market my works;
I am so caught up in the market;
I am going hungry in it; I am
Pursuing it like calories, licking,
Licking, as if in prayer there’s
Bone and, more so, marrow.
How could I tell you
Right in front
Of my eyes there are
Patterns bubbling from
The drag on
Are abundant other
Put this; let’s
Hyperventilated embroidering. I can almost imagine painting in pursuit of a part of an installation-piece which is not strictly painting, not properly so, but there is still an electric scrim keeping me from contact. I write to paint, and pant my preparation slow.
I am preparing for bastardization. I am in favor, assuming consent, which is constantly difficult crucial discernment, of what, the phenomena, the dynamics, the terrible word miscegenation signals. I am comfortable with my homely flings into the worlds of writing. I feel entitled to play language’s games. I feel survivable.
I to the I as it loves a good prunes. Backs are for pats. Where’s yours. If the question’s not clearly, don’t mark it. Persons play musical positionings. What was I supposed to do except say we were moved.
A kind of clouding, clearing where why limpidly lies. I want this document to be twenty pages again. I want these pages to be as good as when there’s no doctor around and none’s majorly the matter but assurance helps. I want hems hemorrhaging lines. I do not want the world to do what I write unless I’ve nothing to do but be incidental. Ethics are important. They are gnarly; they enlarge one’s visages the way thunder perfect surf does.
It was a major interruption, not what can ever be subsumed into seduction.
The way to navigate the matrix is this: adroitly manipulate, matriculate, “perfect gibberish.”
Better than ever is never. Bling should be recognized by Microsoft Works. Vuitton is not either so at-least there’s not duh classism which, too, is born with a red line by the time every letter‘s been breached.
I do not
Know who you
Who are you.
You tell me
I would like
The mode Scalapino
The way schwas
Echoing only they’re so
Many purlings out.
“Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio”
Cannot, now, be, other than a rhetorical question if it’s being contemporaneously asked, not the performance of a masque, mascara on yet more presence.
My sampling is so wide within its narrowness; freedom is qualified.
Lateral diatomite, depending, profile without predicate.
Did this do to me. Where would ever. Everyplace, obviously.
I smashed up crackers. Rice powder dusted stanchions.
There is no way to predict when this will satisfy. There is only
Easing into satisfaction. Satisfaction gets this. This boredom
Gets why it’s necessary to groove in. Love profiles preterit.
I am not fit to be critic but am better than couture for critiquing his theories, his gags he takes seriously while all sorts of slow fatal choking’s go ignored, or mentioned that they be mocked, turned knicknack not resonant chamber for contrafining faith’s fact.
I made it out; what is it; what is it not; it is the predicate; it is the knot; it is the braid at which reality frays and makes sight legible.
Who cares about reality, it’s the realness of the ethics matter more when necessity makes that narration tenable.
Slow, through, one, and to, but where, plus under, screwy, lovelorn, bubble reflects a horn, cold heat, contrary, capitulates capitol, aptitude, aphasia in an afternoon, followed by silica, flecks from a river used to run through here, Sandra, Seamus, images like action, sights zoning in on sounds, resonant rescues, grounds, missions, saints for satisfaction, self for living through leaves, loopy critters, glittering chitters, chirrs honchoing Cheshire, chemical intuition, intellect and its legislation, barb, carbonate wind carves, chthonic tamping when, when worlds rely on words for their import, opportunity knocks, jimmies gasoline from an obscene amount of Duran Duran arcana gets this car I wouldn’t mind being in all the way to Vegas.
My poems are far more dependent on painting, its existence, than painting, the discipline, is my poem. Well of course, my poem is the object, and the subject surely would object to its take on paintings matter, or perhaps grin agreement if it was witnessed that I’ve stated I am extremely aware what I don’t know how to do. I could slowly, slowly, step by slow step, learn to harness minimums, deploy them in bright activity. I wish, though, if I try painting, to wallow in I am so amateur, not even applying for my membership to Primitive. This wish, as practice, feels, cognitively rolls, through me as unacceptable. Or am I only cheap and lazy, unwilling to procure canvas and paint, brushes and a palate, that I may start an installation.
In my hands, words can do what paint can’t; with a pat that is no speech I can give the sapping circulation hue, which dew can then dispel if this be a proper epoch, glitter-dirt- and-there-goes-the-skirt five exits west of Peoria.
Eggs are important, even if they’re not always a big deal. There are eggs in the river. No one gives a shit about the river, and gives the river so much shit.