Saturday, November 24, 2012

Hood life.

I will take and retake a photo of myself in the mirror with my face at different angles. I tilt my head toward you, my viewers,
and you see the real me.

The canines.

My choice is that I open the door or I remain inside, unhurt.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

A Rebours

Bury the exposed beams. Cover them in what may be, plaster or paint. The natural is not essentially beatiful and it is not to be exalted, but pitied. Clad in fabric or beaten metal. Show the artifice of the thing by hiding it, piling in unnecessary but beautiful drag. The objects deserve our sense of modesty and transformation too. Illuminate them softly, or hide them so that no one may notice. Or if anything, paint every fifth or sixth in a way that brings them all in high, dusting and splintered, relief. This may be an impossible task.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Assassination (Poor Isadora Duncan)

I have always been enthralled with the idea--or myth-- of murder by small appliance. One could suddenly cast a hair dryer into a full and occupied bathtub. The murder victim must be someone with whom you are intimate. [The vulnerability and the horror of the shower scene in Psycho!] Could this ever be premeditated or is it always a spontaneous act? Why not choose a gun for something so immediate, or poison, for such a betrayal? What action to take if death does not occur? Scramble for the toilet tank lid? I feel that this has led me to a certain mistrust of home appliances. Who can hold a hair dryer without a bathmat under their feet and feel secure? Every trusted object could turn on us. Every person harbors potential to harm. Philip K. Dick knew.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Why Syndney! How Grown!

Why Syndney! How Grown!

Rush into smoke and
where are the feet and growing?
The body’s contained at the shoulders—
they turn like they do.
Little child sparking at the mouth.
No one noticing, all his guts
spitting flash things out.

Here is brown spot. London
burning up: prop a ladder at.
I’m very wondering. What.
That is one point.
I call it spirit.
Your mouth-spittle, good drip.

There are long waits and songs. Don’t
use French. It is called alarm.
We been chased— this spit at the moat
and we put formats on. Fat is
if we put on chansons, sounds—
I cannot deny good wonder.
O could I say a word against!
Not on it with what it was.
Soot; soot and pitch.
What part of you would wish to grow that way?
You groom you such good wish gone south.