someone arrives at the left
and says Hello Nice Echo.
New clove oil keeps
a green cliff
rivery but how long
will the shininess survive? — ~ —
Long enough to try by itself
which is totally fine because
I would like to record
a feeling that isn’t there.
paint is just another kind of
In the play between constriction and
something is risked among the agate clothes;
we hear him talking through
the particles have come through uncritically but
really, it is Marx coming through like
spirits of the Baader-Meinhof who hanged themselves.
the air behind the paintings.
It was trying to do something
unsystematic with our angel till
there was nothing to keep except
I made my eyes pointy to look at air in
the strong vertical inside that sucks itself
down in the gesture of
a tear, then a miracle revealed a
with existence you can wait
till it says something then
say nothing. With the speed
inside set to your childhood
a fleck of grandfather’s barn comes through the nicely
so many more colors than the one
you’re obsessed with. The kir
of a candy c/zar we once knew—
was a rose buried in there too?
your hope for it is yes.
I put my head to the wall to see the gargoyle
from the back of the painting—it loves and chokes the painting—
but no use; details are spurs that hurt us
when we try to mount extra beauty. The artist
has proceeded with not one
twins which is why art historians sound stoned.
N sitting on the floor under #8 holding her bandage up
for here, we’re little divers
giving Oz value to hiding behind the curtain~
If you tilt your head sideways the
something. It does not tell you till the magic
probes. The air tripling and crippling,
D holds our hand as
we nearly skip the ladder up to air
that rises behind the east
where bombing is. Great bird perched in
the limb/o where contradiction kills time.
the war we watched a color
field with its line
emphatically drawn in a daily
our love had dreamed and faced
from a wide-wing chair;
what has never not
existed grows horizons
in it. Why bother trying to
trap it with description.
you’ll give up art. Why did you say that? Take it back.
The interesting length is always death
but paint and ink
resist no matter
stages of furious alarm are
the combed paint takes a line
from Hamlet—a point in fact
that hesitates. How strange to give up wanting. Life’s
action amazes you.