Louise Bourgeois “KONNA/FEMME” at the National Gallery of Iceland, Reykjavik
with verve of potent blight
freckled carpals scatter streetlight
in rubber pedals, not flowers.
wear my ring on the finger that hurts!
rainy days: we run on turf
with onyx eyes.
Gerhard Richter’s Overpainted Photographs make me feel a lot of things (even if he’s got way too many €s).
image selections from my forthcoming chapbook, mossy bygones
(all about how much i luv fla and maybe how cataloguing it will boost my emigration)
also seen over here
belated reflections from iceland
scans from an my altered book, The Pudding Sampler (2010)
devil’s tower & golden arches
prints from my college-years series see america (disappear) 2011
Toyz R Us
I need to vomit on all those stacked frames
and stare at thickened nails
in fear of their rhombic vacuum
( like this: … .. .. .…. . ),
but I only see in-between
where foam is fading
to reveal dirt the color of my carpet.
paint nailed to concrete,
paint nailed to paint nailed to concrete
nailed to canvas,
nailed to my eye balls,
nailed to concrete.
oh, to block out your face with the frill from my fucking fashion boots
and to feel the bubbling hunger
for examination of my reflection
(or what I’ve painted there).
crush me on your last drag.
I’ll pick my nose while you tell me everything
and miss the moment I wake
from screaming from the couch from my forehead.
I don’t know what your tattoos mean, man!
ashes mixing with sand
that somewhere holds fossils
of peg-legged adventures
and midnight marches
ending in motels
that change names as often as they are cleaned-
buried until my eyes cry
twenty years of lunations.
criticism and confidence
letting the scum accumulate—
is it suicide to slip?
a lamb grins through one hat stitch
and petals blanket aimless love
while grandma lounges on her striped sweater
caressing a spiteful code.
Grandma with the Red Hair veiled the settled smoke from cigarettes of thirty years, though thinly and never for her own satisfaction. Gummy orange-scented fresheners forgot homographics, and security chimes strictly measured outgoing air.
It was always the afternoon. Sheets printed with bamboo stalks guarded the unapproachable west-wing where a desktop computer awaited its death by sledgehammer and spade bit—staring, in the meanwhile, at a patient treadmill and a poster of true love on horseback. East along the bamboo covered walls, past the door marked “Dick”, my room and my father’s, and where the ceramic cats garnished with glitter curled in wicker baskets, the splayed plastic cup painted in strips welcomed reflections traveling from window to mirrored wall and back again through swinging ferns and pastel ladies. In the smoky corner, we gave no thought to the cabinet dressed with glassware—all but the faceted cooler cups for bedtime Ovaltine in towel turbans coated in sober years.
Mystery hung around the garden bench that reigned over the only area resistant to her rake. It was a place for memories. I was immune to the past and Grandma excelled at impressing me in her elastic shorts. There was nothing that her varicose veins did not charm with apparent wisdom and complexity.
I loved her garbage cans and when her softly speckled arm dipped into the pool filter within porch-view. Lizards huddled in the yew, waiting only to be caught by chlorine in their daily splash rations in between my cannon balls and in between my milk jugs. “Go Fish” with Rose, whose roof fell in, filled some of the extended golden hours filtered through the tinted vinyl, coloring carpet and air alike as words crisscrossed without any need for the grey eraser cap.
Open the VHS cabinet. Let me alone behind the closed door with the red wire coach and then I’ll blush at Public Affairs on the guide before swiveling the mammoth below Chinese fans and cage myself under the wicker chaise. Only you are light enough to lie or sage enough to sit reflective upon the wall of peacock chairs and guard the pocket door with the little lever that flapped from my finger over and over.