I create images that are narrative, featuring visual schematics, relying on juxtaposition for contrast or disjuncture.
the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…
I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…
And then he feels that familiar sensation of drifting—when his body untethers from the material world and he soon dissolves into a fine, floating mist that evaporates into the atmosphere.
Darkness always follows.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
