SURPLUS 

 

 

 

I sat on the patio and wrote

 

Each afternoon I would sit on the patio where one waggish, unmoored

tendril nodded emphatically and the tree cast a web of nervous yet

resilient shadows, while the crickets had no idea what they were

insisting on —

 

 but then what’s an idea?

 

I might visualize living sculpture (in which subjectivity, unable

to either detach itself from the body or direct it, had a public

experience of itself as surplus) without wishing to harm anyone.

 

In fact, I did.

 

 

 

 

 

ASSEMBLY

 

 

 

    1

 

With large red lips,

a ceramic fish face,

in a pink knit pouch

from which spine-like

sticks protrude,

is suspended

above the work station.

 

 

      2

 

Though ghosts don’t exist,

electrons on the mirror’s surface

absorb arriving photons and,

in their excitement,

emit others that

come back your way,

replicate a woman.

 

 

 

 

 

IF

 

 

 

    1

 

One cultivates 

a garden of peculiars

 

“beyond reproach” 

 

a plant like a half

folded accordion,

 

a plant like a pale 

rock, split in two

 

as if to ask,

“Where

 

is the original?”

 

 

    2

 

(and a few

self-starters

 

with their sharp

rocket-fin leaves.)

 

 

    3

 

You, husk-light,

forgetful,

 

with these

hollow bones,

 

this fly-away hair,

 

are you ready

for a new season?

 

If it’s just this:

nutmeg flavored latte,

 

“pumpkin”

 

 

 

 

 

           VOICES

 

 

 

You’re boring, people.

 

America doesn’t want

to watch you sleep.

 

America doesn’t want to hear you

think about tacos.

 

 

     *

 

Men in uniforms

are clubbing onlookers.

 

I’ve been informed

this is all for show.

 

These are not real

audience members.

 
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