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.












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.





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.












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,



is the original?”





(and a few



with their sharp

rocket-fin leaves.)





You, husk-light,



with these

hollow bones,


this fly-away hair,


are you ready

for a new season?


If it’s just this:

nutmeg flavored latte,












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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