carissima82

denim drips down his legs  pools around his feet  soon we're all swimming in this holely cup of jean,  but he just wades down the street  (a concrete bottom-feeder.) sea weeds writhe within cracks  running up the crests of skyscrapers  that crash foamy and discrete  caressing the feet of a human beach  laid out to sun in February,  umbrella bridge holds off penetrating atmosphere. sirens clear salty soprano notes choke  a drowner who once would float,  she feels the tug of the real at her throat  as the blue tempest broke  our dungaree Atlantis, sunk lower  than we fathomed, denim mermaids of a fashion, denim d

a hallway built from centuries of flesh, the untranscendent stuff that we might eat or fear, generational food for many more than the most brilliantly acclaimed despots. a hall for walking down without legs.                but what do i remember from before; a hospital room in the white it ought to have been but without instruments or the synthetic clack of machines pumping fluid life, two dead men who were not(in the simplest terms), who stood up to excrete their last in an explosive off-yellowish deluge that ran after my feet. i left, waiting, with others, seemingly young but knowing more than me with a history of men they car

This text is a sort of profile on the artist Grier Blumenschine. In compiling the content I searched for a form that would somehow relate (not reflect) the paintings and personality of the painter. The italics are written statements by the artist and the rest derived from various multimedia(s) and conversation. Paint (ing) -Sometimes Grier paints it then sees it. Other times he sees it then paints it, he prefers neither. -Upon beginning a work, Grier seeks to inhabit or re-contextualize utter emptiness. communication outside of contextual constraints- paranoid of reference, in this way a language decipherable by only universal means of c

I am just one of the many subjects you will never write about. Mine is just another life your sentences will judge too innocent to serve Your rhymes will not waste time reasoning with me Your verse will walk free without my testimony and I will join the mob bearing inexpert witness to the emperor's new poem A poem that is as ugly as siamese twins and as incestuous and fecund as my Irish cousins - botched and ill-conceived as a foetus cooked from cow and Christian and I stand with the crowds in my muttering mask as merry as mutton straining to catch the airy recitation of the emperor's new poem

- I. [Any human who is dutiful toward the dogmas of contemporary prosperity knows nothing absolute about survival, and thus shall be driven toward his or her solitary breed of madness so long as survival is allowed under this convention.] The irony is tragic: six billion "citizens" pasted to a warm sphere and whirling; swirling straight for the sun. II. [a. Language has suffered from our inability to understand that reality is a chemically formulated and delusional sequence of events. Reality for us is merely a concentration of perception and only exists so long as we are a part of that reality, which we, singularly, create of our o

- for months i have kept women alive. they are razadyne, detrol, singulair, baby wipes and gowns:    be so older    that her covering    go cowhide,    so dead-eyed    she sleeps as    near me now    as we allow:    them skeletons    that stand    sometimes shed and    not only skin. they are mupirocin, cartia, namenda, pitted skin and hospice:  so be my patience  a sinner's sanctity,  and have my heart    a loser's gun. -