I remember, you wore the pink
slip that drove me into the red.
Things seemed insurmountable, but
you were not inconsolable -- white
lies helped. Later, like this,
we were tickled pink.
Although, elsewhere, thousands died.

The helicopter blades / The end of the shore // No color names // A Great Lover can make love / Simply by casting a glance? // If the prints are documentation of the work, why are the editions numbered? / If the work is in the print, why can’t the landscape be destroyed with the flying camera? // A cast of thousands, a glance askance, a glacial chance, / What if? What if? What if?  // And a great pilot? // The end of art / Where the glance meets the plain.

"A great artist can make art by simply casting a glance" – Robert Smithson

Not by drawing a glance,
but casting.

Imagine the studio. What
Molten materials, what
Molds needed?

Who models, and will they
Recognize their eyes, or
Is it their object reified –

The signifier or the referent
Denoted in this indexical
Congealing.

Shy, illicit, bold, flirtations, imperial,
The variations and series of directed looks,
Is this the content, or is the captured casting

The direction -  just the path of pointing:
A laser beam, redone in spider web, then
done again as differentials of the air?

And what of the early work, the
Imperfections, who filed down the seams?
And would cracks in the mold shift

The glance askew, revealing
A pliers, a heater, a
Reader’s thought?

Analyze the syntax,
**** Eyes the Sin Tax
Battile vs Pattaki,
We are past talking, don’t bat an eye,
Pat verses.

Structure is our instructor
But it must be laid bare
Luxemburg and Liebknecht,
Not Corbu and piloti.
Our structures
Stand on stilts
Built on sand.

An abstract Parallax anagram:
Belvedere Preserved,
Living Gingivitis,
Monochord workbooks,
Tumulus Fungus.

Structure is build on structure
measured feet on how we eat
what we hear should leave no doubt
air, and time, are running out
if we would free words from their prison
we must first smash this capitalism.

Make it New! Renew! Remove the muck of ages!
This can not be done in stages
Everyone lives in a pretty now town
Where stairs go up as well as down
And warp, corkscrew, and bevel,
and lead us to another level.
“Lead?!” without a doubt,
but something else could lead you out!

To be ******:
Reading poetry
Eating bulger
Planting trees
Loving one another
And changing bulbs
Is not the way to stop
The  world from getting hot.

The need for exploitation
decides the limits of the law -
the structure’s built, and truth:
you can’t declaw a tiger claw by claw.

Since the banishment since
We lost the battle for apples
(appropriated from HIS tree)
Food comes first, then
Shelter,
Later love,
And poetry.

Before food there’s
drink, before
drink, breathing;
before surplus and
production, verse.  

Good bye, you’re getting worse...

I’m glad. Sea Ewe on the barricades of sequence the barracudas of non-sequiters the band-aids of sequins and glitter -- a dozen Molotov cocktails -- please!

Appropriation, making language strange,
eschewing polemics, being deranged,
fine for academics with tenured chairs of lead
and nothing clear left in their heads.

Structure is built on
on structure, and
can be re-built
on on sand.

I hear the wingèd chariot,
and must go organize
the proletariat.