#museums
In the war museum
a small speaker explains tragedy
in six available languages
Children run past burned uniforms
toward the gift shop
honestly
correct instinct
History is exhausting
even the tanks look tired
A man beside me
photographs a helmet
with professional sadness
Nearby
a teenager eats gummy bears
under footage of collapsing buildings
which feels terrible
and also strangely accurate
Somewhere inside the building
recorded bombing sounds loop forever
the twentieth century already did
excellent marketing
Outside
tourists smoke beside the river
The city glows softly
like nothing has ever happened
which, historically,
is how cities survive
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
I’m scared that I have nothing left to speak of.
All my poems pour art of misery.
Making statues of our grief.
Filling the museum of my life’s ruins.
They tell me to smile it will make me more pretty like the art on the wall.
So, I paint love I never seen.
Polishing myself to be left on the shelf.
The art sees more truth than I.
Being loved for what is something I don’t know of.
Crossed legged, fingers intertwined.
Praying was a virtue I could only dream of.
I just needed to plead with someone other than myself.
Knees marry the ground as I have with my loss.
Who am I passed this pain?
Begging for an identity even if its not my own.
Ask yourself who is the lead character without their role?
Is there a story even to tell?
So, I reflect everything that is shown to me.
The art and I are only a muse.
A showcase of words that cannot be spoke.
An example of what could be.
A life in the mirror of what should be.
My art on the wall is painted with misery & so am I.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 2:06 PM UTC
you tiptoe around them
as though they are museums
paintbrush in hand to dust their
egos
veil in hand to clothe their
insecurities
but tell me,
how do the exhibitionists serve you?
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 3:07 PM UTC
We are all museums
of anger and discontent
and we feel obligated to
show our artworks
to the world.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 7:12 PM UTC
Here is to the wreckage we are.
The strength of war running through our veins,
Bruises that burn our insides,
The hollowness of our right chest cavity,
The hurt in our eyes,
The loneliness,
Let me make museums of it all
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Mumok Museum
What am I doing in Vienna,
staring at art as the world burns,
in city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that seem rather uninspiring,
where’s the inspiration gone,
why does everything seem so tiring,
it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
the system’s short circuiting and could do with some rewiring.
Why does every rags to riches story I know,
end in an overpriced designer outfit all alone?
Why is Consumerism followed like a religion,
we don’t worship Jesus we worship Visa,
good credit better than good morals,
we don’t praise Muhammed in a daze with TV Dramas,
no Buddha just computers no real friends just PayPals,
and maybe that’s why we’d rather be blind than see,
maybe that’s why we hide in museums behind sunglasses,
but would you rather have expense tastes than be free,
because when you’re behind any type of four walls you’re trapped,
where in a Federal Pen with Madoff or a Penthouse with Paris in Paris,
either way we’re victims of our own restrictions trying to buy some more time to be,
but we’re running out of credit the banks are collapsing the recession is relapsing,
so why even try to by when we know not so secretly that only Love will truly set us free,
see,
the best things in life still are free,
and yeah liberation is expensive and self renovations are extensive,
but freedom is priceless,
and it seems that the Love Pyramid is the only pyramid that’s not a ponzi scheme,
because we are all equal even if we’re not all treated equally,
that’s why some have no clothes while others wear designer denim jeans,
but these Diesels are too tight on my thighs and this macabre carnival has no prize,
and I can do anything I want with my life but sometimes all I want to do is breather,
breathe,
breathe because this lifestyle is expensive,
but freedom is priceless,
even though they market it and try to price it,
I just,
want to find a place to relax and release,
all of this,
fck their politics,
fck their programs fck their projects,
fck their agendas dressed in artificial splendor,
fck their treating human beings as objects,
fck their consumerism culture of capitalists,
I just,
don’t know what else to say,
I don’t know why I’m at this museum in Vienna,
hiding on the top floor on a Sunday,
on the 5th floor I just want to give more,
just want to gift these words then make my escape,
just want to be alone,
but also want these words to be known,
but where do you go when you’re tired and over it all,
and you just want to rest but don’t have nor ever had a home,
hello,
could you please pick up the phone,
I’m calling because I still love you,
and I want to come back even though I’m already gone,
on the top floor of the Mumok museum in Vienna,
on the 5th floor to be exact,
and yeah it’s true that I don’t know where I’m going,
but what I do know is I don’t think I’m coming back,
online and off track,
writing more words that rhyme,
then any other living writer,
and that is an actual fact,
and yeah that’s a fact,
but I’m going to follow that with a question,
before I forget,
let me just ask what I am doing in Vienna,
what am I doing in Vienna,
staring at art as the world burns,
in city I never wanted to go to,
doing things that seem rather uninspiring,
where’s the inspiration gone,
why does everything seem so tiring,
it seems we’re on the verge of a collective mental breakdown,
the system’s short circuiting and could do with some rewiring.
Why does every rags to riches story I know,
end in an overpriced designer outfit all alone?
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 7:14 PM UTC
The museum feels like heaven, feels like I could walk into the corner Pollack and the indiscriminate Monet, but there’s the characterization of Thomas Kane and you hate Mondays security guard.
The man with a beard followed me all the way from the Impressionist room to the modern films and when he finally made me lift my eyes from the canvas, his were turquoise and shook me awake.
I kept running up the stairs because I finally found out where they keep the hidden garden with the spiraled copper fountain and I laughed when I found my reflection in the Italian enamel.
You fell asleep with your head on my knees.
The weight of your skull was alarmingly heavy, so I played with your hair until you woke up. The moment of recognition on your face was so human I wanted to cry.
You scrunch up your eyebrows and touch your glasses trying to remember and a tiny echo of a perfect smile plays on your lips. You kiss me exactly and hum along.
You carried a contraband white umbrella into the gallery so we hid it under a desk. Your helmet was still blank so I gave you some concept art. Your languid loss of service as a multitude of goodbyes allow me to kiss your forehead right as your thoughts hit the pillow.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I understand why you tuck me into a warmer blanket before you leave for work in the morning with your heavy boots and your thermos and let me sleep while you shower and kiss me awake for breakfast with a cup of coffee in hand.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC