Electric bedroom
New witch
Add wall next to track
Wedge or arc
Change entry
Too damaged by
Change
We want to keep them at 8 foot height
Close
Metal doors
No change to living hard pain
Change vanity
Apart (we may do this ourselves)
No change to pain
“Take an object / Do something to it / Do something else to it. [Repeat.]”
— Jasper Johns / 1964 note to himself in his sketchbook
(press play above to watch the short film)
“A slit of light torn in the cliff is just enough to remind me There is only despair in the world we create.”
— Terry Tempest Williams / Erosion: Essays of Undoing
(press play above for short film)
terracotta facades
work that ignores your native intelligence
the need for redemption grows
a state prison for women on one side
a jail for men nearing release on the other
a wistful thought
a desolate corner
“Don’t force an eggplant to be happy if it looks jaded instead.”
— Sarah Urist Green / You Are an Artist
“If the desire to write is not accompanied by actual writing, then the desire must be not to write.”
— Hugh Prather
“All souls come here to rub the sharp edges off each other. This isn’t suffering. It’s erosion.”
— Chuck Palahniuk / Haunted: A Novel
“All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try to put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs. All writers are pigs. Especially writers today.”
— Antonin Artaud / The Nerve Meter
“You can make a collage on a postcard and write a poem about it.”
— John Ashberry
When ironing I do most of my day’s work. I imagine I hit people with all my force—my shirts double for the people I really dislike. You text me that I have to hit the people in the groin. I text: I’m afraid they may become compulsive buyers, steal from neighbors or rummage in their garbage, maybe even shoplift at stores.
(You see, I was a rough child wearing a panda hat or a mohawk on alternate days. The painting that I stared at so much, on our bathroom wall, in my wet nudity stared back at me—purple and humid—with vampiric eyes. I was marked in myriad ways.)
My sloth is crippling. I consider a word and an image of equal weight—like weak tea and a pipe of tobacco. What I really need are heirloom glass ornaments made into piles of colored glass shards spread deep about the living room shag—and multiple band aids. I iron and stop after 14 minutes, as per CDC recommendation. And anyway, it was a lime.
“I am, on and off, an Anthropophobe. I’m afraid of people, as I am of rats and mosquitoes, afraid of the nuisance and the harm of which they are untiring agents.”
— Guido Morselli / Dissipatio H.G.
James is believed to be buried in increasingly popular places. Find him near the barnacles, spider crabs, cockles, razor clams, and a mix of slim goat and sheep. He was compared to most 77-year-old women in America today. He mixed up three paints at a time for a new life in the desert. He walked around your kitchen table or held a piece of leftover fish. He was concerned about being stabilized. He made a delicious appetizer, snack or condiment. He waited in ambush to bring back his inopportune moments. His haplogroup contains the Plover modal lineage—that benighted state of medical practice in medieval Jaberwock. He had to get past the natural Puritanism that he was socialized into by his grandmother teaspoon (onion powder, optional). A plurality of independent and unmerged voices resided within him. He will be missed.
“The world has never been so alive as it is since a certain breed of bipeds disappeared. It has never been so clean, so sparkling, so good-humored.”
— Guido Morselli / Dissipatio H.G.
She is clearly not amused. Events have gone awry. It is her score (to settle) now—it is placid and peat-boggy notional—certainly “doable.” She will take back her river of grass. The dissonance is too much to bear. The timbre is in the blue spectrum according to her synesthetic nerve pincers. The shadings smell of coronal shadows. The sky will turn white. Each pitch shift has a half-life of citrus suffused with cadaver. She tilts her ear to the sun—it is all hers for the taking. She tips her right index finger, points it up at the void, and begins.
“Don’t trust the American fiction, fathers who are not there don’t miss anyone.”
— Noémi Lefebvre / Poetics of Work
thee istsfor manity reader 