Paperbag is an online literary arts journal produced semi-annually.
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Psychoanalysis Over the Phone [a biography]

Somatosensory System

We do not understand
others until we feel their skin.
I touch lingonberry jam
in your stead. I touch you
after lingonberry jam. Sweet film
between our skins; we are safe
from each other, but not
lingonberry jam, nor the bees that follow.

                                        one nine eight seven oh four oh three my conception
of the world is slow and a lot like drowning. I wanted to be a general. I wanted to
wage the kind of war that would leave everyone speechless because by the end
of it nobody would have tongues. I was born a woman one day and then found
thorns on my shoulders, getting sharper, retractable.

Circulation of Air

Exhale ceremony: the slowest
way imaginable of granting pardons.
Each breath must last as long
as the combination of its two
most recent predecessors,
the letting go paced evenly,
but not without a hum. The grey
masks are for the coroner’s children
only. The coroner is excessive.

                    one nine nine two the pretty dress had to be cut into; mother was
upset ah such a nice pink thing with stripes and I took the scissors to it. it was
that or my fingers or the dog’s paws or the small frog I ripped in half a year
earlier and would rip into more. we were made to live through these impulses so
we would recognize them elsewhere so we would understand that horror when it
happens because we could have done it too but didn’t and maybe we are
grateful for that somehow.


I take much better photographs
when I’m in love.
I would have never gone anywhere
if it weren’t for texture.

                    two zero zero zero I retain no memory of streets I didn’t walk alone
because I was guided I retain no pictures of where I live because I take none I
cannot demonstrate my abilities because nothing is required of me nothing is
ever required of me I put a pillow over my head in a night train but can’t suffocate
because it isn’t required of me and we have just eaten meat pies someone
named Olga made just for us and we are so young that drinking beer is a
question of principle as is trying to set my hair on fire as is kicking the hotel room
door until my foot goes through as is the hundred dollars we owe the hotel in
Prague where nobody had sex yet.

What Things Are Actually Like

Me: I have a knife
Guy in bar: I love you

          two zero zero four no amount of Tylenol can kill me I am invincible. some
things are required of me like black clothing and a proficiency with the table saw
and a way of speaking that conveys intention I want to poke you I want to stab
you I want to kiss you I want to fuck Stanislavsky in the ass but he’s also dead I
want to nudge you into the ground because theater has become disappointing
but my, look at my skills I can drill holes in thick metal pipes and say I’m sorry Mr.
Mushnik almost as sweetly as the girl on stage.

Behavior Patterns

Overthrow the institution
of dating; pluck some chickens.
Keep going until the mountains
are no longer visible
behind the pile of feathers.
                                        two zero one zero everything is on the screen but I
put it down on paper entirely de-contextualized because I’ve learned this word.
my shoulders grow more thorny and bleed some, they are getting sharper by the
minute and my skin is a poor substitute for a living soul. I tell someone a lot of
lies. the fantasy is color, control. too much fruit rots on the window ceil, but we
are too busy counting days to notice, too concerned with pomegranates to pay
attention to their inferior next of kin. I bring out the best in peacocks. they scream
just as awfully as they did before.

Real-Life Testimony

We have now reached the part
where visiting family becomes about
seeing all the doctors my mother has
signed me up for, and then reporting
back to her. The doctors all decide
that my biggest problem is tobacco
abuse and write this in the little
handouts they give me post-visit.
My mother doesn’t know I smoke.
Hilarity ensues. Escape routes do not exist.

                    two zero one two my tissues are connecting just fine it turns out,
thorns and all, and my body can take anything which is what I’d like to think when
you are jamming yourself against my head. it is dark and the animal noises
surface as the comforting thing. the up here and back home are terms of trouble
never consistent but perpetually ubiquitous. I am surrounded by two kinds of
medicine. one wears a long beard in the mountains, the other writes in illegible
cursive before a glass bowl of wind and electricity. I wonder if I have to pick
sides. maybe this is required of me. a war zone calls retroactively and I am more
than loving, exactly as I was born, still gathering my skirts. I won’t know what you
feel like outside of me. I could say this to anyone, like the sharp bones I have
learned to arm with, the mounds of avalanche defile it takes to surmount to see
grey ice piled up against granite. I won’t allow my feet to slip. I won’t allow my
tongue-less warriors to wander on the rocks.

oil on panel
42" x 24"
Sometimes I cannot get outside my eyes

where the men look like wafers

or I cannot get behind my eyes

and the men look like tubers

and I devour the men

though their roots are fake

like a shortpath to the core

when there are no shortpaths

I am sorry to all I know about love

how it should be spread organically

never gushed

onto one human corpse

how I shouldn't pierce a man

or drag him through my mirror

no matter how kindly I drag

or how big the smile on his dead face

or lure him on my fork

with epiphanic spells

so I can cover him in dirt

the dirt that is mine

all things belong to everyone

still I call the dirt my own

I am sorry for my knock-off love

that groans uranium

but when I dragged him through my mirror

I fell for the earth

and the dirt turned to light

and for a little while I lived here

...deemed unbearable...

Blue ink meets shrinking brain at no-way intersection

When the reading ended everyone in the room huddled up and jumped in sync
for several seconds

Sometimes you can terrify someone into buying you a drink simply by listening

I travel great distances riding the blown leaf

Its about reciprocity of indistinction disguised as abject loneliness

She drops her toys to experience letting go

I don’t hear my voice in my head lately, which would be unsettling if I considered
settled a feeling

When she said messy confessionalism she proved to have nothing more than a
weak impression

I look forward to the after party with my brain

All stuffed animals in room staring beyond

...bastion of outpost of signatory of dustee...

I believed in seeing a fifty-foot tall image of a switch-blade above the words
Elegant Negation

The ecstasy of swinging hard to represent in a gallery

Disreplaced, a kind of looked at feeling straight motherfucker, ghosted by organizational fervor...

When I put things off for a while I generate the urgency necessary to attend their

Chicken blows singing under water

She studies gravity by staring at what she’s released

A few days later the “I stand for nothing” freak out feels quaint, if still possessed
of a vicious purity

As to the milky pyrotechnical dissolve, ever was mingling persons a source of the
city’s woe

It was good enough to be worth a discount

Duck club, eleven bucks

I should be more fucked up than this horrible phone

Alternative content

Chasing Jaguars (0:00) // Feathers on a Horizon (1:32)
Only a Figurine (5:30) // Anthems on a Bass by N. Muhly (6:04)
A Piece for John McDonald (7:35)
I am sick of drawing this connection: there is no document

of civilization that isn’t also its ruins. Ask for rapture, get a god.

Ask for Venus, private stones winter underground.

Today I am vain enough in my commute

to peak my reflection in the train window,

overhear a man say You can tell the pretty ones from the ugly

under subway lights. My face mobs between plexiglas,

my anger where the dark face of my queen turns away.

See also a woman’s age hidden in her hands,

the veins’ bubonic ghosts. For Venus, I wish only our beautiful women

dead and scattered beneath the earth, decently, decently.

The Venus of Willendorf was found

in 1908, a leap year, the same year oil was found in the Middle East.

The archeologist called her Venus but there is nothing Western

about the mounds of genitals, the faceless bravery of womanhood

there caked with a silt called loess meaning loose.

See then the man turning her over to dust time loose

from her breast. Mundane artifacts litter the streets, they make

a country’s gradients like a flag I’ll dare its spitted grounds to worship.

A sick woman over her cart now bites her lips into white ash

and I want to declare ourselves a company of women below the earth,

but, dear city, know so help me I won’t help her stand for her stop.

As the Venus was nothing but stone, I won’t even look in her eyes.

At what age does a woman’s body become

the insult of a woman’s body. In answer, my hands crack another year

and I sit bored. I want to stand plain here until bled out, but don’t.

I am just another punctual slave abandoned by her queen.

Man is free until he wakes, when time returns with the drama

of throwing an ether vial into the flames.

The document of civilization digitized and on the clock

Wednesday Thursday Friday without relief

or dignity, the Venus of Willendorf’s document clean as a third-degree burn.

No I’ll resist the urge to see myself walking in the building glass.

I’m vain in a hurry my youth is fading and earth it isn’t sad

earth has no name as Venus has no name. I cross the street,

the heat of trucks wish me dead. If the space in my office

could spread just an inch my joy would tear every curtain of this city down.

In every scene, I am always the handsome spectator delighting

in the spectacle to delight in himself, time blank and dumb

as a glass eye. But what I want is Venus, my vision of thrones

and queenless moors, the heathering iceland where she was conceived, mothered

to stone and dirt. So go our desires. Our flesh dares us be bovine, I’ll starve it out

to wear it like the cloth of a flag, an allegiance founded

in the vinegar bruise on an arm.

The city sun sets every day now like Muybridge’s horse, suffering time.

I think of her creation when I sit in my office,

when my hands rhythmically knot and unknot my hair

and I am the image of a network of thoughts always about to happen.

You see it isn’t her art that confounds us but the hands the body

of men if they were eager to make her, was it divine inspiration or

was it boredom, the cold literature of Europe’s ice age, boredom

likewise in the flesh of the survivor, boredom which serves to end us

with desired relief. Could they see no errand in the snow, no ramshackle

beauty in death. How else to express the air as harsh, the women as willing,

the earth a delicate dish for their plastic and shit. Her purpose

was her mimesis of riches, the fat breasts like our towers:

without owning them their sight provides a propriety still.

This sick glint of empire bores me of empire.

In this city of boredom, how blankly everything is mine.

What will amount to our kingdoms, our Willendorf in the sand.

Can I speak for the Venus, the alien object, the way one walks

over seeds buried loose in the snow, can I speak for her

the way a grave-good decorates a ritual, the way styrofoam brims

laughably in the municipal trash. I will speak for her as I spoke

for myself as a girl behind her bedroom door. When I found her

she was marked in Grandpa Leo’s anthology an ugly thing to watch:

in her image the hands still combed her form, a log against nothing.

I’ll quit the Venus to invent this place: the cities’ conspired eternity

false, the doomed sensation of unwrapping the soft high-fructose

pastry false. As a pigeon lights in bramble attempting a nature,

her discovery galvanized us, gave us the potentiated

human as participant and prophet Monday Tuesday Wednesday—

her brute bauble of god, of slut and man, her hue and cry saved

to my browser history Monday Tuesday Wednesday. Man would be

the ruin of his choice like a city inspecting itself to minimize the damage

of unforeseen calamities like a man turning her over to theorize

origins, her non-diegetic tooth and war, the pain I presume her

to possess in her fissures see since pain is a woman’s only natural

possession. What, forsooth, could I know of the Venus body, belly obsessed,

running its dumb country into the ground. Do you see the very falsehood

—no. No, man wears his hubris like an invisible hat, like a single feather

in the snow: we want to belong without question to solution, ha!

With hilarious privilege I watch a man I never loved disappear in the silt.

The death and life of great American cities is about negotiating

influences and the impression of citizens, according to Jane Jacobs.

I try to remember the last time I said the word tribe without irony,

without the ballast of guilt and privilege that begets my America.

A city is not a work of art, it does not show our humanity nor can it

represent its own artifact though I feel the desert sun on my shoulders

waiting to banish us. See I’ll place the invention of city over the figurine:

whether out of idleness or expression, she was formed but could never

stand upright, she was the anti-city in her impractical mobility: no man

could enter her. I had a city when the harbor lifted, when the tunnels

collapsed and became my dirty sky. I could claim proof of residency,

I could set conditions for my city’s diversity based on my size and zoning laws.

When my timesheet was my entrance liturgy. When I imagined

the figurine fused to my joints, how discovering artifacts morphs

the archeologist into their sole creator, I imagine myself an incredible

bone artist until I imagine myself millennia from now dug up,

polished, and set again. The people then will they see the pride of their

creations further established in these bones of mine, will the text read

as nonsense, should I consider the importance of my own longevity

enough to stop drinking. In my Venus city, I will bury the burning lights,

roost over what is left of dirt to seed. I go home and I go home.

I read my queen from the couch to the bed,

her absence like a freezer door left open in the night, the cold touching

even the moon’s dead holes. This idea that we can survive the air

coming down from the city, step over crude development planning

without seeing it, the homeless barely tucked in the avenues’

fissures, the dust of our loss, means we can be both the animal and what kills it.

All night the city flickers like Plath’s fevers. We can think

of this moment as a sign of dumb calm, the city a kind of

silhouette portrait in which we recognize a past, the future

subject to an artifice we can’t as yet conceive. I keep

making the switch from it to she when addressing the Venus.

It’s not that she was ever human but at some point her form

became her fiction—what Jacobs would call the self-destruction

of a city, the relentless competition of a space until its primary

economic function becomes the loss of its function. In this sense

I am lost if the Venus is more art than stone. I have laid out my markets,

these lyric schematics, I wanted to draft and redraft the very function

of her lump kind on my psyche, what it meant to call her mine,

what it meant to own a thing without the debt collectors getting wind

and waiting with a stranger’s ease at my door. I should starve

my limbs more, I should be a new exaggeration too like my little bitch god.

My grandmother became too sick to horde the corners of her enormous life,

so I inherited her writing desk, her books (a first edition of The Old Man

and the Sea
), and the whole ocean’s floor of my grandfather’s life

though I never met him past my cow-eyed infancy. His textbooks

so outdated science sounded like gossip, the world then loosed to clouds

of American cumulus, an altogether remote land that reveals the fears

of our surfaceless, still undocumented ends. In the pages the Venus stood

ugly therefore forgettable like the cold remains of an uneaten meal,

like a city I visited once and never again where

not even the dinner plates were warm. Hard to say what brought me back.

My heart was broken over a man, I should say I was what he spit out

when he was done chewing the trash of my body. My days were occupied

with nothing but writing Venus poems, a necessary way to escape

the politics of addressing the I. Rather, the politics I wanted to be there

but weren’t but were again when I considered that the gulf between

tour de force and melodrama had a good deal to do with the male and

female voice: to think there could be an exact anguish, a certain stone

dug up and carved and set again in the dirt. The I should be so nameless

in any work I say as I load and cock the gun. I’m through as the metal

cold against a man’s throat, daddy daddy scuttling across silent seas through.

There is a drama in every construction. It’s useless, a rat’s last breath.

Diversity is achieved with greater success in larger cities because quite simply

more can be done. I start to imagine the Venus of Willendorf in terms of

aesthetic scale: today a woman decorates her house and incorporates African

masks to give the space a pan-cultural design and no one thinks to stop this.

The Venus is about four inches in height, and I think a mistake in thinking

of her now is the impulse to consider her beauty. We see a naked torso

of a woman and think to worship it, but it isn’t worship what we’re doing

we’re checking emails we’re responding we’re filing resignations into the dirt.

The parts still segmented, zoned, a distance grows out of a distance when the body

is warped and frozen this way. What was beauty for the people who lived

nowhere, what could beauty do with the enormity of snow. I see the seeds

impossible, uncurling their greens for want of nothing below and above the ice.

In love, my body diminishes beautifully. When my skin was a dead moth’s wing,

hair fell out in chunks. The I became a joke to write about steeped as I was in

my declension. I was sorry to be in love with a man made of silt. Back to my hands

they weren’t mine they looked aged, the sick skin of mule.

Charles Olsen said once to love the world and stay inside it. In the fumes

of loss the Venus city rises out of the sand so that when I was a camel when

time was the infinite desert I didn’t move to drink. The lion ages in me still.

This is my inventory, the world. Each day I pack and unpack my objects, the subway

cars, the elevators, windows, steel, coffee cups, each wrapped in greased pelts,

the wi-fi connection like disseminating seeds in snow, brideless marching citizens.

The city like the phenomenon of color is there and I bless the sun for its ability

to hurt us, to stare into an invention like the angry god in wait sharpening its killing

knives in the kitchen sink. I had a city when I dug the Venus out of my anthology,

when her brute angel rose like a crippled hand in the subway fluorescence

and I could say I loved nothing, my form was a medicine I took at the edge

of a lake. Venus was my wife I stayed inside her and the towers

they were connubial steel, forms were the quiet shapes behind closed eyes

I dripped and bled to touch, a way to say I was part of this.

To Olsen, art is borne out of love: what remains is the city’s function,

what can’t be displayed only lived inside: consumed and marveling

whatever pastries are left in the landscape of oblivion. I take the Venus

like a doomed man clasps an amulet. The skyscrapers write their odes

to a distant village. In their glint there are chains unmoving

where our beautiful dead women won’t return to her wilderness.

In the parks with public figures the urban tribes say

A thing mainly radical can happen

And that's on another level

Concurrent unknown realities are on another level

I like objects and I chase them

Like a tree full of kites

McDonald's offers free wi-fi

Lo de Juana sells choripanes for five pesos

In Recoleta mausoleums keep rooms for visitations

What can all of this mean

I'm always asking how to get

To where I wanted to go

Always asking three times

Because the first is usually wrong

The second feels like the first

I try on a little sheísmo

I admire the basureros'
changeable nature
depending on each
barrio      Palermo
Hollywood       el Camino
in la Boca      Micro-Centro
with its obelisk casting
shadows in time


the Bolivians come out
of their fruit markets
to wonder what they're
doing in Argentina

I forget stars exist

I'm all biyuya and
el Gauchito Gil    puro
quilombero     a red ribbon
around the neck

Searching for the orgone accumulator

and speckled roosters
burlap sacks of
Ruby Red
I'll take every
to Mictlán
I'll return
home to

Give in to
the Brown
Start training under
Jiu Jitsu
Take residence in
an academy
Arsenal or
Gracie Barra
who actually's

START SCENE: Sonetos UFC desde Brasil

                                         (At the Korean Supermarket)

Geography is like seed under turbid water.

Ponytail courtesy.

Red-eyed to rest without direction. A little maravilla—

I go

   (The bus goes)

because I'm pocho—

cantando sonetos desesperados.

                         Vale Tudo.

              Vale Tudo.

                                        (END SCENE)

                                                                    No fear extends her arm

                                        She attacks with a clothesline
                                                                    She wants to marry off her daughter
                                        For me to hurry up the bus and say something funny
                                                                    Miscellaneous yo mama jokes and I'm a genius
                                        Insane emotions are invigorating
                                                                    She wants me to have a friend
                                        To take the cookie from her hand
                                                                    I'm going to do it

Nel nome del cielo yu perdone y konseje lux mui

Habakkuk's on the bus

and Amos is on it
or in

Baruch and Isaiah
read the paper

Obadiah and Nahum
making bunny ears

Hosea's here
Jeremiah      Daniel

All the prophets
of soapstone

Joel with his
Byzantine beard

Jonas swallowed
by the whale

What's it like to be
swallowed by

a whale
Jonas      Did you

suck your
toe and jump

into prayer      Can
you tell me now

Ezekial's exiled
but where

                                                            The palanquin passes in 2/4 time

                                                            Cumbia time

                                                            but what's happy
                                                            guaraná soapberry time
                                                            Latin American
                                                            feijoada creole time
                                                            Congonhas time
                                                            Djaying in
                                                            Congonhas time
                                                            Blue flag
                                                            red flag
                                                            22 hours from Ezeiza
                                                            take off

Liberal thinkers might be after them

because the poncho chiripá and ranch are savage in origin
Paraguay doesn't exist for Sarmiento
General Artigas is half Amerindian
and Patagonia might as well be Chilean

"Por los salvajes de América siento una invencible repugnancia
Su exterminio es providencial y útil
Sublime y grande"—Nebuchadnezzar

                                                        JUST TAKE THE COOKIE

Inexistence can't but transmogrify the sublime

I give up on "The Unnamable" Chile's
earthquake hits before Japan's The cookie
crumbles What to do with a broken foot
in Patagonia Jeanne's real and beautiful
in San Antonio I rest slurping
tereré through "Zombieland" on Kyle's
Acer with Jairo Jaime's son and it's so
terribly unfortunate he likes reggaeton
He asks if the British girls make love in
the French way Duty at this point
renews itself I punch exits with two
arms cupped toward song I already have
a new name Cotoya In the kitchen
rolling tortillas under the utility of numbers
rumors spread about King Kong secret
dro caves under the master's mansion
this thing called Surra de Bunda
they do in Brazil

Standard Oil of California's striking individualism

Standard Oil of Ohio wears a serious mustache
Standard Oil of New Jersey
Standard Oil of Brazil
Anglo-American Oil Co.
Colonial Oil
Crescent Pipeline Co.
Chevron Corporation
going two by two
in the ark

Ashley's masticating whore sings the blues except she's humming

Coca leaves go in all the way     His third wife's a nature poet
The first     a minor Rockefeller swept to Lake Maracaibo
making volunteers join volleyball teams     carpenters versus masons
Men riding to Diogenes' house     all the way to the top of one of
the lesser mountains    We help him kill a goat for Sky's birthday
Dancing cueca on my good foot     My mambo feeling plural
and above the universal     I work with a crutch in the compost
browning under a warmth     disappearing

mixed media on paper
14" x 17"
You look out at the sea
And hate
Has kept you where you never meant to be
But so, you are selfish

I would not ask anything
I would not
The poems I never make nor would I ever
Make negative assertions rather positive like
Someone who was just smoking crack
Trying desperately to hide
The crack they have not yet smoked
Is all over the world!
Is all over the world!!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson’s now sitting
In the third row of the public discussion
Of Emily’s Elizabeth Dickinson’s poems

There is a boy eating a pumpkin
With no shoes on
His “doors
Open our doors
To wonders”

Would Emily be more embarrassed by
The public discussion of her poems, or by
Someone who was just smoking crack
Trying desperately to hide
The crack they have
Not yet smoked?
I mean the sun.

That’s all.


gas, molten gasp


laugh. Just that

that makes visible. Gassy

giants leaking

endless breeze through

our chime throat.

The very thing that makes looking

possible. No. We can’t

ever look at it. Ruin.

And whatever makes thinking

possible, I suppose we

can’t think about it

either. First

you make art and then you

make art

do something.

oil on panel
20" x 16"
Enjoy sitting with fear again.

I have killed god's baby before

she even exists

how does that sound?

When she catches fire

I am looking at a mural of mothers

and every belly is red.

Do you think god is going to deliver

on the promises of women I trust?

I believe god already has, yes

I remember when a woman rubbed myrrh

on my bones

and I became whole in her hands.

This is a memory I use

to save me from flames

but I have to pretend

I stayed healed.

Can’t say I trust experience

The fellaheen shindig abateth not for mercurial derision’s ill convenience and
bean can treachery

Person x aping the glad hand

Here among the disappeared images we dig counteraction and await your

...affect and iteration all over again, encasing our trial synapse inside a honey

The steep gentility of the chaser and I claim no foraging either

Pinstriped amber cardboard eyeball on the transplanted now

The boats maneuvered, as did some others, and some were captured for moving
badly a certain way, and some were sunk, and the rest went back to their
temporary homes to tend their wounds and await tomorrow’s version of today’s

Now I lay me down to peep

My plan is to infiltrate the reinsurance industry

...barrier juice...

On the Bieber bus to Wescoville light licks itself

As it turned out, it was impossible to be an outcast among these minor titles, who
showed no memory for humiliation, nor even a sense it might exist

He’s interesting to talk to and possesses little talent for answering

The talking head owns gold but will leave it to someone dumber or wiser than he
to trade gold

Face stamped for empathy approval

Hunting downers

Body zero’s divine action, going once

They keep buying the first glass, asking me if that’s okay, letting me hang in back

Reasonable juridical bribe zone

A spare sleaze

Like Ari Fleischer, I get turned on by life-threatening monotony

Deflation and new space, co-on my feet

I’m only, frankly speaking or whatever, interested in the fuck up’s opinion

Yellow and green when it’s time to get ill

It’s about abject loneliness disguised as reciprocity of indistinction

A convention that eats itself for resolution

Auto-cheer for arbitrary temporal marker

A civil war followed hard by a secret invasion for a paltry few dollars a week

...padding as non-respite, in absentia, unavailable, unable to take yr call, not
around, not in town, cracking up, can’t respond, out sick, on the disabled list, on
injured reserve, presently indisposed, digging hibernation, cryogenically frozen
for the moment, battery dead far from socket, currently unable to respond,
destitute for communication, carrying no change, signed out indefinitely, gave
myself the slip, reevaluating all decisions, transisting elsewhere...

Clearing cap space

Chaucer doesn’t know Gandalf’s a bad guy too

...that vision of anyone crumbling at the periphery, development moving from
urban centers into ribcages...

Raging artifice paid no mind while we were busy being riveting

Tidiness is merely an extension of contempt

mixed media on paper
24" x 18"
My friend told me
She gets real
Wet fast

I pictured something like
A smell
Manifest as substance

And salts wrung wet
From a weed

A flag of bosoms
And waved across

My friend
In The Dark by
The Grateful Dead

You cannot cough
To throw a smell
Off your body

Besides you
Love it
You have never felt anything

Transform so
In your hands

Despite pretending to
Be sick
A mouth closing over

The dark you

Not recognize, though
It is all about you

Soft, unassuming
A monsoon
Coming clear

Yet thick, you are
A cadaver
You recognize

Being a cadaver
With a small lake
On your chest

Alpine in

Well, you could take
The head
Like a prize

Handed out after a death match
And try
To drown

In the lake, but
The lake is your body
Urgent like a bomb

Reflected in the wet
And in the dark
Will survive
Escape like escape

was its own

digitized locale. You

walk me directly

through the ESC key.

We assume the legacy of gaze

guzzlers, only stopping

to remove eyelash

after eyelash from our throats.

Escape painting the corn

into a field of currency, an open

billfold just ruffling

pimpled dicks to be filed under

sugar substitute.

Fully guzzed. Gazed out. I want

you to click my

nape, save it. Clickstick

ringing your plaid collar.

Let’s get paid to double

click each other’s cream.

Farmers in the DEL.

Shucking. Shucking and

guzzed into oblivion.

Escape like

the end of Tron

where Jeff Bridges, in triumph

becomes what?

A CEO? 21 centuries.

And that’s how

we got here. One last dance

in the floodplain.

One last morsel of real food before

I can’t feel the pain

of my throat

turn digital. One


byte gasp.

oil on panel
14" x 11"

I am trying to survive

my skeleton. I spread my legs

on the cross and the wise men

snake their tongues all over

my veins. They say this is not

what we meant. I say the nails

feel good. Now eat me alive.

Mary catches fever

and every pin shines.

The wine turns to onyx.

In the afterlife I die.

mixed media on paper
20" x 32"
I went down to the see the donkeys
Pending in coarse grass
Better siblings were the land
Alert and coming down

I stood along the edge of land
Tufts of grass with all the weight
Of donkeys floating closer
To stars than even stars

Embracing at night a fight between love and love for all
Demands for love, I woke
With love for appetite where now in love is stepping away from me
I am no longer a destination but a hunger’s love is stepping away from me

I went down to see the donkeys
The donkeys would not have me
I went down to receive their rock savage
Lowering to my knees, ivy penetrates me

Moon out at noon.

Slender tree. Too slender

for shade. Like

a clogged straw stuck

in wind’s drink. The children


to leave the water.

They say it needs them.

The moment.

The moment when what is

neural is entirely

not neutral.

Dour beauty.

The rich and their

delicate shoes.

oil on panel
6.5" x 8"

mixed media on paper
30" x 20"
I need to write every one of the books that is distressing me
Because I am the old woman I overturn books from the broth
I overturn stems from the books
And the broth shatters
Hands of crippled readers
Laughing all the way home

Innocence is redeeming
Everything from men
Wet with rock oil to spindly
Men of the vegetation burning
A rock oil allure against the breasts of men
Wet with rock oil

I am old and better blitzing
Fists into choice
Meat flows away
From the central axis
I put my name on nothing I do not share my name without sun
Same “effect” as night?

What will happen to the animals?
What to the insects?
What will happen to the plants?
Will they follow employ and impregnate
Me make me cocky?
Will the natural world officially end?

Animals move beneath my hands
Absenting minds upon the empty tomb
Touching the empty tomb
Surprise like
To occupy something everyone likes
Nothing it is mid-life

You do not leave hungry
You keep looking
For hearts in a field drawing
When I was younger
Above my kettle wearing full skins my hair was full

I am reading in the drawing
A book you can see I am reading
Words too small to make out are mine
I mix up their order you will never find them is my form
To read with my mouth open not leaking
No one looks at me right chime in the tree

Getting down on all fours
To read the future in broth
Know myself better sending
Herself in me
And in oil squeezed from rock unction growing
Loathsome slowworms and elephant arawans

A partial reader, only partially reflecting
Men who grow oil
With love from scalps free themselves from the plugs
Levitating the broth of a boy
A duplicitous miniature of an old woman
Hungry falling into the bush in the royal

Coarse dispatches from the on

again off again

future, as our fortitude


with a frailty not


to appearance, as doing without

poison would be its own

prison. I light

the candle and place

it at the center of a waiting

cradle. Surround

in a compounded

drunkenness. What’s chance?

What’s cant except the song

of a beggar? Private

language of the underworld.

A sudden overturning.

oil on panel
16" x 20"

mixed media on paper
10" x 8"
I thought I was looking at a man
Walking across the street
Beneath the sky
Into a tree

I am looking at a man
Walking across the street
Beneath the sky
Into a tree

A momentary rush like
Two rushes in formation disappear
The kind of permanence waits then disappears

The man presses his forehead into the trunk of the tree
Lifts off the ground, tries not to be awkward
Sitting the distance I am

The tree
Is green, seems limited by the thought or so seems
Limited by the thought

That man has done THIS SHIT
BEFORE I have been sitting here, not abandoned, I would say
I have been walking HOT and EARLY

Temperatures have begun
To put the puzzle in my mouth
Learning not what but HOW is melting

Yeah I’d watch such interactions turn to fable, simple
Changes conserved myself from
Work for this opportunity

Every morning I walk
To find the distance between
Images waking the common life
Forms alien in the sun

Wherever thought begins
Calm, going
Forward from

Feels unfairly born, but it’s not, not true—it never
That way origins of the world
Ripen, separate

From each
To spare wanting to love
Everyone and everything because
What else, and I mean really

Is that man going to wake up sore
Inside that tree after carrying what he’s going to eat
Inside? There is a slash of ants carrying cereal into

The emerald face I am beginning to recognize
When I’ve opened the field of view has come
To me, or—alternatively—I to it
So the bag

on your head is exactly

like the bag on

mine. That’s how it’s

always been. One bag

for every head

in every city on Earth.

A measure to shore

against the face’s simple


anarchy. To preempt

behavior. Any short history

of the bag hinges

on Persona’s dominion, how Western

identity (before the bag) was


face-shaped, how the oval

theater of the face

ruined the world. Palliative,

antidote, rescue: bag. In order

for one to be

oneself: a bag. Exile

Proteus, you

know? Or spread

him so thin he begins

to look like a bag sea

where we’re

all floating. The thing is you

already know all of this.

You have been wearing the bag

your whole life. And yet

you don’t

understand and I know you

don’t because you ask

to see my face. My very

own face
. And because I love

you, because I would

also be nothing

without you, I have to think

very seriously about this and explain

everything once

again. “I only have a face,”

I say, “if you haven’t

seen it.” But that doesn’t seem

to be enough.

I can almost feel your eyes

tearing through

my bag. “What if you don’t

like my face?” I ask.

And of course you swear you

will and that the heart will

hold sway so

that it could never truly matter, owing

to the deep root

of love. This does not

convince me. “Once you’ve seen

it,” I say, “it will cease

to be my face. It will either

be your face or it will be some endless

parade of faces I can’t

control.” Your eyes rip

and slash. “What about contagion?”

I can see the vein

in your neck lift

your bag like a tiny fist

knock knock knocking. “If I take it off

will you promise never

to remove yours, no matter

what I say or do or

become?” You nod and your nodding

is eerily fluid and my hands

are burning and before

I can change my mind I take

off my bag.

oil on panel
7.875" x 7.625"

mixed media on paper
10" x 8"

oil on panel
11.75" x 9"

oil on panel
24" x 14"

oil on panel
14" x 11"
oil on panel
8" x 10"