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florero

i am a still life. i am a potted flower desperately bending to any sunlight, including your own. i am the water that dies through breath. i am the breathing, bold discussion on how art is useless but so are we. i am we trying to not try to spend the day in bed. i … Continue reading

man y

do museums exist for men? does art only know the women? where are those crinkled, collapsing sacs of flesh torn and asunder under things heavier than water and lighter than the sun? who draws their balls like rubber comets? when will someone demonstrate the sexless unsuccessful, the losers, the nobodies, those that deny categorization for … Continue reading

webbed fingers

to feel your weight, to kiss you in every lovely place, to watch your gentle grace, to listen to you saying i compliment you too much, to compliment your voice as you say, to sit in silence, relaxed, stretched as sunlight, as flowers flowing, as straight when morning cuts in golden and generous mumbling, please, … Continue reading

no no no

the following was written on a beach after soaking in julio cortazar and trying to be my own drunk star * did i visit spain did i actually visit spain did i get gorged by a bull pulverize a wave with my crescent head wake up with cooling coffee that will whisper a dream stated … Continue reading

the great master baiters

i am starting to think that picasso painted to just get the girls to slip into a sweet summer away from the warm wind and long lost days in front of that great death guernica les demoiselles the weeping woman arm pits bare breasts abound all the females in the world are in the museum … Continue reading