furniture in the afterlife
is dated and is
not ergonomic. everyone
hovers so it's ok.
there are no
castles in America.
and it is true that
nothing new shall
ever be created.
that everything that
will ever exist
already exists in
another form.
this painting bearing
savory harvest brush
in my mental landscape
is only commodified
earth, tones and scent
and thickness from
synthesized or unsynthesized,
but bred from ground.
5 by 5, all day long,
i know this.
confidence is easy
without risk,
very paradise.
i rang the midi
bell and it cannot
be unrung.
but this is
not rocksteady.
frequency warbles,
lenses whir.
hyperblossoming, life
itself is not entertaining
enough for me.
my wealth of
sexual store credit.
the highest owed
to me – shit –
heavens – let’s not
devolve into superlatives
and hyperbole.
​
so within reach of a
quartz quarry, unheavy
glass bricks tango'd,
and i laughed
even when one
thrust the other
into the mountainface.
threatenized by the
spectacle of sameness,
of this partnership:
an ever-cracking glacier.
best to rid it.
unburden yourself from
cloud nine. there's a tenth cloud. it is on a pedestal
right behind me.
on it sits:
"i don’t know you."
zip your defensive
tent back up.
a fake muse onrushing,
and trying to separate
a fool from his dollars, prescribes me an app.
this aggregates the
stages and glories
of me into a
rectangle with gloss.
just as the
ground is broken
and crunched into
vibrant, pliable doses.
there is a painting,
and there is
a painting painting.
go pound salt
if you’re addicted
to the struggle.
the June gloom.
raise a barn
or something.
​
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