A thot, a thick thot arises.
“Let’s put it in the gallery.”
As tho the unknowing weren’t enough in the tangentry grown into a fog, the ellipses, they all embedding itself into the sanctity of a glitch in our wall, and mine the immediate face of it, all but invisible apart from the insurance of its accountability as a thing that could be held, for its department, as prisoner to the actions of others, their grubby digits and the like, the desire to fingerblast the totems of so-called culture on a free day, the paths we like caged tigers pace for the many minutes ‘twixt the rotation of days at a time.
Our job is to watch. It’s hard not to stare when half of the position is to go unnoticed. My God, thot Grot, I am as a vapour. And so on as an extension of one’s twenties, the hopeless parade of attempting to know what’s going on.
The most menial role is my own, is this one,
the FACE, my tiny FACE
On the ground and being ground up
Institutional threshelming at the level of which it is most literal, and hence furthest away, almost such that it is not acknowledged, going forever buried
The custodial contributions of bodies moving thru space
A choreography as slick as any bureaucratic longing dancing up out of the mire of imagined conquest, taking for granted the mucilage encasing taste
I put my tongue to the lobby, to the insistence of our having a form, and shall I explain to you this art as well, well, we all know you could do better, don’t we.
There’s this incessant gnawing at the center of the question of value that seems to have supplanted much else – hadn’t it – and that gave rise to a sort of foaming at the basis of action, a syndrome, your having expurgated sovereignty in favor of staring out the window of a self-driving series of windowless rooms.
When something like that walks into your life, you have a harpoon, a radio ready.
I am so tired of having expressed what I’ve been that I’m furniture,
says the actual art.
And yet we’ll still grope for that solitude that we find inside the thing to be burgled, the holy shitness of connection between this object and that one filamental, a discordance thru the course of one’s hidden day. I am like this always and to all people, your body language anxious shakes from the branch, exposes its vine gap-mouthed at the memory of giving rise to something.
An old woman says, You’re part of the art here, flirting in front of her equally old husband who in turn flirts with the female sentinel stationed the gallery prior.
I do not disagree that this business whole shebang would not exist without me. I acquiesce to you, old woman, in acknowledging the beauty of patience and its worthlessness. Who am I to stand in the way of the constituting of an original image, my own there looking regally disposable.
We’d all set fire to it if we could, the garbage of utility past the ramparts of social moorings, the great big slug-butt of gnats knitted into the dreadlock of Big Culture’s callous, the way that one can serve the liberation of meaning from the cages of their patronage.
I’m fine with being ignored, it’s a favor.
Walk right thru with your backpack and water bottle and your four ornery kids, tearing ass toward anything expensive. You did this to us. You are nothing.
The supreme irony is that this is the best I have done, can do, embedded in the glitch, tonguing at the misanthropic bliss of resignedness’s clit. There’s bad days and there are bad lives. How else to embody what’s expendable save holding out by weeks against homelessness, against the taste of yellow snow for nutrients. Against knowing that the new wave obstacle was believing anything could even gaze upon thee, stricken and shoven aside.
There is nothing here I haven’t come on, your hawk’s gaze seems to convey, hoping that the nubiles can hear it in their dreams. A centipede’s egg-sac at the heart of your drain in the sink.