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up the ars

The muse succumbed to museum—
a terrible bout of it. She was painted
into a fair likeness. So deeply unfair
was the whole process she could not
process it: she doubted her terror.
Relevance — the lacuna about which all 
curation grew fungal and unreal. She ate
tuna when she remembered to, packed in 
oil. In time the cleaning crew - they hacked 
her fate, and let in thieves to steal her 
frame. Jaundiced by insufficient shade
she’d never felt a ray of sun she didn’t
hate. They exacto-ed her out, rolled 
her canvas to a corner. There is no leit-
motif a thief is after, only what is gilt. 
After the ordeal, docents underfloored 
her, stowed her in the basement, meant 
for what she must endure. Obscurant - 
indecent as a mural now - available for 
mar - her figure could not stir not 
even street disdain. 
                     Years go and no one
deigns unscroll her cracking face, nor
comes to see her body in this age - devoid
though it is of shame. Underjoyed but 
whole she makes of the dead mice
brushes. Her work — more vital than the work
she was — unhushes and unknows, freed  
from mattering. No longer in avoidance
she cultivates her lack and seeks a temporal 
end abloom in mite and dust. Whose muse 
was she? She cannot say. The man was never 
there. She might've been betrayed, self-
portraited, flattened behind skin shellacked 
before it could be shed. Art happens to
the artist, then, is dead.
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All art is made in opposition 
to being. To make beggars be-
lief, which is God. To dance 
I’ve heard, is just to pray.

Hands compress thought, useless 
without grace. Angels — aware — 
carry swords. If wings, then 
wings are beside the point. 

A masterpiece need only draw 
upon itself. Out-gun. Words used
to get beyond words (avow), bodies 
outrunning the body (outré).

And yet, and still, to everlast 
breeds a diabolical numbness, as 
angels know and can’t help knowing

: this is the poverty of angels 

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why I

I throw arms around myself. Wreath of me. So many wreaths are filled with prickle. Pine, holly, cone, rosemary, razorwire. In this way, a circle is protection.

A black hole is wreathed with barbed light.

I arm myself. Here is a gun, here a book of poems. Hate me–but I needle to find pattern, the stitch that attaches. I am different. I must guard myself against becoming same.

Outside this circle is the badness. Beyond whatever fence, salt, cage, or microcosmic inspiraling.

Who unforced to confronts the worst of themselves? Sometimes (hate me) I think it may in worldterms be better to sublimate shame into labor.

I don’t know this in every case, not for a certainty, but lots of people I know a little know a lot. Lots of people/hate me/know every last thing.

I would like to drink what they drink and also not drink at all.

There are many darknesses to be swallowed by, but lately the strangling lights hurt me more, even in the distance. The mobbing glow. The bettermass of angels teeming with right thought, right action, right silencing, right us-ness. The next galaxy over even as it dopplers grows closer.

Through new technologies of scrutiny we can find the hole in the heart of most things.

And we do, and we pronounce it from above like a boil of hawks (tho the universe has no direction other than out) and this heady, hungry rapture is why I

today choose to dance. Throw arms around myself, fast.

Words, out.