Visible Storage - in the basement of the Rietberg Museum, Zürich Sinuous bodies joining hands in Indian sandstone ankle linked across a ledge— Peruvian puma beside West Mexican fetishes vermillion delicate bone masks & rhinos of Mali & La Côte d’Ivoire— Oblong faces & dark mystery stare empty-eyed longing to be touched through the glass.
About The Typeface The words are set in ink on the pulped innards of trees. The idea for words comes first from Sumeria as wedges in wet clay: tales of what came before, lost to flood and forgetfulness. The shapes of the letters formed in Phoenicia, and sorted themselves into vowels and consonants – each […]
Boulder Ghost Tour Because I want to see ghosts, I pass the two rooms in this hotel that are said to be haunted. I want to see the filmy image, at the end of the hall, holding a bony finger to his lips Telling me I’ve said enough and now is the time to listen; […]
Backyard Coyote Out in the open between the two willows unshaven a little too lean for song coffee for dinner last night cigarettes the night before he strains to see what I load and I strain back so as to record him for the telling posing myself in mid-air Hefty bag stretched tight cans and […]
Train Flowers – for my father Flowers are the only things we can cut away from a body, put in water, and watch open slowly. Today the subway is blasted full by bouquets smearing their tongues on cheeks and brushing against buttons to be pushed only in emergency. Imagine the vases, the arms, crooked, black, […]
It’s not that I don’t like the kids just that I crave respite from the clutter and crash of toy tractors and trains, trucks shunting from one junction of the sitting-room to another. It’s not that I don’t like you browsing the web on your laptop, switching from gifts for your family to documentaries about […]
Come with me. Through crazed, Embroidered webbing of night, come. Without your aid I am useless. I need To gallop past lips red and hungry, dripping potions. I move in shame and stumbling; Give me your holy dance. Light the flagstones, One by one, flowering in praying light. The night is weeping worms And you […]
Painting on Papyrus The blue feathered ibis is a symbol of immortality; the crescent-shaped lotus flowers, symbols of immortality; even the goggle-eyed asp who sheds his skin, symbol of immortality.
Man went to the moon Never asked what she wanted Man drove his rocket straight into the Moon She turned her face away And let it happen Because it was simpler He didn’t make it easy He did a victory dance Bounding like a child, Like an ape howling into a vacuum
One fifth of humanity was marching into Portugal. It was bringing with it large barrels of its family’s familiar salt. It tried to place one of the barrels at one end of a seesaw that was no longer capable of being fixed. I knew, because I was at the other end of the seesaw. I […]
Drag your white skull beyond blind seas that tumble dazed to your mono-eyed magic. Go tell Neptune when the night is through. Charm him, too, with your waxing and waning.
Introduction If I had read the instructions more clearly, these photographs would have gotten me into the photography program at the Yale University School of Art. But, like an idiot, I submitted this portfolio in print form rather than on 35mm slides as was required. Anyway, long story short: I didn’t get into Yale, though […]
Impelled toward vigor, we’re demeaned by violence, by nihilistic philistinism, by wishful mysticism, by competing mythologies of those who cooperate only to copulate, by individuality stifled with surveillance and the cynical fratricide of civil war.
Foggy brick streets -red brick that is- dredged from the bottom of a murky river which has seen things sink other didn’t want to be seen, And who is she to tell until her sediment is exposed? That red brick stands for time and age,
A Break by Hamish Mack We walk down to the estuary, raising clouds of insects, like smoke, with our feet. We look for clues, in the sky, or on the water as to what has happened to us.
“We choose … to do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.” – JFK’s moon speech, 1962 He snaps off the transistor voice, choosing the hard things, more concerned with politics in hand: the rigged feel of a borrowed boat, the smile on a borrowed wife –