Archive for April, 2016

i be blo

April 30, 2016

kyleweeks (kyle weeks)

Today I looked out on the hilly cemetery surrounded by gold-tipped gate. Before it a man paused with his black terrier, the kind you see on charm bracelets. He lifted it, held it from under its front legs, and pressed the dog into a gap –just like you’d do with a tot to point out something flying or scurrying beyond the gate. The way he held it made it look like the dog had armpits. It didn’t bark or sniff, it just hung there, complacent, looking with the man. I tried to see what they saw but the only thing that stood out to me among the graves and crosses and patches of dead grass was an Easter basket full of plastic eggs. Then I realized that the black terrier was peeing, and that his owner merely wanted to watch the stream arc beyond the gate.

Today I watched a baseball field and young people with Frisbees. There was a little boy named Skylar chasing a ball, and a little girl named Summer chasing him. This time of year, the puffs blossoming on trees turn mustard yellow at sunset, right as the birds make their horniest racket. I dug my toe into dirt and I party-planned. I spend many minutes each day party-planning my evenings. I plan how I’ll roast sprouts and I plan how I’ll buy beer and I plan when to water my basil plant and whether to use my green sock for dusting or my blue one. They both have polka dots. I plan whether or not I’ll ever use the can of pumpkin puree in the pantry. We bought it in October and now it’s too late for pie. I plan what to do with the yellow guitar picks that Sam scatters in the house like he had a handful and began spinning and let them go and there they landed and there they stay, by the tissue box, snug in the couch, on the rug, by the candle, beside the toilet, where we keep old magazines. I planned to arrange them like leafs so they would look like the glowing tree the color of warmth and field dust. When I got home, though, it was already dark and the leaf clusters had turned navy, like berries.

Scott Bergey (scott bergey)Screen Shot 2015-09-10 at 9.26.07 AM



April 28, 2016

AELST, Willem van (willem van aelst)

Today I saw a single Hasidic family occupy a whole row of a subway car bench. The children: two boys with curly Qs, a daughter with glasses and a Torah on kindle, baby twins, a teen popping a pimple, and a toddler in a mini navy uniform, her legs splayed apart. I saw her panties. Pink, orange, white stripes. Seeing those panties I thought: when she looks at a rhinestone on the subway platform floor does she think it’s a pink diamond? When it’s Seder and she can’t have leavened bread does she most crave the donut, the kind with chocolate frosting that sticks on front teeth like grubby piano keys, the kind that lady’s biting, getting sprinkles on my coat sleeve? Does she have a special plate at home that’s always hers –the one with the deer or duck on it, or a primrose wreath on it, a halo? Is the plate made of a squeaky plastic that never breaks whens she throws it on the ground to explode the fried egg? And the yolk on a good day is orange on a bad day is mustard clot green? I thought about the-diamond-the-donut-the-deer-plate after one quick glance at her, but the other children didn’t make me feel anything except the smell of curling irons. I’m wearing those panties.

George Hendrik Breitner, Geesje Kwak in Japanse kimono, ca. 1890s (george hendrik brietner)


April 21, 2016

darling nikki by prince was the song that helped me sort out my sexuality.

Today a bird nest fell on my fire escape. It was not brown or twiggy or shaped like a wreath or cup or abalone shell. It was a fluffy tuft of blue and red strings, hair, street detritus, crumbling magnolia leaves. A sparrow hopped around it thinking of what to do. The bird was too small and the nest too heavy to retrieve it and return it to its post in the tree above. Soon, a bigger bird came and pecked it through the metal grating, to the sidewalk below. There, the neighor’s pitbull sniffed it and barked and then his owner dragged him away, calling him a bitch, a dumbass, a trash-smelling dipshit.

sally nixon (sally nixon)

I remember deep blue skies. They’re always that shade around my father’s birthday.

I remember after he’d tuck me in bed at night I’d demand he stay. I’d clutch his arm, sure that if he left I’d wake. He would face the ceiling and mumble under his breath. The words sounded like curses, like whisper spits, like he was calling me confounding names in his sleep. Years after I found out he had been reciting lesson plans in Chinese, going over lines of Ming-Qing poems and ancient phrases written in characters that looked to me like brick buildings falling apart, broken insects, and people.

b; (c) Bridgeman; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

(john bratsby, jew chew honeydew”


April 16, 2016

Vincent van Gogh View from Theo’s Apartment 1c uhR 1887 (Vincent van Gogh, View from Theo’s Apartment, 1887)
Father liked to sit on the stool Bob Dylan farted on.
Mother liked to sit on the hammock on the porch, the yellow ropes leaving red tartan squares on her ass.
Daughter lay down on the carpet. She lived in those patterns, dreaming of Scotland.
Son drank a Moscow Mule. He disliked their summer rental.
Mother and father went to the tall grass garden and right there, right there, they did it. In front of the forest, in front of the wind.
Daughter could sense it, down on that rug, the paisleys making bug shapes.
Son could sense it, the mule in his drink humped another.
Mother and Father pretended they were old, complaining about the lamb chops and sauv, but they were as young as billie goats, burrowing their horns in hills in search of red ants to snort. Mother got grass burn on her back and father got a tick bite, soon just a mole on his shoulder.
Serves you right, daughter said on the drive back home, and Yes the son added.
“Forever young,” Father sang.Ohara Shōson (Ohara Shoson)

contact hi2

April 2, 2016

Old Woman Poaching Eggs  Diego Velázquez, 1618 (Old woman poaching eggs, Velazquez)

Ciudad de Mexico, Distrito Federal:

sweat drizzled on my tacos,
chili on the street mangos.
jicama, charimoya, avocado.
jacaranda and pollen and christ.
one night, we saw the cotton candy man finish his load, pouring the rest of the sugar in his hot vat and soon it all swept into the air in nets and streams and webs and cottons of blue and pink. the boys and girls and men and a woman in a wheelchair tried to catch them, jumping, bouncing, running (the wheelchair woman just moved her arms up and down). the uncaught streams of candy snagged on telephone wires, tree branches, and the church spire.
it’s frenetic and slovenly there, all at the same time.


Henri Lebasque (henri lebasque)