By refusing to be something, she is everything. Sets standards: higher grounds. She runs the show these days. Plays politics for grown men. I am inside a photo I found. It feels comfortable. I put my chair up and table down. Ridiculous light bottlecaps the sky. Memory a shooting star. Shooting blanks.
Marked-up the cemetery tonight, all sorts of death around town. Lied in coffins. First, held hands, vases with signature figurines. (Heads and breasts) then, exposed the overarch classical deity: honor to honor others. Locate various instruments along keyhole’s outskirt and what it means to place bodies in relationship to objects. Supply: the tomb for future’s sake. Does a photograph reveal an understatement that pushes away from past. Spooky. I’ve been neo-frightened, nothing classical about that.
I would like to eventually grow terrorism orchids in my garage. I might freeze dry this dilemma. Save it in a plastic tube for future generations. Diplomacy is the answer to my stomach. I efface the crown of distinction. Work towards a feeling that isn’t shame. Ghosts don’t ride through these days. I rides through, tied atop a stallion, intermittingly, dropping bulbs.
Now that imprint is clutched to the walls. There ties down a reason. The noticeable shift in conception— from reality as an effect of representation to the real as a thing of trauma. I have done nothing to note Richard Prince. To be sweet lounging in his cowboy sunset. I have ridden a rickshaw into history. Into a timeless vault. Dust closes in around everything unnoticeable. Like cave paintings a story pantomimes the past and drags only limestone back to reality. Super realist acts centered around derealized existences.
She runs my patio into a well, where time bombs click and humans form imminent philosophies. To define the landscape. To spark a cheat code for extra flicks. Gum chewed for sweet aspartame. I have ridiculed a lion but she won the thing over. Creatures are despondent to change. I flex a cinema in their path. Flounce and feel fatal war. Reel color blindly through. If she does well then we aren't alive. Ignorant dumb fucks litter the path for tomorrow's bike messengers. We'll know nothing and then truly be alive.