Artist Statement
I am not an artist. We are all artists. I sit and I drink coffee in the
morning and I think about things and then they get written down. I think
about many things, but lately I have been thinking about the whole world
and that is what I write about. That is what these pieces in this journal
are about.
I do not want to explain my poems or short piece of fiction, really. But
I do want to say that nothing is really all that beautiful because everything
else is just as beautiful. Except for humanity. Humanity is pretty ugly.
I write in a notebook that does not have lines. It is really not all that
liberating, but I just think lines are kind of jerks, so I avoid them.
I avoid all kinds of lines, not just lines on a page: fast food lines,
border lines, etc. Lines are jerks.
I hope to one day start a movement. We will not really be going anywhere
but we will be moving faster than everyone else. Moving places, everywhere,
is what we will be doing. Move over, we are lost. Without maps and compasses
and lines we know exactly nowhere we are going.
I would sing our anthem right now but we don’t have one yet, Ian
Reynold is writing that hit right now, MTV here we come. Also, when I
die, Tim Crisp is going to write my memoirs, pretending to be me—still
alive.
We are doing things because no one else wants to do those things. We will
do absolutely nothing because no one does everything. Be on the lookout
for us. Read more poetry. And lined pages are for high school diaries.
we—
constantly cannibalizing
brothers and sisters
cohabitating
and cannibalizing
mix like sandinistas and
the cia
drinking mixed drinks together in managua
nicaragua
because we are digressing by
our own
free will—
a species alive
only
in history books written
by a—decrepit and
desolate and
beyond any image imaginable
by dante
(during the future)—
landscape
the fourth of july
a celebration of
alienation of
herbivores—
hamburgers and hotdogs
hams and dogs
celebrate america daily—
hearts beating and not
resorting to violence
fast enough to
save
un
/anti
cannibals
from cannibalizing complications
and
they effect
landscape
beyond dante’s dream capacity (infinity)
for writing
we—
constantly cannibalizing
brothers and sisters
sisters growing—
a grapevine en
caged
squeezing juice
from her bosoms
we are wine drunk
stupid-drunk-apathetic
drunk-passed out
in a pool of our own
fascist dictator complex
replacing our motor
skills
with her
self—
having too much we had
too much
on a white and red truck
herse
riding to the
factory—makes scenes
makeshift unseamstresses
unseam her
name is Tory
but she should not have been
named
cannibalization is weird enough
before
she has identity
dante never slept
when he thought of lucifer with
hammers
so he did not dream of
armies of the giants
holding battering rams
being placed
not so gently
on
top
of
our sisters’
and brothers’
heads
all—unseamed stitches
hammering headaches
plaguing our
siblings—
a new
blank
entry in the history
books being written
(during the future)
don’t feed stupid fatties
(who don’t fit in smart cars)
in cars—
drivethrough cannibals—
they want 2 for a dollar
times 7
tomorrow’s landscape
does all her work
in pencil
but—
maybe probably definitely without a doubt
feed them to
the cows.
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