They don’t make miracles in America.
The factory is shut,
The work force brutalized by dark-eyed ogre cops.
It smells forever like autumn in the
Basement where the boxes of our best days sit unremembered.
The chair reclined too far,
We fell on the ground, broke our nerve.
Hens jab the dirt for crack corn,
Find pebbles, embrace solace in disappointment.
But hey, full bellies and weight.
When I was five I broke the tv turning the channels too fast,
The picture never came back.
Only a far off green dot
entertained my naïveté about finding something solid to catch on
in the vast electronic dark.
Mention Urdu in the geometry of failed Urban sprawl
The new hotness soon the cold starkness.
Ours is empire in recline.
Owls speak in bwahahahs above us in the reaches of the trees we can no longer teach the names of.
Hippy shit, don’t lay that hippy shit on me.
But leave me some green anyway, to rest my mind.
Even pollock had the edges of his canvas to refrain.
Strapped to fixed gear bicycles built for speed, the only way to stop, pedal backwards.
It’s as if we are ringing the end of a phone line to a top floor office, futile, the big boss is dead, finally and utterly resigned.
Unknown figure compiled from internal data banks of faces, eyes, etc. if theory proves true that we only recall, and can never invent faces.
This is an aluminum etching with some colored pencil offset coloring. The subject is after Andreas Schelfhout (1787-1870) which is on a plate hanging in my kitchen. Edition of 10 numbered, 3 AP, and this one EDITION VARIABLE.
Each is 5×7 inches, ink on printmaking paper. First is called “portrait of Eliot” second is “portrait of a frustrated anarchist”.
City Chicken, 2014
175 x 120 mm