A Portrait of the Flames

Maybe I was a used bookstore in Williamsburg, the shelves for interesting fish a few years after the interim, the second time on all sense implicit in just the idea that to contain in a room everyone was to assume a different kind of experience – a better kind, I thought.

Fish already know that note, addressed and written in the half-begging tone. At that time reading people’s summer, asking, implying that this inscribed the OK guess. (There are only so many books I could imagine ever fucking. Ask who.) I have the conclusion, somehow still 30-plus years and some other stuff already blurry between the type.

The problem: people don’t know where to stick a defiant refusal – except when apologetic for being the reasons. Maybe this inferno will change hope, though it won’t (contrast with the hanging or despising the practical difficulty of the world – almost the kind of portrait of a lifetime and the inherent limit).

in our kitchen
hopeless fact

an even era of everyone due still might
Many people will consider themselves divided into several sections imitative of the divisions of New York, circling back to the moment when literally in the form of a unique theory submitted in the second career of an introductory abstract underground experimental theatre: cumulative small-scale narratives, the end explicitly mentioned at the outset then near the beginning of the jinxed grave (This older, handsome ivy would look great streaming across meditation.)

position in relation to
the people will say that we should listen to anything mean yes.

And maybe
it wasn’t love.
We all love,
but we can’t
get past
the who you are.
I’m the horse
his story,
the parts of
the circumstances
of creation,
the stories of the mechanics
in a van filled with
the stars of hell
and absolute zero
everyone traveled
from the beginning
in the airport
a newspaper
a scooter,
a bitch,
a showstopper,
an American.

Though great and wonderful, one distinct key to its entirety, reliably devastated in found performance, halfway through being tattooed, projected onto a screen, the cameraman made a very eloquent speech about the power of the missing of the point. Sure, the lights project somebody else’s wall – some cool guy in the East Village, degraded photos.

because of the imagination,
there was a party once in a beehive


it was a sort of heaven
if vanishing is brightness

it was the heyday of
its shameful end

definitely not the story
(Please look up the wars the United States started. People should know when intent does not matter.)

This finally satisfying winter walk. Whipping didn’t make money. You couldn’t sell worth. Saved became standing considered in the words plucked incomplete:


in itself | a sneer

designated to read:

• professional unabashed declarations emanated
• written disputes declaring nevertheless the Bowery might be a perfect way to kill a dreary afternoon
• hyperbolic scenes from the world’s most annoying companion
• some other later congratulated laugh
• that probably feeling awkward situation

In response you were actually invisible. You know – a spectator sport, holiday shopping, choking with joy at every public event, a distinct character people hear thinking over-excited, compelled to pleasure.

Reverse it –
like the serious bug you can’t take afterwards.
You are part big dog now little puppy.

Stick with Christmas movies on the screen, hear some neighborhood smothering laughter, chuckle and feel freedom of speech – predictably, nothing but contempt

we’ve all been told | we should not just throw fire
and abandon the site
it often feels | a spotlight still exists to be that limitless
shout of shared voice
above all it’s terrifying | that so many people could exist

erasure poem, reformatted; source material: “A Portrait of the Artist Engulfed in Flames”, by Emily Gould, Poetry Magazine, accessed via the Poetry Foundation website.

The original essay was a really great piece on the Eileen Myles. I happened to print it out because I liked it so much, and at some point, I started blacking it out w/ a purple Sharpie.

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