blaine nama hana tolen tino

olmec plane-making with Jonathan Cross. these examples: the least beautiful of many hundred beautiful things that will help you remember the many dimensions of ease in fondness

Marilyn Monroe photographed by Cecil Beaton, “Dying Slave” by Michelangelo; somewhere unpictured – Antonia Canova’s Sleeping Nymph and Bert Stern’s Marilyn.

(Museo Salvatore Ferragamo)

strong, degenerative brushstrokes, the kind of wrist that makes wild ferns grow after a large fire decimates, graciously, a place that never really became anything anyway, was just waiting to be put in an urn on a shelf in the library of congress

painting by Erik Olson

vintage hanging planter helps you regain focus on your debt, helps you remember you never cared and that you do what you want with all that goddamn money you work so goddamn hard for

find you on my person after diamond head fills with water, after palolo housing becomes shorefront property, after we figure out which race does best with the waterworld concept

Magnesium Fire Starter from Kaufmann Mercantile

and those moons i once saw womanly, lush, and full – those supple things, relaxing into water or fog or else-things falling gently against other things – they are all teeth or the things that learned to puncture because the both were made to meet eachother

glass by josh simpson

like casual globes and a healthy surplus of rivers, always good to have more wind maps (Fernanda Viégas and Martin Wattenber)

this creature, SORNE, traipsing through as pure white, plummeting for no other reason than to alter a continuum that pretends to be a mirage (so as not to trap itself), this creature in some other place (but you for much of it, well me, well us), Blue Sister

“She was so extraordinarily beautiful that I nearly laughed out loud. She … [was] famine, fire, destruction and plague … the only true begetter. Her breasts were apocalyptic, they would topple empires before they withered … her body was a miracle of construction … She was unquestionably gorgeous. She was lavish. She was a dark, unyielding largesse. She was, in short, too bloody much … Those huge violet blue eyes… had an odd glint… Aeons passed, civilizations came and went while these cosmic headlights examined my flawed personality. Every pockmark on my face became a crater of the moon.”  (Richard Burton’s first glance at 19-year-old Elizabeth Taylor)

 photographs by Ruth Thorne-Thomsen

wake up and fused to a dream, knit, kept, crept upon like grazing weed-grass in tropical winter; un-before, not unlike the now, my body to yours or ours, the shoelace race to home (tucked right under, then over, then cover your past quick like a trap door with laughs packed neatly inside); i recall those thoughts i had when there was no possibility of the present where i now live, how i hung those things i hang this morning over coffee steam and counters wet from dishes, flowers flipping hair in the living room, swimming on the dark grain of our breakfast table; when i fall asleep my chest constellates the constellations and, like the astronauts, carves at the sky to make it manageable, more friendly, more tumbled, matte at its edges, not un-touched by me

the un-moveable, un-lion, roar-shut me; a bouquet of new fatigues – chlorophyll rich (hospital clutches and lilies with dinner-groceries); a kiss-based game of telephone, loan me that last embrace, pass it to the end of its path; sparse standing in perfectly spaced chaos on the dawning patch of grass, just below a tree filled with yellow canaries in brand new repose – on the event of earth’s pulse interrupted by expected demise; a black trash bag moves across your lane on the freeway like an inklot ballast, wayward from its core at the center of a landscape’s ravine from a 19th century portrait of America, homed to a living room that never belonged to you, that you visited once a month or so for a decade; life before the county put concrete between our houses, a soft place for our cars to traverse, before the sun set across a driveway in long legs it expanded in gravelled fidgets; this is my travel toward a be-stilled heart

you think the moth pivots aimlessly, like young love in parking lots (stairwells, porches); you think the sky bleeds blue, somehow more human; you are wrong; i dealt with you in the gauze of midnight’s highway light, my cigarette drawn like a gun, perched between knuckles; bright height, unshade the earth’s green grass and mock the moon for its many houses; my heart still inches over the tropics, skipping storms to oppose you, further away on the cool polar wrath of my wishing; pinned by the possibility of your sound coming toward my house, feet hiccuping soft-flat shivers, bouncing on my screen door

elaborate, strenuous, expensive beauty – unbought and rare-traded from my childhood trust; o perfect and terrible, high-high or something extreme; found the memory of all sad things and put them in a shrine function, told them to stay put and they did, prayed to them without a sliver of wind to make a misstep, how did this happen; i have something so good in you, so strange that i am a slave to it, couldnt regret it if i tried, couldnt cry if i were paid; the chance of us being distant, of looking at eachother in some new way, this would have never been a thing for me to choose three years ago when i wanted to own everything even the opinions of others; i am exhausted by the constant onslaught of things i always wanted and now have; put me in a bear trap and leave me for the lofty to nibble on as a mid-morning snack

do me the favor of opposing me; stuck-out me too far outside of myself and into the trees; and words, one of the last devices i have left to save me from this pit; the bank of our shared sorrows; hard not to empty myself and be as perverse as you need me to be; under tongue, over sea, do you remember that time i fell asleep on a catamaran and woke up on a manta ray eating phosphorescent orgies of micro-life; your rich taste covers me and i walk the block with a handful of wet-dog eyes grappling the pathway to outside

sure, i met you and then spent a long time trying to learn not to trust that you are correct, this is a common process and i should not feel bad; ylang ylang goes red when you leave it in your car – the life is exhausted from the mass and sticks to everything it can; read a few entries on the internet about how to make your own cloud in a 2 liter bottle, how do coral make cloud, how am i not a coral, how is coral more me than me, my own skin, my own nails; the ocean, a ghost from a time when i was so horribly open that i couldve been dragged into any firing range and left to grow some honor

broken by you put down and shouldered by you, all prepositioned you propositioned by you by my being too-near, you, focus in and in and zoom-trooping the pores in magnitude, unnerving, servitude o you, o clumsy you mooned by me and the possibility of me again, you and then me again like too-fast light flicking from a slit in a rotating lampshade meant to trick you into thinking it never left, the light it never left the light like the last crinkled sigh of a ship making home at the bottom of the sea

laugh when you peel your leggings off to show me a tattoo of a beaver; boom-rays sift-lifting off the pier, too much blue in this light; i dont, and still there is adjustment to unrefracted, untempered, unstoppable, cloudless clop of pure fucking light all over me; nordic times in your basement – making the spare eyelash of a heavy flashlight move across too many surfaces to do any good (light lost in a bushel of jackets, this strange weather enchant you from your trunk and closet); small world over here with roaches captaining spread-it squad across this bullshit paradigm

a dream where i give you strange permission to pull the keep off my hair and let it down in dollops; these days i sleep close to the river or at least the sound of the earth moving when no one is looking; we laugh about the benthic zone but i know that i store the smell of stress there – turquoise bust of caesar looking disdainfully at civic acts; im asked to be on paper, please be signed up and signed in, take this coat and make it protect you, do what youve always done but let them see it, let them take the thing you most-loved about the chance, the truest part of doing good (that it happened in secret); sometimes after a shower i shake like a dog and hope the air up-and-outs all the badges i keep to remember that i ever did anything right; God doesnt take the time to punish anyone with accuracy – it’s in waves – i have to kill that man – i will kill everything that’s ever seen his face

mute the tremble mute the echo mute unstrung mumbles mute the design mute the content mute the fragrance mute the climax; i try to balance the composition by taking out elements or adding light, but wherever the memory resides i recoil, i lose track of my residence in this time and give you everything from my pockets hamper and childhood; the sun’s gait pricks my skin – flumed beauty spots; i build you a house of my germs and once-inside-faceted (that-is-Planned) b-bust, a fevered b-burst; do you know how many moons i have? 4 and every damn one is full and asks for money like a glass of water on a hot day (i never resist); i am asked for my affiliation and i provide the most delectable tangent that could exist

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