Apology to a Planet
I want to be a machine.
—Andy fucking Warhol
I have been willed to what will be. Say someday meets someday
heading to coming from. Say there is another world. Say that it is
this one. Blah, blah. The intimacy of self-representation
that occludes even as it reveals. I've used black tape to tape
winter reeds to my wall. I've taped a shitting ass
to my wall. It was a gift. I've taped a gift to my wall. I have one
color copy, one black & white facsimile. Hands have a way
of running over walls. Overalls, the hardest to remove. As if
you could really cover it all. As if the reed weren't a strangle
of dried berries, each one a shrunken balloon attesting to a clot.
Once I knew a guy who was man enough. Once I heard
how to be “buck up, Kiddo” for real. Let's follow the path
of snapped ribs: we will name our horses "Cookie” & “Brownie”
and we will ride insulin-high into the West. In the West, a metal
raises a metal. I raise the metal to my mouth. I shake hands
with Andy Warhol. Once sucked the war-hole like I needed it.
Say someday meets someday heading to coming from.
Say there is another world. Tell me it is this one.