I’m hellbent on the tip of creation. This is exhausting. Out of the blue isn’t what you expect when everything around you is in flames. Watch this:
Into you into you into you you you--
Je m'appelle Soleil
Y me encanta.
Thoroughly though, just breaking things into different dimensions has never been productive for anyone. I see the way the sky looks when the gas prices get above 4 whole dollars. The week after Sandy it looked like Calder spun the cars into Astoria, and hung lines of people from the Speedway. I don’t drive so it was sweet.
Am I supposed to know who the market for my hands are? The things they make. Salut, Je m’appelle Soleil et ce sont me mains. Voilá!
Sometimes when it’s warm outside I scream in desperation. No one looks at me.
I am unreachable.
Sometimes a car is louder and I don’t compete. The lights make contact with my teeth. Brooklyn wins.
It’s wonderful, isn’t it? That a crosswalk can be the space between two open arms. Sometimes it receives me, most days I j-walk from an elbow to a hand, unloved.
I’m hellbent, yes, fucking furious. I don’t care about anyone wanting to love me, all bullshit, all inflammatory, all a sequence of intolerable determination. Then again, again and again, it’s you, it’s you, it’s you you—
Maybe my market looks like an episode of Mad Men, stuck in the 60’s diadem of Modern culture. The one time I watched that show was in Buenos Aires, and I repeated the accents for my friend Nadia because it made her laugh. My Kim Kardashian is better.
Now you, signore Fontana, hatch me up! Please. I hate it here. Only the wind blows. Je m'appelle Soleil, vos odiaste Milan, on a canvas I could be your art. I’ve been everywhere you’ve been.
(I want to be sliced open and framed, a la Concetto Spaziale, Attesa, in case that went over your head.)
“Marry a writer,” oh Kenneth Koch “but don’t tell him your secrets.” I want to go where Park Avenue flows, directly into a building. “Marry him late, when your balls don’t work.” In a yellow cab straight into the MetLife, “your hands are all he’ll get from you.”
Me encanta. We’ll blow up into the sky and hang from it, be Modern, be angels, be red and black circles; these are my hands oh lord, it’s you—
Despite this, it’s delusional to assume that I have a stance on generational poetics. Nothing is beyond me. Nothing,
Even a hurricane can take out the sun, you see, and spoil it.
I’m under the impression that it’s finally my turn to be the disaster:
This is a formal announcement of impending implosion.
Of cynicism in the name of Spatialism.
Of Poetry.
Of hands making unhand things.
As little contemporary as possible. Less than little. Just me with some dirt nails and the secrets for my epic. This is how it starts:
Canto I...
2/14/2020 6:43PM