1. Tap the comments and the comments will disappear
2. as a stream of hearts float up obscuring
3. Kruger’s BODY is a battleground
4. while the perspective of a machina
5. looking at an ex machina
6. traverses the Broad
7. reminding me of how I stood once by the Serra
8. and said this work makes sound
9. and your unforgiving face
10. an underminer to make thoughts minor
11. HI! writes MJ from Camden, NJ
12. like the camera here only interested in edges
13. forcing a view
14. as if it was universally known
15. what was important was outside us
16. like a petulant child, jumping in place
17. art as a playground
18. history as a drone

My mind in this heat is a bloated dog,

I drive, fins in the arid between.

My debut is here, in the banked log

kicked and squished by sheen.

My house burns, the rooms ameliorate,

and I lock the dragged form to lone farms.

My back is at the moving gate,

a nuisance I want to hurt and harm,

and fill in with red embattled circles.

What is this empty, signifying hellbent story,

that must be filled with ridicule?

Idiots preside in the naked cottonwood of glory.

Women should know better.

Blind beauty before the unopened letter.

I sent the goat of my stubbornness off to Azazel

but that goat kept coming back

tapping on the door with hairy hoof.

So, I marked the goat urgent and read me first

and sat back in the tavern among red cups, victorious.

But the goat returned and stood dumbly

in the courtyard, where a child scratched its forehead of coarse hair,

and it bleated a frustrated groan

that sounded like what grass might scream,

when pulled from the roots, separated from tender ground.

Outside the goat goofily chewed,

inside I slammed tables and sent books skyward

and in a lavish, enraged script wrote to Azazel:

Look, will you not take this expiated fucking goat,

according to agreed procedure, off my stiff neck!

Night fell and at three stars

I opened my shutters and the goat stood at my very bed

and (though no one will believe me) opened its long lips

and said (in the voice of an actor) Listen, pilgrim

I am now and have always been

a herder of shepherds, sending them into the high mountains,

looking for the old fragments. I pray from my pupils,

which see panoramically, with minimal blind spots

and kneel to where I am going

based on the map of where I have been.

Many times from a rooftop

the red chimneys, brick and iron,

stubbed from so many fiery lengths.

I command what I cannot control,

the sun, if I rise first. I am the original

pukka, an unknown match.

Over lands I defy gravity, all graves,

the hollow bone suffused with red blood,

my own tremor and disdain.

Now the day is filling with its problematic

proofs, snakes uncurling around the fruit.

Remember, even when memory unglues

all my resolution on the revolving roof,

I touched clouds while clear-minded,

I would never go into my temple, drunk.