Joshua Reynolds: Portrait of the Artist, 1780

skinny arms so tired sunday
times spread across the table
kenny clark barely ascendant
over the twitching din of cars
i sense that love has passed
not chasing the bus

alive three hours now
in northern new jersey
a stand-in for the hudson
which shadows the soul
four fingernails peeling off
a little dead skin

[unfinished, 052920110832]

it has been too long since i've fucked a blonde girl 052720111625

page after page plate
after plate it is obvious
to one willing to study
there are no straight lines.

young queen victoria
tightens her pelvic muscles
with temperate purpose
eliminates the last remaining
vertical slash.

i've tipped the begging dog
victoria's cocksure grip on graphite
the trumpet-like moon the hat implies
behind the nightly swirl of trees.

i see watercolor for the first time
do not retreat into its motion
its high-wire act black and gold
gold and black i am willing to study.

simple rebellions 052520111743

i must be unafraid
not
i must be brave
a handwritten list, graphite experiences
dry sketches, without love and attention
will i dismiss their power?

panicked gasps pass my lips, but salt water burns
a gash from my nostrils, looking out toward the sand
surviving sunbathers and settling, hungry seagulls.

self-pity; stretching and sated; energy depleted by noon
memory a once-rich ruby red awning faded by the sun
self-pity; inevitable avoidance; lingering locks of liquor
lump in the gut; imagine that i am afraid to hold you
self-pity; you will lose me in the fog; it is quiet here now
the world feels at peace losing sleep, the street humming white.

simple rebellions; (self-pity) (compelled to compete (
to make a mark) ) despite; simple rebellions;
(self-pity) (
(self-pity) (apathy) (patience reduced over a low flame;
(self-pity) )

 

for B. before falling asleep

i trust that sand
settles where it must
and waves will lure
shells and lust
back into the sea.

I'm Lost

Hips.
Lips.
I'm Lost.
Here.
It can't Last.

Lips.
I'm Lost.
Here.
It can't Last.
Hips.

I'm Lost.
Here.
It can't Last.
Hips.
Lips.

Here.
It can't Last.
Hips.
Lips.
I'm Lost.

It can't Last.
Hips.
Lips.
I'm Lost.
Here.

love as shorthand

 

for cara [notebook scan]

a round of scorn

"when the sun rose up this morning my baby she told me she loved me"

there is nothing to compare to their stare
not hiding your small gold watch
on my wrist
hoping they notice
because
faces are meaningless and empty
the feedback loop is particularly important

and I draw their attention up towards it

with a nod to the drummer
the band settles beneath the noise
& the lights go zero
there is stillness and nothing
can compare to their still, stifling stare
and your small gold watch should shelter me
your small gold watch should shelter me
your small gold watch
watches me
watch.

for Herman Dune performing in Barcelona in the summer of 2009

russians love joegerace.blogspot.com

 stats for the month:

1. United States 1,598
2. Russia 156
3. Slovenia 113
4. China 55
5. South Korea 43
6. Poland 34
7. Canada 20
8. Japan 20
9. Iran 15
10. Netherlands 14

i am

sex as shorthand

sex is shorthand for something
its falling frenetic system of near-loops
onto sweat-splattered plains i have broken
its code — led by a soft hand too softly
to her door abandoned or unwrapped
vividly protected from above — single words attack from split second splashes
descriptors like: night or tracks in time:
peach peach peach peach
written sloppily in rapid succession
each shame deteriorates leans further to the right
or modifiers of intensity & purpose: hand
its bold appeal in plain script carefully constructed
why this light? why its grace now?
why here in this bed, beneath these sheets?
this long captured shade of lipstick red

3 a.m. — deploy the variables, the cherried unknowables
the dotted n's at the early morning diner three weeks now
falling from a cloud unharmed the rain sex is shorthand
belonging to it.