Sunk in a cornerless hole
Awareness will leak from my eyes and
nose
Language will no longer
Be my encompassing game
Definition will secede to feeling
Bow defiantly to the ebbing tsunamis
I have seen the raw
It is close to me
Idealized
And
disappointing
Jangle in your vanity
Waste one hour
Of one day
Of
the very minute amount of time
You have
To decorate
To
indulge
Procrastination
With its pleated passions
There is a room
In the corner
Of Van Gogh's madness
Where a chair
Looks the same in my mind
As on his canvas
Displacement: an object moved from its natural environment into
contrasting surroundings
Cubism: Spacial Revolution, bursting apart planes, squeezing a random
image into something geometric
My new shoes splattered in the piss-scented puddle that accumulated last
night when the rain funneled all the waste that once covered Mission Street into
this very corner: THE DENT IN THE ROAD THAT I NOW SPLAT IN. I want to drink it,
for some toddleresque, impulsive reason. Should I do it? Should I slurp that
solitary drop that looks like innocent rain water when separated from the bog of
human, mechanical and pigeon waste, all blended to contribute to this tiny
innocent looking drop. SLLLLLLUUUURRRPPPPPP
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