wake up, rod

Hi all- So that first poem was blah. And it continues to be blah. But in the spirit of Rod, I'm going to take the base elements of that poem and continue to change it, every night this week, and remix it (or revise, but yeah whatever it's a remix) for five days. I will actively agree with you that it's a naff poem and pretty undercooked and poorly sentimental. Let's see how I do, and if I can find something of worth. What I'm going to do is just edit this post with new versions of it, so that by Thursday there'll be original, remix 1, remix 2, remix 3, remix 4. I might remix the remixes. We'll see. So it'll appear in that order in the post. Once again, the genesis for this is this installation . If you're interested, please check back! *** Crumble It starts how all things start – sweet, structured, and stable. As time went on, more grease, more coagulant in your castle. I tried to stop the crackling, the popping, the humid dissolution. I to...

Daumenkino Sky a pinhole camera and she doesn’t know which side she’s on. Dirt in the blood of her nailbeds, something hard beneath her soles, she should be screaming. Milk curdles for less than this: a shutter, closing night. In the all-over grey she mouths: God, I know it’s not that you don’t love me. Ruthie . Somewhere, stars. Her hips curl in on themselves like doves waiting for morning. She thinks of black and whites of Auschwitz: This is how thin you can be and still be alive . The shutter’s opening, it’s day again, black and whites of Auschwitz : bodies in piles because feet pummeled heads to escape the gas rising from vents in the floor. A thumb of moon and the ceiling looks like floor again. Ruthie, which side are you on? She should be screaming but she has eyes of mud, mouthing: Please just shut it . Even she knows there is no language light enough to float her out of this hole. Shutter, little girl, shutter.

So all's quiet on the Rod front. So let's make a ruckus-like. This is a weird one, inspired by a conversation I had with Barbara Perez recently. I'd like for you all to write a poem about, inspired by, or in opposition to an art-film. Not arthouse film, but a video installation you've seen or has frustrated you. Video installation seems to occupy a very weird place in the gallery, the art world, cinema, and just about anywhere. I'm interested in where our four brains take it. I really don't care about any constraints outside of "art film / video installation." it doesn't need to be about it. it could just be a jump off point. it could be a structural gesture. don't care. but it's an interesting space to be sure. I'll leave it at that. let's call this assignment Installation. bonus points go to whoever charms me the most. I'm a cruel, flighty god.