wake up, rod

I was going for a little departure from my usual. Not sure, but it mostly feels unwieldy. Let's talk about your face as a lamp I've lost the bulb to. Let's talk about dirt, or stacks of magazines or any number of small dominoes we deliberately set up, the tumble comes much later, of course, & it's never something we count down, it's more a rock paper scissor moment. Suddenly I'm holding your hand Suddenly I'm holding the toilet. I once escaped to the basement for hours trying to find an album to prove you my childhood. You asked where I'd been & I said "sweeping." These are incidents to etch into skin: your hand, still, unmemorizable.

so, kicking this off - this is very new, don't really know where it's going yet. I really like basquiat, and he's a new discovery for me, so excuse my eager shittiness. by discovery I mean that I've become obsessed with him lately, not that he's a hidden secret. chunky as in crown -after Basquiat they (the clouds) are shaped like the best british sea power the empire has to offer, sitting heavy on the invisible clothing line separating worlds. he is there, etching tiaras, princes, fathers into vapor with a childish grasp of a nimbus knife, spine arms fluttering like musical saw whinging air. dude’s that ish splattering reeboks with white-out regalia, finding the divine right to rule, to command the thunderheads in every vertex. every stroke a proclamation. each chunk a crown.