Mari

Mari does not know what a painting does

but

dissolves into your head until you are seeing you
seeing you
tongue palette knife, the lovers – & arms
she orchestrated – & reversed, rather be red with rain – &
thrown into boiling earth

not condemning competency to earshot
odd oblong geriatric artificial afro bike smoke
who left her in the street when she was hit by a car
that was art, i saw her self-portrait behind the
staccato

it follows when you pass, where even the city is a tiny room
full of chimes, we’re merely posing for passerby self-portrait
exhausted self-portrait kites nailed into ribs self-portrait
anywhere she can migrate away from whatever you consider yourself
to be

if i have to hear about the cigar bar one.more.time.

if she has to live through this day one more time,

if organs could throw themselves off the stage — it’s gonna be alright
i wouldn’t know how to sound believable and i have no
intention of attempting to consider to try, it’s bad for you, everything,
there’s color in everything, a mutable question in every direction and
i (self-portrait) have never been able to fake that level of diction

Mari asks questions of Turkish men, and irrational detachment, suga bread
poets who were translated from spanish
there is no time for that level of geometry repentance has been deciphering
destination for generations what does a painting do, who doesn’t see it
rabid and lacerated, white and brown, pineapples and stanzas, self-portrait

untangling you from a dream

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