How does it feel . . . with no direction home? . . .
- Bob Dylan
As if boarding a tram in an end zone of irregular verbs . . .
You . . . clothed in the outlandish . . . just to be oppositional? . . .
How many were there? . . .
No idea . . .
You mistake indelible for inedible
and jump into a brief novel of waiting
your Etch-A-Sketch sapping the body of eroticism
courts and rejects intertextual references . . .
No black and white idiom here . . .
the moments between objects and events . . . invisible . . .
You're invisible now . . .
you've got no secrets to conceal . . .*
Pocketing variations of enigma
flexing with the urgency of an unorthodox kind of desire . . .
you begin negotiating angles . . .
raging against outliers . . .
The ultimatum as pre-emptor . . .
as mystery tramp . . .
Genre-bending as gender ploy
skipping the discomfort . . . just when understudies arrive . . .
This is how it played out . . . in the dream . . .
how it devolved . . .
when all else seemed suburban
and you resurfaced as if at an impasse . . .
*Bob Dylan, Like A Rolling Stone
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| Francesca Woodman |