When We Vacation, It is to Museums. (See also supporting paper of same title, seniorprojects_2016-022.)

darling end here: disintegrated fluorescents, back trenched too large too large 5 yous towering touching eyes touching bodies & you see it: aversion skin reduced to molecules shoulders weightless & slow, regretful motion, she receiving god tongue circling to accept truth & razor it alongside summits. feel displaced air, wall-ward diversion, departure, pixelated body loved as stuff of clouds rain disintegrated fluorescents, back trenched too large too large 5 yous towering touching eyes touching bodies & you see it: aversion skin reduced to molecules shoulders weightless & slow, regretful motion, she receiving god tongue circling to accept truth & razor it alongside summits. feel displaced air, wall-ward diversion, departure, pixelated body loved as stuff of clouds Alcohol does not appear. feet-marked & flawless our salt-soak kingdom in the foamy moments between your neck, waist— call it sand laughter, blossoming like sculpture beneath discarded moon something untapped & emptied like a river bed (thoughtlessly rippled) pupil filament writhing still lit like iris stroma, breath blown to middle, spliced propagation— night beach (natives) flashes: timothy contained in bulbs systematically exhausting themselves, moments planted to not-last timothy hay reducing under keratin shovels, herself picking holes in p lym rphic night (stretches polyester-like, thighpale timidpeeking. timothy grits her lips like fleshy icebergs [you try to catch ‘cicles, give them sinistral purpose, pleasant sensation of saplotion {operations of order}] & won’t look at you [god damn that e x p a n d e d lightweight clay, that aggregate exploding internally w/ bubbled thousands, honeycombs sweet as winter tongues] or the fountain spattering static substitutes for voices), memorizing each exposed — this is where we first hid, passersby impossibly tilt-a-whirl, circling like greek swallows, our kiln makeshift & burning hair even as timothy becomes flight(less), intestines spilling from behind knees & you wrapping them palm-elbow, palm-elbow just as father taught you, knowing beyond knowledge that this moment would come, that your mother wouldn’t mind standing barefoot in the drive listening to shattered-ankle dreams bounce, thick-cut-glasses count down (3… 2… He shoots! 1… It’s good!), twine tickled, unborn indoctrinated w/ an insatiable itch for weaving objects into sounds— hurry, timothy, ate ongues] tic orizing 1213: March I am only trying to tell you endless beginnings. most light is memory dusting eyes. 9295 bed still bunked, you dust bunny w/ fistful of fractions, believing automobiles slide frictionless like you on aluminum, rump pressed to wax paper. this is first memorial: plastic imaginations printed wide-eyed & plotting beneath plywood ceilings while T plays little Indians, 8891 collapses plywood floors. this was before or quite possibly after she & burial 1016 still you have not been to where he sleeps, have not shown him pictures of western flick carved into parietal bone (likely his before you, & later, strangers) 0816 & you never will, lest cowboy josh ceases in his permeability, becomes permanently projected on personality 1 (call him mother’s eye, pretty girl) & rounds up courage to ask for a name, a reason, a blame taker, a nother shot at a brother not called did you hold him? 1016 when you sprout, matriarch will devolve, insist on complete-eared women, claw frozen earth to check root depth— pieces detaching as you breeze, discrepant only in how they are not. one day you will be auburn & wave, the Only Again, learned, never met 1516 tw ic e a da y, fa c e w in d ow, kneel & internal ize. whate ver happen s o u ts id e, a ss um e it is 1516 tw da ow, happen um 1516 tw ic e a da y, fa c e w in d ow, kneel & internal ize. whate ver happen s o u ts id e, a ss um e it is 1516 tw da ow, happen um 1516 tw ic e a da y, fa c e w in d ow, kneel & internali ze. whatev er happen s ou tsid e, a ss um e it is 15 16 First North language rising to meet static between 802 & bruises ghosting up thighs search bed for four-pound sewer snake beneath crowning to observe the future— a portal to paranoia, whole body turned object. & the custodian scuffs floors nightly, plinth pushed to hold painting (woman w/ key, brush marks fine-like forgettable), wardrobe installment footless, exposing unworn wartime mementos (feathered, heathered) photographs returning headless, wild, sculptures staring at anything save each other, bones smoke-structures of what once was. think of density, a museum changing w/ each visit. start foxing, erasing edges to stitch them back into new shapes— left arm a notebook, torso a field of punctuation. listen(navel) we fall breeze(stoma scar)temporal happening(chest freckle) never-last in-between w/ me (curved vertical incision) +/- I met a man who told me the answer. He was a cowboy some nights, only in the way he never wore a jacket. By trade he was a mason. Or a bricklayer. I can never remember which. Regardless, I had seen him several times at a local shithole where beer was overpriced, but bathrooms were free. They smelled like poorly-rolled smoke and under-aged college students. I went there after 11 sometimes to watch the lost girls dance, their bellies exposed. I wore yellow most nights, on occasion taking one home on account of looking like old paper. The writers were always best— more honey than blood— I, the parchment for the words they couldn’t pen. The night I met the man, I had no intention of fucking a poet— I hadn’t even come to sit in the corner and line the bottom of my glass with the condensation stains on the wooden bar. I come because my buddy had lent me his car and I had left my license with the unforgettable. I didn’t have much cash on me, so when I asked Bill for my license and he told me to pay up; I felt a moment of panic. In the brevity between this challenge and the cold against my hip becoming hot, the man with the answer came up behind me, and, with his hand on my shoulder, chilled the magnum back to steel. “You owe me one,” he said, handing the barkeep a small wad of cash. It was far too much, I was sure of it, but the calendar beneath the tacky Budweiser clock whispered— December 31. Struck sightless by this timely revelation, I thanked the man by whiffing his hair as I walked out of the bar without my driver’s license. He smelled like super glue and spray paint. Behind Kaus I looked for my friend’s car. I knew I had parked it near a light that wasn’t on. There was a girl leaning against a wall. It looked like an awfully dirty place to rest. I think I loved her. She was lighting up something (crushed lavender, I think), so I followed the sound of the match igniting and asked her if she seen a car. She kissed me with her eyes, then pointed diagonally right, not making a sound. I looked. No car. When I turned back, she was disappeared, so I picked up a handful of gravel and ash and swallowed it. The left side of my body felt heavy, but I’m certain the other was turning to mist. We all need anchors anyhow. Some time later I found the car. It was bigger than I remembered, more blue. I into the backseat and fell asleep, a haze of purple tickling my nose. I slept for year, at least, and woke up in a cornfield. Somewhere above me was a lake, and from that stretched a hand— it held a bouquet of matches and I wondered if that’s where rain came from. The man with the answer was talking, telling me about a great sum of money he inherited when he killed his uncle. I sniffed his hair again and he bought me another round of flapdragon. Today he smelled fresh, like tiny flowers and coffee grounds only the rich can afford. He seemed upset. There was a girl dancing behind his eyes, but even in the mirror, he could not see her. How she moved! Like a ripple, transparent, but all the more beautiful for it. I think he was talking about her back and how the shadows run down it like hurricanes or knots in wood. I set my glass down in its watermark. He looked away, far away. I didn’t tell him about the car. had barkeep, a German fellow named Peter. Or Johnny. Something common and had climbed a 4248 cheeks to forced fulfillment flame tasting barren color brought by dissolution 1. asemic text, page 3 first night: pale convergence. night two: the mattress sings when scratched. vinyl voices collide. night three: we are blindly fragrant. four: your body is too small. I swallow unfamiliar faces, shirt (yellow), forgotten sweatpants (grey), tastes transferred tongue-to-tongue (bitter). 5: 6: your wing spots can blink. we are venetian sunlight. : some wave distantly & collapse into themselves Text: 2. asemic text, page 10 1516 twice a day, face window, kneel & internalize. whatever happens outside, assume it is 3. prose, page 13 I met a man who told me the answer. He was a cowboy some nights, only in the way he never wore a jacket. By trade he was a mason. Or a bricklayer. I can never remember which. Regardless, I had seen him several times at a local shithole where beer was overpriced, but bathrooms were free. They smelled like poorly-rolled smoke and under-aged college students. I went there after 11 sometimes to watch the lost girls dance, their bellies exposed. I wore yellow most nights, on occasion taking one home on account of looking like old paper. The writers were always best— more honey than blood— I, the parchment for the words they couldn’t pen. The night I met the man, I had no intention of fucking a poet— I hadn’t even come to sit in the corner and line the bottom of my glass with the condensation stains on the wooden bar. I had come because my buddy had lent me his car and I had left my license with the barkeep, a German fellow named Peter. Or Johnny. Something common and unforgettable. I didn’t have much cash on me, so when I asked Bill for my license and he told me to pay up; I felt a moment of panic. In the brevity between this challenge and the cold against my hip becoming hot, the man with the answer came up behind me, and, with his hand on my shoulder, chilled the magnum back to steel. “You owe me one,” he said, handing the barkeep a small wad of cash. It was far too much, I was sure of it, but the calendar beneath the tacky Budweiser clock whispered— December 31. Struck sightless by this timely revelation, I thanked the man by whiffing his hair as I walked out of the bar without my driver’s license. He smelled like super glue and spray paint. 3. prose, page 13 (continued) Behind Kaus I looked for my friend’s car. I knew I had parked it near a light that wasn’t on. There was a girl leaning against a wall. It looked like an awfully dirty place to rest. I think I loved her. She was lighting up something (crushed lavender, I think), so I followed the sound of the match igniting and asked her if she had seen a car. She kissed me with her eyes, then pointed diagonally right, not making a sound. I looked. No car. When I turned back, she was disappeared, so I picked up a handful of gravel and ash and swallowed it. The left side of my body felt heavy, but I’m certain the other was turning to mist. We all need anchors anyhow. Some time later I found the car. It was bigger than I remembered, more blue. I climbed into the backseat and fell asleep, a haze of purple tickling my nose. I slept for a year, at least, and woke up in a cornfield. Somewhere above me was a lake, and from that stretched a hand— it held a bouquet of matches and I wondered if that’s where rain came from. The man with the answer was talking, telling me about a great sum of money he inherited when he killed his uncle. I sniffed his hair again and he bought me another round of flapdragon. Today he smelled fresh, like tiny flowers and coffee grounds only the rich can afford. He seemed upset. There was a girl dancing behind his eyes, but even in the mirror, he could not see her. How she moved! Like a ripple, transparent, but all the more beautiful for it. I think he was talking about her back and how the shadows run down it like hurricanes or knots in wood. I set my glass down in its watermark. He looked away, far away. I didn’t tell him about the car. Notes: page 1: original artwork. manipulated soundwave. page 2: original artwork. manipulated photograph + manipulated soundwave. page 4: original artwork. manipulated photograph + manipulated soundwaves. page 6: original artwork. manipulated photograph + manipulated text. page 7: map of madeira beach, fl. borrowed from: http://www.landsat.com/street-map/florida/madeira-beach-fl-1242400.gif Page 8: original collage. original photograph + water imagery borrowed from: http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/blue/images/22687426/title/blue-water-photo Page 9: original artwork. tracing of map. Page 10: original artwork. manipulated photograph + manipulated text Page 11: original collage. manipulated photograph + manipulated forearm image borrowed from: http://www.myaamiadictionary.org/files/csa/bodyparts2012/arm/Test.html Page 12: manipulated image borrowed from: http://chestofbooks.com/health/anatomy/Human-Body- Construction/Surface-Anatomy-Of-The-Forearm.html Page13: original artwork. manipulated photograph. Page 14: original artwork. manipulated photograph + manipulated photograph