The enormous collage, Jheri Now, Curl Later, by L.A. artist Mark Bradford has been a part of the Brooklyn Museum’s permanent collection for over fifteen years. My love affair and subsequent fixation with Bradford’s work began in the year 2004, during an early iteration of the museum’s First Saturday programread more
Waking from a troubled sleep, I turned / and asked my wife what time it was. / Who are you? she asked. Your husband, / I said. I eat grapefruit, repair the washer. / You’re not my husband, she said. Yes, / I am, I said. If you’re my husband, / then who prepares the coffee? I do, I said, / every morning. And the glass bottles:read more
When I glue the hybrid, its sound makes a memory like bones or like a pyre for all the oceans one can feel.read more
I’m blaspheming traffic.
I’m mincing some celery.
I’m holding your hand while you eat.
The snow was falling on the beach/
and so the children/
into their hands.
Another boy thinks his father/
dies each time he leaves home.
But I followed instructions! Wring blood from a stone and use the drops as lip gloss./
My new job is branding mascara. This one’s called “The Tracks of My Tears.”
I own a spleen of transcendent variety. It serves as a beacon of bodily function.read more
You are the odd mom out, the one who doesn’t hang with the pack of moms, the one they don’t really get. You are standing at the lip of the swimming lake.read more
How full the walls are, teeming with paintings that he isn’t sure deserve to be called that. How he fed her, all her life.read more
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