In the Spring of 1979
Some images have meanings, and some have a change in soul, sex or century.
Rain buckles into my mouth.
If pressed to account for strangeness and resistance, I can’t.
I’m speaking here for dogs and rusting ducts venting steam into rain.
I wanted to study the ground, the soft ruins of paper and the rusting things.
I discover a tenuous utopia made from steel, wooden chairs, glass, stone, metal bed frames, tapestry, bones, prosthetic legs, hair, shirt cuffs, nylon, plaster figurines, perfume bottles and keys.
I am confusing art and decay.
Elsewhere, fiction is an...