MoonChasers:
Spear v. Lasso
02–28–20

Poetry Given:

Heavy in the distance

Cold air makes my lungs stale.

Felt across the lake.
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Remain (behind from)

until the mail calls me back.

Alarms stay silent.
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Existence here is

a remembrance of a floor -

nothing below it.
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Inhale styrofoam,

I'd hate to repeat myself,

inhale styrofoam
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Modern monolith,

O my creator lays waste,

we must live here now.
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This is where I’ll be

A being of sentience.

Rest in factories.
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Objects of worship

There’s no deliverance in their idolatry.

No means to find catharsis

Only the sweet fantasy from their myths.
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I-35 S

A warm January fog,

Is it all endless?
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The image makar

She leaned close and spoke

Against his ear, “ludis”

“Well that’s part of your

Problem right there.“

The old man said.

“You don’t really want to catch

Her. Not Really. Will you trail her

Through the sky. Of course not.”

You want to meet her.

That means you need the moon

To come to you.

Filed under:
B.F.A Work
Collaborative Exhibition with Anthony Clementi and Jacob Bluhme