By Thomas Bodine
A roster of silver bullets in its native endless summer
traces the callous lows of Augusts backdrops
and subtle duality that leaves us industrially grown with parted lips
mounted on photographs.
Exhibitions confront the recreations of sections that she shifted
in a smoky haze
insestinantly in the celestial theater.
Propulsive and deft, I spent that time littering the beloved creation
on the annual date of generations termination that we all wish we could have carried
to flickering vintage labels that read ‘Come in, We’re Open!’
So much divide on the three nights where Broadway closed their doors
to a classic dance that sat silent in the space ahead of rubber necks.
It’s fiercely pleasurable projection color of black and white absorbed on the beach that I sat on as she fell with a hanging statue.
The experiments that they videotaped drew a modernist nineteen seventies pattern along the
roof and air, and we both had swung like tinsel kaleidoscopes that dread the flurry acid waiting
at the mouth of the river Stix.
The crowds kept wandering in circles,
glinting and reflected on the glass facade that flooded our old room of monstrous ghouls
up and down another surreal picture. It showed everyone who had the mind to look
A Paris landscape in a hand hand held strain, dripping.