Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
caw/Lord
Mike Driver
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Noah Kahan
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One Nice Bug Per Day
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KIROKAZE
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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The Bowery Presents
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Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
caw/Lord
This talk was delivered at the College Art Association Conference, Philadelphia, February 21, 2002, at the session honoring Leo Steinberg as Distinguished Scholar. The speakers were introduced by David Rosand, Columbia University, followed by Samuel Y. Edgerton, Williams College; Rosalind Krauss, Columbia University; and Alexander Nagel, University of Toronto.
[Verse 1] / Underneath what's beating slimy green / Saint Laurent built in the '70s / No intelligent thing left to say / Oh, washed up it bid them wash away / Motorcycle, nineteen
For a long time I've seen my job as bound up with the necessity of noncompliance with pressures, dictates, atmospheres of, variously, poetic factions, society at large, my own past...
rush to the end
He seems to be in front helping me look out
“you invisible and I perennial.”
(- René Char, “Mumbling”, trans. Mary Ann Caws)
(Joan Didion, The White Album, 1979))
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
File under sound, gesture & attitude. For future use (good to have)
One of the greats confronts the pressures of fame in a most public forum.
Once this was part of a poem, but I’m not sure which one now; the reference was very open and general and seen at a distance, like a myth with no power except the implied absences that might be sussed out of a diffident and ambiguous delivery
Perfumer Jean-Paul Guerlain. Early Guerlain perfumes were built for the long haul. It’s one of many reasons that they’re considered classics. ‘Classic’ is a judgy sort of word and has
Reading Poem 16 (”like fresh latex paint, like Habit Rouge, like Arthur Rimbaud sitting down to work”)
Sculpting from models or imagination, Giacometti’s hand ate away flesh in his quest for a likeness beyond appearance.
(As much or mostly for his photo.)
I sit in one of the dives
Before Sept ends/low_dishonest/analogies_to_fascism/Reading_Poem_23