#cameron barnett

[geryone]

Murmur, Cameron Barnett

[holesss]

Jaqui Germain // Fatima aamer Bilal // P.T 2014 // Doc Luben // Cameron Barnett // Anatomy 2016 // Warsan Shire // House of leaves artwork by @/reachartwork

[userautumn]

Little Africa on Fire by Cameron Barnett

[suddenstrangesurrenders]

The Hand That Feeds.

Giacomo Balla, “the dynamism of a dog on a leash” I James Baldwin, “this morning, this evening, so soon” | Mitski, “I’m your man” | Noah Ross, “The Dogs”| Ada Limón, “Lucky Wreck” | Cameron Barnett, “´Supreme” | Noah Ross, “The Dogs”

[nofatclips]

Listen before I go by Billie Eilish, live from the Steve Jobs Theater

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Cygnus

What is the opposite of water?              A skeleton frowning,              three femurs in a ditch,              a honeycomb filling the              gooey heart-hole, spilling What is the opposite of a parade?              a familiar voice, thundercracked              across the sky; a crow’s tongue              split in two, the crow speaking              short stabbing sentences, making What is the opposite of a guess?              love in the form of a mistake,              you and me in the form of              Cygnus in July — or perhaps              Draco, but there seems to be What is the opposite of a constellation?              a quorum of light receding              from where we are to where              we came from — two mirrors              facing each other, shattered.

Cameron Barnett

[andallthatmishigas]

Hey guys did you know that Nadine Garner’s husband worked on John Mulaney: Kid Gorgeous? Because I just found that out and I feel weird about it.

[iphigeniacomplex]

Nonbinding Legislation, or a Resolution by Cameron Barnett

Whereas I'm as proud to be black as a tree is to be made of wood. I've been black so long I don't know what pride is anymore. I was told it was a bad thing—I was told I should give it up to the wind.

Whereas air blows hardest when you are nothing more than the snap of a flag, a wind-whipped rolling symbol. I am already a symbol—dark bark, sturdy. Still I don't know what colors to hoist, what banner belongs to me or how to hold it.

Whereas what I am has become cliché, roots to canopy. Even this breath, my words a post hoc paradigm hung out to dry, and I feel flattest at the edges.

Whereas the race card is now everyone's card in a deck I did not cut. I hate card games, the conceit of the shuffle. I hate when white people hate white people because hating white people is fashionable. A person's color is a silly thing to hate.

Whereas hate is a strong word working out on every tongue red enough to spew it or blue enough to covet it. Of this fixation of color: a tree stripped of its bark is still a tree, the hue of wood notwithstanding.

Whereas I don't understand why people are proud on my behalf, their clench of flag and branch and the breeze itself. How to be the tree in a forest you did not plant. I had no other choice but to climb flagpole-high and wave in this wind's song and dance.

Therefore be it resolved: I do not care for my skin because it's always been about my skin—but I have never been about my skin. Not completely. Who is this dying to wear my skin now?