What museum will hold our actions: how will they hold the remains of what we needed to destroy?
The questions are obvious: Where did the money go?
Why do I need to ask questions if they are so obvious?
We should not have to ask the questions we are being asked to ask in our works:
I don’t care if ‘apolitical art’ is more ‘fun;’ I’m unemployed.
One day we won’t be asked to ‘own’ what we destroy:
capitalism never owns what it destroys; capitalism does not own the earth.
Maybe one day people will read books instead of being centrists.
The forces have changed; the inclusion of corporations has failed:
Maybe those guys should’ve asked their mothers first; we certainly did;
even before Greg was killed mountain biking on that power company trail…
or maybe it wasn’t Greg; I think Greg died in Iraq. I’m not sure anymore.
Maybe one day 23 year olds
cars will slow
plazas won’t be corporate
I’ll find a John B Wheelwright
the tasks will be accomplished before the list.
Work is a place for not dying:
secrets are removed, but everything is opaque: It’s politics.
Sunshine won’t survive the office ambiance, but we will. In my bones,
we feel 1968 fading. The revolution won’t be fun this time
because fun isn’t fun anymore.
The trees revolted and fell into each other: They finally touched,
so we will too. Soon. We move frequently and reshelve our personal libraries.
The order made sense, however briefly, and we feel like poets
dusting plastic plants. We’re alone
in our homes, in museums, in our cars, in plazas.
Some nights, anger seems like the only inspiration,
and the only art I feel capable of
is selling all my stuff in a yard sale,
and smashing anything people try to buy:
we shouldn’t have this.
All we have is fragments anyways. Have some more,
but no matter what you do tonight in your home they won’t be made whole.