what happens after art?

what happens after art?

Sarah wrote:

“where do we go to ride this shit out?”

and that got me…

and somewhere between making a living and being fully expressed we are encouraged to publicly step into insecurity. at work, we are told to be professional and the new version of professional is familial. we are begged to talk about our private lives in spaces where we have no agreement towards safety. this tension is exacerbated by our previous generation heralding separation of private and professional lives. where associates and representatives suffered in silence without languages to articulate anything close to a cathartic release. is it a possible thing to understand that two (many) things can be true and through continuity its opposite is available. two (many) things can be false as well. while we are wrestling with getting it right, wrong is also present. we are not all the same and we keep looking for universal truths. even our universe is series of cosmological formations among known universes.

a grafteful earthling,
quincéy.

•

they hate wind

which is to say they hate air

they loathe speed which is to say

they laothe acceleration they despise

velocity which is to say they despise maximums

maxims touted at terminals on soapboxes where preachers use to claim the streets where the drug wrappers are discarded strewn about with chewing gum single-use smart tickets commuter passes like you're down with our language without militaries dialects tested in measured breaths on corners with the warmth of home inside where dinners are served under street lights who shine on closed eyelids

for hope for another day's prosperity another night's achievement is me protecting you from liberty's massacre recorded stored and streamed for a comment for a thread for a caption that headlines better than the news that we are not safe with each other yet i am in a stranger's embrace who was once interrogated by laughter brutalized bywater pleasantries filled larger spaces unfucking us right into rapport a desire for promises pressure kisses that acquaintanceship misremembers as friends without a break

are we down? sure

we will lie to save face

assuming all breakdowns are negations squeezes out an optimism that our repetition of sequence proves as its result postulates desirable outcomes as goals when recipes are guides and we still can’t make sweet potato pie like november of ‘98 like march of ‘06 memories live like nutmeg clove and vietnamese cinnamon and dark brown sugar and all spice and maple fenugreek for condensed lactation nourishing something nostalgia peddles for debt a coin that will not change to dollars accumulates nonetheless saving us from a future of work... i digress

we will all lie to save face

our foundation covers imperfection in natural hues made by colors named by number and letter chemical compositions contouring lines of story into existence rouged and flushed by words lacking the courage of their convictions for they lie dormant in moments of action telling tall tales of battles never fought only seen the tale of the tape is different when you will never see the canvas of the ring the dirt of the ground not for skill not for landed attacks or combinations assailed in the fury of combat’s survival -hyperbole is the providence of the spectator where getting knocked the fuck out is the responsibility of the hooligan whose fist is never late and accuracy is unrivaled... i digress again

we will all lie to save face, i digress thrice again

sure

they hate wind

which is to say they hate air

within a break

dialects tested in measured breaths on corners with the warmth of home inside where dinners are served under street lights who shine on closed eyelids

for hope for another day's prosperity another night's achievement is me protecting you from liberty's massacre recorded stored and streamed for a lover three times removed

for discarded diaries

annotations of friendship

a recipe for relationship who bleed like family

our third time is charmed, with regard for.