now we must write her a eulogy.
peeled back the plastic lid to papya and peaches in syrup.
biscuits come out of the oven warm and waiting to be buttered. b<3 k. k <3 b.
magritte gluesticked into a sketchbook with notes in black pen.
i rack my brain to create a map of private to public.
"design is, at bottom, an abstract formal activity; text is secondary, added only after the mastery of form"
black and white women framed over the color of butter.
where are my clothes.
my book didn't come in the mail.
keith fullerton whittman performed with guitar and laptop a single song played slowly like clouds being pulled across the sky.
the evening out for the electronic kids.
moving from asphalt to a hidden bridge near the seminary building. walk up the stairs and past trees to school.