Statment of Making

once oh so deep in the bucket i
cried for need of charcoal
after getting got it, could not mistake how unsatisfactory
factory made (but i don't realize this reasoning yet)
continued attempts to paint for purposes of satisfaction
and hark the Miller sentiments:
"You don't call flowers friends and stars enemies, or horses Communists and angels Fascists....You desist from improving the world or even yourself. You learn to see not what you want to see but what is. And what is is usually a thousand times better than what might be or ought to be. If we could stop tampering with the universe we might find it a far better world than we think it to be."
but unmistakably feel that wrong is done before wright,
which prohibits the usual surefire orgasm
so i give up painting on the basis of something amiss
with this craft, ufo
unfulfillable familiar occupation


then, in a sweep of cleaning drawers,
my nana gives me a bucket of expired finger nail polish
i see this polish as paint,
it seems fit to let drip and so i do more watching than painting
shit, this the best painting i've ever made,
and feels unmistakably right
not because it came out well, and/or well liked
not because my decreased involvement in process
but because it doesn't take away
and because it wasn't taken off a shelf
more like taken out of the trash
(those paints were not made for a maker to purchase and consume,
but saved by a maker after a failed consumption)


then a long intermission from souled expressions
i was making art for music
art for other people's art
to accompany, but not command
like any good vacation, it was filled with vacancy
i need to make things to be happiest minimum, or wholesome maximum


and the collections i am always accumulating
begin to seem of use, as once did expired polish


joe and his crossword puzzles
falling half asleep on his shoulder
aboard subways, and looking down at the rows of boxes
filled with letters, illegible letters
forming a message, but never a sentence
he teaches me to be mediocre at solving them
i collect his when they are completed and my own, which are almost
never finished
my own come in papers, free daily papers
i feel guilty, the written content is utterly useless
i would be dulled to read it,
( a nyc comedian once said that reading the ny post was like getting
the news from someone who overheard a conversation about the news...)
i pick them up, strictly for the crosswords
for amusement, wheel spinning
the rest falls to waste
and so
i begin to disassemble these free papers
to salvage all the beautiful elements
even the smallest of them
(often the most beautiful are the tiniest)
in assemblages of accumulations
to resurrect a new context
that both extols and supersedes the vision of the original designer
a homage to the beauty,
and a multiplication of it
exponential multiplication


who invented the dot?
i don't know
but Seurat lauded it
and with an application of many,
composed a dazzling image


This is super Seurat,
Collected from the culture of the super:
Supercenter, superdome, supermarket...