I have abandoned art for the front door, the walls, the ceiling,

something left on the floor that is not there anymore, but not a

vapor, not a vague beginning.  Something else now must hold this thing

in place.  A name won’t help it break.  No arrival to promise a

dissolve.  End up without thought: an abrupt here/an abrupt.  The

room, not at last, merely the room.  No more throwing a book to the

floor to hold the room together, and no more thought of.  Most of all,

no metaphor.  I do not hate the name.  I walk, I die.  I’d rather not

say what is not.  But I want to endure a specific meaninglessness that

does not mean it.  Petition the angry little direction.  Briefly

revile a headache.  Encounter the sofa without existence.  Convexly,

this betters creation, to not become, to remain in chaos without the

effort.  To confront only the day, and only with the eyes.  To blink

and not consider blinking.  To answer night with sleep, or

sleeplessness, or to touch the naked body with a song that means only

sex, or only love, only a result of loneliness, which holds the room

together, or a toy on the floor I won’t pick up until morning, tossed

into a bin without racket and out the door to work.  Why not work?

Walk to work and die.  More items do not disturb the mess.  Geese and

then wasps.  Then doubt and football.  Work and oddly a metaphor to

set the mood, a sun, a bird, a fucking car crash.  The incident

survives the resulting thought.  I’d rather not tie my shoes, but look

at the trash on the lawn or the bodies burning.  Or the lawn I haven’t

mowed.  The lawn introduced to the room because I tie my shoe in one

to go out into the other.  Confusion also a thought to pass through.

I like to think when I’m mowing my lawn of rivers I have passed

through, the vibration.  Thus, mowing the lawn is the art I have

abandoned.  The grass has surpassed my knowledge.  I seek no more.

Matthew Henriksen

Incident

Routine

We went to bed

and rested still

 

until something we slept in

felt like fly paper

 

I don’t remember rolling

or the words but we were dead

 

Then morning and you went to work

I went into the yard and spoke with a tree

The Parallels

Found along a road the foundation

Offered after weeks of rain

 

The basement of the house we blasted down

Summer of the first mixed tape

 

       __________

 

I can’t think about the base

Factual necessity of the plain

 

Ambulance housed in children’s ware

Best records I found in the lounge

 

       __________

 

Pedestrian amplified

Prohibition malingered door to door

 

All the houses never heard of

Under the sky’s nocturnal gloaming

 

       __________

 

Figured repairs would answer the door

You came/when my fingers fell off

 

Best guess hotel

Another language with a little thing in town

 

       __________

 

Pageantry impaled on a crucifix

Funny as a fuck Mohammed spewed

 

Never eat so many French fries

Never fucking do that in my ear

 

       __________

 

Ago I knew a guy who knew a horse

Could talk a sewer out of its guts

 

Can’t see when I’m blinking

Only blindfolded driving

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