af Klint Poem

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An entire woman is grey. In the middle of another woman’s eighteen illusions of joy. One painting is just three yellow circles. Another is a little square house without doors. The grey woman studies the pastel panels. It looks like she’s wiping tears from her eyes. She is probably just fanning the museum map. I am so addicted to romanticizing this stuff. I shouldn’t hope she is weeping. I am showing off today, with my sentiments. Do you ever laugh out loud as the police pass? Begging for it just means you’re a person, womanhood is much more contained. Today, I wear my hat backwards. My hat says we let them off the hook. I like how vaguely political this statement is, how desperate. They did the awful and wrong. We just let it happen. I’m so cute and also such a fool now (always). More people should look up from their phones and say oh no! when I enter the coffee shop. I found my hat in the garbage and there is a silver signature on the bill, Dennis Green. My theory is he is some sort of pompous fishermen. The woman is not here anymore just the eighteen paintings. Without a body, I care less. A symptom of my human eyes. Is a grey person pitiful without the presence of color? The paintings ask and wait to be killed. So droll inside the serious exhibit. Like the youngest, most innocent guest at the party. I don’t know any life ofs. Charm, like sex in the morning, leaves me alone. I have a religious dilemma. When I look at love it disappears. Today, as I bleed into my underwear. I love you, Hilma. It is Spring and the trees smell like cum here. The derby is in two weeks. Kentucky will see a significant increase in human trafficking.  Who says the horses won’t be shot? Some people I love will watch the derby and some people I love will protest. One person I love really believes the Cathedral can be fixed.

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