Cheap Iranian store wine glasses

2.3.09 

Cheap Iranian store wine glasses; those who cared wouldn't have chosen them. Half-empty Unicum bottle. Two tea pots, pieces of gold, ornate, haven’t been washed in months, or years. Rachel, “au poile de carrottes” with a pink coat, from San Francisco. Gold cup, the last one that wasn’t broken. Giant drawing tables. Prayers to St. Theresa. Big, blank, canvases. Ventilation tubes like giant gray snakes or thick-veined cocks or intestines. Words about reminding people of butterflies. Crimson, clover. Pastels. Russian industrial military heaters with prints of St. Petersburg. No one has ever seen heaters like that. Fake flowers; beloved not trash the way fake flowers usually are. Russian orthodox iconography. Rechargeable batteries in cut-open water. Empty tea tins, all Russian or green. The worst and most beautiful sufferers. No food, but exotic liquors. Blank pages full minds. Tight jeans, art-studio rejection. Arms re-opened after emotional vomiting. Pillows full of the dreams of those who left them. American stories. Russian stories. Hillary Clinton’s ecstasy. Incomprehensible diagrams that mean so much. Fucking lemonade beer. Female wine. Wires pens broken walkie talkies dried flowers military helmets fire signs, a concept similar to a universal but limited to phenomenal knowledge. Exhale all the air from your wrists. Have a vodka drinking lesson.

    Talk of politics floats. We spare ourselves. Jars of honey that glow in the preternatural portrait nights. Chinese lanterns jellyfish bellies. Paint-spattered concrete floors. Sweaters and tick tack toe hearts. Siberian memories from airports and frozen lakes. Heterochromatic confusion and brilliant dreams about cowboys. Evocation of spirits and road trips. Flat tires in South Dakota. Barbeque sauce and sweet cream south. Ideas of paintings, abortions on paper. Costumes for orthodox ceremonies and darth vader gold helmets. Pieces of furniture, bread and tea staples in wood iron picture-frames watercolor expressions in confused and inwardly turned fire, walls of shipbuilder leftovers fantasias grown far too high bubble wrap insulation for love and voices that burn in nighttime visions, no candles allowed pieces of gorgeous accents not revealing much. Ordinary voices revealing everything they are by saying almost nothing.




And it always comes back to the painting.