In Arkansas there is nothing more massive than an egg & nothing can be imagined that is not real. Schoolchildren flinch as bombs explode & wonder how to want to see all the paintings in the world. Identity is cross, though, & at home the schoolchildren return to their eggs & glue up from within their shells' fissures. And yes, we are all, of course, in Arkansas, geometrical objects tilting space, but all the paintings in the world cannot make the blood go back into the wound. Youth is better remembered as the larval stage, the beauty of an egg as an aptitude. Choked in gold-gilt & egg-tempura, Arkansas is dying slowly like a playground. And before you know it you are on your knees with your lips to the black-top, arms full of plastic gallons of milk, whitewash still wet on your fingertips, trying to recall something not real. Sometimes you must fall to your knees to truly go balls deep. Sometimes details revert you to a human real & all the silences of violence. We are all in Arkansas, sleeping inside stones. Beauty does save the world. But there is nothing but beauty.











In Connecticut they'll fuck you up for licking a truck. You're never forgiven for taking a beating. It's like Dude, dude seriously, all week long & then Sunday comes. The whole state wanders away in the rain, a dozen super big gulp cups in the back seat. In Connecticut I like the people who copied the people who copied the people who copied the people who copied the people who copied Duchamp but that don't make any of us not a moat. You must smoke through your trachea hole, must find your antiquarian heart, must every day crawl from the ocean to the coffin.