For the moment he does summertime with an alexandrine mounted in air,
inscribed in a space of appropriation—a hundred-foot colossus in black colors
of the sea, or sea anemone from an immensely high beam leaping down with a
great flourish of dust.
Rode into focus on a saddleless little bird, only it hummed an analytical science
of the city against the somber military blankness of syncretism.
Decide to uncover their origins.
Looked like they had been chopped up in keeping with the other tables,
beyond the seething blur of night at the side of a mountain.
Or was it just a product of a series of archetypes built on the ruins of manifold
Her word for something else that years later carried an umbrella & the fan.
Utilities tightly subordinated to a pitiful resemblance with all sepulchre jumps &
jounces absorbed by suspended light
Glared at each other to become form, function, structure—sophisticated
visualizations swinging from the myth of ascending safely though nervous system
One needs a lot of thin movements, almost shadows, provoked by a bustling
flock of tired red eyes.
Afraid over the telephone, the shanty town at the edge of paled archways &
columns shimmered like milk.
Small colorless textiles, a long skinny finger, golden brown eyes, veil all our
dreams of pleasantness, that fateful joint filling the room with something cold
The Origin of the Family was evident to the farmer,
for a couple of hours, but he was not that person. Demanding
to be put on to the old spangled lotus tombstone,
as heartfelt as the limitless
meadows behind him at his study window.
The lull of September, lull of work from the neck up, anti-
physical, sailing through space, yet never to be alone again.
This sympathy inscribed his breathing in fairly
close explosions of tear drops. Long-term’d ravages
torturing back at him that singularly delicious moment,
only to become
Three goals spread over the course of their emergence
theatrical elements brought to strategic advantage by the State.
They protect him from rigid abnegation.
The hypothesis remained
in a flickering landscape,
producing musical yet threatening exhaustion,
too gradually diffused from his centrality, like wild blue ribbons
across a sunflower.
Honoring you even in the mysterious perversions of factories.
Jeffrey Grunthaner is a writer and artist currently based in Berlin. Articles, reviews, poems, and essays have appeared via Drag City Books, BOMB, American Art Catalogues, Hyperallergic, The Brooklyn Rail, and other venues. Recent curatorial projects include the reading and discussion series Conversations in Contemporary Poetics at Hauser & Wirth, West 22nd Street.