from FLAT
| ON a notional setting furnished by each pleasant fixture of a
concrete extracted | an attempt to make what can and can not tear a home
and a hand of all which is incalculable animating upon another new stretch |
wild pauses and an answer a universally recognized gesture moving within
a symbol | our comfort address on the wilted hour | exactly how one relates to
the daylessness we all have ticket to that
| ON a thickness of compilations to be alert and warping murky and again
pale a kind of necessary as self documentation is hopping in retrospect an arc in
bloom cycles of blank formations unsituated states of at the screen together |
all is made apparent to be involved with everyones |
an outlet is a vacuous necessity it demands an isolation be absolved into a
suspension | each volume no enclosure no simple barrier appearing gone old
comment
| ON a press and the lost is composed of temporal and significant stock
compacted and starchy attempting to reconcile | a press and my armies come in from
the wet grasses of touch wars | I have difficulty participating with concrete clears that
accumulate and spell out a vision of an unknown and fellow citizen | of knocking on an
entry with alarming give candle lighting me against the whole wall of lights
| OFF | I cant keep picking up my distraction | I dismantle the design the feel
melts I slap upon the pool of it | I cant keep picking up my distraction it enters with
presence as if the center of a private memory fenced in | all of the fences refresh around it
a sentient haze of what composes alerts I will assert myself in the linings of |
I cant keep picking up my distraction | it slips every time into an in hand collective
posturing an anxiety about the omitted |
I cant keep picking up my distraction it is half broken | it crossed over itself too many
times trying to bring me to myself | it is pooled up with iridescent and flimsy qualities
| ON the dismantled is feeding neglected area as a logged
citizenship bring flagging statements | turn a flock on the lawn that never dies |
forms hoot and gather slapping hands and take all of the room | allow their shapes to
be stated expanses lawns that never die | the atmosphere up for grabs
pulling together like a suspension bridge | all countless coverings continue to exist
among the uneven spaces | all this glossy | I ask you questions throughout the day
and I make statements that in good trust you respond to
| To lose the possibility of recognizing 2 similar objects, 2 colors, 2 laces, 2 hats 2 forms
whatsoever. To reach the impossibility of sufficient visual memory, to transfer from
one like object to another the memory imprint. | Marcel Duchamp
| OFF |
which sways outwardly in frantic participants in the quickening
exactitude of transplanted light the ownership of being noticed | settling it sounds like a
pebble thrown at the window as a calling after |
the colors always staying the same the material is foreign | persons with their laps as
still as an artifact of wind on green manipulate the whole directional system of areas a
whole setting | if you appear and if you notice
**
MEAGEN CRAWFORD lives in Nashville where she co-edits ‘Pider and paints interpretations of her feelings.
