Once upon
Kalispell, Montana
redwood bars scarce
scored by spurs
shone in saloons,
chandeliers
cast brilliants
with open hands—
but the wax
and the wane
and again
has left
but gleaming steeds.
I
The discipline that requires one to sit through sift through
the flickering fakery the monotonous monotony
of Birth of a Nation more than half a time must
be chafed beneath and ultimately
unsubmitted to. Art history
is a nightmare from which I’m trying to awake.
II
I hate ...