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William Powhida is an artist who makes fun of the art world.
Here, too, a tablespoon of light spills from each temporary star—
Outside my window: a gray day in Ann Arbor. Two cops—in shorts, on bicycles—glide by. A roiling sea of blue and gold middle-aged. . .
I was not a member of The Plaster Casters. I was a free agent.
The Clearasil staining Mark Twain’s hands can never be wholly scrubbed away.
The simultaneous release of the final season of Game of Thrones and Avengers: Endgame has wrought upon this. . .
From oil to sugar to bird crap—the long reach of American colonial power.