Two weeks old, I haven’t painted in two weeks. Clear Elmer’s Glue, gouache, salt, watercolor ink. Scanned first with a work overhead scanner then gently laid face down on a better scanner, it is totally me to 3D shit that don’t represent unless you hold it
Amber, the effect
I use Elmer’s Clear School Glue
to mimic, amber
Depth I pour table
salt (let it rain) into fat
bed of Elmer’s glue
I’m only painting
my head encapsulating
today’s explosion
didn’t I say in
an interview I didn’t
have when not famous?
I need figure out black cause I need to
The above now laminated to the back of the below and visa versa, my second best Jeff metaphor: my favorites of what I make start disintergrating as soon as the begin drying
Because new ideas I’m making facedown on flatbed wingless, shadowless
No kid is named Dusk
No kid named Apostasy
or Disgrace or Doomed
Noun, yes, aspire
to adjective and adverb:
jeffish and jeffly
Apostasy, Jeff’s
kid, ditto Dusk and Disgrace
and Doomed, wrote haiku
I don’t know it rates as the third greatest Jeff metaphor my favorite newest Jeff metaphor: gouache not only begins fading the moment it starts drying, the way I layer it on itself the faster it crumbles when dries, I can’t glue them back to back and save without ruining both, I emergency laminate the back-to-back, less desiccated side down
All circles, I now acknowledge my circles *are* placemats to everyone but me and you and not most of you and I agree wholeheartely, there are six notes I can hit singing and *not* have the worse voice in human history, I love George inordinately cause they’re his six too: E Flat, our key, our voice, our range, our placemats
I never once in fifty years of writing jeffspeakspastic poetry thought as much about poetry when hiking like I think about my just done, in process, and future playmats when hiking now. L always remarks how much I love bells, she lets me listen to Swans in the car now. I pretend this a discovery not my onset mother’s and mother’s mother’s dementia, they both loved bells, wrote nothing
Right eye up left eye down
I am a hotter
mess than I know and I know
You have no idea
nor me about you
Painters tape doesn’t absorb
water, I’d forgot
I hadn’t tried it
since last night. I’m not taking
but tablet and pens
to Maine, I don’t
think of tablet as canvas
Jeff, fuckee, work that
Painters tape canvases starting now:
My right eye above had its painting tape ripped off and no longer exists but a facsimile does, scanned onto printer paper and cut to size and glued to the backside of what was my right eye and now is my left eye below to make a two-sided hexjeff, it’s not life but it’s not death exactly, yes?
Right eye above doesn’t exist anymore, left eye below does
My right eye above
left below Not blind enough
yet to stop screaming
I glue these back to back, one object with two rotating sides (so eight awoogahexes), this is the other side of the previous awoogahex
Excrutiating,
waiting for saturated
cold press block to dry
Exasperating
warping then saturated
happy accidents
I claim my idea
Bliss. I’ve three canvases sop
pingwet, teaching my
self blue so I can
teach myself green, awooga
my cataclysmic
pacifier, boop, thumb
in my canary elbow
of weathervane an
kle of cassandra
merkin of fool. Digit
al type while gouache dries
The other side of the below
It doesn’t occur
to me to write poetry
when I can paint. I
bliss watching paint dry:
shit will never be better
than wettest. I
see me finger-painting
ten-thirty to eleven
every other week
Saturdays struggling
to remember my name. I’m
not writing but should
pjoepf Of vriecyh 