no one will ask us to choose art or life this is why we 
    understand large absences I use the glass in front of
    the painting to check my lipstick rules bend themselves 
    the reason why men carry rifles on public transport and I
    use calendars less and less to know the day by not a box
    but what springs up outside the gallery the beggar
    almost looked in conversation with the two bourgeois
    wanted a light but got pocketsfull of mutter a museum 
    is a cadaver of curious facts but was he propped on crutch
    or soldering iron something lost in my spatial relations
    can I come without crying


    that into the blurry into the archetypal rest areas 
    of survivor women that all is deft collection pardon
    me but are you taking that for depression or for depression
    vox polis of the carpark fucked up scarecrow on the sugar
    high into the homeopathic pathology of personahood
    the beggar banned the mirror from public into the security
    guard thought to get ahead of me didn’t think I’d just 
    keep going someone’s notion of security drove her 
    to get ahead into the man disrobing the public grooming
    on borrowed fuel


    on the Proving Ground in the month of the knuckle no sign
    of a Good Woman nearby wrapped around the third row of
    bricks nothing for the tent of fools what did I do with the $40
    dollars you gave me when you were alive when the dioxin work
    when the seeping into was the worker’s compensation winded
    beside the tracks who’s stopping for the beggar in the orange hat
    20 signs and none will stop you whose language drops from
    bridges and boxcars who became the choosers