Lobsters swim in a pool of milk. A rattlesnake being milked into a glass clamped to a tabletop, the glass fills up with venom to the sound of the rattles. A row of pineapples burns on a beach as we are told how yellow fever is to be prevented. A row of pineapples burns on a beach as a bibliography on toxins is itemized. Some dead tarantulas buried in apple sauce. Feathers blowing over smashed watermelons. A bramble of stabilized fragments taken from things obscure and fluid, ingredients trapped in a succession of frames, a stream of viscosities both still and moving. Everything about movies and moviemaking is archaic and crude. You can only stand a piece or two. Quite a few of my pieces have been worn out. That came back. They sent a letter that seemed to be missing. Just information. I saw a painting by Newman with fingerprints down-room. Somewhere else a woman leaned the same way against a Rothko. A man, in time, become slow and careful. The room showed people, a few of whom are idiots. Newman one time leant back against a Pollock. You can't even get enough light. A man bought the face of a box. I counted sixty-four mistakes in the Still. The fast and constant space. Damage. Time too. That came back to sleep a second time leaning against a stack. A man eating, no thinking, no sitting or lying down. Glasses to be on everything. Ruined the surface to fill up the space and left it outside for two years. Between the open doors. Where a portion of, sat, the essay had to be destroyed. You can seldom see much of what is being done. And for people to sit or lean on everything. The museum caved in. A medium sized bundle of papers on the bed of their truck. There should be rooms somewhere, where the walls and floor were not in the same room. I remember a big fingerprint between shows. For a long time art has been back. Though 10% has never arrived. Almost always everything
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