2058. IN SUFFOCATING THE LINDSTROM

IN SUFFOCATING

THE LINDSTROM

(a vignette)

There are one million varieties of the spoken word :

the singsong, the chatter, the ideal and the real.

None of them alike, they all can be made to work.

I watch carefully as I climb. I present my membership

card to the wild girl at DIA Beacon, and she accepts

with a smile that lingers. Two men nearby are suffering

the mood of the bookshelves nearby. Art books on

Joseph Beuys and Blinky Palermo. Imagine!

-

I enter the room where the Chamberlains are -

old twisted clumps of colored steel. Nearby, a broad

room of repeated Warhol motifs, like bringing forth

the Aladdin from its pedigree of damage - all things

sourced and frothy. I seek only Michael Heizer. I seek

only Smithson and Beuys. Myself, I suffocate

in the Lindstrom.

-

A few hours later, I am having some food at the

Homespun Cafe. I never eat alone, as I always have

a companion and she is always with me. We do tricks

with money. We drink coffee alike, sitting shuttered

like art in a crate, in this 10 degree cold.

Everything just seems right.

-

I've written before of these moments, so watch

and you'll see the repeat. The girls of the town

are strolling in. They whip out their breasts and

start feeding all those daddy-less kids. There are

one million varieties of the spoken word :

the singsong, the chatter, the ideal and the real.
I am left with these endless variations, these
modern Madonnas, adrift in this world.