There's a constant drive for errant
publicity these people always put
on : the Donald Judd's of fame and
fortune, with their Marfa's of the
mind. That's in distant Texas, mind
you. Not here. Open roads to this
or that where a small truck can
delight in doing 100.
He's been dead for over twenty-five
years, Judd, now - and here are his
precious two kids like he's still there
in the other room working. It's all a
pretension I can't abide : what they're
wearing, who made the boots and hat.
So, c'mon now softy, get with it.
No one really needs your exaggerated
smile, nor bliss. I will hesitate once again
to ever see color : the boxes, the shelves
of delight, the very forms that your faint
sister touches. Here is nothing, but all