Robert Vaughan – January Day 1

nursing homes of birdsong infiltrate wiry gymnasiums enter the march madness canceling video game difference distraction waking a blue wrist watch walking opening the opening scream routine pop top funeral pushed oblique twin roads from the greentip of stop sign...

This is the story of how lemonade becomes watermelon. It begins at the carp, you posing for my artsy slow-motorcade and timing larva pierces, artsy, smudgy neon pierces, while we laughed like chimeras who have no idea what’s coming. It begins the last time we make...

Sense! I only got two fifty. Money is money. All quarters. Better than pennies. …eight, nine, ten. Alright? Up the stairs, second door on the left. Knock twice, wait for permission to enter. We take discretion seriously. Your hinges need oil. What’s that? Sorry, just...

“It’s a hard armor we wear waiting for trains and saviors to happen.”–Lorri Jackson Let this rummage of uterine captivity undress itself until years of a life unchord my spine, rot the teeth, and styrofoam the skin. Alcohol recognizes me. Drugs are just closer...

I sit, lean to my left, away, because I don’t want to talk to you…and those aren’t questions marks. You assume so much. Skip the description. Critiques, hollow and phantom, set within a club circuit that confers more blue than black, or black as blue, however you’ll...

https://news.artnet.com/app/news-upload/2016/09/e4c7dcea115231f825b90906aeb8638c-1.jpg The Hudson Looks Different (on Joan Mitchell’s The Hudson River) from a woman’s peep-show hole peered from behind a square cotton tableau blanc when a woman paints like a man and a...

Hard rain stains the pavement, the spilled ink of spring. The dead come alive nightly to fog my dreams: my mother in her blue bathrobe shedding fuzz, the shy girl from high school whose heart attacked her before leukemia could. They sit on my bed, unlatching demands...

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