What does it mean to have senses at the end of the world, and what does it mean to have them in common? I was wanting to weep on Wilshire Boulevard, wanting to weep for Soul Cycles and fraying palms and anthropocenic heat waves and cosmetic injectables, but I couldn't even cry, I'd sweated so much, who had gone to see Bjork's ex-boyfriend's expansive consideration of the plumbing.
I wrote a poem about the art show as an excuse to sit 45 seconds longer in the air conditioning:
LOS ANGELES
perhaps
Norman
Mailer
on
a
river
of
shit
is
the
art
that
we
deserve
I needed the purple line or the red line to Union Station then the San Bernardino line back to Claremont back to my host, Aaron Kunin, needed to find enough phone battery to find him, actually, in Claremont, but I was feeling so hard for the people in the heat wave, the bus stop people sweating like I was sweating, the sweating people themselves the tragic consequence, I thought, of the historical forces that enabled Matthew Barney's gilded shit.
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