if only I could control the water —

know it,

master it

become it

as it has me

I would don the ocean

draped across my shoulders

a cloak

(billowing)

my own private train of truth,

storm,

and sea,

sweeping the ground

beneath and upon me

as if to cleanse the Earth

of its seven

(or several)    

sins,

extinguishing the flames

of my birth

my soul,

which wound me so

(wound me so tight,

so wicked)

internal inferno that destroys me,

searing my internalities

from the inside-out,

such that my organs are but

a trembling hill

of rock and soot

ruins not even capable of a mountain

pressing up against my flesh

as if to flee,

(escape)

tragic —

imprisoned |

waves of reassurance

(rebellion)

the sea as cloak,

me as an ocean…

if only I could control the water —

know it,

master it

become it

as it has me

still, I am but a servant

to this sagittarius summer

{born beneath some strange, July-November/December sun}

shoulders bare,

quiet being metal bronze

like some Ancient Empress

Of Sunflowers

and other such astoundingly mortal things

In honor of my upcoming graduation from my Creative Writing M.F.A. program at the California Institute of the Arts, here is what I imagine was my first, maybe second, writing assignment I ever turned in for my program (September 2019): a 250-word review of Joseph Kosuth’s “One and Three Chairs.”

This installation also served as my introduction to conceptual art.



There’s a “chair,” and then two more. The one at the center of the installation is tan, edged, symmetrical, wooden, mint, and very average. To its left, and slightly raised in level on the wall is a life-size, black and white photograph of what may be the same chair, but might also be its somewhat raggedy twin. To the far right is a white canvas, also raised, with the textual definition of a chair; this portion differs from the other two in size and shape. All are set against a white wall, upon or over a wooden floor.

In this conceptual art work, titled “One and Three Chairs,” Joseph Kosuth challenges us to reconsider the mundane using a demonstration that is among the first of its kind. One way he achieves this is by inviting us, the viewers, to observe his tangibly basic yet conceptually complex piece in a manner similar to how he, the artist, must have fashioned it: by expending minimal physical and medium to maximum mental labor. Everything about the installation and everything in it is so startlingly commonplace, yet Kosuth’s composition comments on such great phenomena as time through the diverging conditions of the central and left depictions of the chair, as well as the definitional variations he offers in the text. 

The artist also makes us contemplate where we belong in his installation, if at all. Are we to sit in this chair, or does it simply imply our corporeal absence?

— relearning the scent of roses

refamiliarizing my parchment nose ||

drenched-down bones with rose-ish   gold-ish

wonderbloom

— differentiating between how delightfully cool

they are in the american

northeast nostril      how vividly warm

they steam instead   in my

otherside otherworld    my beloved motherland

uncertain regarding which smells more

like home

— how naturally miraculously they assemblé

between my hard-ruled fingertips       adagio

against my ink-drenched thumb    silk

satin        petaled separation       choreography

(all things melancholy)

— the manner in which I

bleed into them     the manner

in which they bleed black

into me       this flame-goth correspondence

of those estranged from       engaged

to our vast cosmic tick-tock-time

cycle(s)

{round and round we go}

— their prickly thorns     earth plant

daggers from which I stem

longswords by which I always

see saw myself     steadfast and

on the defensive for cutting

or else self-fortitude    regal and

loyal to my Rajasthani gore

{origins}