Adam Day

Rising Seas Swallow Pacific Islands

He’s not anorexic, he’s post-minimalist.
Not pushing rope, but resisting
proto-masculine male normativity.
A fixed preoccupation of the mind.
Less moist with arousal than recently
baptized. Not the loneliness
of a parking meter, but dew dropping
on the tin roof. No ebony sheep
with ivory eyes gleaming, but coal
on whitened gravel. Not in the projects,
but next to them. Whose perishing
is not being shown. He’s not dead
entirely, just much less present. A confusion
of transcendence where being
can be nonbeing, if a majority
agrees on it. Fingers where his toes
should be and vice versa, like the last
last war. The experience of an art
that (like the viewer) by way of its
sense structure, seems to exist
to no one but itself. Rather
than a man, a pipe between feed trough
and garbage barrel. At least six sins,
but far from the favorites. Less a good son
than a loyal enemy. Still a liar,
but now devoted primarily to hiding
what he knows from himself. Generous,
he gave her the wart on her finger.
Convincing evidence of what humans can do
to other humans. Less a history
than a fabric of fiction. If you just
ignore it, it will go away. Japan
artist cleared over vagina kayak model.