![]() Crown yourself with leaves and stake your claim before something smears up the paint. They swarm the field and their painted flags unfurl. The body swerves in the service of the mind, which is evidence of the mind but not actual proof. What do you do with a man like that? While you are deciding, more men ride in. The conqueror suits up and takes the field, his horse already painted in beneath him. ![]() Make him handsome and you’re a fascist, make him ugly and you’re saying nothing new. Land a man in a landscape and he’ll try to conquer it. ![]() I want to be a cornerstone, says the head. The smear of his head-I paint it out, I paint it in again. To make something beautiful should be enough. Forget about his insides, his plumbing and his furnaces, put a thing in his hand and be done with it. ![]() He’s easy to desire since there’s not much to him, vague and smeary in his ochers, in his umbers, burning in the open field. There must be an object so land a man there, solid on his feet, on solid ground, in a field fully flooded, enough light to see him clearly, the light on his skin and bouncing off his skin. To have a thought, there must be an object- the field is empty, sloshed with gold, a hayfield thick with sunshine. ![]()
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