14 February 1918South of Rostov-on-the-Don, Ukraine The sky hung heavy over the steppe. It pressed through the man’s coat, and his horse shivered with each gust of the frozen wind. Blowing snow stung his face and blinded him.
Brief respite atop my porcelain throne,I’m king of the degenerates.Return to the clang and clatter of droppedand raised hydraulic scorpion pincers. Bend, lift, place, ride. Shrill clarion cries form a sonorousand imposing orchestra, like free jazz sped
A while back I was having an exchange with my brother in which we werediscussing how we would like to leave this earth—the trappings, the fripperies,if you will. How we would like to be boxed up and sent away
On this page, I exhibit the fauvist mother gazein thirsty gouache strokes that couldn’t be undone.But my heart hides the aches of a peasant paintbrushwhose meager lines, couldn’t be made visible. On it, my father’s nose and skin