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.