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Minimalism

by: Jerimee Bloemeke

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You are no one, you are not here, no one is here.
You are what precedes what precedes the equation
Of the landmarks. Landscape frames atmosphere.
A region of ghosts are accorded pigment by a
great
Fiery orb. But everyone knows this. The cigarette tip
When dragged upon is a similar hue to the hue the sky is
As it goes unnoticed by the apex of the tree which notices
Nothing, the most difficult shape to be cognizant of
And then after that understand. These are the landmarks.
The five o clock shadow gives the pastel cheek of the land-
Scape its sex appeal. The orbs change guard, sunset. [T-shirts
Represent banality better than art]. Circa its sober locale
The calm expanse lulls us with supple extreme curvature.
If only God coins juxtaposition, perhaps it would be relevant
Here where heaven, hell and earth have grown
Accustomed to each other.

Towards the back of the volume I found a note you left someone.
I forget what the note said but the volume was for someone
Who lived in a building each building in the city resembled some.
An addition into “the” gray bar graph. Each bar with residents
And spot on horizons, from where I recall the skyline, does not exist
Except upon postcard. That is how I know it is without contour.
The sunset behind it disappears in a pink line if the correct speed
For pursuit were in existence that could be forever. We would
Glance elsewhere how I like it.

There is morning. Streetlights shutdown and dew
Spritzes your ankles. Destined to drive gold cars
It won’t rain white rectangles in dark wood frames.
Tinted binoculars, dollars, insurers, a nonexistent
position.
The steppe. You overlook a harsh landscape bison chew on
Until sunset. Small green crowns of grass grown between
Fissures from an unknown source dot this plane.
And on the horizon the steppe puts its blinders on the day.

Last night chili peppers you cut up chemically burnt your fingertips.
On a pew on the terrace watching you watch something, ten of your digits dipped
Into a bowl of chilled milk, the other ten of your digits curled into carpet,
The blood flowed somewhere; I took a drag at sunset, exhaled into the fallen night
And went downstairs to catch a cab elsewhere.

To the red square that slides closer towards you.
To the thin black cross in red diamond that coaxes you.
To the confirmation of the American Christ that disorients you.
To the future tics which glitch the intelligence of the young.

Refusing the mountain as if it is less real here than when it is scaled
A rock is abrasive to heaven to a man whose hate rivals his money
Clip width as if it is simpler to hate the more cash you get than it is fake
To pretend you love less in life. Because when I unroll a sheaf of canvas
I dip the soles of my feet in a pail of blood and do si do across it, sunsets west.
We’re chasing daylight, the more mid-western to see you with.
If not for style the nothingness of our presences would prevail.

There is a mind to say get with it, there is a mind to add don’t let us win.
There is trash in an unpaved alley where dust from ten flatbeds gathers
In sunlight as filtered through the canopy of the block. A spring instep
This summer comeback.

You layout a towel. It doesn’t matter.

Insides aren’t worth anything to anyone.

We say we have no use for mirrors.

Lead the pond to me.