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Cabinetlandia, Luna County, New Mexico
10.12.13, 9:41am
4 rounds of Boggle, 3.5 cups of Folgers

Like an avalanche of glitter glue, like a head-on collision between semi trucks containing jars of pickles, like an accidental encounter in the time-space continuum between Mark Twain and Mariah Carey, some phenomena produce a cataclysmic reaction, causing the texture of the universe to realign, if even for a moment, along new axes of communication among time, space, and matter. Like these universe-altering moments, spelling “BOGGLE” with Boggle cubes could cause a paradigm shift in the cosmic fabric of our world.

Upon its revelation, terrestrial and aerial worlds (re)unite, atomic material rearranges. Clouds of confetti coalesce and explode, raining down or up from above or below. Filled and frothing champagne flutes appear in nearby hands, unfurling, spitting and popping dewy morning drunkenness. Six elephants traverse the landscape, sounding trunks, waggling tails, trampling lovemaking grasshoppers and tall, wavy grasses. Mesquite spikes bloom, scintillatingly golden, orange, brightest crimson; they vibrate sharply with the bluely rising, growing mass of the Boggle cube as it strains to unite with the totality of surrounding physical space.

Even closed eyes are blinded by its glowing mass, visible to passing railroad operators and truckers as a riot of color, growing less contained with each passing nanosecond. Forty acrobats swing from unseen tethers across the scene, disappearing in an instant, unmade just as quickly as they’ve materialized. Likewise, champagne evaporates, elephants sublimate, confetti disappears, and this Moon County Cabinet Wasteland appears as it was: desolate, dusty, uncompromising, and totally absurd.

“I know now that he who hopes to be universal in his art must plant in his own soil. Great art is like a tree which grows in a particular place and has a trunk, leaves, blossoms, boughs, fruit, and roots of its own. The more native art is, the more it belongs to the entire world, because taste is rooted in nature. When art is true, it is one with nature.” ~ Diego Rivera

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Marfa, Texas

Thinking about freedom
And the prayer I say every morning
About not being born a slave, or a gentile,
Or a woman.

Thinking about un-freedom
And what my friend Sekou
Once called
The whiteness of whiteness.

Thinking about that unicorn
Jumping out of its cage at the Cloisters
In New York and kara
Jumping out of her cage

In my mind
In New York, and me
Wanting to jump out of my cage
–all over the place.

Out of fifteen passenger vans
Tour lines, white lines
Clock time,
Clock time.

What it feels like is this:
Heavy in my eyes and lungs–
Like Rayna–
Who has had her cough since Short Mountain.

Tomorrow she travels to the farm
In Northern California
One last time–
Before it becomes a rent-house.

Thinking about freedom,
And un-freedom,
And the ringing in my ears.

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