CONJUNCTIONS: A Web Exclusive

BOX Tan Lin

SECTION: HALF EMPTY STATEMENT OF PURPOSE: various sections            BUSINESS FOLDER. "Leather-look" vinyl with metal corners.            Comprising two document pockets. A$ pad and pen. Size 12 1/2"             x 9 3/4". Fully Guaranteed 1 yr. --Georges Perec, Life: A User’s            Manual.            The white in Mondrian’s paintings seems space, the bars objects.            The white, if regarded as a fine texture, can seem a surface.            This double function is obviously ambiguous, and is naturalistic.            Small elements and even large ones on an indefinite ground always            seem like objects in space, things in the world. They are points in            space and the space is an empty surrround. --Donald Judd,            Complete Writings 1975-1986.            An idea I thought about            Became the things I do. --John Ashbery, "Five Pedantic Pieces."            A SHEET OF BROWN PAPER OF ARBITRARY WIDTH            AND LENGTH OF TWICE THAT WIDTH WITH A            REMOVAL OF THE SAME PROPORTIONS GLUED TO            THE FLOOR. --Lawrence Weiner, WORKS. Nota:   number refer to discrete sheets            sheets are numerical, housed in three volumetrically equal boxes            boxes can contain an unequal number of sheets, depending on the                 number of readers            individual items are labelled for re-installation            all items not contained in boxes are to be discarded after a                 reasonable amount of time            each number focusses an entry and should be starred by the reader            all internal references to colors are to be relabelled in a timely manner            no outside works are irrelevant to re-making or re-writing the text            from a vantage point inside the work, multiple points of entry may be                 construed            items in contiguity are considered apart            nothing is proximate            everything is exactly alike            whatever is described herin does not accompany the final text            a number of stairwells, fire doors, etc. etc. have been indicated in the                 text            insufficient range can be remedied with the addition of further text            placement of rope, thread, staples, glue and other attachments are                 not expressly dictated            you or someone are alone in the room            there is a box enclosed by a floor            the stairwell is behind you            the glass of water is near the rug            numerous blank spaces are indicated            instructions are entered            a ball is thrown unlike            a window is found alike            code:            butterfly:            I mentioned: I was confined in a single space            I did perform: I listened to whatever was requested            the heat has come on            somewhere, it has began to snow            in Vermont. Sentences are to be repeated            the heat has come one, the years come and go            somewhere, it begins to rain, somewhere            it begins to be boring            If it is February, I wrote you a love letter            If it is February, you are listening at the door where snow is falling            gently into your blue hair, and the rosebuds I picked in early April            are pouring generously into the clothesline            Yes, it is like that            No, it is not like that            Chinese chair            Thing of winter, thing of recovery, thing of motion attached            To a clapboard, to a former president            to a buried rest, to a metallic bust            There is more tenderness, more in the box            I open it up and try to recover            The football is tossed and bobbled            She sews these notions in half            When it ends, the squares of recovery are even            The hand is touched with half a mint            The garden in winter what is it?            The planted santolina and thyme by the fountain what are they?            What is the bliss and the never native?            All along and tall            Wednesday, and a collection, foams backwards            Tuesday, and the bedtime goes, chewing the sun like a peanut            The box is filled with O’s, then            ringlets, perfume            Everything mounts the lover backwards            The box in the bread and the glass in the face. The recovery is in                 pearls            The timezone and the clouds            overhang will power            I paint the time backwards, but it is useless            I take out the colors from everything, but it was useless            Nothing is black and nothing was even            Nothing is white and nothing is even            The shoes begin but did not            The aches are apparent to those who have            Worlds upon worlds, sequins upon sequins            in the restaurant outside there is a Chinese waiter            I asked for a glass of water            I could not breathe            Nothing is punished for this            Nothing is gained by this counterweight            One the sofa, the casettes and the music            and                                              * * *            Stars of fennel combine, lead track with fluster and ditches            The foreign battery and willows, down draft and circle of doors            X of pleats, X concrete runners            In adoration, this y for my clothing            The plan for restoration of service, a kitchen in monochromatics            I voyage into the dome, the colors blacken and decline            Whatever alters one half, a horse without visible color            Whatever reasons with numerals, a zone without moods            I hallucinated a compass, the lock pieces harbor an outlook of                 indiscretion            In porcelain, the heart aborts from its hearing            Doors that were there, again and again            The windows I landed, useless and rushed            I have a name, it sleeps against skin            None of this touches sensation or highlights, removes dust from                 the carpet            You and mine, wind chimes go rubber with cordouroy            You and they, pajamas linens and terrier            What are chairs they billow like hands at your side            An e, two sides of a lake = calendar            The siamese brush rises like smoke on its tissue of sex            I formally undo the tender hues of the bra            The frame is useless to spell, unresolved as a playground            The blend rises uselessly to leash its orbital daschund            Splendid, the flower attachment had the face of a man in a woman            The mouth glued in the plywood cabinets, the eye blinking back at            formica and sigh. The hands fly white as mine. The nails protrude            A pin prick of blook forms on the lip, no smaller than what I think                 must be a needle            Of racing greyhounds and the sounds of mustard            And erasing            Where I lie down            There is an elbow            Everything is level            The flower and the face of a lover flower            The flower has not enough hands to touch me, the hands of the flower            Are too delicate to rub off my clothes with the blunt edges of petals            It takes seven more years            To take off my shirt. When I wake            This is remembered upside down            The skin performs the color of sand            Where is this summer            The limelight docile in the gauges aspire            Where is this summer            The limelight docile in the gauges expire            Corruptible coinage, bedstand wavers            Sobbies            Venus or Mars Clandestine            Distant door harp. Far flung suntan            The jamb of planets scolds these figurines            For a kiss to the outermost lobbies of Poe            I was so slow I taped my love to you like doughnuts            I was so slow I called you itchless in the portrait of my hurries            So long is a word of mystical aching            Going out is a bong of vegetal update            Let me begin            You do not always know what I am            Stars at morning one things of April half receding            Moons at evenings one thinks of Turquoise dishes from the                 farthest counter            of soup knitted            oblivion clockwise            Nature usually mine            The city alive in thousands of paintings            Frick and Met            Byzantine Mosaics            Meanwhile, like a dish of solid alabaster            Two peacocks strum through the garden at the Cathedral of Saint                 John’s            To be unaware of numerous losses, someone is standing upstairs            To be unaware of you, the flickering postcards at the museum            Fuzz something lovelier. I am half lazy from seeing you            And you are not resting something            Like a book of matches            On the kitchen counter. When I am alone            A second day appears            To stand            At a window            The smudges of prediciton            I am not finally realized by this recognition later            I feel the sometimes go            I feel like this sometimes go            With the box and its absence of pleasure or pain            So I lie: nothing is precious, a street filled with March            So I tell the truth: Nothing combined me to take off my clothes            And weep for a mouth I made            And deep for a south I laid with you            This, the form I take            The vegatative buildings and all the lakes of margarine fool                 goodbye to the soul            A form taken by custard colored boats across a bandstand of                 watery pistols            I tangoed with a blade of minute hands, Persia held a sprig of                 thyme between my teeth            The Byzantine horses sleep for hundreds of years before their love                 matures            Or a hero makes them hungry for a pizza            Each of us has a different reason, those incoherent, pestered with                 daylight            Petered out for sleeping beside a glass of water in a motel room at                 6 with the            Tablets just starting to come in            The curtains beefy with fever the fever heavy with beer            I could be married this year            Like the frame of painting, or the painting of a farm in Zanesville Ohio            I could not go so far (until)            A wish is sent into this newsprint            This is a box and the ardor of poses            Are you a movie or kite            I know whatever is abstract (variant)            The worldly breasts worn smooth from kissing            On Monday I wrote a poem. This was its nature            It repeats the day that it was: to be called an apparition            Of pollution. It had an earthly section            I recycled it (I), It spoke a title to you: