Tan Lin


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

            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 surround. —Donald Judd,
            Complete Writings 1975-1986.

            An idea I thought about
            Became the things I do. —John Ashbery, “Five Pedantic Pieces.”

            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 relabeled 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
            items in contiguity are considered apart

            nothing is proximate
            everything is exactly alike

           whatever is described herein does not accompany the final text
            a number of stairwells, fire doors, etc. etc. have been indicated in the

           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


           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 begun 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

           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
                                               * * *

           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
            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 blood 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

           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

           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
            Or a hero makes them hungry for a pizza

           Each of us has a different reason, those incoherent, pestered with
            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: