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Sixteen Jackies

The facts
are dressed

in large
format hats

to keep
love famous

in the
context of

a death.
The paint

always leads
with a

paint can
in its

hand, its
accent never

random nor
its far-

fetched plan,
a deadpan

mass blunted
by a

brush at
the next

exhibition. No
good news

is good
news now.

We watch
with one

eye open
the shapes

in pictures
beguiling and

divine as
a "faux

wit genre."
Many dubious

relics of
the real

world die,
but this

is artifice
dented like

a man.
Where are

we now,
in habit

or in
stance? Each

painting's window
frames money

cleanly. Gifted
with sameness,

the artist
installs an

ordinary flower
in man-

made space.
There is

no impression
worth your

keeping, nothing
you can

say ever
floats away.

We make
a white

shadow around
the ripped

object, which
hardly knows

it's legible
space, but

nothing's out
of place

even in
its throwing--

a wall
of Jackies

in that
famous suit

with its
blood decoration