For Danny Brown by Anna Vitale

 

For Danny Brown
by Anna Vitale

awake in
a cage
more than
12,775 days
although I
can’t count
the times
I mount
yr shit
to come

fever for
vision medicates
my feels

perception’s fucked
schism officiates
my mood

I got
dreams dreams
to remember

now packs
the crack
think I’m
goin back
I wish
a motherfucker
would mouth
the gap
btwn these
platforms

I get high
off the feed
breathe blood
off the wall
bounce booty
be invisible
ho ghost
whose contagious
I is divisible

spirit exhibits
structure

shits diamond
sorrow

blanket
flesh

revenge
feeling

I sucks on rap

pin me
right down
baby right
round

a wound
I record
loving _____
too long
to stop

In The Shadow Which Is Life

In The Shadow Which Is Life

Ithaca Is Displacement

i    gunpoets

The Shells On The Ledge Belongs To Us

The Cross On The Wall Belongs To Us

The Ribs In The Sky Belong To Us

The Red Trails

The Minute Falls

The Dark Road

The Personable Fence

The Thick Slab of Air In Between The Museum’s Exterior

Our Yellow Expanse Ends In a Jelly Curve

My Little Dorm Room

My Sticky Mind

I’ve been wanting to write about being in Ithaca at the School of Criticism and Theory at Cornell. I’ve been terribly anxious about the peaks I am able to climb. Across the room from me–I am in the basement of the library–there is a map called “Columbia or America: 500 Years of Controversy.” I don’t know precisely what it is about, but I can guess, and my guess will be close. It has something to do with annihilation. This is also what I fear–a map of my projection–a fear I’m nearly incapable of forgetting: I walk around and up and down the hill to and from Cornell. I didn’t realize it was an Ivy League school until the moment I realized it. It wasn’t something I’d always known. This status can mean or not mean many things. For me, it means I am like Dorothy in the balloon going nowhere. I mean it’s a joke, a pretend ascent, or I’ve got it all wrong because Dorothy is trying to get home and I don’t know where I’m trying to go except I am trying to be here, with and in and amongst our minds, the minds and bodies of the folks that are here, wanting to be with them, and scared of the fiery burn of the dreams that take us away from ourselves. The ribbed arches of these gothic buildings were things I admired, and learned to admire, in my AP Art History class at Roeper. That was the first private school I’d been to. I finished high school there. I didn’t start there. I certainly didn’t start here.

 

 

the view finder and the poem I have from and for Greer Lankton from when I was 17

Below are pictures of the Greer Lankton view finder that I still have from the Cranbrook Art Museum’s installation of “It’s all about ME, Not You” exhibit  from 1998.

IMG_0973

Below those are a poem that I wrote about the exhibit. The poem won a contest in a local magazine called The Contemporary Muse, which was coming out of Port Huron, MI and thinking of itself as telling people about “blue water area art.”

Thanks to Andrew Durbin whose recent article with Paul Monroe, “Unalterable Strangeness,” inspired me to take pics of the reminders of this early love and share them.

I was 17 years old when I was in this room. It was at that show that I also learned about Nan Goldin, whose “Ballad of Sexual Dependency” video was installed near Greer Lankton’s one-room house. This stuff (their work) created attachments for me I didn’t know I had/ needed/ wanted.

I wrote another poem about Greer Lankton where I shouted, Allen Ginsberg-style, “Greer Lankton! Greer Lankton! At night I can hear you snore! I’m wide awake! Greer Lankton!” Not that I knew anything about the sounds she made while sleeping, but she stayed with me long after I left this room.

Surely there are things I didn’t understand or that I misunderstood that are evidenced by my 17 year-old-writer self. Surely she was saying something to me, though, and I had heard her well enough.

IMG_0969

IMG_0970

IMG_0974

IMG_0941 (1)