Taylor Moran

When will Vysotsky send us screaming out our whispers
stumbling across the floor on our knees in absolute
grace of seeing our faces in the reflection of a pool,
sureness, unforgiving pursuit of bloodred yes, self,
to dance without being sold as a marionette,
Baryshnikov’s triumphant fist in the air of silent Kirov
spinning, fetal, reaching, anguish of unstretched limbs,
to run, to run wild and ungated

wave goodbye to ‘save $665 on car insurance’ ad-men
I will close my eyes and will away bad dreams,
get back on a stage selected, hand-picked by me
play the fool even to empty seats, sure-footed,
knowing what I can do. Giving to no one
fragments of sundowns — arms out, hands
moving ever closer towards I don’t know what.

I don’t know what.
The little bit of life I can get ahold of, ay,
a humming.

My grandmother was a frustrated artist. I say frustrated not because she was at odds with a search for expression, but because she was never satisfied with her creations. She painted portraits until she found them contemptible, then destroyed every last one.

She painted John F. Kennedy once. Despite pleas…

Taylor Moran

Gormandizer toying around in my laboratory. Living for electric shocks and the moment “IT’S ALIVE!!!”

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