SENSORY ROOM.
THE CIRCUS
GOES TO ŽIŽKOV
Žižkov delinquents unbashed by the Krymska commotion. Reading our Mirandas out front of the court house in June.
Reliving the singularity of a verb, depicting a noun at sunrise. The phases of experiencing a poem for the first time. Eyescores across the bread aisle.
Considering the feeling when picking weeds in denim shorts, sipping lemonade--still life with microplastics.
Documenting the mocument of the good bad.
After that, the kahun player looked at me and said, "you don't know how to play bass for shit. That was really shit."
Loose rock rumble, bombarding the ironclad at midnight (melancholy of frog throat that croaks apon the belly of the lily). Digesting the stiff piss.
Here we are at the end of all things (and it's not so bad, peering across the lawn into the small window of the neighbor who gently folds his napkin across his lap and the grimace across his lips.
I remember In March 2024 I watched a man open a bottle of red with a hatchet in the upstairs corridor of a Krakow squat during a conversation about an airport made entirely out of latex.
thinking something about nothing
thinking something about nothing
thinking something about nothing
thinking something about nothing
thinking something about nothing
thinking something about nothing
thinking something about nothing
I WENT TO THE PARK WITH DAVID’S SISTER AND I WENT BACK TO DAVID’S SISTER’S HOUSE AFTER WITH DAVID’S SISTER
I WAS WITH DAVID’S SISTER WHO I WAS WITH, DAVID’S SISTER
From the window in the blokova bathroom we count a bird flap its wings 14 and a half times flying between building A and building C. The kitchen is a safe place—the third door down on the left, not the right. She tossed the baby out with the bathwater at 16. No elevator. They teach us how to recycle by showing us their basement of pickles. Green everywhere. The building was built at the same time as the other buildings. A pathway connects two separate, adjacent paths—foot paths. A women in a skirt rides a bicycle south, away.
I fold a blanket and we discuss the shape of pasta over cupcakes and white wine, refusing to look anywhere else. Checkered mustard yellow drapes hang. A word of encouragement. The third door on the left. And up until now, I had no idea. The smell of summer fresh cut grass rarely rises to the fourth floor. A man accuses a young woman of something indistinguishable next door. Square, she says, really—square.
TYKO’S WEEK
OF WONDERS
